#it makes her caps way too yellow.

[midnightclover]

puts bocchi under ur pillow

What's that I see?

My, my. How did such a cute little thing get in here?

[torturedtypewritersdept]

the fire in his eyes - r.c.

↳PAIRING: rafe cameron x fem!reader

↳SUMMARY:jj maybank had done a lot of stupid shit in his life but threatening to kill you was at the top of the list.

↳ WARNINGS: mature themes, mentions of anxiety, gunshots, gun use, major character death (implied - doesn't happen), gun violence, violence, protective!rafe, etc.

↳A/N: this is a repost from my old blogs @illicitfixations, @lovelornanonymity. all of my works are being reposted to this one + the previous blog has been deactivated.

At the Boneyard, Kooks didn't have rich parents watching over their every move, and pogues got to party without the police shutting them down. They didn't have parents to bribe the law enforcement like the rich kids did, after all. It was a win-win situation. You and Sarah kept it a tight-lipped secret, but parties at the Boneyard had always been their favorites. As you climbed out of Sarah's black Volvo, you two shared a conspiratorial look, matching grins on your faces. Rafe put his arm around your waist, pulling you close to him and leaning down to kiss you on the cheek. You heard a whistle from the crowd, and resisted the urge to roll your eyes. You could feel the eyes of other partygoers on them as you all walked in, clinging to your every move. Topper grabbed a cooler of beers he’d brought with you guys, and cheers echoed from your onlookers.

"Rafe, mind if I borrow your girl?" Sarah's voice was syrupy-sweet, and Rafe shot her a glare, but relinquished his hold on you. 

Without giving you a moment's notice, Sarah grabbed your hand eagerly, snatching you away.

When you next glanced at your boyfriend, he'd busied himself with Topper and the beers. Predictable.

"Look at this, Y/N.” Sarah said, out of breath as you two stopped running. 

Above you towered a red buoy, the kind designed to ward off the big trawlers and cargo ships when they came a little too close to shore.

“You can see it all from up here.”

You heard footsteps, and glanced over her shoulder, seeing Topper advancing towards you two.

"Your bitch is here.” You teased, and Sarah glanced over her shoulder.

"Shut up."

"Sarah! Be careful!" Topper hurried over, worry plain in his voice, and you rolled your eyes.

"I'Il leave you to it.” You called out, and Sarah smiled down at you, waving her goodbye.

You crossed your arms around yourself, looking at the scene around you. There were people

everywhere, Pogues and Kooks in distinct groups,

miniature versions of the Cut and Figure Eight.

"Looking hot as always, princess.” A voice whistles from the side. 

You turn your head, seeing JJ trailing his eyes up and down your figure. You roll your eyes, flipping him off with a fake sweet smile, then walking away.

You made your way to your friends - Rafe’s arms calling your name. You belonged in them like the wind in a hurricane, one just simply couldn’t be without the other. 

The journey across the beach and into the arms of the boy you loved was long and grueling, your feet felt like lead as they drug against the cool of the sand. The promise of Rafe’s touch was enough to make you keep going as your eyes raked over his form at a distance. 

He was laughing with his friends, a yellow shirt gripping his biceps and pink board shorts wrapped around his thighs. His feet were exposed against the sand and a baseball cap sat backwards in his head. You came up from behind him, wrapping your small arms around his middle, trailing your fingers up around his pectoral muscles. 

“Can I buy you a drink, handsome?” You whispered into his shoulder, not tall enough to reach his ear. You felt his muscles relax against your touch. 

“I’m pretty sure the booze is free, we’re at a kegger. Plus, I don’t think my girl would like that very much.” He replied with a smile, turning around to bring you into his chest. “Hey, pretty girl. Missed you.”

Suddenly, Rafe's grip on your waist tightens a bit and a scoff slips from his mouth. It's not long before you notice what forced the change in his

demeanor. Two Pogues, JJ and you couldn't quite remember the other boy’s name, but you recognized him as a friend of Kiara’s. 

"Just walk, don't look at them.” You hear the unknown boy whisper to JJ and it almost brings a smile to your face.

"How do you walk past Kooks and not look at them in all their fucking glory?” The sarcasm seeped from JJ’s lips, purposely making his voice loud enough for you all to hear.

"Hey, princess. When you get bored of this polo wearing asshole..." his words directed toward you as his holds his hand up to his ear with the phone gesture, "call me," he mouths. 

His friend immediately pulled JJ further in the opposite direction before Rafe could so much as

even think to put his hands on him.

"Don't.” You place your hand on Rafe's chest, as he noticeably gets angry. He just glances down at you in confusion. "His time will come.” You reassure your boyfriend, your smile almost as menacing as the one now on Rafe's face. 

He simply nodded along to your words, letting his grip on your waist finally lighten up a bit.

You and Sarah were growing bored as your boys were talking about perfecting their swings for what felt like hours upon hours and you two were looking for any excuse to retreat back to the keg. 

“Sarah and I are going to get another drink. You guys want anything?" You ask, backing away toward the keg already. 

“Nah, I’m good.” Kelce replies, Topper and Rafe agreeing all too intrigued with their conversation about that God forsaken sport. 

You just shake your head and the two of you start walking towards the keg. Your walk was pretty peaceful, but of course that couldn't last for long. You watched as JJ walked in your direction.

"Y/N L/N." Your full name rolled off his tongue,

albeit a little slurred.

"Hi?" Your voice was questioning, and you could only hope you got across your utter confusion as to what he was doing standing in front of you. 

He raised his eyebrows at you, and held out his cup to you silently. Your eyes darted downwards and back up to him again, looking at the murky liquid dubiously. As far as you were concerned, he could've been poisoning you.

"No, thanks."

"Don't you trust me?"

You let the words hang. You knew he knew the answer to that question. JJ waved the cup in front of your face once again, jolting you back to the present.

"Lighten up, princess.” 

You chuckled lowly, though the laugh had no real humour behind it. “Fuck off, Pogue.” 

You met his eyes again, and the corner of his lip quirked up ever so slightly. He looked almost a little stunned. 

"Where'd you learn to swear, princess? The country club?"

"Where'd you learn to swear? Jail?" You bit back, and JJ grinned.

"Juvie, dumbass.” He replied, eyebrows raised. "C'mon. One sip."

“I believe the lady said no, Maybank.” You heard your boyfriend’s merciless voice cut off the intense tension that you and JJ were now sharing. 

"Rafe! Buddy! How are you?"

The taste of beer in the back of your throat turned rancid. This was not going to end well. The muscles in Rafe’s jaw were tensed, sharp lines against the contours of his skin.

"What, is it not fancy enough for you?" JJ kept being persistent. 

"No. We were just leaving."

"Hey, you know what? I'll take it." Topper interrupts JJ, and you start to fear what might happen. 

"Thank you, man. I appreciate it."

"That's nice, but I didn't ask you. If you said pretty please, maybe, but you didn't."

"Oh, pretty please."

"Yeah. Sarah? How about you?” JJ tried to give her the cup.

"Pretty please?"

"You can have it." JJ insists on giving Sarah the cup.

"She doesn't want it, you-" Topper just spills the drink into JJ's face. 

JJ hits Topper, while John B and Sarah attempt to separate them.

"Dirty Pogues!" Topper screams and John B loses it and hits him.

"Hey, John B, don't make me drown you like your old man, all right?" 

People around you scream "Fight! Fight! Fight!" like this is some kind of joke.

The guys continue, and it seems like there are only three sane people in the middle of this, trying to stop it: you, Sarah and Kiara.

Things are getting pretty violent. Topper is holding John B's head, and he's slowly drowning him. Everyone around us is either inciting it or screaming, trying to end it. That's too much for you to watch, so you hide inside Rafe's arms and he pulls you closer.

Out of nowhere, someone screams, "He's got a gun" and you turn to see JJ with a gun pointed at Top's head.

"JJ, stop! Put the gun down!" Sarah screams desperately.

"Did you say something, princess?" He holds his position.

"JJ, what the fuck? Do you know what you are doing? Calm down, please."

"Oh, does princess number two want to join the ‘save the asshole’ party?" 

Your breath hitched in your throat as the cool metal met your temple – you had never been a fan of guns – but you wished that you knew how to use one or atleast how to defend yourself against someone with one as JJ Maybank bore the side of the pistol in his hand into your skull like his life depended on it. Your eyes met Rafe’s and you noted the panic that ran through them, though you knew no one else would and you thanked God for that, because if they had you were sure you would die on this beach, leaving Rafe to cradle what was left of your lifeless body. Everything felt like it was moving in slow motion and you could barely hear Rafe’s words or the words of the pogues as they stood by, begging JJ to put the gun down. 

"You better get the gun away from her or I swear to God, your friends will be burying you tonight.” Rafe breathes, almost too calmly. “You know who has more power between us. I can make your life a living hell more than it is now.” 

Everyone knows that's true, even JJ himself. Yet, he didn’t seem to care about that at the moment, all he cared about was getting even with Rafe Cameron, the kook king himself and that’s what he thought he was doing when he pulled the trigger sending a harsh air into the side of your temple. You dropped to the sand and Rafe’s heart stopped for a split second as he raced over to your form. He gripped your cheeks, looking over your face, begging you to say anything as he searched for any source of blood, any place that a bullet would have entered your body. 

“Baby – Baby – talk to me, please!” 

You were dazed, your mind reeling. You wondered if you had been shot, if this was it for you, if you were dying – is this what dying felt like? You couldn’t make your mouth form words and your ears rang. Rafe shook you once again, forcing you to look into his eyes.

“Sweet girl, what hurts? Are you hurt?!” 

You could only shake your head no as he looked over you and once he received confirmation that you were okay, he ordered Kelce to watch over you as he made his way over to where JJ stood. JJ looked in Rafe’s direction, knowing he had fucked up, knowing he was about to take the beating of his life. Rafe stalked towards him, anger pulsating through every vein in his body in a way that it never had. Pogues had always pissed him off or been a nuisance to him, but this – this was life or death – this was you and he couldn’t stand by and let these fuckers think they could get away with that. JJ shrunk into himself, thinking about making a break for it and Topper must’ve noticed, because he got to him before Rafe did, jerking him up by the collar of his shirt and snickering. 

“Listen, bud, accept your fate now – Rafe’s gonna kill you.” 

He chuckled and JJ’s fear made itself known as he tried to squirm out of Topper’s grasp. And just as he did, ready to make a break for it and leave his friends to fend for themselves, Rafe stepped in front of him, stopping him in his tracks. 

“And, uh – just where do you think you’re going?” 

He growled. 

“Listen man –” 

JJ was cut off by Rafe’s forehead connecting with his nose, knocking him back abruptly. 

“No, see –, listening after you pull a gun on my girl? That doesn’t work for me.” 

His voice was sinister, yet cool and calm and ready – ready to kill his first pogue. Rafe shoved JJ back even further, his head connecting with the sand. Rafe’s only thought in that moment elicited a snicker from him as he thought about his tiny pogue brain shaking around in his head at the impact. He thought about it again as he ripped the gun from JJ’s grasp and knocked it against his nose, the crunch of his bones could be heard across the beach and Rafe let out a laugh. 

“If you think that hurts, you’re not gonna survive what comes next.” 

Topper snickered, bringing a beer to Rafe’s attention, handing it to him. Rafe’s demented and angry state gave him an idea and before he could even think he spit into the long-neck beer bottle, swishing the remaining liquid around and passing it back to Topper who spit in it as well and handed it back to Rafe. 

“Maybank, you uh–, you thirsty? I got something for you.” 

Rafe laughed menacingly, turning back to the crowd that had gathered around them on the beach before kneeling over JJ while Topper held down his shoulders against the sand and Rafe poured the tainted liquid down his throat. JJ kicked and attempted to scream, but his yells were muffled against the cool liquid as he fought against it. 

“Don’t fight it, princess.” 

Topper snickered, his grip on JJ’s shoulder’s tightening to prevent him from squirming away from Rafe. 

“Stop! You’re gonna kill him!” 

John B yelled, emerging from the crowd. 

“Trust me, JB, I’m not even close to killing him yet and when I am it’ll be justified. He almost took my world away from me, killing him wouldn’t be enough.” 

Rafe spoke through gritted teeth and threw the beer bottle to the side, stradling JJ and beginning to hit him over and over. 

-

You sat on the sand, Kelce’s strong arm wrapped around your waist as you tucked your knees further into your chest and laid your head on top of them. Rafe came barreling toward you, stopping as he took in the tears that were running down your cheeks. Your eyes were closed and you chanted to yourself “Rafe’s coming soon” over and over in a hushed whisper. His heart broke and the sight and he was filled with regret for leaving you with Kelce of all people while you were in this state. He knelt in front of your face, tucking the hair behind your ears and it was like almost immediately, you knew the touch was his. Your eyes flew open, and at the sight of him you cried even harder – a mix of fear and anger washed over you; anger at JJ, fear of Rafe being shot the way you almost had been. You jumped into his arms, almost knocking him over, but he steadied as he wrapped his arms around you and situated you on his lap. You buried your head in his chest and he wrapped one arm under your knees and the other around the back of your hair, pooling it in his hands. You tucked your face as deep into his chest as you could and he placed a kiss on your temple. 

“Hey, sweet girl. Talk to me, baby.” 

“Scared – wanna g-go home.” 

“Okay, mama. We’re going.” 

He whispered against your hairline, pushing himself off the ground by his legs and shifting you in his broad arms before carrying you bridal-style to his truck. 

[peachesofteal]

Simple Math / Part 8

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 4.2k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI. No smut. Graphic domestic violence, physical abuse, choking. Non consensual kissing. Hospital setting, nurse!reader, medical inaccuracies. Drowning metaphors. Strong feelings of self loathing, despair, fear, anxiety. Suicidal ideation. Crying. Panic attacks. Bun is unraveling. Comfort. Protective Simon and Johnny. Things are happening.

The girl in the mirror hates you.

It’s easy to tell, by the way she stares, how her eyes glow in the yellow fluorescents of the staff bathroom.

You make her sick.

Your weakness, your stupidity, has cost her, again. As if it hasn’t cost her enough at this point, as if it hasn’t drained her dry over and over until she thought she would die.

Until she thought she wanted to die. 

Someone knocks on the bathroom door.

“Occupied.” You snap, and they huff, turning away to go who knows where.

You peek back over to the girl in the mirror. She still stares at you in disdain, but now it’s more expectant, more… intrigued, like she’s asking, well… what are you going to do?

“What are you going to do, sugar?” Phillip’s hands tighten around your neck, white teeth gleaming in the afternoon sun of your apartment. The sound of your windpipe being crushed echoes inside your eardrums, and you flail uselessly, struggling, kicking and hissing and crying to no avail. “Where are you going to run next?” Black spiderweb strings along the outside of your vision, and your palm slaps against his forearm, a pathetic endeavor, as always.

He’s too strong. Too determined. 

You’re an ant. He’s a shoe. 

You’re an early high school grad, on an academic scholarship at school your mom couldn’t afford, and he’s the charismatic grandson of a Texan oil tycoon, the son of a judge, living in a fancy house without roommates in the city.

You want to be a doctor. He wants a housewife. 

You want to be a mother; he promises to beat them out of you. 

You want a life in the sun. He wants to become a shadow himself. 

“Phillip.” You wheeze, air snaking through your teeth. He lowers his ear, like he can’t hear you, a mocking bow that you know he relishes. 

“What’s that?” 

“Can’t- breathe-“ The sigh that answers you is what you imagine a disappointed father sounds like, followed by a tsk, an over developed dramatic show that you’ve come to know so well, and he throws you to the ground in one motion, shoulder smacking against the hard wood floor. 

There’s a tear of muscle. An immediate soreness. Stars dance in your vision. 

“Gotta hand it to you, princess. You were hard to find this time.” 

You don’t have an answer for the girl in mirror.

Even with the turtleneck and the very good makeup, it’s bad. There is no doubt, someone will notice.

And then there will be questions. Nonstop questions, personal questions, private questions. Questions from your boss and an HR rep behind a closed door somewhere, invasive, mandated reporting, logical questions that you must have answers for.

You chew your lip.

It’s not so obvious, maybe, with the turtleneck. The long sleeve under your scrub top covers the tender flesh on your neck, your shoulder, your forearm. It’s second nature, how easily you hide, how perfectly they tuck away, little stories beaten into your skin for no one else but you to feel.

Except for your orbital and cheek bones. 

These are blatant. The ball cap pulled down over most of your face hid them well enough on your way in but now... inflamed, angry skin swells beneath your eye, and while it looks okay, you guess, when you get close, it’s obvious that something is wrong. The foundation and failed attempt at contour can only do so much.

It’s shocking to realize you’re actually mad at him for it.

For being so impulsive.

So sloppy.

But then again, wasn’t that your fault? 

You’re bold. Bolder than ever before. Closer to the top of your breaking point now, angry and beaten down and dying in the black of a bottomless pit. Unable to escape. Unable to climb out. 

You’ve been falling inside it for years, and it’s all you ever do. 

Fall. 

And you’re so, so tired. All you want, is for it to end. 

“That was sick, even for you, Phillip. What are you, some kind of freak? Jerking off all over your ex girlfriend’s-“ The backhand is swift. It rockets across your face, combination of it’s force and the sting making your head spin, and you stumble. 

When you lurch, he presses close, chest to your side, strong fingers digging into your forearm so tight it hurts. 

“Don’t say that.” His lips drag across your cheek, insult to injury where he struck you. They press together in a kiss, a foul, rancid piece of affection, making your stomach turn.“You know I don’t when you call yourself that. I don’t like when you lie, sweet thing. It’s not very nice.”

“It’s not a lie, you Texarkana hillbilly fuck, it’s the tru-“ You’re up against the wall in a single movement, arm twisted so hard you cry out, and he shoves you into place until he’s got you where he likes, face to face, nose to nose. 

“There’s my spitfire. Knew she was in there somewhere.” The nickname almost makes your retch. It’s a flicker of a memory, of yourself before the grave of your now life, the fateful twist that is Phillip Graves. 

“I hate you.” You spit. His eye twitches, and he looks every bit the insane man you know him to be. 

Because this... this is Phillip having fun. This is Phillip playing with his food. Phillip and his toy. 

This is not Phillip’s crazed rage. This is not suit and tie Phillip, rip your hair out from the roots Phillip, beat you until you’re unrecognizable Phillip. 

This isn’t the Phillip who slaughters innocent people. Who murders entire towns for pleasure. 

For a very short moment, your mind drifts to Simon and Johnny. You wonder what they’re doing right now, if they’ve already had their lunch, if Penny visited today. If maybe she napped with her Da safe and snuggled, sweet and asleep dreaming of sugar plums. You think about the light in Johnny’s eyes from last night, the way he looked at his daughter, and Simon, and even you. You remember the press of Simon’s mask covered lips on your forehead, a sweet, comforting piece of affection that you’ve already locked inside your heart. 

You float there. In those feelings, those memories. 

You wish they were here. You wish they could help you. 

The acknowledgement is terrifying. It happens so fast, hardly a second, but in that time, horror shivers down your spine. 

You’d put them in danger, for yourself. Your selfish, stupid self. 

Phillip’s mouth hovers over yours, and you swallow the gag rising in your throat. 

“I can’t stay.” He whispers, pseudo-gentle kisses adorning your nose, your cheek again. “It’s really rotten luck, honestly, you showing back up here today. I was just saying my see you laters.” You’re not religious, but the thoughts come easily regardless. Oh god, thank god. Thank fucking god. You have a chance.“I know you’ll be here when I get back, won’t you? I’m tired of chasing you around the world, sugar.” He gives you another wet, closed lip kiss, and your jaw trembles. “If you’re not, it’ll be that much worse for ya.”

You can do this.

It’s not anything you haven’t done before.

Deep breath. You can do this. 

Stepping outside the bathroom is like taking your first steps as a child. You’re slow, pushing through the burn in your side, the sore agony in your shoulder, the torn cartilage you’re sure is the cause the of the pain in your shoulder.

You can do this. 

Get it together. Get yourself together. You’re not going far. 

You make it down the hall without running into anyone, and once you reach the on-call room, you’re breathing long sighs of relief, sliding the lock into place after the door shuts behind your back.

Two black duffels sit on the floor, staring at you. Mocking you, just like the girl in the mirror.

What are you going to do? 

The receptionist is calling your name. 

You ignore her, trying to make it to the elevators, almost breaking into a run even though you’re in pain, your face throbbing, neck sore beyond belief. 

“Sorry, can you-“ Intercepted on your path, she gasps. “Oh my god, what happened?” 

“I was mugged.” It’s a point-blank response, even though you sound like a frog or a piece of roadkill, and it brokers no argument. You look at her with the flattest gaze imaginable, dissuading her from saying anything else. 

“I- I’m sorry. We’ve been trying to call you.” The hair on the back of your neck rises.

“For what?” 

“We need your room. There’s been a block reserved, and it includes the floor you're on. I'm... sorry.” You’re not able to contain your shock, mouth dropping open, heart cracking into tiny pieces. 

On top of everything. Now this. 

The receptionist peeks at you nervously, waiting on pins and needles for a response. 

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning, I’m afraid. I’m so sorry. The hotel apologizes, the block is paying for a higher rate and-“ 

“It’s fine, really. I needed to check out anyway.” You know it’s not her fault. Hell, you’d be surprised if it wasn’t the hotel’s fault either. It’s not like Phillip wouldn’t move heaven and earth to force you out of hiding. He's more than capable of finding out where you’re staying. 

She gives you another apologetic look before scurrying away, and the elevator doors finally enclose around you, a tidal wave of despair swelling in your heart, dropping you to your knees with gut wrenching sobs.

You’re crying again. Curled up in the on-call bed, your shoulders shake in hysteria, tears and panic overwhelming everything you have left, swallowing you until you can’t see the surface anymore.

Your throat burns. Breathing is like rubbing sandpaper down the back of your tongue, and you wheeze when you try to take deep breaths, shoulder shrieking in misery every time you shift.

You have to get it together. You have to work in an hour. 

But you can’t. You dig deep and try, desperately working to pull something forward, something sane and controlled, but there’s nothing to be found, only acid in your throat. The hysteria mounts. It catches the wind and flies down the hill, crashing into you over and over until your hands are clenched together so tight, even they hurt.

You fucking idiot. You waited too long. You ran out of time. 

You’re dead. 

“Oh my god.” Nia covers her mouth, eyes wide. You hold up a palm.

“It looks way worse than it actually is.” Another nurse peeks around her shoulder, and gasps.

“What happened to you?”

“I was mugged yesterday, getting off the train.”

“Oh my god!”

“I’m fine. Really.”

“Did you tell the police?”

“Yes, I did.” You assuage them to the best of your ability, reassuring their worry. “I filed a report, and they didn’t get anything important. I’m okay. Really.” And then the kicker: “I would tell you if I wasn’t.” You glance at everyone, four or five now, gathered around, and lay on the final piece of the puzzle. False familiarity and the ever present desire to be relevant. “Wouldn’t I, Nia?” You gesture around to expectant faces as if to say, tell them, and she readily agrees.

“Yeah, she totally would.”

Everyone pretty much leaves you alone after that. Patients need checks, meds, all of the usual stuff. You assure Nia once more in private, promising that you’re okay, and she reluctantly leaves you alone too, once you swear up and down.

The only thing that doesn’t leave you alone, is your cellphone.

>Hey, just wanted to check in, see how your day off was yesterday? 

>Bunny :)

There are a few others, alternating like above, Simon first, then Johnny. Asking if you got some rest, if you’re okay, and then a promise not to push.

You ignore them.

You ignore the feeling in your chest at the sight of their incoming text messages, the proof of their care.

You ignore the way it feels to know they’re only a floor below you.

You ignore the fact that when you got here today, all you wanted to do was run to Johnny’s room and settle in that chair next to his bed, curl up close to them, where there’s love, where there’s warmth. 

You ignore it at all.

Get it together. You have a job to do. 

Simon appears at the pit three hours into your shift. There’s no one around, everyone trying to take breaks, cover breaks, or deal with whatever emergency is happening in the moment, except you.

And when you round the corner and spot him, waiting, it takes your breath away.

Half of your reaction is pure fear. The last thing you want is for him to see you like this. Beaten. Broken. Ugly.  

The other half is… something pure. Something enamored. He came up here, why? Is he worried because you didn’t answer? Do they care? 

Still-

You start to turn on your heel, eyes flipping wide and panic startling your heart. You’re barely a shadow, a clip of a person on the other end of the hall and yet-

“Hey, there you are.”

Fuck. The acid starts to rise all over again. You keep your face tilted down towards the floor.

Maybe you can pretend you don’t hear him. You leap back around the corner, practically running towards the on-call room, where your life sits in two black bags, waiting.

You can’t do this. You can’t face them, let them see. 

Something desperate gnaws in the pit of your soul, a howl that begs you to turn back and let him in, let them both in, tell them everything.

It’s selfish, and cruel.

It’s unfair.

He calls your name. You still don’t answer. Your scrub pants swish together as you jog, trying to get away, but the effort is in vain. He’s too quick, long strides overtaking yours at a brisk walk, and just before you reach the door, he positions his body in front of the handle, an immovable wall.

There’s a long moment of silence. You stare up into his face, wide eyed, horrified.

You know what he’s seeing. A failure. A moron. A mess. 

To his credit, his expression does not change. His brow does not furrow. He only stares at you, frozen, slow thawing fury finally glowing in his eyes after a centuries’ long minute.

He reaches, time standing still, the back of his fingers stroking the lightest touch against your tender cheek, and his voice is almost unrecognizable behind the mask when he snarls,

“Who did this to you?”

The tears come in a flood. You don’t understand why the breakdown comes in this moment, why everything crashes into a million little pieces, until you feel a strong, careful arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a broad, warm chest, face tenderly nestled into a black hoodie. It feels… safe. Like a home you haven’t had in a long, long time. Like something you never thought you’d feel again.

Maybe it’s a moment of weakness. Maybe it’s your downfall, another thing for the girl in the mirror to be angry with you about, you’re not sure. You’re not sure about anything except this feeling, this feeling that lights up your heart in an explosion of fireworks, fear and panic and anxiety soothing into sadness, into a homesick feeling for a love, a life you’ve never had.

Maybe it’s a moment of weakness, when you sob his name, when you go limp against him and he holds you steady, a cheek atop your head, soft words washing over you in a whisper.

Maybe it’s a moment of weakness, but right now, you can’t seem to care.

Johnny is distraught.

Simon brings you into his room, still tucked into his side. He’s careful with you, telegraphing all his movements, letting you know where he’s going, reverence rich in his touch like he’s handling glass.

“What in the-“

“Bun says she was mugged.” Simon tells him, and you miss whatever is happening over your bowed head, hands shaking with nerves all over again. “She assures me she’s not hurt but-“

“I’m fine.” You croak, and Johnny jerks, mouth half open in disbelief. The light is dim, casting short shadow across his face, his sweet eyes drenched in worry, and you stand at the foot of his bed, tears waiting on your waterline. “I’m okay, they didn’t really get anything, and I-“

“Come here.” He cuts you off, raising both arms, extending them as wide as he can manage, scooting his hips to the side. It’s a feat, but he hides the grimace of pain well. When you don't budge, he repeats himself, firmly the second time. “Bunny. Come here.”

The shame burns, entrenched in you so deep, you know you’ll never be able to cut it out, and your tears fall unbidden, encouraged by the hollow feeling in the pit of your stomach, your heart, an ache that you need soothed so desperately.

You’re out of control. You’re losing your grip. 

You had a moment of weakness but this… this is too much. 

“Please, pretty girl.” He whispers, reaching you where no one else can. Speaking to you through the fog of your doubt, your hatred, your fear.

Your hands shake as you reach for his, and when you sit beside him, hip to thigh, he looks at you like he’s staring at someone other than the person who used to be his nurse. He’s looking at you the way you catch him looking at Simon sometimes. Bright gaze full of love. Of worry.

“I’m okay.”

“No, ye’re not.” He shakes his head. “Ye’re not. This is not okay.” The way he says it feels like he knows, like he understands, and you swallow dry, breathing ragged and shallow. It turns frantic, and he squeezes your knee gently, redirecting your attention. “Hey, shhh. It’s okay. Ye’re safe with us.” Simon sits on the arm of the chair, directly next to the bed.

“Do you need to count your breaths?” He cuts directly to the quick. Will this provide you relief? Will this stop the pain? The agony? 

No. 

“N-no.” You gasp.

“Okay. Just try to breathe, everything’s alright."

I’m s-sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just this- this happened and then I found out I had to find a new place to stay, and I st-still haven’t, so I have to sleep in the on call room, and I don’t-“

“Whoa, okay. Slow down.” Simon soothes, hand slowly sliding up and down your spine. You relax into it, marginally, clocking the subtle upward tick of Johnny’s lips, firm line shifting into a small smile, and then turning cross. 

“What do ye mean, ye dinnae have a place to stay?”

“My apartment-“ is trashed. Is a scene of a crime. Is a hollow rib cage housing a dead heart. “is being renovated so I’ve been living in a hotel,” Johnny nods, like he knows. Of course he does. What secrets do they have between? Probably none. “But someone reserved a whole block and there’s no vacancies, so I had to check out this morning.” It’s pathetic, the way you’re crying over this, the way you feel, but it’s all so forlorn in this moment, and you can't stop yourself from falling deeper and deeper into a well of despair, hopelessness dragging you to the bottom, trying to drown you. “It’s not a big deal but-“

“It is a big deal.” Johnny declares. “Ye had somethin’ horrible happen to ye, and now this on top of it?” Simon shifts, flat palm and fingers pushing down through the air, and you barely catch it from the corner of the eye. It’s the same kind of sign you give someone when you want them to slow down, and you blink.

What’re you doing?  

“I… I’m fine.” You wince at the croak in your voice, last menthol infused cough drop wearing off, bringing back the raw pain in your windpipe, the gravel grit of bruising in your voice.

“It’s okay to be upset, bun. Anyone would be.” You wipe your face, chasing away the tracks of tears and trying not to wince when you straighten your back.

“I know, but I’m okay. Really.”

“Ye cannae stay in an on-call room.” What?

“Oh… it’s fine. It,” wouldn’t be the first time. “It’s not a big deal.” Simon is watching you, focused with that same blazing intensity that feels like he’s digging around inside your skull. 

“Why don’t you stay with us?”

“What?” You blurt. “No. No, I… I couldn’t. It’s not-“

“Appropriate?” Simon finishes, head cocked. “Johnny isn’t your patient anymore.”

“And we have plenty o’ room. Penny’s still staying with Price’s a lot, because Simon’s here all the time, so it’d be nice and quiet for ye.” Say no. Tell them no.

“I couldn’t. It’s… you hardly know me. You’d invite me to live in your house?” Incredulously, you stare at them, flicking back and forth between two expectant, understanding faces.

“We know ye. Ye try to hide yerself from us, bun, but… ye cannae. Ye light up every room ye step foot in, and I dinnae think we would have made it through this without ye. Ye’re special to us, even if ye cannae accept it.” He winks. “Yet.”

“We want to help, sweetheart. Let us help you.” You’re between a rock and a hard place. An immovable force, and object. Two wills, locking in around you.

But instead of a cage, it’s warm. It’s gentle. It’s… safe.

“I couldn’t encroach.” You’re on autopilot, mouth making sounds that your heart protests. Simon sighs.

“You’re not encroaching. We’re inviting you.”

You would be putting them in danger. 

“I… I can’t.”

“Why?” Johnny’s still got his hand on yours, and he squeezes, carefully. “Talk to us, bunny.”

“Tell us what’s really going on.” Simon is grave, and for a second, air gets stuck in your lungs, fighting to escape.

You cannot tell them. No matter what. You can’t. The turtleneck is too tight, cotton and polyester scratching at your sore skin, and you shiver.

“There… there’s n-nothing going on. What if the people that mugged me,“ come back to finish the job? Track me down? Words die on your tongue, the lamest attempt to push them back withering away. Simon is having none of it.

“We’re special forces, love. No one is going to get to you while you’re with us." He pauses, trapping you, holding you in stasis, and when he repeats himself, it's a dark vow, a promise. "No one.”

If you do this. You have to tell them.

You can trust them. They’ve proven that so far, haven’t they? 

You hardly know them. 

But isn’t that better? 

“I…” Your hand raises instinctively to your throat, and Johnny’s eyes narrow.

“Bunny.” He leans forward at the waist, slow as to not hurt himself, and you sit, frozen, bug eyed, transfixed on his hand that are stretching towards your turtleneck.

You should stop him. You should tell him to back off. You should do something. 

You can't. You don't. You sit there, waiting for the discovery. Waiting for the shame. 

Once he hooks his pointer finger in the top and tugs, it’s over.

Your heart stops in your chest. Johnny burns, dragon flame and rage, incineration boiling over in his body.

“Bleedin’ christ.” He hisses.

“Fucking hell.” Simon echoes, and you close your eyes. You know the tender skin looks bad. Swollen. Angry.

“Please.” You whisper, lower lip quivering, floodgates trying to burst into pieces. “Please I… I can’t talk about it. I c-can’t, I can’t-“

“Okay, okay. Shh, it’s okay. You’re safe now, sweetheart. You’re safe.” You’re crying violently, unable to see, trying to rasp out apologies, and Simon stands, tucking you back into his chest, big hand on the back of your head. Johnny keeps his touch at your back, consistent, reassuring pressure that rubs from the top of your spine down, and he hums delicate, affectionate phrases lilting in heavy Scots’.

The girl in the mirror screams at you inside your head. She calls you a fool. A coward. She tells you the truth, that you’ll only get them hurt, that you know better.

You don’t disagree with a single thing. You know all this to be true.

But for a moment… would it be so bad to indulge? To have one- two good things in your life, even if it’s fleeting. Even if you know how it will end, can you not just have this for yourself, in this suspended moment of time, this chance?

You want it. Them. So desperately, it swells and aches and tugs at you, just as they do.

Time ticks forward, and you do not pull away. You don't try to hide, or evade. You just... exist. Between them. The rock and the hard place. 

“Alright?” Simon murmurs, your tears now stopped, only delicate sniffles sounding from his chest. You nod, shifting backward to take them both in.

“I… if you’ll have me, I’ll… I’ll stay, until I can find a place.” Inky dark shadow flickers across Simon’s face, but sunlight chases it away, happiness crinkling at the corners of his eyes.

“Are ye sure?” Johnny is hopeful, bright, and beautiful, and you tighten your grasp on his hand, holding it like you’ll never let go. You take a deep breath-

You take the plunge.

A moment in the sun. 

“I’m sure.”

[erwinsvow]

𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐬

summary: how you and rafe got started <3

author's note: if i could stop losing my brain cells over rafe cameron for a minute that would be great but i can't so here it is <3 this is mostly cute but in the shea cinematic universe this establishes the beginning of what can only be a hopelessly codependent relationship <3 more parts to come! also none of this would be written without the surge of inspo i get from reading every single one of @princessbrunette's posts but in particular this one, this one, and this<3 one!

now spinning: one of the girls by the weeknd & jennie

Rafe’s always thought you were cute. 

Cute, he’d think to himself in passing, on a hot summer day when he was getting ready to take beers from the fridge and go find the boys at the country club. He didn’t need to steal anything, the waitress at the club always gave him whatever drink he asked for, but he just felt like taking them from the house today. 

You were dawdling around the house with a bored Sarah, all dressed up with nowhere to go. Sarah was texting on her phone, likely engaging in a virtual fight with Topper. He’d feel bad, but the two of them did it to themselves. You were at the counter with Wheezie, leaning on your elbows while the two of you discussed something. He didn’t really care, until he met your eyes for a second. 

Cute. The way you met his eyes and then looked away, face heating up. You were in a bikini and a coverup, probably waiting for his sister before spending the day on the beach or at the pool. The cover up was white and see through, covering everything to the point where no one could see anything but the faint yellow of your bikini underneath.

Leaning on the counter, when you looked away, he got a glimpse into the top of your dress. He could make out little yellow flowers on the material of your bikini and the outline of your tits squeezed against each other. 

He grabbed a beer and opened it with his back tooth, spitting the cap out on the counter next to Wheezie’s book.

“Ew, Rafe, get your spit molecules away from my book.”

“Who reads in the summer anyways? You should be glad for my spit if it makes you stop.”

“It’s my summer reading, Rafe, not everyone can just skip their assignments and get away with it.”

“Please, what have I skipped?”

You and Wheezie turn to look at each other and start laughing. He cracks a smile too, unexpectedly.

“Actually, it’s a great book. You’re missing out, Rafe,” you say, with a smile gracing your face, and he realizes he’s never actually heard the sound of your voice. You’ve maybe said hi to him twice, and both times Sarah had dragged you away within seconds. You even sound cute. His name on your tongue sounds even cuter.

“Really? Maybe I need to give it a try.” You laugh again, meeting his eyes this time. 

“You can’t have my copy, I already put my annotations in this one-“

“Stop yapping, Wheeze. I’m not gonna take yours.”

“Actually you have a copy in the library upstairs. I borrowed it last summer.”

“Really, kid? Wanna come find it with me?”

Your face heats up so much you turn away. He smiles then, and he smiles again when you follow him up to the library.

“This one is fantastic too, it’s about this young girl in England-” your voice continues to describe the plot of the book in your hand. You shelve it and then your eyes immediately land on another, another classic, another favorite. You ramble off the description but Rafe’s hardly paying attention.

He’s trying to recall when you had become so cute, so pretty. He thinks he’s never noticed you after you walk away with Sarah, or when he walks away from you two lounging on pool chairs, your nose in a book like always.

This is different. When had you become so irresistible?

Your pretty hair falls down your back. It sticks to your neck when the two of you are outside in the sun, in the heat. He has an urge to lick the sweat off just to see how you’d blush and feel how you’d squirm. Your eyes are warm and bright, but you’re still too shy to meet his blue ones, even when it’s just the two of you.

And it has been. Just the two of you, recently, almost all of the time. Sarah’s always off with her stupid friends and Wheeze is at home doing her summer work. 

The two of you travel to every ice cream parlor in the eight in the next few weeks. Conversation comes easily, even though you have nothing in common. He hasn’t picked up a bag from his dealer since he started talking to you, he realizes. Hasn’t felt the need to get high.

You’ve never even smoked weed, much less snorted coke. You’ll drink at a party with Sarah, but not too much, and you always end up being the sober friend holding back the vomiting girl’s hair. At the bonfire that he invites you to, your eyes keep darting around, seeing if anyone needs your help. 

Rafe moves so he’s standing right in front of you, blocking your view.

“Hey, kid,” he says quietly, leaning in. You’re boxed in, with Rafe and only Rafe on your mind. The clean, attractive scent of his cologne. The way it lingers on his clothes, like the button up you’re wearing over your pink dress.

He picks up the red cup in your hand and places it on the log beside you, balancing his beer next to it. His hands are cold from the bottle but you don’t mind much. He takes your wrists first, holding them in place, and then slides down so your hands are touching. 

“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” You were looking down at the hands, where the two of you were connected, but his voice makes you look up. He’s looking at you, and you want to hide your face. Your fingers twitch beneath Rafe’s grip. He holds on even tighter. “Don’t look away, princess. We gotta work on that, huh?”

You feel your face heating up at the nickname. You wish you were home so you could scream into your pillow.

“Sorry, sorry,” you scramble, trying to look up but you can’t find the strength or the will.

You’re embarrassed. Of course you are—this is Rafe, and you’re just you. Rafe is the one you’ve had a crush on since you knew what crushes were, and you are still the awkward little thing you were the first time you met him. 

His gaze burning holes through you makes you want to run and hide. Because this is Rafe, and right now you’re one of his girls. The ones Sarah’s complained about the whole time she’s known you—they get too attached, act all clingy, and then are replaced before long. 

You hear Rafe’s quiet laughter. You’re still boxed in, feeling hot and clammy even though he’d given you his button up not thirty minutes ago because you felt cold. 

“What’re you saying sorry for?” You look up quickly, and then look back down. Then Rafe’s hands leave yours, and he holds up your chin until you’re looking right into his eyes. “Hmm?”

You feel like puking. 

“I-I just, well I just-”

“You just what?”

“I don’t think I can be, um, be one of your flingy, uh fling-type girls. So, you know, maybe all of this isn’t a good idea.”

“Fling-type girls?” he questions. He’s holding back a laugh, which makes you irrationally upset. You shove hard against his chest to free yourself from the cage of his arms. 

“Yes, your fling-type girls. You have a new girl on your arm every week, and everyone knows it, and I refuse to be one of them, because it’s just embarrassing and dehumanizing,” he watches you ramble on. He smiles, but you don’t notice. “And frankly, I deserve better than that.”

“Are you done?” You glare back at him.

“Yes, and not because you said that. I was done anyway.”

“Good.” Your face drops for a second, thinking you overstepped and totally overreached regarding his intentions, but then Rafe surprises you—he leans in and kisses you. 

You weren’t expecting a playground peck, but the way he’s kissing you completely surpasses any and all expectations (and fantasies) you’d dreamt up. His grip on your hips is hard, and his tongue is almost down your throat. It’s messy, and wet, and when he pulls away, there’s strings of spit connecting you to each other. 

You should wipe your mouth before anyone sees, but you don’t. Your heart is racing, and you can barely speak, much less move. 

“If I wanted you to be one of my girls, I wouldn’t have spent the last three weeks listening to you blab about books and buying you ice cream. You’re gonna be my only girl, and that’s that, okay?”

You nod dumbly—words and motions still not quite back yet. You feel flushed. People’s eyes are on you both.

“Now, do you wanna head out and go get a cone?” You nod again. “Good girl. And watch your mouth.”

[ajortga]

my girl

pairing: jenna ortega x fem reader

summary: jenna is a bit too protective over you after you injure your leg, it's cute.

word count: 1.3k+

based off of request! (idk if i like this)

-

Jenna Ortega x F!reader where r broke her leg and jenna went very protective mode to r and would easily lose her temper whenever anyone tries getting close to r cause r is has a broken leg.. THANK YOUU

-

The light of the hospital casted a warm shade over you and Jenna as she carefully had a hand on your shoulder, making sure you didn’t fall. 

“Stupid nurses,” she mutters, looking at you with worry as you struggle to walk properly with crutches, your right leg limping by itself. "Hey, it's okay," she glances to your leg, rubbing it gently.

The girl looks at you, eyes soft, “Does it hurt?” You try your best to smile, nodding barely as your hands shake on the crutches, “I’ll get used to it, it’ll only be several weeks.”

Jenna’s hands, besides the one she just removed from your shoulder, are filled with bags and backpacks and some stuffed animal hanging out of it, making sure there is nothing disturbing you. 

“Oh baby, I’m sorry,” she says, rubbing your thigh as she guides you closer to the car, “They should’ve secured the stunt.”

“I’m sorry,” you instantly retaliate, “You’re holding all this heavy stuff, here let me try to help you. That backpack,” you point to the navy bag hung on her back, “I can carry i- No!” She shouts, immediately sitting you down to a bench.

“It’s okay baby, just sit here and I’ll be back okay?”

Before you can respond she’s waddling to your car.

It’s not long before she’s running to you, her sunglasses covering her pretty eyes. She leans down and lets you wrap your arms weakly around her shoulders. Jenna lifts you up, bridal style and manages to carry your two crutches with her.

-

Jenna’s protectiveness immediately shone through, you noticed it within the first couple of days.

Yelling at nurses to get you a wheelchair so you don’t have to limp with your crutches and struggle to open the door, glaring at other people when they get a little too close.

It was embarrassing when you accidentally let go of the book you were reaching for, a little too afraid to ask Jenna for help since you didn’t want her to get a staff. She had yelled at the person who worked there for making it too hard for her girlfriend to reach.

“I fucking swear, if one of your dumb ass books falls on her and I see it, I’m suing you,” she snaps. You two left the store within 10 minutes, you were practically tugging on her arm as she was yelling at the poor lady. Like a child trying to drag their parents to the toy selection. She had carried you out of the bookstore as you mouthed apologies to that lady.

-

“Oh damn, that looks even more Wednesday worthy,” Emma scrunches her nose, gently touching your cast around your leg. Jenna’s rubbing your thigh, cautiously looking at the short blonde-hair. Emma’s always been sweet and gentle, Jenna’s never snapped at her. 

She’s just making sure you don’t get hurt. You can tell from the way she looks at you, at others, eyes flickering everywhere.

Like if they don’t move, then some runaway piano will crash into you.

You comfort her, leaning into her touch. She sighs a little and plays with your hair.

Marker caps pop out as Emma looks at you, “Blue or yellow?”

“Both?”

“Of course,” she softly murmurs, writing silly sweet words on your cast with Jenna.

For a moment, you look at your phone, scrolling through social media and the pictures you have with your girlfriend. You hear a door open and Emma greeting Percy and some other of the cast.

“That stunt seriously got you into crutches?” Hunter asks, looking at your foot, “You’re okay though, right?”

You send him a grateful nod, “Could’ve been worse. But the stunt looks real now, right?” You joke and Jenna giggles slightly.

“How do you manage to fail that stunt? I mean, that’s honestly impressive.” Percy remarks, crossing his arms as your eyes narrow.

Jenna slowly turns to him, her mouth speaking for you, “I think it would’ve been better to have your foot broken. I would’ve smiled then.” Her voice dulls, monotone as she stares daggers at him, before turning back to you and kissing your collarbone.

Percy hums, a little annoyed, “Well, if I did the stunt, I would’ve done it perfectly. People who’d end up in a cast are just clumsy.”

You feel your eyes roll, a huff escaping your lips.

It isn’t long until you see Jenna, fuming, muttering a few inaudible curse words.

The man clasps his hands together, playing with his jacket as he grabs an apple from the apple basket, tossing it up and down.

“Hey Hunter, catch,” he shouts, aiming his apple to Hunter, who’s right in front of you.

“Percy watch it-” Jenna warns.

“Perc, I don’t think we should do it in here, maybe outsi-”

Hunter gets cut off as the apple comes jerkily towards him, with full speed. It’s not even going to his hand, it’s going where his waist is. He immediately steps to the side, and you feel the apple slam right where your leg is broken. You hiss in pain, jerking back as you cling onto Jenna. The pain rings through your whole body as Emma looks at him in shock. She looks at you, trying to gently rub it, “Oh my god, are you good?”

“Baby,” Jenna gasps, your eyes meeting hers as your lip trembles. You don’t have very good pain tolerance, embarrassment floods through you, your ears burning slightly. You hope you’re not crying because an apple hit your broken leg.

“Oh my gosh, do you want me to go back to the nurse?” She sniffs, brushing your hair back to comfort you. She understands your pain, it must’ve hurt like hell. You shake your head and try to distract yourself from the echoing pain. It hurt.

“Whoops, sorry Y/N, didn’t see you there,” he says, his genuine voice laced slightly with sarcasm. You don’t miss it. You almost feel like flipping him off.

Neither does your girlfriend. There’s fire crackling behind her eyes. 

She’s standing up, holding you close before grabbing the apple, scrunching it and throwing it to Percy with full force. 

You think it hit his nose, maybe broke it? Emma smirks, fistbumping Jenna as you curl into her more. 

“Oh fuck Percy,” Jenna gasps, dramatically, “Sorry, I didn’t see you there. That was my bad,” she sarcastically says.

"You-" the man is about to retaliate when Jenna lifts the other apple basket next to her, "You wanna go?" She challenges, ready to throw another apple while doing some Street Fighter stunt and bouncing up and down.

"I'm going to throw this whole damn apple basket if you touch her," she warns, throwing another apple at him, he howls. "Ow! Ow! Ow! Oh fuck!"

She shrugs, lifting you up in her arms. 

Percy is cursing, his nose is slightly bleeding as he screeches like a child and runs to the bathroom. No one goes after him. 

“That was so badass,” says Hunter, watching Percy slam the door.

Jenna watches him with a grin on her face, looking down at you and rubbing your injured leg, “Are you hurt?” Even with all that time, your leg is hurting. You nod, slightly, as she kisses your temple. 

“Let’s get you home, Em, I’m going to head out a little early.”

The blonde nods with understanding, “Okay, I’ll see you Friday. Hope your leg is okay Y/N, I’ll make sure to throw the basket of apples when Percy comes out. Maybe I can break his nose again?”

That makes you chuckle as you hold onto your girlfriend, “That sounds good.”

Jenna smiles at you, nuzzling her nose to yours, “Bye, Em!”

Emma smiles to you two, at least every person in the room is holding an apple and eyeing the door. “Bye, Jenna! Bye, Y/N! Love you!”

You three blow each other kisses as she gets to drive you to her apartment.

It’s not long before she’s carefully carrying you, ignoring the way you try to resist and telling her you can walk by yourself. The rest of the night is spent with her in the bath with you, one injured foot resting up while you two are soaked in bubbles. You two end it off with cuddling each other.

“Gosh I love you,” she sighs, “Can’t believe someone would actually go out of their way to mess with my pretty girl.”

You press your finger to her nose, “I should tape a warning sign on your forehead, “Caution, if you touch her girlfriend she will physically hunt you” maybe that would work?” 

She slaps your arm, rolling her eyes, “Maybe.”

“That’s my girl.”

[symbiomancy]

boutique —minotaur

—summary: Your minotaur companion ruined your underwear after your speed date, so he makes good on his promise to replace them.

// AO3 // monster masterlist

—cw: minotaur x reader, smut (p in v sex), creampie, belly bulge, squirting, size difference, mentions of fantasy racism (I tried to stop myself from adding plot obviously I failed ok)

—wc: 2,2k

—a/n: part 2 of this! also I'm switching to shorter smut for a while, I watched the haikyuu movie yesterday and I gotta write sth for my stupid rooster head captain on my main.

You exchanged phone numbers after your little tryst in the bar bathroom.

And you’re content to write it off as a one-off fling until he calls you on Tuesday evening to invite you shopping — because he still has to make up for the pair of panties he ruined (and kept). You cannot contain your grin as you settle on the time and place, and you confirm you’ve received the text with the exact address.

Said address leads you to a fancy boutique. You glance down at your yellow sundress, wipe off the imaginary lint, and ignore the thought of being underdressed to shop in a place like this. You glance at your phone to double-check the address. It’s the correct building.

You nearly jump out of your skin when the front door of the boutique opens with a flourish and your minotaur companion greets you with a wave. Some pedestrians pause and stare, and you duck your head and hurry over to the store door, press past the minotaur’s body to escape into the building.

The interior is nice, fancy even: high, arched ceiling and tall windows, pillar with intricate carvings situated around the store, cream-colored walls with black shelves, black tables displaying merchandise. Sculpted models of bodies are erected onto said tables and shelves, a different monster everywhere you look. One table has a naga statue, a shelf has something with tentacles you can’t make out from the distance, and a third displays a sculpted orc lady. Her tusks are capped with gold.

Other than you, the minotaur, and the display bodies dressed in gorgeous lingerie, the store is void of life.

“Nobody’s here today,” the minotaur says.

“Oh?”

“I take care of the business part of running a business; my sister works with designers to order from. She also arranges models and sculptors for the display models.” He places his hands on his thighs, and runs them up and down once as if he’s nervous. “It’s just us today. I hope that’s okay.”

You nod, and let a small smile curl your lips up. The minotaur motions you along with the sweep of his hand, leading you through the showroom, winding around the displays — they’re gorgeous, obviously not mass-produced — until you arrive at a section with models of familiar build on the tables. Humanoid.

He follows a few steps behind you as you make your way around the tables, stop to pick a garment up to examine it, then carefully place it back. They’re gorgeous: lace-trimmed pieces, bejeweled pieces, crotchless pieces — your face heats up when you pick up a cute pink thong and realize it’s crotchless. The minotaur behind you pointedly looks away.

There’s a plush seat outside the dressing rooms and the minotaur takes a seat, and motions you towards one of the stalls. Though it’s much less like the bathroom stall from your previous encounter and more like a small but spacious room carved into the wall, separated from the store by a curtain.

You stare at the array of lingerie sets on their hangers and reach for the red one, fold your dress, and place it onto the long seat in front of the mirror.

The red… looks good. You twirl in front of the mirror, place your hands on your chest, onto ur thighs, onto ur ass, turn again and again and again. You… look good. It’s comfortable, too; the bra doesn’t dig into your skin and the seams on the panties don’t itch. You reach for the curtain and take a deep breath, then pull it back.

The minotaur looks up from his phone, lets it slide between his thigh and the chair armrest. Heat rushes to your cheeks but it’s way too late to back out, so you give him a slow twirl. He’s silent, staring at you, a closed fist pressing against his mouth. The silence stretches, drags.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You look amazing,” he says then, voice strained. Your entire face explodes in warmth and you nearly trip over your feet as you step back into the dressing room, yanking the curtain between you. “Sorry, I —”

“No, like… I wanted to ask why you approached me at the speed dating event.” You shrug off the red set of lingerie and place it on top of your dress. You slide the white set off its hanger and — oh fuck, the crotch area is just see-through lace.

“You’re gorgeous. I wanted to meet you.”

Your face might melt off at this rate.

“Well, I mean, humans have a… reputation, and attraction to anything non-human is considered sexual deviancy on a fetishistic level — as if anything other than straight vanilla sex isn’t also considered sexual deviancy. High school health classes were miserable enough and they chose to spread the propaganda spiel about how you shouldn’t fuck anything non-human because they’re below us. ‘Humans are the superior race’ or whatever — what a load of crock, how are you smarter than something with three heads and three times the brain?” The white bra is even better, makes your tits pop.

On the other side of the curtain, the minotaur chortles. “The amount of lectures we got about not hooking up with human women…” he huffs. “Sexual deviancy part matches up, though.”

“Oh? Were your reasons more interesting than ours?”

“Well, they liked to say human women specifically would use us for our cocks, then cry about assault and have their males skin and wear us… Men would wage war even if it was consensual because they think we’re below them.” You wince at his words. “History sure isn’t pretty, huh?”

“Yeah.”

You pull the curtain back and step out, do your little twirl for him. He hums appreciatively, motions towards the large mirror next to the dressing room. You step up and angle your body back and forth as he looms behind you, arms crossed over his chest. His biceps bulge through the button-up shirt he’s wearing. His heated breath caresses your bare back.

“Are those two the only ones you picked?”

“No, there’s one more.”

The minotaur nods and steps back to allow you passage into the dressing room.

Inside, you nearly keel over when you realize the last set has crotchless panties. But considering your companion has once already rearranged your guts in objectively worse conditions… You pull the curtain back to stick your head out.

“I’m not coming out in this,” you say and motion him inside with the jerk of your head. He adjusts himself and stands, and oh — you pointedly ignore the bulge in his pants as he slips through the curtain. He doesn’t stray far from you, stands so close you can practically feel the heat rolling off his body. Slowly, you turn to give him the full view of the piece, try and fail to ignore the shape of his cock through his pants, fuck he’s huge, stop when you can look at him head-on in the mirror again.

The minotaur raises a hand, drags his fingertips across your skin, leaves goosebumps in their wake, up your thigh, over the curve of your hip, up your stomach. He pauses at your breast, places his large palm over it, and pinches your nipple between his fingers. You gasp, press back against him. The beast in his pants rests at your lower back.

His other hand finds purchase on your hip, drags over the front of your panties. You slide your legs further apart and his breath hitches when his fingers find your uncovered cunt. They stall on your clit and you try to grind against them, pushing your ass against him even harder.

The minotaur pulls the hand on your clit back and you want to whine as it relocates to your upper back. He pushes you forward. You nearly trip, barely bracing your hands against the plush seat with your dress and discarded items. He undoes his belt buckle with one hand and when he’s pressing against you next, the tip of his cock drags through your folds. You press back, try to grind against him.

“So impatient,” he tuts, pressing against your entrance. You’re almost shaking from excitement — every orgasm you’ve tried to draw out on your own between now and your little bar bathroom rendezvous on Saturday has been okay but not nearly enough to be thoroughly satisfying. Your own fingers are good but there’s something about another participant, one whose actions you cannot control and who could do whatever they want with you has something in your brain short-circuiting. He could use you as his personal fleshlight and you’d thank him just for being full of his cum.

The minotaur slowly pushes in and fuck, you can feel him everywhere. You stifle the moan in your throat as he bottoms into you — fuck, fuck, fuck, he’s so big you swear you can see him in your guts when you look down — and he pauses, exhales slowly. He’s thick, warm, you can feel every ridge, every pulsing vein on his cock pressing against your insides.

He moves, pulls out nearly all the way, and thrusts back in as far as he can. It drives the air from your lungs and with it, a loud gasp. Your face erupts in heat and you look down, away from your reflection in the mirror. He sets a slow pace at first and you push your hips back against him, skin slapping against skin. It echoes in your ears over the roaring blood, lewd and wet the sounds your pussy is making, and you try not to focus on it, yet it permeates through you, bounces around in your skull. He keeps the pace and lets his hands run over your body, petting and groping and tugging. His fingers catch your nipple through the sheer lace of your bra.

You cum right then and there, clench around him with a moan from the back of your throat, arms shaking under your weight. He slows and you frantically shake your head.

“More. More,” you manage between choked breaths, push your ass against his pelvis. He speeds up, hands traveling again, exploring. One rests on your right hip, the other cups the underside of your thigh and raises it, thrusts in and you nearly shout when he hits something so deep in you but it feels so good, so full.

So good and too much. He’s too big, too deep. He picks up the pace, every ridge and curve of his cock dragging against your insides. Your pussy dribbles around him, accommodates for his size even though it feels like he’s about to split you in half but he feels so good, he’s so deep. Every nerve in your body is alight, fingertips buzzing, mind fuzzy. You cannot form a single coherent thought, let alone words, and find yourself babbling nonsense mixed with pleas for more on his huge cock as he pistons in and out of your ruined pussy.

Maybe, maybe, those fuckasses had a point when they claimed human women would line up to be fleshlights for monsters.

Your vision blurs with tears — he’s too much, too much for your sanity, for your sopping cunt, as if he’s rearranging your insides with every thrust to fit himself in and you welcome it, meet his thrusts halfway with erratic hips. His hand moves, your thigh clutched in his palm, dragging your legs even further apart. He’s deep, so deep and his cock touches something and you see white, squirt around his cock as the orgasm hits you. Your body is on fire, heat rolling through your cunt to your torso to your extremities. Your arms are shaking under your weight.

Your fluid splatters over his pants but he doesn’t even react, mutters something under his breath, and picks up to pace to chase his own high in your spasming cunt. His thrusts are brutal, thick fingers digging into your flesh, fuck, you can feel him in the back of your throat. His breathing is loud and labored and even then it’s barely audible over the smacking when your skin meets and the squelch of your pussy as he pistons in and out.

The minotaur grunts, digs his fingers into your flesh so hard you nearly shout, and buries himself deep into your pussy. His cock pulses — fuck, you can feel it pulsing, spasming in your cunt — and cums with a groan. He presses in further, as if he has any room left, cums and cums and cums. There’s so much it seeps out of your pussy, coats your thighs as it traverses the length of your leg as it surrenders to gravity.

Everything aches. Your skin is sticky with sweat and cum, yours and his. Your breathing is erratic, chest heaving to take in oxygen.

He pulls out slowly, stifling a hiss. Pearly cum dribbles out of your pussy, lands in the puddle on the dressing room floor. Your legs give out but he’s there, large, warm, secure hands on your waist to keep you from falling. He picks you up with ease, lowers himself onto the plush seat, and rests you on his lap. You hear his heartbeat thundering under your ear but yours is no better right now.

“Would you…” he begins after a moment, still panting, and pauses to swallow. “Would you like to go out? On a real date, I mean.”

“Even though mingling with humans is the fetishistic kind of sexual deviancy?” You ask. Your minotaur laughs. It’s a pleasant sound, you find.

“Yeah.”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

banners by @/cafekitsune

[corroded-hellfire]

AYW request where Reader graduates from college so Ryan, Luke, and Eddie come to her graduation. And then Eddie gives her a little graduation gift of his own...

+ Eddie eating Reader out under her gown right after her graduation ceremony. Like, the moment she walks across the stage, he’s dragging her to the bathroom and diving in.

I am dedicating this to Dr. Bug! I'm so proud of you @munson-blurbs 💚

Warnings: smut, p in v, unprotected (wrap it up), oral f receiving, age gap

Words: 5k

[As You Wish masterlist]

The polyester robe that hangs on your shoulders sways in the breeze as you fetch your cap out of the back seat. The cerulean regalia is a beautiful shade, but it was a pain in the ass to find something to wear beneath it that didn’t clash. The white floral summer dress peeking out now from your unzipped gown was a lucky find that caught your eye while out having lunch with Max one day. 

Cap with a golden tassel securely in your hand, you shut the back door to your sister’s car and walk around the backside to stand next to her. 

“I can’t wait to meet your boyfriend,” your sister teases, as if you’re twelve and not twenty-two. 

You roll your eyes as you lift a hand to shade your face from the blazing sun above. It’s not even officially summer yet but Indiana is coming in hot with those high temperatures this year. 

“Don’t be weird,” you say.

An exaggerated gasp leaves your older sister’s lips, and she presses a hand to her heart, fresh yellow nail polish glinting in the sunlight. 

“Me? I’m never weird.”

“When I was fourteen you told Connor Donald–”

“But you were going to the bathroom!”

“You don’t tell that to a boy when he calls!” Somehow you feel like that teenage girl all over again.

“I just had this feeling about him,” she says with a shrug. Your sister crosses her arms over her chest. “And I was right.”

“Yeah, he was a creep,” you admit. 

The smug smile on her pretty face is annoying enough to have you turning away from her. At the other end of the parking lot, you see a familiar group of men headed your way, and the littlest one breaks away from the herd and races your way, yelling your name. As he gets closer, you spy the hat perched atop his chocolate curls and the cuteness devastates you.

With a gleeful chuckle, you catch Luke as he flings himself into your arms. Using the momentum, you swoop the almost-seven-year-old up and hold him against your hip. Your back and arm muscles protest the effort, but you do your best to ignore them. Truthfully, Luke’s getting heavier and too big for this now, but you can’t bear to stop picking him up—he’s still that baby boy to you. 

“Hey, you,” you greet him.

“You look so pretty!” he tells you as you begrudgingly set him down.  

“Thank you!” you say. “You look pretty handsome yourself in that snazzy fedora.”

Luke giggles and adjusts the brim of the hat so he can see you better. 

By now, the rest of the gang has made their way to you and Ryan is the next one to launch himself towards you for a hug. Wayne goes next and you can tell your boyfriend is purposefully waiting to be the last one. Indeed he was as he brings you into his arms and presses a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. His hands slip below the graduation robe and rest on the soft cotton of the dress that hugs your lower back. 

“Hi,” he whispers against your lips.

“Hi,” you reply just as softly. 

If it weren’t for your sister clearing her throat, you very well might have forgotten that you were at your graduation, let alone there were other people standing around you right now. Such is the power of Eddie and his touch.

“Oh,” you say, face heating up as you take a step back from your boyfriend. “Right. Um, everyone, this is my big sister, Gin. Gin, this is Eddie, Wayne, and the little monsters Luke and Ryan.”

Both boys make silly faces at you in retaliation for their introduction, which you have no problem doing right back to them. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Eddie says, extending his hand.

“Likewise,” Gin replies as she shakes it. 

“Nice to meet you, sweetheart,” Wayne greets your sister. They shake hands as Eddie comes closer to you again, standing behind you and resting his hands on your hips.

“Heard that if it weren’t for you, these two wouldn’t even know each other,” Wayne says, nodding to you and Eddie. 

Ryan’s nose scrunches up in confusion. “Huh?”

“It’s true,” Gin tells the boy with a smile. “My old roommate is friends with your mom. One day I overheard something about someone needing a babysitter and I knew my little sister was available.”

Luke walks over and wraps his arms around your sister’s hips, giving her a big squeeze.

“Thank you for hearing that!”

The adults chuckle and you lean back into Eddie as he rests his chin on your shoulder.

“I don’t wanna go in,” you say with a sigh.

“Where are you going?” Ryan asks.

“I have to go inside with everyone else who’s graduating,” you explain as Eddie’s arms wind their way around your waist. He isn’t making this any easier. “That way you guys get to watch me when I walk across the stage.”

“Ed, would you let the poor girl go?” Wayne says with a sigh, making Gin let out a tittering laugh.

“Don’t wanna,” he says like a petulant child. He presses a kiss to your shoulder before whispering in your ear. “I like your dress.”

“Thank you,” you hum softly.

Silently, Eddie presses his body flush up against yours and you feel his half-hard cock pressing up against the top of your ass. A strangled gasp leaves your lips and Eddie has to bury his face in your neck to hide his smirk.

“I really like it,” he mumbles against your skin.

Sitting in the small arena, in dark green retractable seats that are usually reserved for someone watching a school basketball or hockey game, Ryan and Luke start to grow restless as they wait for the graduation ceremony to begin. Eddie knows they won’t exactly be captivated once it starts either, but he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it. 

“Luke, can you please sit down? I don’t want to ask you again.”

“When is she coming out?” Luke asks, craning his neck to look around at the stage as he does as his father asked.

“When everybody else does,” Ryan says, also bored, but annoyed by his little brother as well.

“But when’s that?” the six-year-old whines.

“You know,” Gin says with a smile that looks suspiciously like one of Luke’s or Ryan’s when they’re up to something, “I have some pretty funny stories I could tell you about her.”

Eddie is also clearly intrigued by this, a spark of mischief gleaming in his own eyes. 

“Ooh, like what?” Luke asks, already engrossed even though your sister hasn’t begun yet.

“Well, one time,” Gin starts, “she thought she could be like Mary Poppins and fly. She grabbed an umbrella and wanted to climb up to the roof. Our dad followed her into the garage and asked what she was looking for. When she said a ladder so she could go up to the roof, he put an end to her plan. She cried the whole day because she wasn’t allowed to try and fly like Mary Poppins could.”

Luke laughs, tilting sideways until he’s leaning against his big brother. Ryan’s chuckling as well, picturing you being mad because you can’t fly. 

“Are you the big sister?” Ryan asks.

“I am,” Gin says.

“How many years?” Luke asks. “Ryan’s two years older than me. I’m the baby.”

“I’m six years older than her.”

“I’m six years old!” Luke shares excitedly.

“Do you have any more stories?” Ryan asks. 

Eddie and Wayne share a smile between the two of them. Ryan is usually never so open with people he’s just met—he’s always been the shyest in the family. But there’s something about Gin being your sister that has Ryan feeling comfortable enough to be himself. The two of you aren’t identical, though it’s easy to tell that you are sisters. Gin is slightly shorter, and her face holds more roundness than yours does, but there’s a clear resemblance. Especially around the eyes, Eddie notices. They aren’t the exact same shade, but the shape of your eyes and arch of your eyebrows are very much alike. 

“Hmm,” Gin hums as she thinks of another story to entertain the boys with. Eddie can’t help but notice she purses her lips when she’s thinking the same way that you do as well. 

“Oh, okay. She used to make us watch her sing and dance all the time! Especially to New Kids on the Block.”

“Who?” Ryan asks.

Before the stab of feeling old has time to sink in for Eddie, Gin, or Wayne, the lights dim and a blanket of quiet falls over the crowd.

The faculty takes their places on stage and Pomp and Circumstance begins to play over the loudspeaker. Soon, a rolling wave enters the floor of the arena as all graduates file in towards the rows of chairs laid out for them.

Both Ryan and Luke stand, the younger Munson on his tippy toes as he tries to look as far and wide as he can to spot you in the crowd. 

“Where is she?” Luke groans. “Everyone is so blue!”

“Ugh! I can’t find her!” Ryan follows up. 

It takes Eddie a few moments to find you as well. Everyone is matching so he can’t go by what you’re wearing beneath your gown, and it’s even hard to see your beautiful hair with the cap restricting his view. But it doesn’t take your boyfriend very long to spot you, as he’d be able to find you anywhere—even if he was blindfolded. 

“Look, look,” Eddie says, gesturing for his sons to step closer to him. “She’s right there. Next to Aunt Jess.”

Ryan and Luke do their best to follow the direction that their father is pointing in, but it’s hard–even when the graduates all stop walking once they reach their seats. But as Ryan wrinkles up his brow and really tries to examine his dad’s line of vision, his eyes catch on you.

“I see her!” A grin lights up Ryan’s face and it fills Eddie with a warmth that the outside sun could never hope to aspire to. 

After a few more minutes, and once the speeches begin, Luke spies you as well and becomes just as excited as his big brother. Their joy quickly wears off as speaker after speaker comes up to the podium to give some of the most boring speeches Eddie has ever heard in his entire life. He can’t blame his boys for practically falling asleep slumped against one another. 

Finally, the names of the graduates begin to get called and the boys muster up their energy reserves to wait for you. There’s a good chunk of graduates who have their moment before a name is called that the boys recognize.

“Jess Arnold.”

The boys excitedly cheer but become even giddier when they see you’re next up. 

Nothing could have prepared you for the emotion of walking across the stage to receive your diploma. Hearing your name called over the loudspeaker was cool, being up on the jumbo screen for a moment was pretty surreal, but the sounds coming from one particular section of the audience have you choking up as you accept the rolled up piece of parchment from the Dean.

The claps of two small pairs of hands and cheers from those same boys send goosebumps shooting up and down your arms. Luke hadn’t even shouted that loud in excitement when he saw the real-life Hot Wheels cars. Wayne’s whistle joins the noise, that piercing sound making you chuckle as you try to swallow your emotions. Gin’s voice is unmistakable in her cheering—you heard that yelling every day growing up, you’d know it anywhere. But the sound in the cacophony that makes a few tears spill over your lash line is Eddie’s proud and happy “Woo!” that he repeats as you make your way across the platform. You just wish he was waiting for you as soon as you stepped off the stage so you could run into his arms. But as you step down and are about to head back to your seat, you look up and see where your family is up in the stands.

When they realize you’re looking at them, the boys wave excitedly, both hands flapping over their heads. Wayne and Gin both give you waves as well. Your eyes are glued to Eddie though, as he presses his hand to his mouth and then extends it towards you, blowing a kiss your way. A girlish giggle bubbles out of you at the gesture and you blow one right back to him. 

It feels like ants scurrying out of an ant hill as you exit the arena and try to find familiar faces amongst the thousands of family members and friends who are here to support their loved ones today. 

Jess comes up beside you and loops her arm through yours. You flash her a quick smile and the two of you fight your way through the crowd, searching for your people. 

Your name catches your attention and your head whips to the left to see Luke’s small hands cupped around his mouth. It’s a swim upstream as you tug Jess in that direction, but you finally make it to find Eddie waiting with a bouquet of carnations in his hand. 

More tears threaten to spill over as he hands them to you with a smile so full of admiration and pride on his face.

“Congratulations, sweetheart.”

The wrapper around the flowers crinkles in your hand and you make sure it’s held tight in your fist as you throw your arms around your boyfriend’s neck and hug him as close as you can manage. Eddie doesn’t hesitate for a moment, his arms encircling your waist and holding your body up against his.

“Thank you,” you say loud enough for him to hear over the crowd. “I love you so much.”

“They’re from us, too!” you hear Luke say.

With a soft chuckle, you pull away from Eddie who is raising an eyebrow at his boys.

“Are they, now? I must’ve missed the part where you chipped in,” he says.

“You must’ve,” Luke agrees with a shrug.

You laugh and hand the flowers to Eddie so you can pull both boys in for a big hug. Each of them gets squeezed in an arm but they cling to you just as tightly. 

“You were on stage!” Ryan says when you let go.

“And I heard you cheering for me!” you tell him. 

“Can I wear your hat?” Luke asks.

“Oh, I need a picture of that,” you say while nodding your head. 

That leads to dozens of pictures being taken. You with everyone at once, you with everyone individually, you and Jess goofing off before she went off to find her family. Luke takes a handful while wearing your cap but Eddie plops it back on your head so he can take a few more with you. 

Both boys make gagging noises as Gin snaps a picture of Eddie giving you a kiss. Their groans only grow as you wrap your arms around Eddie’s neck and sink further into the kiss, another snapshot being taken.

“Please tell me that one isn’t going to get hung up anywhere,” Luke gripes. 

For the next picture, Eddie wraps his arm tightly around your waist and dips you, causing you to let out a mixture of a squeal and laughter as your hands cling to him for stability. You’re aware of the flash of the camera going off but it’s nothing compared to the brightness of Eddie’s grin as he looks down at you. It makes your heart pound faster than the adrenaline from the feeling of almost falling could ever do.

Once multiple roles of film have been used, the camera gets tucked away and it’s time to get going. Eddie offers to drive you back, just the two of you, since Gin drove you here and she’s headed straight back home. Wayne can take the boys back to give you and Eddie some time alone.

“Thank you for coming,” you say to your sister as you pull her in for a hug.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” she tells you. “I’m so proud of you.” “Thank you.”

It makes you smile to see how the Munsons all hug her goodbye as well–even shy little Ryan. With one last wave, your sister heads towards the parking lot and Wayne ruffles the hair of the two boys.

“Ready, knuckleheads?” he asks.

“Can I wear your cap home?” Luke asks.

“Sure.” You hand the blue piece of regalia to him and instead of switching it out with his fedora like he did for the pictures, he just stacks it on top of his own hat.

“That’s a great look,” Eddie tells him, to which Luke winks in response. 

“Will you take these for me, Ry?” you ask, offering the eight-year-old your bouquet of pastel-colored flowers.

“Of course!” The wrapper crinkles as the boy situates the long stems against his shorter frame.

You press a kiss to both boys’ cheeks before they head towards the parking lot with Wayne. Eddie laces his fingers with yours and you go to follow in the same direction the others just went, when Eddie tugs you back and smacks a kiss to the back of your hand.

“How about a little campus tour before we go?” he asks.

“Oh?” you ask, raising your eyebrows. “Anywhere in particular you want to see?”

Eddie shrugs. “Your favorite spots. Somewhere there’s no one else, maybe.”

“Right,” you say, a smirk tugging the corners of your lips. “Let’s see what we come across.”

Hand in hand, the two of you take a leisurely stroll through the quad of campus. Where there are usually people studying or picnicking during the semester, now there are graduates and families taking pictures and celebrating. The warm day outside leads you to the cool shelter of the student center at the far end of the yard, where you spent a lot of your college days having lunch. It’s mostly empty now, no one having any real need to be in here other than to escape the brutal sun. 

An empty hallway catches Eddie’s eye, and he leads you by the hand to follow him in that direction. His boots squeak against the white linoleum tiles and your heels clack as you step behind in his wake. There isn’t much down this way except for a few offices that are now empty, a room full of vending machines, and some bathrooms. 

Your boyfriend takes advantage of the latter, the empty hallway leading him to believe there will be no one in the men’s room. His gamble is correct as he pulls you in behind him. He moves quick as lightning to turn the lock on the bathroom door, assuring that no one will interrupt the two of you. 

Eddie’s lips are on yours a heartbeat later, both his and your hands going to the zipper of your graduation gown. Neither of you can get it down blindly, but Eddie’s too impatient to make another go at it. Instead, he grips your hips and helps you sit on the peach granite counter behind you. The gown gets rucked up your body, the dress he’s so fond of joining it until they’re both up around your waist.

“Eddie,” you whimper.

“Shhh, shhh, baby,” Eddie croons as he sinks down to his knees. Soft, plush lips trail hot kisses from the inside of your left knee all the way up to the apex of your thighs. Large, strong hands massage up and down your legs as his lips never leave your skin, touching and teasing everywhere except where you need him the most. 

Eddie lets his eyes slip closed not only to let himself enjoy the feeling of having his hands and lips worship your soft skin, but also because if he gets one more look at the wet patch on your purple lace panties, he’s going to rip them off of you and the fun will end far too soon. 

“Eddie, please,” you beg.

“I’ve got you, princess,” he says softly. 

Torturously slow, Eddie’s mouth comes closer to your center, the heat of his breath making you curl your toes before he even comes in contact with you. Brown doe eyes open to look at you, darkened by lust as he finally presses his mouth against your core, kissing against the wet patch of your panties that’s driving him so wild. Pleasure flutters in your pussy, your hole clenching around nothing as Eddie opens his mouth and grips the material of your panties with his teeth. As quick as he grabbed them, he lets them go, letting the wet lace smack back against your clit. 

“God, I need you,” Eddie growls. 

Calloused fingers work themselves up the outside of your thighs and grip the purple material at your hips. You arch your back, head resting against the bathroom mirror, to assist your boyfriend in ridding you of your underwear, which he shoves into the back pocket of his pants. 

Now with nothing between him and your soaked pussy, Eddie eyes it greedily and the way he stares at your bare sex turns you on even more. You choke on a breath as he dives in, tongue instantly running from your hole up to your clit. He decides to keep his attention there, flicking the sensitive nub with his tongue before sucking it into his mouth. 

“Fuck,” you moan. Eddie’s responding moan reverberates up your core, adding another layer of pleasure to his mouth on you. 

He hitches your left leg over his shoulder to open you up even more for him, going in to devour you like his life depends on it. His hot, long tongue glides through your folds as he licks at you, not stopping even for a moment to catch his breath–not giving you a moment of reprieve as his mouth works against your pussy like it was made for this.  

You never want this–him–to stop but Eddie’s too God damn good with his mouth for you to last long. 

“E-Eddie, please.” You’re not sure what you’re pleading for as you reach down and grip the curls on the top of the older man’s head in your hand. It takes all of your control not to rut your hips against his sinful mouth. 

Even though you’re not sure what you’re asking for, Eddie somehow knows what you need—he always does. He slips a finger inside of you, quickly followed by a second, as he keeps his mouth working on your clit. His eyes are trained on yours, not breaking contact for a second as his tongue laps at your clit and his fingers pump in and out of your greedy pussy.

If the feeling alone wasn’t about to bring you over the edge, the sight before you was.

“Oh, I’m gonna, I-I’m gonna–”

You don’t have time to finish your thought as your orgasm rushes over you, pleasure sparking throughout your body and leaving a tingle in your veins that only Eddie can give you. Thick fingers continue to work you through it, his tongue not giving up its assault on your clit until he’s wrung every ounce of ecstasy he can from you.

Once your muscles relax and you’re panting above him, Eddie slips his fingers from inside of you and stands up. He wastes no time slipping them into his mouth, moaning as he savors the taste of you. You’d come again just from that if you had the energy. 

“Eddie,” you whisper between labored breaths.

“I love how much you say my name,” your boyfriend says as he leans over your body and presses his lips against yours. 

The sound of Eddie’s zipper being pulled down shoots a thrill of excitement through you as the two of you exchange easy, lazy kisses. His hard cock nudging at your hole has you breaking your mouth away from his, a whimper tumbling from your lips. 

“Yes,” you whine, the only word in your otherwise blank mind.

His initial push into you has you gripping at his shoulders, throwing your head back, which Eddie takes full advantage of and attaches his lips to your throat. The deeper he sinks into you, the harder your nails dig into the back of the button up shirt Eddie wore just for the occasion today. 

“Shit,” Eddie huffs with a small laugh. “I’m not gonna last long, baby. Fuck, been hard since I saw you this afternoon. Couldn’t stop thinking about how bad I wanna fuck you since then. How bad I needed to taste you. Feel that tight, perfect pussy of yours squeezing me so fuckin’ good.”

You lift your head up to look at him through heavy-lidded eyes. 

“Even though m’not your college girl anymore?” you ask through your shallow breathing.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Eddie growls, gripping your hips tighter and adjusting the angle that he pushes into you. “You’re my college graduate. My smart girl. My smart girl who gets so dumb on my cock, doesn’t she?”

“Uh huh.” You nod, your head heavy as the familiar pressure builds up in your lower tummy.

“That’s my girl.”

“So close,” you whine.

“Me too, baby. Come on. Be my good girl and come with me.”

One of Eddie’s hands leaves your hips and his thumb presses against your clit, making tight circles just the way he knows drives you crazy. 

“Fuck,” you groan.

“Let go, princess.”

“Shit, I-I’m coming!”

Eddie spilling into you, coating your walls with his warm seed elevates this orgasm as you hold onto your boyfriend for dear life. Lightning sparks everywhere his body touches yours and pure bliss washes over you like a wave on the surf. 

It takes a few minutes for the two of you to catch your breath. Eddie’s body hovers over yours and, if you’re honest, you’d be fine if he never moved. Eventually, he has to though, which also means pulling out of you. Though you whine at the loss, Eddie is right there to help clean you up and press sweet kisses to your mouth.

“I love you,” he whispers against your lips.

“Mmm, I would hope so,” you tease, throwing your arms around his neck.

Eddie has one arm draped around your shoulders as you walk down the hallway to his apartment door. He keeps pressing kisses to your temple and running the material of your graduation gown between his fingers. 

“What’re the odds the boys will be asleep?” Eddie asks when you’re one door away.

“Slim to none,” you answer with a bark of laughter. “It’s still light out.”

“Details, details.” Eddie grabs the doorknob and tosses the front door open, allowing you to step inside first.

But you don’t even get one foot over the threshold before your eyes take in the sight before you. A large banner reading “Congratulations!” hangs in the archway that leads to the bedrooms and the apartment is crowded with people. Your jaw drops and it takes your brain a few moments to recalibrate. Once it does, you spin around to face Eddie and swat at his arm.

“I told you I didn’t want a party!”

Eddie shakes his head, a shit-eating grin on his face, as he leads you into the apartment and closes the door behind him. All six Harringtons are here, Max, Lucas, and their daughter Tiffany, and Wayne with both boys, who look more mischievous than ever.

“Oh no, this isn’t a graduation party,” Eddie says. 

Nancy steps forward, a sly smile on her face, when you narrow your eyes at Eddie.

“Nope,” she echoes. “It’s an employee performance review.”

You stare at her for a moment, not comprehending her words.

“What?”

She can’t help but let out a small chuckle so Steve steps up to her side to help her out.

“You’re our employee, right? Watch the kids? So, we reviewed your performance and determined it was excellent.”

“Which of course calls for a party,” Nancy explains, gesturing to the living room full of people around her.

“And the fact that it happens to be on the day I graduated college?” you ask, tilting your head to look at Eddie.

“Complete coincidence,” he says with an innocent shrug. 

“Look, look, look!” Luke bounds over and grabs your hand, leading you over to the counter that separates the kitchen and the living room. 

A large sheet cake with vanilla icing and blue piping rests there, bearing the words “Congrats Grad!” in gold lettering.

It brings a smile to your face, but you smile even wider as you look down at Luke and then over at Ryan.

“Did you two know about this?” you ask.

“Maaaaybe,” Ryan drawls.

“I can’t believe you kept a secret from me!”

You pull Luke in against your chest and start to tickle his sides. He squirms, trying to get away from you as he howls in laughter. 

“Ahh! Ryan! Help me!”

Ryan rushes over and tries to tug his little brother out of your grasp, but you’re quicker. You pull the older Munson brother into your clutches as well and he becomes another victim of your tickling. They both shriek and try to run, but you cease your tickling to wrap your arm around each boy and press a kiss to the top of their heads. 

“You little sneaks,” you say.

“Can we have cake now?” is Luke’s only reply. He doesn’t wait for a response before posing another question. “Do you make a wish on graduation cakes?”

“What would you wish for, babe?” Eddie says as he walks over to you. He looks like he’s trying not to laugh, and you furrow your brow. “Would it be to fly like Mary Poppins?”

Your eyes widen as all the heat in your body rushes to your face.

“I’m going to kill my sister.”

[love-quinn]

— REPAYMENTS

summary — carmen accidentally loses his chance with you after you all-but ask him out. luckily for him, you're sitting two tables away from the kitchen he runs.

warnings — swearing, smoking, i think that's it?

pairing — carmen berzatto x fem!reader

pronouns — she/her, reader is explicitly mentioned to be a girl

word count — 2.2k

note — i am still finding my footing writing for carmen so this has just been trial and error, i hope you enjoy this!!! thank you for 100 followers, i appreciate it so much omg <333

It's fairly well-agreed upon that family and business should never be mixed. Whoever said that had probably never met Natalie Berzatto. His sister infuriates him, but if Carmen is being honest that’s usually because she’s just there. She doesn’t pick fights, but she will call him out on his bullshit, even if he doesn’t appreciate it in the moment. Out of all of his relatives to be closely working with, Sugar was probably his best option.

No, it was far more likely that the coiner of that phrase did meet Richie.

Carmen loved Richie deep down. He would do a lot for Richie, and he’s seen firsthand that Richie would do a lot for him. But it’s really hard to remember that when Carmen’s having to leave the kitchen to go and talk to a table because something’s gone wrong.

“‘I’ll handle it,’” he mocks Richie under his breath. “‘Calm the fuck down, Carmen, I’m Richie and I’ll handle it even though I’m fucking incompetent.’” He abandons his station to go out into the dining room, already feeling a headache brewing behind his eyes. “Handle it, my ass.”

It’s a fairly simple problem to sort out, just an old man who was bound to complain about something wanting to talk to the owner about it. Carmen smiles and nods and apologizes and makes a note to comp that part of the meal and go chain smoke about it later. 

It’s not the interaction that causes Carmen’s chest to constrict, it’s what he sees on the way in. 

Usually, Carmen is safely in the back. He stays in his section, he spends each night being hyper aware of everything that goes on in the kitchen, and he doesn’t have to worry about anything outside of the kitchen (it took a second for that last part to be true, but he does trust Richie and Natalie enough to handle things out in the dining room. 

But of course he happens to be out in the dining room on the same night that you’re there.

He almost didn’t recognise you, the room isn’t very well-lit and he only met you once. It was about two weeks ago, but he’s thought about it quite a lot since. It had been two in the morning and he didn’t even remember what he’d needed but he’d ended up at the 24-hour convenience store down the street from his place. 

The fluorescent lights had been flickering and you had been standing right in front of the refrigerator he needed. You had been browsing the fucking chips or something and Carmen was too busy controlling the tapping of his foot so you wouldn’t hear it.

“Sorry, am I in your way?”

His head snapped up, eyes locking with yours. “Yeah.”

You tried not to frown at his bluntness, just raising your eyebrows and moving out of the way. Carmen yanked open the fridge door, rubbing his face to stop his eyes from drooping closed. He’d just left the restaurant and just wanted milk before he went home. His hand dropped and he opened his eyes to look for the milk only to find the slider-shelf thing that contained his usual stuff was completely empty. “Fuck.”

You were a few feet away, still making your way down the aisle, but you glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. The last bottle of yellow-capped milk is currently sitting in the basket dangling from your elbow. You finished up and decided to just make your way to the front, cutting your losses about getting more snacks.

You’re not usually up at 2am, but one of your friends was stopping by in the city for a few days and the two of you had gotten home from a late movie still wanting to spend time together so you’d ducked down to the store for some more snacks. 

You had put a few of your items on the counter for the store clerk to scan by the time he got to the front, and you pretend not to notice him. The clerk looked so exhausted you didn’t even try to make small talk, just flashing him a soft smile while he put your stuff in a plastic bag. While you were paying, the clerk turned his head to the guy behind you to see what he wanted. 

It was the guy from the fridge and he mumbled something about cigarettes. The clerk handed you back your card and your receipt before turning back to the cabinet for the cigarettes.

Carmen didn’t even care they didn’t have the usual type he liked, he just needed a smoke soon or his chest would cave in. He slapped the bills on the counter, grabbed the pack and was out the door before you had turned around. 

He smoked almost directly outside the door to the store, and you had to walk past him to get back to your building. Usually, when guys were dicks out in public to you, you’d ignore it and you’d move on. But this guy looked so defeated that you almost felt bad for him. 

He was sitting on the sidewalk, head buried between his knees. You tried not to make it obvious that you were looking at him but he looked so sad that you felt a begrudging amount of empathy for him. You dug the bottle of milk out of your bag and put it on the sidewalk next to him.

Carmen’s head shot up at the sound, looking back and forth between you and the bottle. “What?”

“You look like you need it more than I do.” If you were being honest, it did make you feel a little smug that he was slightly rude to you earlier and now you were being nice to him, but it was mostly out of concern.

Carmen’s mouth was dry, and he swiped his tongue over his bottom lip, hauling himself to his feet with the bottle in hand. “No, you don’t have to do that. Take your milk.”

“I don’t even want it,” you said. “Seriously, dude.”

Carmen looked down at the bottle of milk in his hand. “Now I feel bad for being an ass.”

You nodded. “You should.”

Carmen gave a tired laugh and you finally noticed how bright his blue eyes were, even in the dark street. “I’m usually not. An asshole, I mean. Well, no, actually. I… am making this worse.”

You watched him, amused, and Carmen felt his throat constrict at the sound of your laugh. “Way to sell yourself. You’re really making a meal out of this, aren’t you?”

“It’s what I do best,” he said absentmindedly. “I’m, uh, Carmen.” He tried to shake your hand but with the cigarette in one and the milk in the other, he couldn’t find a way to do it. Then he had the thought that nobody shakes hands anymore, and felt stupid for the whole thing. 

You weren’t in the habit of giving your name to strangers, especially not men you met outside the convenience store at two in the morning. “Just Carmen?”

Carmen hadn’t expected that to be your response, and he blacked out for a half second where he forgot his own last name, “Berzatto.” 

“Carmen Berzatto.” You nodded, knowing to give the name to your friend later, just for safety. You told him your own name, not bothering to shake his hand. 

You dug around in your purse quickly, grabbing your receipt and hoping you had a pen. You didn’t but you did find an old eyeliner in the bottom that would work. Carmen had taken a stance of leaning against the wall, smoking his cigarette and trying not to fall asleep standing up. If he was honest, he assumed you’d walk away after that, so he was surprised when he felt you press a piece of paper into his hand. “Your receipt. For the milk” Your smile was sweet and he didn’t even process that you’d scrawled your phone number on the back until you’d walked away.

That had been two weeks ago, and he hadn’t seen you since.

He bursts back through the kitchen. You’re sitting at table nine with two other women, and his number one priority is finding Richie. Or Natalie, someone who works out in the dining room and can do what he needs them to. 

Richie, as if he heard Carmen’s mental plea, is right behind him. “I need two more mushroom risotto for table fifteen and for table nine-”

“Cousin,” Carmen interrupts. “The, uh, table nine. They’re not gonna pay.”

Richie took that the wrong way, leaning down to talk right in Carmen’s ear conspiratorially. “They’re dashers? You want me to take ‘em down? I’ll go out there and fuck them up, you give me two seconds and twenty dollars and I’ll-”

“Richie!” Carmen shoved him. “No, they’re…” He’s been so pissed off with Richie lately, more so than usual. He’d gone back to the restaurant the day after meeting you, dumping his jacket in his office, receipt on the desk with every intention to at least text you during his break.

And then Richie had spit his gum into the receipt and thrown it out. 

“Listen. One of the girls, she’s… They’re just eating for free, okay?” Carmen lets himself sound desperate, maybe that will stop Richie from making fun of him.

Richie looks down at him, eyebrows raised. “You… alright, yeah. Good. Don’t make your girl pay. Good. Does she know you run this place?” 

Carmen shakes his head. “No, I kinda messed things up with her. I need everything to go good tonight, okay? Can you do that for me?”

Richie saluted. “You got it, cousin. Food’ll be good she’ll forget what a massive prick you are.”

That’s probably the best he’s gonna get, so he takes it. Then, he gets to work. He gets your order from Richie and the kitchen makes it in record time. Then, when it’s done, Carmen makes sure he’s the one to run the food.

You didn’t know what you’d been expecting when your friends had invited you out to a new restaurant, but it hadn’t been to see the guy you’d met at a convenience store in the middle of the night to be presenting you with your meal.

You’d liked Carmen, but it had been a while and you only met him for a few minutes. Once the sting of rejection had worn off, you’d almost forgotten about the encounter. He puts your dinner in front of you and practically bows. “Carmen,” you muse, mostly just taken aback. “I didn’t know you worked here.”

“I’m the owner,” he says, trying to ignore the way your friends are looking at him. “I saw you and I… I’m not really good at this shit, but I, uh. I meant to call you.” He sounds earnest, and he looks somewhat embarrassed by the amount of eyes on him. “I wanted to, I just lost your number and I didn’t know how else to talk to you but I wanted to call you.”

You watch Carmen as he speaks and the longer you’re silent, the worse he feels about it. He can’t read the expression on your face and he’s really regretting insisting that he walked your meals, he should’ve just sent Richie. But he also knew that it would seem more genuine if he did it in person. 

“So far you’re oh-for-two in terms of not looking like an asshole,” your tone is light and a bright smile is worming its way onto your face. Your lipgloss shines under the light and Carmen can’t stop looking at it. 

Carmen swallows, wiping his hands as inconspicuously on his pants. “Would it make it better if I told you that I already got your meals comped?”

“I mean,” you say, tilting your head up at him. “Yeah, that’ll do it, yeah.”

“I owe it to you,” he points out. “For the milk. Let me just go grab your receipt, enjoy your meals.” He flashes an awkward smile over at the two women you’re with, not noticing the way you’re looking up at him.

He walks away and your eyes follow him back into the kitchen. You had just assumed he didn’t really like you, so the idea that maybe he liked you so much he was willing to give you complimentary meals slightly overwhelmed you. Your friends swarm you the second he’s gone and you relay your very limited history with Carmen.

You almost forgot what it feels like to be in the earliest stages of romance. Slightly awkward flirting, fleeting glances, the butterflies in your stomach when you realize that the other person likes you just as much as you like them.

You don’t know much about Carmen aside from the fact that he’s apparently an insomniac who owns and runs a restaurant, has really pretty eyes and likes you. That was the part that got you. He likes you enough to come out and talk to you.

In fact, he likes you so much that once he goes back in the kitchen he dodges Richie’s attempts at a high five, and prints out your now-free bill. He likes you so much that he digs through his desk for the only working pen to scribble something on the bottom where the tip number would usually be. And, something that makes you positively giddy, he likes you so much that when he hands you the check with his number printed towards the bottom.

[upsidedownwithsteve]

hello! hope ur doing well! love ur writing and excited for the blurb weekend!! was wondering if i could request number 2 and 8 from the pining list with steve harrington? love the way you write him always!! thank you!!!

“doing something nice for the other impulsively,” and “getting flustered when the other is nice to them.”

Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Everyone knew about your crush on Steve. Everyone— well, apart from the boy himself. You weren’t sure how you could possibly hide it, your eyes wide and cheeks hot everytime he was near, words caught in your throat when he spoke to you and god, it took too long for you to be able to settle in his presence.

Which is why you’d taken to sticking to Robin’s side when he invited everyone around to his pool, the summer too hot and too sticky for doing much else. The Indiana heat was borderline cruel that year, endless blue skies pretty and relentless, no clouds for the sun to hide behind.

So everyone piled in to the Harrington’s backyard, swimsuits already on under shorts and baggy shirts, sliders and jelly shoes kicked to the side as everyone stripped at the sight of cool, blue water. Eddie had a radio playing, a somewhat playful argument between him and Nancy ensuing as music choices were discussed and Jonathan took to the shade, pulling a book out of his bag, a vibrant yellow bucket hat that El had gifted him pulled low on his brow.

Then Steve had made his way around you all, shirtless and with a baseball cap shoved on his messy hair, backwards and sporting a hockey team you didn’t know much about. He was already so tanned, prettier than normal with more freckles and flushed cheeks. The sight of him made your breath hitch, shoulder squaring off as you watched him hand a beer to Eddie, another to Jonathan.

Beside you, Robin snorted, shaking her head and watching you from behind cherry coloured sunglasses. You’d set up camp with her on the other side of the pool, heads burning from the sun but your feet dipped in the water, both of you smelling like chlorine and sunscreen.

You frowned, already waiting on the teasing that naturally came. You played dumb regardless, staring at your feet in the water, your skin a shade of blue, the lines of your toes rippling. “What?” You already sounded so defensive.

“Nothing,” Robin snorted. But she pushed her shoulder into yours, sticky with heat and lotion. “Just wondering when you’ll be able to look at Steve without absolutely falling apart.”

Your scowl deepened along with your embarrassment. But you feigned ignorance and watched Nancy fish out her lemon water from her bag. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you sniffed.

Robin just hummed, grinning she stared across the yard. “Interesting.”

“Seriously, I do not fall—“

A shadow fell over both of you briefly before a broad shoulder brushed your own. Steve sat down next to you despite there being more room next to Robin, the heat from all his bare skin making you so, so aware of his proximity. You blinked, lips still parted from talking but the words had died off on your tongue. You felt the familiar creep of warmth along your chest, up your neck.

“Hey,” Steve greeted, his smile too kind, too pretty. “I brought you a drink.”

Instead of a cold can of beer, like he’d handed the boys, Steve offered you a glass. One of his mom’s fancy ones with the patterns along the side, a rosy pink tint to the liquid inside. It was filled with ice, fizzing and bubbling and it smelled like lemons and cherries. It even had a circle of the yellow citrus floating on top, summer in a cup.

It felt hard to talk when you took it from him, fingers brushing and you felt like a kid, like a teenager, a crush that was achingly awful, all consuming and gut wrenching.

He was so pretty and so close and—

“What’s that?” Robin peered over your shoulder, still grinning, looking particularly pleased with the situation she got to witness. “Where’s mine, dingus?”

The boy glared at his friend before he shrugged, all nonchalance and he gestured to you with cheeks more pink than your juice. “It’s just something I mixed up, alright? And you like beer, okay? You can grab a can, your legs work.”

You weren’t sure what made your heart beat faster, the fact that Steve had remembered you didn’t like beer or that he’d went out of his way to make you a drink that was more than a glass of soda.

Robin scoffed but she moved regardless, water dripping on your knees as she got up and walked around the pool, glaring at Steve as she went. “I see how it is,” she told him. “S’real cute, Steven. You could be more subtle next time.”

You were burning, you were sure of it. And Steve seemed to feel the same because he was red now, the tips of his ears scarlet and he flipped Robin off before she disappeared into the kitchen.

And then you realised you were alone with the boy. Something that didn’t happen often, something that you usually tried hard to avoid because you were floundering, both hands clasping the freezing cold glass and god, god— you were so aware that your body was mostly bare, your swimsuit green and suddenly too tight.

Steve’s naked chest was alarmingly close, moles and freckles dotted across sunkissed skin and with a smattering of hair, his arms corded with muscle you hadn’t really seen before, brushing up against yours as he glanced over at you.

He looked shy. Was Steve shy? Was that possible?

You realised you were staring a second too late, eyes flickering back to the pool and you tried not to cringe, or do something stupid, like tumble into the pool and float to the bottom.

So you slipped the straw Steve had placed in your cup between your lips, taking a sip. Bubbles touched your tongue, lemon and cherry and sweetness and tart filling your mouth. You hummed, taking another long drag and you could feel the boy smiling.

“D’you like it?”

You nodded, barely able to lift your head to meet Steve’s gaze but when you did, you were so glad of it. He was beaming, looking too pleased as you took another sip and his knee was bumping against yours, his hand on the pool edge and close to your thigh.

“It’s delicious,” you managed. “You didn’t have to though, I could’ve had some water or—“

Steve waved away your words, nose wrinkled and he tutted. “Nah, what? S’no big deal.”

It was. It was a big deal.

It felt momentous, actually.

“Did you make more?” You dared to ask, feeling brave with the sun in your eyes and Steve’s leg against your own. The water didn’t feel so cold anymore. “For everyone else?”

Steve couldn’t hide his smile then, lips pressed together and eyes crinkling as he shook his head, looking guilty and handsome for it. “No, just you.” He leaned in, like he was sharing a secret. “Don’t tell the rest of them, but, I like you the most.”

You felt hotter than the sun.

[chronically-ghosted]

go west, to the southern plains, go west to breathe (lover, share your road - part i) series masterlist | AO3 Link | prologue | part ii

chapter rating: T

word count: ~21K

chapter summary: at the end of the line, you make a business proposition to Joel Miller. He brings you and Ellie home to the last sanctuary left in this world in exchange for your skills. What you find there and what you find out about Joel Miller is not what you expect.

chapter warnings/tags: depictions of going hungry and poverty, sexual harassment, period accurate sexism, depictions of a sick child, reader depicted as skinny but due to lack of food not her natural body type (and this will change), allusions to domestic abuse, hurt/comfort, pining, the beginnings of a praise kink, let the idiots in love begin

a/n: shout out to the ever incredible @jennaispun for beta-ing the prologue and this first part!

“After a long walk in hell, I found you. You made hell feel like home, you made the flames feel warm. It’s true, you haven’t saved me but you were the closest thing to heaven.” — Maram Rimawi

part i:

Beneath the soot-gray fingertips of your gloves, the dust of the high plains sits coarse and heavy on the tattered, yellowing strip of paper. You hold it down flat as a brutish wind snakes up the empty dirt road through the center of Dalhart, grabbing hold of the brown dust that clings to everything — and tugs. Underneath your pale blue dress, with the hemline torn and the collar in need of stitching, your heart pounds as you read the small, almost guilty, advert:

Help wanted. Can pay.

Contact Joel Miller.

The promise of actual money should have had every able-bodied American scrambling to answer the advert, but by its place near the bottom of the announcement board outside of the country store, buried beneath slashed prices for milk and eggs and headlines out of Washington – it seems certain to be relegated into obscurity. 

For all you know, this could be months, even years, old. Miller, whoever he was, could be long dead, or gone with the rest of the exodus to California. Or he could have gone the way of your “Uncle” Robert – a huckster, discovered too late; one of many who prey upon the desperation that sticks to the country like the acrid smell of smoke. Your hand shakes as you pluck the yellow card from the wooden plank. There is no contact number, no address. Another trick? Dust stings the corners of your eyes when you pinch them close, your breathing quickening, your pulse sharp in the sleeve of your ratty glove. 

Oh, God, what are you going to do? What if this is nothing, just like Robert’s promise? What if there’s nothing here for you? What if –

A small hand on your forearm centers your spiraling thoughts. From beneath a faded blue baseball cap, two brown eyes peer up at you, firm and reassuring. 

“You okay?” She keeps her voice low, just like you asked.

“Yeah, El–Ellie, I’m fine.” You squeeze her too-thin hand, your stomach toiling with guilt and its own emptiness. “Just figuring out what to do next.” 

“Is finding and murdering this asshole Robert still off the table?”

You frown, your niece’s quick temper more from your dead sister than you. “It is. Now, I’m going inside to ask about this advert. Maybe this Miller still has a job or two open.”

Ellie’s eyes fall to the slip of paper in your hand, her aggressive scowl tightening into something that too closely resembles fear. She knows what’s at stake just as much as you do and you hate that that knowledge ages her youthful face. 

“You stay close and don’t let anyone get a good look at you, okay?” 

Ellie nods, already familiar with the routine, and scoops up your luggage case, her tattered satchel hanging off her other shoulder. She had been wearing pants long before reaching Dalhart, but it soothed you to think the eyes of cruel men passed right over her, their interest rarely in young boys. 

A bell above the door tinkles when you open it, but by the dull, muted sound, it most likely has a few dents. Behind you, the afternoon heat follows you in, the sunlight illuminating the floating dust mites in the air. The door whines as it closes, brightening the inside of the store, where the mites settle back into the silver layer that sits over cans of tomatoes and peaches, linens, boxes of gum and cigarettes. Nearly everything sits untouched and unmoved, old dust settling between cracks and grooves, patrons not having enough money to buy something and the owner not having enough to change out stock. Struck still, frozen in a single, long exhale. The slow, creaking death of the economic system has reached Dalhart too. You shudder, suddenly cold as if in a mausoleum. 

The further away from Boston the train took you, the further back in time you felt. Here, you are reminded of the old general stores of cowboys and pioneers. But maybe, that is exactly where you are: out of time.

A man in long white sleeves, coiffed hair, and perfectly round glasses, looks up from the wilted newspaper spread out over the counter. 

“Can I help you?” His accent hails from the east, North Carolina most likely. However, his manners are not reflective of that famous southern hospitality. He looks at you like you’re a bad dream and it unsteadies you.

“Y-yes. I, uh, I’m hoping that you know a-a Miller. Joel Miller? I have his advert and I’m, um, I’m looking for work.” 

The man’s thin eyebrow jumps mockingly. Aren’t we all, sister? But eventually, he shakes his head.

“Look, I don’t know what you’re doing all the way out here, but this ain’t no place for a young lady out on her own, job or no job. Where’s your husband?”

“Dead.” Your voice doesn’t waver, but then again, why would it? 

The clerk’s eyes soften, if only slightly. “I see. But I’m sorry to say, there is no job here for you.”

Your mouth instantly dries out. “What do you mean? Where’s Mr. Miller?”

“He’s a mean ol’ sunuvbitch, livin' God knows where. Comes in twice a month for supplies and he’s back out into the prairie.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t see why that’s a problem –,”

“He ain’t fit for civilized life, ma’am.” The clerk drops his nose, eying you seriously over the rim of his black glasses. “Whatever he’s offering, you don’t want no part of it.” 

“I think we’ll be the judges of that.” Beside you, Ellie drops your suitcase and it loudly clatters to the ground. “Thanks for the tip though.” 

The clerk’s eyes widen – this is terrible behavior even for a boy – his mouth unfurling to give a nasty tongue-lashing, when you interject, your voice thick with pleading.

“I would just like to meet the man. Please, sir.” The clerk, like most men without scruples, can barely resist the sound of a woman begging. Those uncanny blue eyes find you again. “Has he come in recently?”

You can feel Ellie’s wicked sneer behind you, the clerk’s gaze switching between the unlikely pair in his shop. Finally, he shrugs. Who gives a fuck if one more woman goes missing?

“He’s due for a resupply.”

“How soon?” Your palm sweats under your gloves.

He narrows his eyes, evidently annoyed that a woman would reject his warnings. “Soon. We have a parlor in the back if you’d like to wait for him. But you have to buy something,” he adds vehemently. 

You nod, unsteady on shaking knees as you walk towards the door in the back of the store. 

“Thank you, sir. You have been so kind. We very much appreciate it.” 

Any chance that the clerk finds you sincere is lost when Ellie wraps her knuckles on the counter as she passes.

“Buh-bye, dude.” 

The parlor is small, dark, damp, and smells faintly of kerosene and leather. A woman, most likely the wife of the clerk you just annoyed, glares from behind a counter as you and Ellie walk in. 

“Lunch.” Not a question.

Ellie looks up at you, eyes wide, fearful. You hadn’t let her see what is left in your purse, but she knows it’s low.

With your stomach in knots, you wouldn’t be able to eat anyway. You pluck out a dollar, bringing your total down to three dollars, and giving it to your niece.

“Order whatever you want.”

The beating heart of the blazing Texas sun edges downward across the open sky, falling, until it drops completely behind the harrowingly flat horizon. Purple erupts in its wake, the last pump of blood of a dying muscle, and nearly instantly, the temperature drops. You watch the explosive coronary of the sky from a table at the back of the parlor, your own pulse doubling the later it gets. You squeeze your hand between your thighs to keep your fingers from drumming uneasily on the table. But for once, Ellie doesn’t pick up on your nerves. 

A dollar went farther out here and, as a result, Ellie is allowed her first big meal in months. Twice now, she’s nearly forgone the silverware to shove food directly into her mouth with her fingers, had it not been for your glares to remind her to slow down.

“This is slow,” she grumbles as she licks her bowl of mashed potatoes clean. Of course, half of what she ordered sits waiting for you, but you know she needs this meal more than you do – even if your rumbling stomach disagrees. You’d already had lunch at the train station; one more missed meal won’t kill you and less for you means more for Ellie.

Suddenly becoming a parent to a very opinionated fourteen-year-old girl was not something you had anticipated, and most times you figured you were doing it all wrong. The least you could do is give her everything you could.

“You think he’ll show?” 

You tear your eyes away from the parlor door, blinking back into your body out of your cloud of thoughts. Ellie’s little hands grip the bowl, a white smear sitting on her bottom lip, her eyes dark as they watch you. 

You grin as her pink tongue swipes up to lick her mouth clean. How easy you forget she’s only fourteen, with her loud mouth and provoking eyes. “Eat your food, Ellie.” 

The words have barely left your mouth when the door to the parlor bursts open. Two men, clearly drunk and smelling of it, stumble in. This is the part where you wish you too could believably dress up like a man. Your pulse thrums in your neck like a heightened prey animal. 

One pushes the other’s shoulder, smirking, and grunting something. His friend, also in a cowboy hat but half his size, nods and makes an unsteady line for one of the tables, while the other does his best to get to the bar. 

The man at the table has light green eyes, overly thick eyebrows, and a flat mouth, loose with drink. He flops into a wooden chair and you watch as the Texas Rangers badge on his chest flashes in the firelight behind him. Your stomach tightens. 

He stretches out, feet crossed over his ankles, limp hands crossed over his denim jacket, hollering at his friend and the woman working, who looks equally displeased to see them as she did you and Ellie. 

Smirking, his eyes slide from the wooden bar top, over the back wall, and right onto you.

You watch as his gaze blurs for a moment, a film of beastial hunger smothering the color of his eyes. You can feel your pulse in your ankles now.

“Well, now, what do we have here?” The lilt in his voice calls out two unspoken words: fresh meat. Distressingly steady, he climbs to his feet, his hat tilted obnoxiously on his forehead. “Where did you come from, you pretty little thing?” 

He saunters over, his thumbs stuck in his belt, the gun at his side snug in its holster. The grin on his face is hideous. You’d smack it off if you weren’t suddenly overcome by a debilitating fear. A look like that on a man is never, ever a good thing.

“Whatcha got there, Lee?” his buddy calls out from the bar, beard drenched in beer foam. 

“I dunno quite yet, Knapp,” he says over his shoulder, his livid green eyes never leaving your face. He nearly folds in half to press his spider-like hands on the surface of your table, coming inches from your face. His breath smells like corn whiskey and cheap tobacco. “Guess I’ll have to find out. What’s your name, pretty thing?” 

“Or she could not tell you her name and instead, you could fuck off.” Ellie’s scowl wrenches her mouth open, her knuckles white around her spoon. There’s a part of you that fully acknowledges and accepts that if given the signal, she’d scoop the fucker’s eyes out with the silverware right here. “We’re eating here, or are you too busy smelling like a fucking whiskey barrel to notice?”

As with most adults when Ellie decides to show her teeth, Lee stares stunned before the self-righteous anger sets in. Your heart stops for a moment when you think he’s going for his holster, but instead, he uses the flat of his hand to swat her hat off her head.

“Shut up, you little fucker, where’d you learn your fucking ma–,”

Ellie’s long hair tumbles down her shoulders, the baseball cap on the floor behind her. 

Lee is stunned into silence once again. The parlor goes deathly silent.

It’s Knapp who sets off the explosive spark again. “Holy fuck, you’re a little girl.”

Ellie snatches up her hat, cheeks flaming red, but Lee’s hand grabs her wrist. 

“A kinda cute one at that,” Lee sneers. He twists her arm and she yelps. Knapp at the bar laughs, his paunch shaking as beer sloshes over the side of his glass. The woman is cleaning something with a rag, turned away from the scene, her shoulders hunched to her ears. You’re on your feet, your hand on her purse. “What are you thinking, hm? Dressing this sweet little girl up like a boy?”

The trigger clicks and Lee and everyone else in the parlor freezes. The edge of your lash line is wet, fear rolling through you like fog on the bay. Your hand is steady, miraculously, but your voice isn’t.

“L-l-let–,” your voice cracks and you try again. You only have one gun drawn on Lee and you pray to whatever god is listening that Knapp doesn’t remember his. “Let her go.” 

This small pistol is your last line of defense against those who would take everything from you. You couldn’t keep your sister safe, your husband didn’t want to be saved, but you’d die before you’d let anyone come within an inch of Ellie. You pawned off your wedding ring long before you ever considered selling this weight in your hand. You couldn’t physically win a fight but you’d be damned if you weren’t going to take someone out with you.

There’s more than one reason you never let Ellie look into your purse. You won’t make eye contact with her now.

Lee’s eyes harden into black flints in his head. “Yeah? You’re shaking like a leaf. You ain’t gonna do shit about it.”

He twists harder, forcing Ellie to her knees, his mouth smearing into a sickening sneer, Ellie’s cries loud – “get off me, you fucker!”

All you have to do is miss. Once. 

Your arm shifts right and you fire. You meant to hit the floor, but instead the leg of a chair at a nearby table shatters, wood and smoke sparking into the air. Lee and Ellie jump, their struggle broken, but Ellie’s quicker, smarter. Hunched to avoid debris, they are nearly eye to eye and Ellie doesn’t hesitate; she jerks her head back and then launches her forehead forward – square into his flat nose.

The crunch is sickening and it turns your already empty stomach. Lee shrieks, releasing Ellie, his hands flying to his misshapen nose to staunch the river of blood pouring from his nostrils. 

“You bitch!” he whines, voice wet and gummy as blood trickles down his throat, eyes watering. You hear a roar of anger as Knapp stands, no longer finding any of this funny.

“Get behind me, Ellie.” You snap, eyes on Knapp as he lumbers forward. She hesitates, looking like she’d like nothing more than to kick Lee up the balls, but obeys the closer Knapp comes. She slots behind you, eyes sharp on the squealing man on the floor. 

“She broke my fucking nose, man,” he cries, face already purpling. 

“Yeah, and don’t you forget it, you fucker!” She snarls over your shoulder. One hand holds your elbow, and the other brandishes her mother’s knife that had been at the bottom of her satchel seconds ago. Fuck. 

Ellie Williams is not, and never has been, nor will be, one to deescalate a situation. Knapp responds in kind. His drunk fingers fumble with his holster, his face contorted with rage.

“Shootin’ at an officer of the law – you’re gonna hang for this, you thieving little c–,”

“Knapp.”

A fifth voice – low, deep, a mammalian bark that grinds the chaos of the room to a halt. The large man stalls, his engine snagged by the rough grain of that voice. On the floor, Lee lets out one quiet whimper as he cracks open a pulsating black eye.

In the glow of the firelight, you watch as beads of sweat swell on Knapp’s big forehead beneath his wide-brimmed hat. His wide eyes flash between you and the man who just walked in.

“M-Miller, the fuck you want?” 

Your heart seizes in your chest. Miller. 

Joel Miller. 

You never thought your saving grace would come in the shape of a hulking, dark-eyed man. 

A well-worn handkerchief around his neck, crusted over with dust, his broad shoulders stretch a denim work shirt, the unbuttoned collar loose and just as dirty. Worked-over hands, dry and brown as the earth, curl into fists at his side. Tight jaw, flared nose, eyes black, his presence expands in the cramped room, a leviathan cresting dark waves to command the roaring void. 

“Back off, both of you.” 

Knapp sneers, desperately tugging at some misguided sense of bravery, with sweat running hot and fast and smelly down the sides of his rubbery face. “Y-yeah, or what?” 

“You fuckin’ know what.”

Knapp visibly swallows and lowers his pistol, hands trembling. Lee whines from the floor, his eyes open as wide as the swelling will allow, abject terror on his face as he stares up at Miller. Neither of them move.

A guard dog satisfied by the corralled sheep, Joel’s heavy gaze roves from the two men, across the room, to you.

His expression doesn’t change. 

The weight shifts across the stiff planes of his shoulders, and he turns, leaving as quickly as he appeared. Beneath his thick boots, the wooden floor creaks and it rouses you. Your mouth is so dry you can feel the skin of your lips split apart. 

“Mr. Miller, w-wait.”

He doesn’t. 

With a single glance to the men still frozen in terror, you follow him through the now-dark and empty store. The cold desert air cracks hard against your overheated cheeks when you burst through the door, into the black night. The moonlight illuminates the threads of silver hair in his beard that the dark parlor hid. His fingers work slowly, unhurriedly, as he tightens the leather buckle beneath the wide girth of his off-white horse. It lifts its head as you stumble out onto the dusty road, its round eyes watching you with more interest than its rider. White ears twitch forward, a snort from the long snout, and Joel rubs the soft place between two giant nostrils without looking up. 

“J-Joel – Mr. Miller, please, I need your help.” 

“Already got it.” His shoulders flex and roll as he loads up another loose sack onto the rump of the horse, then tightens the securing belt. It snorts again and shifts on its hooves, its long tail flicking back and forth. 

You shake your head, swallowing the hot rush of embarrassment. The wind licks at your ankles and you fight back a shiver, bringing a hand to your shoulder to warm the goosebumps. “No, sorry, I mean – I’m here to help you. I saw your advertisement and I was wondering if the position was still open.”

The buckle quiets. The dirt at his feet crunches as he faces you. 

There are no trees in Dalhart, Texas. There are barely any clouds, no coverage. Overhead, the few buildings not yet folded up in the wake of the financial collapse throw shadows over his angular face, but you can still feel the trace of his gaze over you. A curious search, the investigation of scent. 

Then he shakes his head.

“No.” 

Your entire chest tightens. “Has the position been filled?”

“No.”

“Then why–,”

“I don’t need you.” He lifts up the third and final sack and you feel your hope being carried away with it. “Need a farm hand. You’re not the type.”

“N-n-no, I’ve worked on a farm. I-I’ve only planted seeds but I’m a quick learner and I–,”

“No.” 

“Sir – please, I’ll do anything–,”

“Then go home.” He unties the reins from the wooden post and clicks to the horse. Its big eyes watch you as he turns them for the road. “There’s nothing here for you.” 

You absolutely will not cry in front of this gruff stranger. Panic icing down your spine, you follow him on weak knees. In the wake leftover from the wheat boom, Dalhart is quiet as soon as the sun goes down. Empty of people, of light, of any sort of guiding hand, you try to appeal to the last human you’ve found at the end of the world.

“Mr. Miller, there must be something you need. I’m a hard worker, smart, you won’t have to train me at all. Please. I’ve been a housekeeper, a seamstress – a nurse. I —,”

The horse huffs when Joel pulls tight on the reins. 

In the moonlight, all of his hair looks gray. Your heart plunges in your throat. You can feel your stomach trying to digest your spine.

“Done any work with kids?” He asks, after a moment. 

His brisk question is not what you expected. You can barely hear him over the pounding in your heart. 

“Y-yes. I’ve treated children before. A-and I was a teacher, briefly. I’m very good with children, actually.”

The scarred hand at his side tightens, flexes open and closed, the tips of his thumb and forefinger twitching over the other. Over his shoulder, you think his head tilts a centimeter towards you.

“You know what? Fuck this.” 

Out of the shadows of the county store, Ellie tears down the steps, her face pink and her hair stuffed back up her ball cap. She loops her small hands around your forearm and tugs, her eyes like chips of bark, glaring hatefully at the man in the middle of the street. Faint dust churns beneath her faded sneakers. 

“She’s fucking begging you and you don’t give a fuck, you old shithead!” She tugs again. In the flash of the moonlight, a glassy film has settled over her eyes. “C’mon, we don’t need him. We – don’t need – him.” 

“Ellie, please!” You grab her by the shoulders, a soft hand in a swirling tempest, and she settles, her mouth twisted up in anger and embarrassment. She hates that you have to beg anyone. “Please.” Shielding her from him, you squeeze her shoulders. “I know, Ellie. I know. But I have to keep you safe.”

Ellie finally turns that hot glare at you, eyes damp. Petulant when terrified, your sister was the exact same way. 

Fuck, Anna, it should have been me.

“She yours?”

Joel rests his weight on his left knee, fingers loose around the reins. He’s lowered the mask around his mouth. You snap your head up, your voice thankfully steady. “She’s my niece. She . . . I’m responsible for her.” 

Below your palms, Ellie stiffens. 

Fifteen feet from you, Joel nods, the muscle in his jaw tight. The horse huffs and he glares at it like it just yelled at him too.  

“I’m not in the habit of pickin’ up strays,” he says as if that means a lot. 

Hope springs in your chest and it snags the air in your lungs. “We’re not. I-I mean, we’ll work hard. Please, give us just one chance.”

“And you expect me to take on the both of you.” It isn’t a question, but his eyebrow arcs all the same. “That’s two mouths I gotta feed, ‘steada one.” 

“She can have mine.” In the silence, you think you can hear the faint choir of crickets. You remember the tarantulas and centipedes that lived inside the walls of your husband’s prairie dugout, and your stomach twists. “Ellie can have whatever you give us.” 

She makes a brief cry of protest, but you squeeze her shoulders. The sharp flair of his nostrils smooths and the corners of his eyes pinches, tilting his eyebrows up. He’s still glowering, but somehow, his expression has suddenly opened, just a crack. 

And then he nods. 

“Stay here a night. I’ll be back in the morning with the wagon.” 

And that’s it. You have a job. 

You’re so elated it takes a minute for his words to sink in. He turns back down the road, the horse's hooves clipping on the dry ground. You follow after him, hand outstretched.

“Oh, no, w-we can walk, it’s no trouble. Let me just get our things and–,”

“Too far to walk. And there’s things out in the dark more dangerous than those fuckin’ rangers.” He nods to the country store, eerily quiet. It sits, ugly, like a brown old frog. “There’s a hotel just up the road. It’s not much, but it’ll do for one night.”

“But, sir, we really can’t stay. I don’t – there’s no –,”

You stumble to a stop when those merciless dark eyes root you to the ground. The leather reins squeak when he tightens his fist around them. Again, you are under the impression of a dog sniffing out your scent for any deception, any treason. He takes you in, all of you in – your ratty gloves, your torn hemline, your tattered collar – and by some miracle, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, the groove above his nose softens. 

Wordlessly, he reaches into his back pocket and takes out five dollars from a brown leather wallet. He offers it to you between two fingers. 

Take it, his eyes command. 

You do, with a shaking hand. You hate charity, you hate that you’re at his mercy –

But Ellie has a bed for the night. Inside, warm. Where, hours ago, she didn’t. You smother your pride and nod, gaze at the scar on his cheek that you only now notice at an arm’s length away. 

“One night,” he says. “For you and the kid.”

You nod again because that’s all you really can do, his pity clutched in your fist and held against your heart. 

Ellie scowls as he swings up onto the horse and readjusts his mask. 

“What a guy,” she murmurs to you, her eyes still narrowed. Joel clicks his teeth, and the horse trots off into the dark, a lone man riding out into the featureless night.

Evidently still feeling slighted, Ellie sticks her tongue out at the denim back.

“Better keep that tongue in your mouth, kid,” he hollers before digging his heels into the horse’s flanks. “Liable to be chopped off like a copperhead.”

Ellie’s mouth snaps shut.

The money Joel gave you is more than enough to cover a room and another plate of food. You even spurge your own money on some small candy for Ellie, determined to give Joel back every cent left over and then some, once you’ve proven you can earn your keep.

For you and the kid.

You shake your head, lost in your own thoughts, the gnawing hunger in your belly satiated, as you pull back the covers to the twin bed. The metal frame squeaks as you climb in, your night dress thin and ragged as the rest of your clothes. 

“C’mon, Ellie, time for bed.” When she doesn’t move, you stop rearranging the pillows and look at her. In her own white nightie (because she’d outgrown all her other pajamas), she sits in front of the roaring fire, her chin on her knees, and her arms wrapped around her shins. 

She’s quiet - either a good sign, or a terrible one. 

“Ellie, sweetie, we’ve gotta get some sleep. It’s gonna be a long day tomorrow.” 

You watch as her narrow back expands and falls in one slow breath, her skin bright in the firelight.

She nods mutely and climbs into the space beside you. She rolls onto her side, away from you, her hands tucked up under her head, her knees curled up beneath her. 

This is where Anna would know what to say. How to soothe this girl with so much awareness in a world that is raw to even those willfully ignorant. You can’t bullshit Ellie the way you can some kids. She knows too much. Seen too much. 

You settle down next to her in the shadow of her shoulder. Your fingers hover, locked between the yawning gap of touching her and not touching her, when she finally speaks.

“Is this really going to work?” Her voice is quiet, soft, dust-covered and buried. “Is Joel really gonna . . . are we safe?”

You cannot bullshit Ellie Williams.

“I don’t know. I’d like to think so. I know you don’t like him, but I think we can trust him.”

She’s quiet again, only this time because there’s something she doesn’t want to say. 

“Not like Uncle Robert – or Robert, if that’s even his real name. I’d never met the man in person, but I wanted – so badly – to believe . . .” You swallow, your own shame boiling your skin. “I think we’re safe with Joel Miller.”

The god’s honest truth. 

She hears it in your voice.

Ellie tips back to look you in the eyes. She’s lost so much weight recently. “Yeah?”

You tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear, the ghost of your thumb across her cheek. She allows the show of affection. “Yeah, El. I do.” 

You want to say: you can trust me. I’ll always take care of you.

But you know it would only come out hollow.

Neither of you would think it was honest. 

She pulls away from your grasp, her eyes almost golden in the firelight. She nods and stares at the burning wood. 

“Okay.”

“So . . . is your car, like, broken or something?”

You elbow Ellie and she sits up from hanging over the edge of the wagon. She frowns at you – what? – and you both glance at Joel at the front of the wagon. If the question annoys him any more than he perpetually already is, he doesn’t show it. 

“Don’t have one.” He says to the back of the horse. The wagon rocks and sways over the clods of dust and stone in the road. “Never did.”

“Uh, why?”

“Cars break down in the dust storms. Short out. They end up being more trouble than they’re worth.” 

Again, that half-centimeter turn, his tone implying what his eyes can’t, faced away from you. Ellie narrows her eyes at the back of his head. She wrenches her mouth open, fire in her eyes, but she catches you glaring, and her mouth snaps shut. Pouting, she chucks a lone pebble off the back of the wagon. 

The sky is strikingly blue, bright as a livewire, the air warm and crackling with the early summer heat. Away from Dalhart, away from the collection of dust on every surface, dripping through every crack, you find the clarity and distance of the southern plains to be . . . unexpected. So careless and abrasive one minute, but then, in moments like these, it became hard to believe that nature could ever be so cruel as to make the earth rise up and swallow it all whole. 

You swing your legs off the wooden edge, the sunshine warm on your knees. It’s no use trying to hide how badly your socks need darning, so you lean back and stretch your legs as far as you can, your face tilted towards the sky, the still air peaceful. This morning, you’d put on your yellow plaid dress, torn cotton lace around the sleeves that stop at your elbows. You tucked your hair up and pinned your straw hat to your head. It was a reflex, to present your most beautiful self to a man, even one you barely knew. By the way Ellie had rolled her eyes, she felt no such compulsion. 

Demure, your mother always told you, you’re not very pretty, you’re not very bright, the least you can be is demure. 

The wagon shudders, clicks, over the empty road and you open your eyes. Ellie is turned away from you, eyes out to the fields on either side of you. You don’t understand what she’s looking at, until you realize that’s exactly it: there is nothing to look at. On the other side of those loopy barbed-wire fences through cock-eyed posts, there are miles and miles of nothing but churned-over dirt. A lazy wind spins over a patch of emptiness, tossing clods and sand into the air, an aimless sadness as tangible as the dust itself. Phone lines stand, corroded and chipped, along the side of the road like tangible manifestations of a deadly infection. 

“There’s no crops here either.” Ellie says, voicing loudly what you only thought. You can’t see her face but she sounds as stunned as you are. “What happened?”

You watch over her shoulder, eyes level with the earth bleached of all material, all life. With the drought, your husband’s field shriveled up in months, the cracked ground peeling away from the sodhouse in some places. You still have nightmares about waking up with grit between your teeth, choking and coughing up bloody chunks of mud.

This is desolation on an epidemic scale. 

“Ask different people ‘n they’ll tell you different things.” Joel says in his slow drawl, the crackle of the earth soft beneath the wooden wheels. “No one really knows. But nothing like this happened when the buffalo grass was here, ‘steada wheat.”

“Wait, you were here before Dalhart?” Ellie twists on the wagon, leaning over the lip where Joel sits and drives the horse. 

“My family was. Here before anything. My grandpa befriended the Comanche Indians and –,”

“You got to hang out with Indians?” Ellie nearly hurls herself over the edge of the wagon to try and look him in the eye. “What are they like – did they teach you how to shoot a bow and arrow – can they really ride horses like that –,”

“Ellie!” You want to grab her by her collar and yank her back into the wagon. “Not so many questions.”

The noise Joel makes is somewhere between a grunt and the word no.

“It’s fine –, “ he looks down at Ellie, still curled around the back of the seat, her eyes wide with a giant smile on her face. His ever present scowl doesn’t seem any deeper, nor does it deter her. Joel turns away again and in the sunlight, his hair is gooey, caramel brown. You stare at the dirt road while listening, the back of your neck hot. “They’re good people. Didn’t deserve what happened to them – to any of ‘em. But they taught my grandpa and grandma how to take just what they need, nothing more. But then everybody needed grain, offered money for cheap, easy labor. They poured in here, into the prairie, and in years, it became this. Folks blame the drought, but it’s more’n that.”

Ellie’s inordinately quiet. She knows exactly what your husband did to you, to your family, and now, maybe to the entire land. 

“‘Next year’ people, they claim,” Joel continues, his voice deepening with anger, “‘next year’, things’ll be better. ‘Next year’ the rains’ll come. ‘Next year’ the wheat’ll return.” He shakes his head, boots creaking against the toeboard. “Anyone who thinks that is lyin’ to themselves. Anyone’s who’s been here, seen what’s here, for us it’s been –,”

“The end of the world.” 

The silence that follows your words stretches long, an anchor dropped off the end of the wagon and rattling around the wheels. You swing your legs, fingers curling around a tear in your hemline. It wasn’t the first time you’d heard those words to describe the state of things. That’s what your husband called it and you believed him. 

Evidently, Joel agrees. His wide shoulders taught, the denim blue faded beneath the boundless sky, he nods.

“Griiim,” Ellie mutters as she curls up and drops her chin on her knees. 

You’ve been watching a single cloud chase the sun from the floor of the wagon when Ellie, silent for all of about fifteen minutes, lifts her head from her hands draped over the edge. Her eyes go wide, her ears pink from the sun, and says:

“Whoa.”

The horse huffs as you sit up, a soft wind snagging the loose hairs on the back of your neck, and your mouth drops. 

Grass. 

Fields of it. 

The air is fresh, warm, and filled with the scent of living, breathing earth. Tipped with lush purple seeds shaped like paintbrushes, a sea of stalks bend and ripple in the cooling breeze, undulating like waves on solid ground. The wind is soft here, teasing, rolling through the tall grass, carrying the scent of growth and green in the air. You’re suddenly aware of how dry your mouth is, cracked and padded with dust. 

“We left it be.” Joel offers simply, voice too gruff to surely be filled with pride. “It’s endured and survived, and so have we.”

Further back, you can see where the line of his property ends – a harsh division of paradise and purgatory – and marked to the north by a dip in the ground and even over the crunch of the wheels over the ground, you hear it: water. 

A river. An oasis in a wasteland. 

Ahead of the white tufts of hair on the horse, the road curves, disappearing into the sea of grass, but letting your graze drift up, you see an a-frame home, white like a lighthouse at the edge of a storm. The instant the home comes into view, Joel clicks his tongue, urging the horse faster – eager. 

He leads the horse up through the road, through the grass, and on the other side, by the river, two cows chew up the green, oblivious. Beyond them, tucked behind the house is a barn. Low to the ground but wide, hunched like a fighter with a heavy center of gravity, it looks ready to endure and survive. As this entire secret world had. 

Joel tugs the horse to a stop, the wagon rattles as it slows, by the wide porch of the a-frame. It sits also low to the ground, wider with a dark roof, held together with something black and smeared. You’re so distracted by the unique qualities of this house in the middle of paradise that you miss it when the door creaks open until you’re staring down the barrel of a shotgun.

“Who are you?” The voice behind the gun is deep, even if the barrels shake slightly. In the dark of the doorframe, you can’t quite see their face, only their short stature. 

You see Ellie’s hand twitch towards her knife, which she now carries in her sock since the night of the county store. 

However, Joel is less concerned. In fact, the boulders of his shoulders loosen, ease to simple muscle and blood. He makes a noise that on anyone else, it might be considered a laugh, a chuckle, but he isn’t even capable of smiling –

He slings down from the seat and pats the horse.

“Easy there, Annie Oakley, it’s just me.” 

The shadow in the doorway stiffens.

“Dad?”

The shotgun lowered, the shadow staggers into the light. Brown eyes, just like his, scrunched against the blinding sunlight, a girl with the most beautiful head of curls blinks at Joel, her thin hand held up to shield her face. 

“Hey there, baby girl.”

In a single leap, she jumps down from the porch but all too quickly, the smile slips from Joel’s face.

“Hang on, not too fast–,”

She stumbles towards him as best as the metal braces around her knees, down to her ankles, will allow, defiant and smiling, despite the beads of sweat that have swelled over her forehead. Joel surges forward, faster than you thought possible, and reaches for her, nearly on one knee. 

“Slow down, please, Sarah.”

“Dad, I’m fine,” she huffs before tossing her arms around his neck. “I’m fine. Just – missed you, is all.” 

You can’t see his face, but he straightens up still holding her. With one hand he flattens those curls to her cheek, and kisses the other. 

“Enough to forget all the things I taught you about gun safety? You just tossed that thing aside,” he scolds fondly. She rolls her eyes as he sets her down. 

“Okay, but if you didn’t know it was me, you would’a been totally scared, right?” 

She watches as he chuckles, a deep, warm sound, but her own smile flatlines when she spies Ellie climbing down from the wagon. You ease off the edge, your lower half sore from the ride. 

The girl, Sarah, narrows her eyes. 

“Who are you?” She positions her body slightly in front of Joel’s. “And why are you dressed like a boy?” 

Joel’s soft scolding – “Sarah” – is lost beneath Ellie’s scoff. She adjusts her satchel. 

“Why are you dressed like Raggedy Ann?” 

Her father’s massive hands clench down on her shoulders, Sarah’s scowl evident that she’s about half a second away from launching herself at Ellie, leg braces be damned. 

“Now, let’s slow down here.” Joel’s deep baritone is light, but just as firm as his grip. If you knew him better, you’d think he is about to laugh, the lines around his eyes thick, while his mouth stays flat. “We got off on the wrong foot. Sarah, this is Ellie and her aunt. They’re going to be staying with us for a while to help out with your schooling.”

Those curls go flying, her frown now pinched in worry. Another girl caught between a child and adult – for the sake of their single parent, you notice, your chest tight. 

“I thought you needed a farm hand. You were going to teach me.” 

“You know you already read better than I do.” 

“Dad–,”

“Miss here is also a nurse.” 

“Oh. Oh.” She glances down at the metal braces as if she’d forgotten they were there. The skin on her knees is chaffed, rubbed pink. “She can . . . help me?”

Twin pairs of brown eyes settle on you, one hesitantly curious, the other aggressively determined. 

You can, right?

Ellie’s staring at the braces, her gaze distant, heavy. She’d seen this before, but everything back then moved too fast. Back then, there was no time for braces.

Braces only help a small percentage of polio patients. The lucky ones.  

You nod, your heart hammering under your chest bone. “Yes – yes, sir. I think with Ms. Kenny’s therapy, we might be able to alleviate some pain.” 

Those eyes, exactly like and so unlike her father’s, widen.

“Really?”

You introduce yourself with your first name, pressing the crease in your glove between your nail and your thumb with your other hand.

“I’d like to try, Sarah.”

You suddenly understand that Sarah is Joel Miller’s most guarded secret, out here in paradise, paradise as the most beautiful prison in the world. He continues to stare at you from under thick eyebrows after Sarah moves away from him. Ellie, caught off-guard by her forward movement, takes a significant step back.

“I, um, got some marbles out back,” Sarah starts, thumbing over her shoulder, and every other word sounding like an apology. “If you wanna play.”

Ellie jerks forward, her eyes round with excitement, but stops. She looks at you.

“Can I?” 

Soft when eager, just like her mother. So unlike you. You nod.

“Stay close, okay?” 

You and Joel watch as Ellie and Sarah toddle around to the back of the house, Ellie quietly narrating every thought she has as she keeps pace with Sarah.

Those look actually really cool, you know?

Yeah?

Totally. Have you read Amazing Stories? You look like you could be part of the Space Family Robinson.

Who are they?

Oh, you’ve never read those!? Okay, so they’re a family who live in space and they go on these awesome adventures together to different planets and . . .

The farther they go, the faster Joel turns back to stone. His gaze lingers just a hint longer before those dark eyes pin you to the ground. 

“You said you can clean? Cook?” 

You nod quickly. “Yes, sir.” Guard dog Joel. Stocky pitbull, teeth long and wet Joel.

He tilts his chin towards the house.

“Kitchen’s in the back. I gotta clean up the wagon and the horse, then gonna tend the field. I’ll be back in a few hours, but Sarah knows where to find me if y’need somethin'.”

You nod again, but he misses it, turning away to unbuckle the horse. You slide your trunk and Ellie’s satchel off the end of the wagon and head into the shadow of the house.

The white clapdoor snaps shut behind you, followed by the softer snik of the screen clicking into its frame. Slipping the bobby pins out of your hair to release your hat, you take in the Miller home.

The air is cool. Dust motes float in the sunlight streaming in from the second floor over a staircase with wooden wainscoting leading away from the open front room. With a brief glance up, you can see the faded white walls of the upper hallway, some not-yet-seen window drawing in bolts of morning light that pierce the air in bullet holes. It’s quiet and it smells warm, like lace kept in the back of a drawer near a wall that faces the heat outside. 

A blue two-seater couch faces a squat fireplace, with a Queen Anne table sandwiched between the two. Behind you, a large grandfather clock ticks and waits, a server waiting in the shadows with a watchful eye to report back to its master on the going-ons of the house. With only a cedar hutch, a few daguerreotypes, a smattering of books, the room is sparsely decorated, but kept clean and organized. You could see Sarah, a focused look in her eyes, sitting on the steps of the stairs and making Joel move and rearrange furniture over and over again until the room felt right. 

Through a white arched doorway, you find yourself in the kitchen. The light sparks more brightly here, the sky a stark blue through the four square window over the kitchen table and above the sink, reflective of the sun. You realize then the house runs north to south at an angle, where there are limited windows in the walls on the east and west sides, thereby limiting direct sun exposure and, more importantly, heat. Both the kitchen and the front rooms had been built out of the line of the sun, making cooking and cleaning and living bearable without a painful glare. 

A thoughtful and patient consideration.

Someone had attempted to add some levity with brown and blue plaid wallpaper around the cove of the dinner table, all the way to the other side of the room around the kitchen counters and stove. But unfortunately for everyone else, the wallpaper is hideous, only tampered by the off-white counters and cupboards. 

The cupboards have glass doors, blurring ceramic cups and plates on the tops of the shelves. 

It reminds you of the small apartment Anna and you lived in back in Boston, when it was just the two of you. It wasn’t much, but it felt sturdy, secure. Safe.

A door to the right of the stove has a latch, and you lift it and poke your head inside. A chilly darkness greets you, along with the scent of wet, deep earth. A basement? No. Not this close to the kitchen. Curiosity pulling you forward, you descend the sturdy wooden stairs, into the sunken darkness. You count ten until a draft licks your ankles. You keep going, one squeak of wood after another until - you touch soil. The heady scents of pine bark and peat moss soothe the air from where your feet press into the ground, fertility thick like mushrooms in the gut of a lichen-drenched tree. But it’s dark, too dark to make out much, barely your own hand in front of your face. With your fingers outstretched, as if you’ll bump into a gas lamp conveniently on the ground, you shuffle forward and almost immediately a cold chain tickles your face. You grab out of instinct and pull. 

Nearly blinded by the light that erupts from an exposed bulb directly in front of your left eye, you stagger back, wincing, your footsteps muffled by the earthen floor. You blink through the tears as the secret at the end of the stairs finally reveals itself. 

A pantry. A cellar. 

At least twenty feet deep and ten feet high, with rows and rows, stacks and stacks, wood shelves cover nearly the entire length of the underground room. In between the rows, large barrels sit, quiet and sturdy, with bottles of vinegar and olive oil sitting on their rims. 

You realize two things within seconds of each other. 

This house has electricity. It stands above the ground, proud, independent, full of heat and light. So unlike your husband’s dark hole in the ground. 

and

there is so much food. 

Pickling jars. Seed pouches. Culled wheat. Cans of fruit and vegetables and eggs. Olives with squash and pumpkins. Crates of potatoes and half bottles of wine and syrup. Onions and carrots and spices and garlic.

A feast. Meals for days and days and days. The bounties of earth stored, safe beneath the ground, like a secret. 

It’s more food than you’ve seen in years.

A hunger like you can’t remember having roars in your stomach out of nowhere and everything pitches to the right. The edges of your vision blurs, your shoulder knocking into stone wall, and breathing becomes a nearly impossible task. You turn, nearly stumbling up the dozen steps that have turned into a thousand.

The tacky memories that stick to the crevices of your dreams yawn awake, bringing with them dry mud in your mouth and thick salt to your eyes. Mud, dirt, dust – everywhere. In that stinking hut in the ground, the dust replaced your molecules, your atoms, until you too might blow away, until you are cracked and empty and dry. The static from the dust storm memories shoots down both of your arms and you sway on your feet. Your heart suddenly pounding so achingly fast, you have to drop your forehead against the flat surface of the closed door to keep the room from spinning. 

You had forgotten what safety looked like.

You had forgotten what living could be.

You know the ringing sound of that gunshot is just in your head, it’s not real, but you shudder all the same, your hands curling into claws under your chin, your nails tearing up the white paint. 

You’re here, not there. You are safe. Ellie is safe. That house and him have been entombed together under piles of dirt, with the bugs and the rot and the stench from the weak stove. Rivers of sweat rolling down the back of your neck, you beg yourself to stop shaking. You feel like cheap terracotta pottery – made from dirt, left too long to bake in the sun and made brittle; one good tap and you’ll shatter. 

You breathe in and taste wet salt. Breathe out and cry – cry from the fear and the dread and the relief and the hope. God, that hope tastes worse than all the dirt in the Panhandle of Texas.

You cry and cry and cry until you don’t feel so brittle anymore.

Sunlight has struck copper, heavy, tangy in the mouth, when the back door opens and the house is instantly filled with the sound of girls’ rabid conversation. You step back from the stove, cheeks warm and arm sore from continuously stirring the rice and vegetable soup. It’s not as thick as your mother once made, but without milk, it would be nearly impossible to improve. You smile at the girls as they tumble in, more dust mite than human, whispering about some secret. 

“Having fun?” You ask with a grin on your face as Ellie helps Sarah take off her shoes, already attentive to what a girl with her health concerns might need. 

There’s an overlap of chatter as Ellie and Sarah both answer you and then, answer each other.

“Well, good,” you say, turning back to the stove, making sure the bottom of the soup doesn’t burn, “but whatever you got up to, it’s all over your faces so please wash up before dinner.” 

“It smells real good, miss,” Sarah says as she hobbles over to the sink and starts rinsing off her arms and cheeks, while Ellie takes off her own shoes. “What is it?”

“Something my mom used to make when the cupboards were bare.”

Sarah stills, the water rushing over her soft skin. Those inquisitive eyes are just as captivating, just as forceful as her father’s, but for entirely different reasons. She tugs the words out of you by the sheer, needling strength of her gaze.

“I mean – I found the cellar, the house is incredibly well stocked, but I didn’t see any preserved meat or dairy and I didn’t – I didn’t think your dad would want me poking around out back.”

Immediately Sarah softens and rolls her eyes. “Dad’s all bark and no bite,” she huffs. “We’ve got stored beef and cheese in an ice chest downstairs. I’ll show you around tomorrow.”

You smile and those brown eyes go warm in the coppery light. “Thanks, Sarah.” 

“Bunch up, I gotta wash my hands too.” Ellie none-to-gently bumps Sarah with her shoulder to get to the sink but before you can scold her, Sarah swings back, using her precarious momentum, and pushes Ellie back. They both giggle. Something that’s been cramped far too long in your chest loosens. 

“So, Sarah, tell me where you are with your schooling. Do you have books, diagrams?”

She thinks for a minute as she opens a drawer that leaves her back to you and takes out two, then four thin cloth placemats. She hobbles back to the table to carefully spread them out.

“I was up to seventh grade before the school shut down. That was about two years ago, so Dad’s been trying to make sure I don’t forget anything. He got me a Midsummer Night’s Dream by Shakespeare a while ago and made me read it out loud to him. He has me work on my letters every day – including cursive.” She adds, with a bright spot of joy cranking her mouth open. You imagine someone like Sarah would have beautiful penmanship. “He shows me around the yard, asking me to identify plants and animals, especially anything that might be poisonous. I don’t think he really understands it but he explains what happens when you add water to a seed and keep it in damp earth. Oh, and he has me help balance the books for the farm – what we made, what we sold, how much we have left, stuff like that.”

You smile at her over your shoulder as Ellie hands her bowls. “Accounting.”

“Huh?”

Ellie rolls her eyes. “It’s so boring, don’t worry about it,” she whispers conspiratorially.

“What your dad is teaching you is called accounting,” you say a bit firmly, eyes tracking your niece as she shows no shame. “It’s a very special skill to have, especially if you work on a farm or in a business. Do you like it?”

She nods rapidly, those cork-screw curls bouncing around her thin face. “Yeah! I do! I’m much faster than Dad when it comes to figuring out the sums and dollar value.”

In the front hall, the clap door creaks open then slams shut, heavy footfalls proceeding the man that makes them.

“Does that happen a lot?” you ask softly as Sarah sidles up next to you to peer into the pot.

“Where I know more than my dad?” Sarah smirks up at you, all devious youth. “More often than you think.”

A mini sun bursts from the ceiling as Joel flicks on the light switch and is almost immediately tackled by Sarah. The copper sun on the horizon finally, in the distracted moment, slips down and drags the night behind it. It’s purple twilight outside when Joel lifts his head from the embrace around Sarah’s shoulders to stare at the two strangers in his kitchen.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” you say brightly and you can almost picture your mother in the same exact position in front of the stove, stirring soup until her cheeks were pink, her hand resting low on her back, her tummy round and full in her second attempt to keep her husband’s rage diverted from her. It’s a boy, she promised.

The memory makes you so violently ill out of nowhere, you lose your appetite. But you persevere; you carry on and load up the bowls Sarah stacked for you. Ellie saves you from having to dislodge the prickly knot in your throat when she snags a bowl and eagerly yells, “get it while it’s hot!”

The arrangements from the stove to the table are a bit of a blur, the slick anxious weight from earlier today curling around your lungs again as you remember shadows in chairs like these, but so different from the flesh-and-blood bodies that occupy them now. 

You’re dazed, a little light-headed, but not so much to miss the glance between Joel and Ellie. A junkyard puppy skirting the territory of an older watchdog, a bone in each of their mouths and dragged to opposite corners of the battlefield. Satisfied with the lines of demarcated territory that had been drawn, they call a temporary truce by eating in complete silence, until Sarah groans.

“Oh my god, this is better than it smells!” she hums, her mouth full of potatoes. 

“Just wait till she adds chicken,” Ellie grumbles, mouth cupped open to keep from spilling. You watch her, a faint smile on your face, and the slippery feeling fades. When cleaning up, she missed a spot on her left nostril and you fight the urge to clean it with your thumb.

“There’s more.” 

Your gaze snaps to Joel hunched over his bowl. The spoon that Ellie and Sarah have to both clutch in their fists to eat barely swings between his massive fingers. 

Joel’s dark eyes trace down your nose, your chin, your neck, to where your hands lay flat on the table in front of you. Your own bowl and spoon sit on the counter behind you. You worry you might have upset him, with the way he’s frowning.

“There’s more,” he repeats, same tone. 

“I'm sorry?” 

He puts his spoon down and clears his throat, then nods to the pot on the stove. Ellie watches him out of the corner of her eye.

“I saw how much you made. If you’re hungry, you should eat.” 

As though speaking a language only you could hear, he looks at Ellie the same time you do. 

She frowns. “What? Is there something on my face?”

Sarah begins to giggle, nodding, when Joel starts again.

“You should eat. There’s enough.” 

It’s like his eyes can see through your blue veins and clammy skin, to your yellow bones and clawing stomach. You choke on the mudball that’s been hovering in your throat for months and nod.

“Alright.”

You don’t know if you’re actually hungry – you can’t really remember the taste of warm food – or if you’re doing it just to appease him, but something about the heat of the bowl and solid spoon in your hand, it rouses you from this sinking you find yourself in. Your bones feel like jelly.

“How’re the fields, Dad?” Sarah asks with her big eyes, seemingly unaware of the layered exchange between you and her father, or kind enough not to address it. 

He responds to her, his voice deep in the cavern of his chest. It’s an easy way he speaks to her, heavy with the seriousness she’s earned to be talked to like an adult, but gentle enough that for all his low grumbling, it comes out as a thick murmur. You find yourself listening to their conversation, their interactions, as soothing as music turned low from a well-tuned radio. Ellie is even roped in when Sarah tells Joel all about the Space Family Robinson and Ellie’s knife. “It’s really cool, Dad,” she says preemptively. “She knows how to use it and she’s really safe.” 

“Well, if it’s really cool . . .” he fills his mouth with potatoes, tamping down the ghost of a grin on his lips around the spoon. 

Ellie shuffles in her seat, her own hesitant smile glittering in her eyes, and with only minor prompting, she holds no prisoners when gleefully telling Sarah that she’s got the story of finding a mess of wriggling worms out by the back of the barn all wrong. 

“Just keep ‘em outta my side of the bed, alright?” You grin at her, spooning another dribble of soup into your mouth. You’ve realized too much, too fast can just as easily twist your stomach so you focus on cradling a digestible amount of food – broth, potato, carrots – in the well of your spoon. 

But the landscape beyond the silver lip has stilled. Both girls are happily slurping up the last bits of their meals, throwing quips back and forth, but Joel’s shoulders have locked up again, the bones of his wrists flat, a static alertness that you’re sure would travel all the way down to his ankles if he was standing up right. You aren’t sure if Sarah has picked up on the subtle change in his breathing – from the deep well of his lungs to shortened and shallow – but somehow you have. 

You’re staring at him far too long.

Those thick eyebrows pitch down again. Beneath the loose button that pins your dress closed over your chest, you feel a swell of heat and you wish you were like Ellie, capable of making an easy joke – what, is there something on my face? The heat bubbles almost uncomfortably under his weighted gaze. 

“I hate bugs,” you blurt out, desperate to give him what he wants, if only you knew. The girls glance at your sudden outburst. “I don’t like worms especially. I don’t mind straw beds, as long as they’re clean – I mean, I–I hope they are, the straw beds, not the worms.” 

Another eternal second of being pinned down by Joel’s frown, this one decidedly less hostile, before understanding breaks open the harsh lines of his mouth and around his eyes. His eyes go wide for less than breath, then he drops his gaze to the bowl. His shoulders shift, muscle redistributing weight as he settles his thick forearm closer to the edge of the table.

Oh, that relief of muscle says. 

“You’re not sleeping in the barn.” Joel says, head tucked down. At that, Ellie slows her ravenous eating and frowns at him. 

“Then where are we sleeping?”

Joel lifts his head, a new, special emotion just for her tugging on his mouth: exasperation. “My room. You two in there and I’m takin’ the couch.” 

Shame and embarrassment drip down over your skull, between your ears, like a cold, runny egg. 

“No, we couldn’t possibly–,” 

He shakes his head, eyes still on the split potato chunk at the bottom of the bowl. His hand flexes briefly and you think of it around the bridle of the horse. 

“It’s not up for discussion.” 

Beside him, Sarah frowns at him and you’d wonder how many times in her life he’s ever said that to her – if you could think properly over the roaring of blood in your ears. 

“Joel,” you say, something syrupy under your tongue molding the words Mr. Miller into a tone you’d use for an old friend. “I can’t ask you to–,”

Hand flexes. The seat of the chair squeaks.

“You’re not askin’, I’m tellin’.” You’re still vastly underprepared for when those eyes - those deep, dark eyes - suddenly snap on you, as if your very presence commands his entire attention. You notice the dirt underneath his nails and around the knot of his wrist on the table. He’s filthy. 

Quietly, with the surety of a dog slipping its snout between its paws, he cuts the last chunk of potato in half with the curve of his spoon. “The new mattresses’ll be here next week. We’ll make do ‘till then.”

The slurp of soup between his lips seems to signal the end of the conversation, but you can’t quite mash together your kaleidoscope-spinning impressions of the man across the table from you. 

“Thank you . . . Joel.” 

He nods, back teeth breaking apart the soft mush of the potato. He swallows and glances back up at you. 

“It’s good,” he says, briefly holding his spoon aloft. “You did good.”

His words burst the choking bubble in your chest and warmth drips down your spine, splashing in the cradle of your hips. Hunger rises, but it’s a different kind of hunger. A growl of neglect. One you sometimes wondered if it was even possible for you to ever even feel. 

Even while you were married to your husband.

You put your spoon down to keep your hand from shaking. The soup won’t feed this new churning hunger and, frankly, you don’t know what will. 

You did good, he praised, parsed out like torn bread tossed across a black lake. 

It makes you warm in places food never could.

The immediate next morning, you meet the sun early, eagerly. Eager to wake and rise and become so useful, you are intricately tied to this house; if you are removed, a vital piece of the land, the prairie is torn up along with you. Ellie sleeps softly next to you, curled up in the same position she was in the hotel bed, tucked in so tightly as if to take up the least amount of space possible. She sleeps, unbothered, blissful, and again you fight the urge to brush the hair that covers her sleeping eyes. You settle for tugging the beautiful quilt, with its stunning blue and red and green patches, up to her shoulders. 

As you tie your dress up, your suitcase partially open and on the ground, movement from outside in the dawning pink catches your eye. A brisk shadow, those thick shoulders proceeding a taught waist are unmistakable as they move towards the barn. You stand, transfixed for a moment as broad hands slide open the barn doors, you hear a faint creak, and he disappears inside. The capability of those hands; the surety, where every action is deliberate and intentional – it makes something arc up your throat. A warm piercing that bursts through bone and muscle alike. Trembling fingers tug at the wilting lace around the cuffs of your dress, imagination stretching out into the dark morning, inspired by curious and impossible ideas of those hands. 

Something – most likely Sarah next door – squeaks the floorboard and those tendrils of thought snap back as if someone had slammed a lid shut. You glance at the clock and make a mental note to wake up earlier tomorrow, to beat him to the kitchen. 

You are also desperately eager to get out of the room where you can practically smell Joel on the walls. It’s simple, just like the rest of the house, but amongst the hand-drawn sketches of himself and birds (likely gifts from Sarah), the half-spent candles and well-read books, you find him in everything. You wonder, briefly, if the indentations made on the cotton mattress are from him or you – the scent of his hair in the pillow from sweat or soap. 

The encroaching feeling that you don’t belong here in this house nearly swallows you whole as you dress in a room you definitely don’t belong in. 

Joel remains a distant figure, a familiar shadow across the lightning horizon, long after you finish the eggs and toast. You consider perusing the pantry for blueberries or something similar, when Sarah comes down. Fresh-faced, dressed with the care most people reserve for church, she stumbles in, her braces clacking as she finds a seat at the table. 

You notice a brief flash of pain across her face when you bring over a plate of food. She unconsciously rubs a circle with her thumb on her left knee as she picks up her fork.

“Pain today?” You ask, eyes on her knee, even though it’s obvious. 

She nods, strained. “Just a little bit. But it’s nothing. I’m sure it’ll go away when it warms up outside.” 

You doubt that is remotely true, but you let her hold the comforting lie. She doesn’t seem like the type to swallow pity with ease, and neither was Anna. You put on that detached but focused "nurse's" mask, your lips a straight line and brow furrowed, your voice slipping on something more commanding too.

“Let me see.” 

Sarah blinks at you briefly, evidently surprised by your shift in demeanor but eventually, she obeys. She drops her fork and slides the chair back, the chair legs squeaking against the rough wooden floor.

You crouch in front of her, gathering up her ankle first and testing its mobility.

“When were you diagnosed?” you ask, as soft as you are firm.

“Never, technically.” She watches you and occasionally winces. You wonder how long she’s grown stiff like this. “The doc had left over braces that Dad bought before the guy skipped town.”

“So then how did you know it was polio?” 

By her sudden stillness, you know this is the first time that word has been uttered under this roof in a long time. You lower her ankle, rising gaze meeting hers. Her mouth is pulled tight. You can practically read the familiar headlines as they scroll across her mind.

New Polio Cases by the Thousands

Polio Claims Life of Infant

Polio Outbreak: Thirteen Dead

“Not every case is serious,” you say, gently, using the word serious in place of fatal. You don’t want to scare her unnecessarily. But by her wide eyes, you know the word sits in her chest all the same. 

“I know. And I know it can be made worse by moving too much. That’s why Dad’s always on me about resting and going slow.” 

You return to your examination. Her skin is rubbed raw in some places by the braces. You remind yourself to ask Joel for some old sheets to make better padding. 

“That’s not always true,” you say, shifting to her other leg. “Even though she was sore after, Anna often said she felt the stiffness go away after walking around the neighborhood block.”

Curious, Sarah tilts her head, those lovely curls swaying like leaves in a breeze. “Who’s Anna?”

Your skin around your eyes tightens – how could you be so careless with such a secret – when you hear feet thundering down the stairs and a second later, Ellie swings around the lip of the doorway.

“Is that toast?” She asks, eyes wide and hopeful. “If you got bacon, I’m gonna start kissing faces.”

You and Sarah exchange a small grin before you stand up right and Sarah returns to her own meal.

“No bacon today, but who knows what else is stored in the pantry?” 

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Ellie exclaims as she slides into a chair, her own plate pilled far too for a girl her size. “Treasure hunt.” 

You see the tips of Sarah’s ears go briefly pink at Ellie’s language but the muffled smile on her face hints at awe, impressed – so you let that one slide. A stream of light through the half-shut curtain tugs your thoughts outside, to the man literally toiling in the fields. 

“Does your dad want me to bring him some food?” You ask, standing from the chair and glancing out the window. You can’t see him any more and for some reason that makes your chest go tight.

Sarah shook her bouncy curls. “No. He’ll come in and get it when he’s hungry.” 

You didn’t like the idea that you weren’t going to be directly feeding the man who employed you literally to cook for him and his daughter.

“Does he like coffee?”

Sarah arches an eyebrow at you. “Yeah, he loves it. But I’ve tried for years to make it the way he likes and he always drinks it, but I think a little piece of him dies inside every time he does.” 

“Then you must be a great cook too,” Ellie smirks up at her. In response, Sarah smiles impishly around a mouthful of eggs. 

You hold that little bit of information about Joel - something you knew that he didn’t know you knew - close, like a dollar bill in your pocket. You drum your fingers, searching for memories of how Anna used to shoe-string coffee when you couldn’t afford a maker in Boston.

“Did you eat?”

Ellie’s voice tears your gaze from the window. Her plate is only halfway empty. Her fingers uneasily move the fork around.

“Yeah,” you answer truthfully. In fact, you are rather ashamed by how much you took, sitting at the table in the purple dark, before you remembered that you had to feed three other people. “I’m good, Ellie. Thanks.”

She nods, returning to her plate and shoveling two bites into her mouth without slowing down.

“What’s first today?” Sarah asks, her eyes bright. “I can show you my sums. We have a chalkboard in the barn.”

You smile at her eagerness to show off while Ellie dejectedly pokes at her remaining floppy eggs. She had never been one for school, another thing you found hard to relate to about her. Fortunately for her, Anna nor you ever had the time to be as diligent about her education as Joel had been for Sarah. And unfortunately for her, you intend to fix that as quickly as possible. 

“I’d love to see them, Sarah, but would you mind showing me around the cellar first? Maybe there is bacon hiding down there somewhere.”

You don’t miss the small smile that creeps across Ellie’s face.

“Junk or keep?” 

Sarah looks up from the tip of her stick dragging nonsense through the barn’s dirt floor, her chin flat in her palm, elbow on her knee. She frowns at Ellie holding up . . . something that might have been a tractor part at one time. 

“I don’t even know what that is, so – junk?” 

Ellie shrugs, tosses the piece back and forth in her hands, and then chucks it like a ball to the opposite end of the barn. It collides loudly with the wall and Flora, the white and black cow, lifts her head at the noise from her stable and lets out a low groan. 

The entire barn smells of hay and animal but in a way that is warm, almost comforting. The two cows lazily munch from their troughs in their stalls, occasionally eyeing you as you carry items back and forth. It’s fortifying in a way only working outside and with your hands can offer. 

You turn to her disapprovingly but she’s already back, elbow-deep, in the pile you had designated hers to sort. Sarah, to whom you suggested rest this morning, goes back to boredly drawing circles in the dirt. Even though she clearly hates the idea of being idle, you are surprised she takes your medical advice without any fight. 

If you had successfully completed your duties as cook, now it was time to take on your other task as teacher. Sarah had a few textbooks, but mostly outdated and only one copy. You know trying to find a full library in times like these is laughably impossible, but there is nothing wrong with hoping for a blackboard. You’d made one before when the school district you tempted at didn’t approve new funding, and you feel confident you could do it again. Trouble is, you have nowhere to put it, much less set up a laughably impossible classroom for two students. 

Until Sarah casually mentioned the unfortunate pile of junk in the back of her father’s barn, “taking up at least half the space in there.” 

She wasn’t wrong.

“Yuck – is your dad a hoarder?” Ellie asks with slight disgust as she pulls up a stack of newspapers held together by twine. “Why does he even have this stuff?”

Sarah grins, delighted by Ellie’s prickly teasing. “This place actually used to be pretty organized. This was his space for a long time – where he went to think, or figured out what crops we needed for the next year.”

Her smile crumbles. “But, uh, then I got sick and now he doesn’t come out here unless it's for work.”

Ellie pinches the soft of her cheek with her teeth, nodding, her eyes downcast.

“So . . . junk?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” 

The stack of newspapers comes up to her knees and Ellie struggles, off-balanced, to carry it across the hay-covered floor. 

You reach for it and she gives it to you gratefully. You take it with a smile; you never know what she’s going to appreciate or just see it regretfully as charity or pity. 

“I think your dad is losing it,” Ellie says as she wipes sweat from her brow, shaking her head far too seriously. “Losin’ it, big time.” 

Sarah giggles.

You drop the stack of papers in the corner, but when you let go, the string snaps and the papers spill everywhere. With a sigh, you kneel down and gather them back together, but not before a few headlines catch your eye. 

Your heart twists.

Paralysis Takes Three Children

Join the Mothers’ March on Polio

QUARANTINE: POLIOMYELITIS

Why would Joel keep these? Everyone knew how devastating polio could be to children, even infants. Why would he –

Roughly dispersed throughout the article, sentences and phrases were underlined in blue pen. Sentences containing, “iron lung”, “bedrest”, “antibiotic” –

No cure.

Warmth spread out across your chest. Joel was looking for a way to treat his daughter, the only way he could in a town without a doctor: outside information. Something about this makes the space beneath your chest bone hurt so badly, you get a little nauseous. 

Now you consider conserving these papers as if they are important historical documents. Behind you, where Ellie and Sarah are lobbying jokes back and forth, you see more stacks of neatly contained newspapers. He looked everywhere and found nothing. 

You reshuffle the stack that fell, when you spot something else that hardens the warm feeling in your chest and makes it brittle.

Mob Over Breadline Kills FIVE

Experts Say There is No Way Out of This Depression

Mother of Drowned Children Claims She Did “What Was Best”

The rough floor hurts your knees. Eyes closed, you try to ignore the flood of images of what you witnessed in Boston, how desperate and cruel people became in Oklahoma. With each memory, your heartbeat pounds harder.

Red. Blood. Pink. Skin. White. Bone.

The riots got to be so terrible, but people were just hungry.

Ellie calling your name jerks you out of the sinking muck of memories. 

“What? What is it?”

She eyes you with distant concern then glances at Sarah. “She wanted to know where you learned all this stuff.”

“About cooking, and teaching, and nursing,” Sarah clarifies. “I think I’ve read every book in our house probably four times and I still feel like I don’t know anything.” 

“You probably know more than you think,” you offer as you scoop up the uncomfortable newspapers, easily switching tracks of thought to mute the swell of horrors from the rotting box in your mind. You leave them in the corner for Joel to do what he wishes with them and stand, dusting your dress off. “What do you call the process by which plants get energy from the sun?”

Sarah’s eyes brighten immediately. Where her body fails her, her mind is as sharp as a tack.

“Photosynthesis!”

“Good,” you nod, smiling. “And what’s the primary source of energy in animal cells?”

“The mitochondria!”

“Very good.” 

Ellie sighs angrily from her pile and puts her hands on her hips. “I think I’m gonna make like mitosis and split, if we keep talking about all this boring stuff.”

Scorned for her love of learning a second time and already in a bad mood from the pain this morning, Sarah frowns. 

“What’s your problem? Why do you act like school sucks? You had your mom teaching you –,”

“She’s not my mom!” Ellie snaps back, her knuckles white around a rusted bucket. “She’s just my aunt!”

“Yeah, well, I have an uncle I never even get to see!” Sarah stands up as smoothly as she can, but her knees and ankles are pink again. Her calves shake. “You’re lucky!”

Ellie’s teeth clench in the back of her jaw, lip curling. 

You remember distinctly more than once having to pick Ellie up from school early because she’d been caught fighting and you take a step in her direction, even if Sarah could no doubt land a few solid ones in. 

“And you’re–,”

“Ellie.” You know how rough Ellie can be. You remember the tone to take with unruly students, even if you don’t mean an ounce of it. “Don’t. Just let it g–,”

“Why do you always take her side?” That ire whips around to you. Loyalty, that was another trait her mother favored. Ellie’s shoulders roll forward, her fists clenched. “Why do you let her talk like she knows anything about us? About Mom?” 

“I’m not taking a side, Ellie,” you say firmly, your chin tilted down to her. One day she’s going to be taller than you, you know it. “Both of you, this is enough.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Ellie tosses the broken bucket in her hand to the ground and storms towards the barn doors. 

“You just like her because she’s a fucking dork like you,” she growls under her breath before shoving open the large square door. 

It swings shut, the metal clattering against the wood. The brief stream of light filtering in is shortly swallowed up into the shadows again. 

“I’m sorry,” Sarah says almost immediately, her brown eyes swiveling on you. Her skin is tinged a little lighter and there’s sweat along her hairline. With a fleeting flash of worry, you wonder if she’s in more pain than she lets on. “I didn’t mean it . . . I mean, I think she is lucky to have – but . . . I shouldn’t have said that.”

She drops your gaze and you think those dark eyes might be softer, wetter than usual. She plucks at the hem of her dress, her mouth twisted to the side. 

Where Ellie explodes outwards, Sarah implodes inwards. You never could understand Ellie’s inclination to destroy everything around her.

You hand her a broom, with a smile on your face. 

“Do you want to tell me about your uncle?” 

She takes it slowly from you, eyebrows furrowed down. This is a look you are familiar with, even when it comes to Ellie. She is stuck between answering like a kid, getting it all off her chest to be free of the emotional burden, and swallowing it all to please the adults in her life. 

You’ve also found Ellie tends to open up when she doesn’t have to look you in the eye. Sarah’s own gaze is stuck to the floor as she vaguely sweeps at the hay. 

“We don’t talk about Uncle Tommy a lot,” she mumbles. 

You focus on untangling an old bridle. “Oh? Why?”

“Dad’s still pissed at him for moving out to California. Said he left what’s really important for a bullshit dream.” Her eyes pop up, wide and shocked. “Sorry, that’s what he said.” 

Despite your limited time with him, you can easily see how Joel Miller might take something like that personally, but you just store that away too, another breadcrumb leading the way.

“Why California?”

“It’s–,”

The barn door opens again and Joel’s shadow breaks through the almost painful white light. Behind him, Everett (the horse) snorts and huffs, pulling along the giant creaking plow, the air suddenly pungent with the smell of warm dirt, leather, and animal sweat. Joel murmurs something to the frothing snout and wipes his own forehead with the back of his arm, smearing sweat and dirt across his browline. He stops when he sees you two staring. 

By Sarah’s wide eyes, it’s clear Uncle Tommy is a subject that is not often brought up in this house either. Joel frowns, but just as he opens his mouth, you interject – you know how to deflate a potentially angry man.

“We were just cleaning up the back of the barn,” you say, careful not to use words like junk or scrap heap. “I’m hoping to use the space as a school, for Sarah and Ellie.” 

His gaze settles on you, like the dust at his feet. 

“Mhmm.” His tone scrapes something low in your stomach. 

“I’m sorry – I should have asked – I didn’t think –,”

“No, it’s –,” he shakes his head. His eyes catch Everett’s foamy nose and he pats it, noting the long sweaty forelock. “Smart. Next spring, we’ll come up with something better, but there’s no time now, with the harvest comin’.” 

You nod, peeling off what you were going to say from the back of your teeth with your tongue. Joel casually drags his fingers through Everett’s forelock before stepping back to unhook the plow’s leather buckles. It’s when he shifts towards Sarah, looking to her, that he grimaces. 

He put his weight on his right knee and it immediately caused him pain.

“We could help,” you offer, eyes on his knee, his thick fingers rubbing into the muscle just above his knee cap. "Ellie loves being out in the sun and I can teach her how to plant–,”

“‘M fine,” he mutters gruffly, straightening up and wiping his hands on the cloth around his neck. “Sarah, go inside for a bit. There’s something she n’ I gotta discuss.”

His tone indicates this is not the time for eye rolling but she does it anyway.

“I’ve said for years that you need help, Dad. She’s just offering to–,”

“Sarah, inside. Please.” 

Sarah scowls and drops the broom against one of the stalls. She hobbles out of the barn, first scrunching her nose up at Joel’s obvious smell, then muttering something about having to go look for the hell spawn. You finger the scrap metal in your hands, a fluttery nervousness growing in your stomach the closer Sarah gets to the door. With one more disapproving shake of her thick curls, she shuts the door behind her. 

Everett nickers and paws the ground, eager to be returned to bed after a long morning of work. Light streams in gold from the slanted windows above the loft, separating the front stalls from the back of the barn where you stand, fidgeting. There’s no escaping the hot animal smell now, and it’s your turn to be intercepted by Joel. 

Another apology is nearly out of your mouth when he speaks first.

“Do you know how to shoot a gun?” He asks, his mouth set into a firm line. In the half-darkness of the barn, you can’t quite make out his eyes. 

You swallow against the encroaching dryness in your throat. “I-I have a gun. Keep it in my purse, o-only for emergencies and I–,” 

“That’s not what I asked.” He shakes his head, tone soft, almost gentle. He glances past you to the stacks of newspapers you had moved into the corner, the ones about violence and pestilence. He rubs his fingers between the bridle and Everett’s thick hair. “Found a hole in the barbed wire fence today.” 

You frown, the tension of his voice indicating a severity you are utterly unprepared for. “What does that mean?”

“Someone tried to cut through.” 

A white hot panic lurches up your spine out of nowhere. Fueled by fear, you see the outline of your husband shambling across the propertyline and you go cold. 

“W-why would someone do that? What are they after?”

His hand stills as every muscle in his body briefly tenses. Eyes dark beneath a tight brow, the tightness in his jaw is an answer and a threat all at once. He looks almost offended by your question.

You know exactly what they would take. 

All you can do is nod. 

Everett nudges Joel’s shoulder, impatient to get out of the harness, for that bath he so very much deserves. As though you had disappeared, Joel unbuckles the restraints, taking a brush to the gray coat as he goes. Maybe you’d misread that last signal and he thought he told you to fuck off.

You move towards the back door when his voice, timbre deep and low, stops you again.

“I’m gonna to teach you to shoot.” He announces to the lathered withers of the horse. “But you keep that gun on you, at all times, especially when you’re out with the girls. You got that?”

He pauses just as he slides the hitch off the horse's back, his arms covered in dirt as dark as the leather. It’s minute, the shift in his weight, but you suddenly realize he wants verbal confirmation.

“Y-yes. Yes. I’ll take it with me.”

The minutia shifts again, a lessening of tension across his broad shoulder, his thick back. He nods. 

“Good.”

The aching need for him to say more, for that good to turn into you did good or good job – or good girl – it sparks so fast and hot inside of you, you think you’ll choke. Instead, you leave through the door on unsteady legs, jaw locked tightly shut. 

You find comfort in the monotony of sewing. 

Anna always scolded you for it, that you were “giving into women’s work.”

How are they ever going to take us seriously when you actually like doing this dainty shit? 

But where Anna seemingly delighted in her mile-a-minute thoughts, you need an outlet – some way to settle, to ground yourself in the here and now. Furthermore, you could sew anywhere – on the train, on the bus, in a foreign house in the middle of nowhere where you were, again, dependent on the kindness of a complete stranger – 

It isn’t sewing specifically that you enjoy. If there was another activity where your mind could detach itself from your body, you would have liked it too. Here, in this space of blank concentration, you separate further from yourself with every stitch you pull together. Here, you are not a sister, a housewife, or an aunt. Not a nurse or a teacher or a failed fieldhand. 

Not scared of living or scared of your husband or scared that you’ll fail your sister over and over and over again – 

For a handful of minutes, you are not scared and you are the closest thing to yourself you can possibly be. You think, as a child that might have been the closest you’d actually been to understanding your own wants and dreams and desires, but now it is through this act of repetition, of delicate guiding, do you find yourself remembering what it was like to exist unafraid, as thoughtless as a child.

You sit on the edge of Joel’s bed, eased into something vaguely like relaxation by the needle and thread in your hand. You’d found some old pillows in the barn earlier today and surprisingly the stuffing was still intact. After watching Sarah struggle today, you knew you couldn’t spend another second watching the poor girl hobble around on painful braces. 

It’s twilight, the sun gone beneath a blanket of scarlet and indigo, everyone fed and full ��� the girls almost instantly forgetting their first fight in favor of a discussion about their most effective marble-flicking techniques – and you already have at least one leather-bound pad that is twice as thick as her old one. You grin, excited to share your creation to her. You wonder what Joel will say.

Through the wall over your shoulder, in Sarah’s room, you can hear the low murmur of their voices, as quick and fast as two co-conspirators. You can’t quite make out what they’re saying, but the words don’t matter. It is the high joy in Sarah’s voice, or the creaky laughter from Joel. They could be speaking in a completely incomprehensible language but the sentiment is unmistakable: you make me happy and I love you.

I love you.

The needle and thread stills in your lap. 

You glance out the window, to a much smaller shadow in front of the barn as it cuts and darts in the blurry half-light. The silver tip of Anna’s knife winks in the glint of the light from the windows as Ellie slashes and digs in the open air. Alone. 

In the late hours, in the hours when the veil between life and death felt so especially fragile, Anna made you promise that you'd look out for Ellie, to raise her as your own. To finally give her a childhood like the two of you never had. 

You had done that. You raised her. She’s alive and healthy and fierce. 

But would she find your sentiment about her unmistakable? Do you know hers as intimately as you knew your sister’s? 

Do you make her happy when both of you are constantly reminded of the ghost between you?

Sarah’s chatter echoes throughout the dark house, disembodied and entirely untethered.

It’s one week into this new, adjusted life in a house you haven’t yet found a home in when the unthinkable happens.

A loud, wet cry startles you awake and immediately your hand flies towards Ellie, panic like ice in your jaw. Your palm touches her shoulder, but she’s already sitting up, eyes towards the door. She glances at you and from your stumble out of a dreamless sleep, you realize it wasn’t Ellie who made that noise. 

It comes again, as sharp as a bone crack, and you both scramble out of bed.

Sarah. 

Up against the far wall, in the corner where her bed tucks up into the corner, Joel holds her like a lion clutches to prey. 

Giant, fat teardrops pour down the sides of her ashen cheeks, those bright eyes clamped shut, her mouth twisted in agony and she claws at her father’s forearm across her shoulders. His other hand is going white from her fingers crushing his in a bone-cracking grip. His voice is soft, firm, and fast in her ear, comforting and scared as hell, as she whimpers. 

Every muscle from her thighs down is stretched taut. Every muscle unwillingly tightened, flexed, the chemicals in her brain battling the commands of the bacteria. The pain, as described in medical journals, is crippling. 

Ellie glances at you out of the corner of your eye. Muscle spasms. 

“Sarah, darling, how long has this been going on?” She’s trembling from the pain and exhaustion. You wrap your robe around you before kneeling down to inspect her — and you feel Joel’s glare nearly singe the skin from your face.

“Don’t touch her,” he snarls and pulls her closer. Sarah whines and buries her face in his shoulder, trying to stifle her sobbing to keep from shaking and causing more spasms. “She’s–,” 

“I can help her, Joel.” Your training became a bulwark – strong, immobile – in moments like these. Maybe it was all an act but that first rush of hope that you could ease pain, soothe what hurts, made you feel like you were made of gold. You let that unbreakable shine pierce Joel’s gaze. “But you need to listen to me.” 

Sarah squeaks and you watch his resolve instantly break. Shakely, he nods. 

“Ellie,” you instruct over your shoulder. “Go start boiling water. There’s a pail out on the porch.”

She is out the door before you finish your sentence. She knows exactly what you need. 

Help on the way, you turn back to Sarah, her feet twisted in grotesque contortions. 

“How long has this been going on?” 

“About ten minutes,” Joel grumbles. She squeezes his hand so hard you hear his knuckle pop. She sobs, open mouth, and he presses his cheek to her. He murmurs softly, “I’m sorry, I know, I’m sorry.” 

“Is this the longest fit she’s had?”

Joel reluctantly nods. 

“Sarah,” you say and gently touch her knee. She peels her eyes open, cheeks stained with tears, eyes wet with fear. “We need to loosen your muscles, okay? That’s what’s causing you pain right now. So, we’re going to use heat and pressure to do that.” 

She nods, gaze solidifying with your every word, every word a new step out of the path of pain. Joel smooths her curls off her sweaty forehead, his own wide-eyed stare never leaving your face. You roll up your sleeves and curl up your hair off the back of your neck just as Ellie stumbles back into the room. She’s got at least five towels around her neck, and she’s red-faced and straining from keeping the pail of boiling water from spilling or burning her. She eases it down next to you and hands you a towel. Both of you each take a side and immediately tear the one in half.

Before you wore gloves, some sort of protection, but now there is no time. You hear Ellie inhale sharply, recognizing what you’re about to do a second before you do it.

You dip the towel into the steaming water, let it soak, and pull it out. You grit your teeth against the immediate burn on your palms, the trail of fire over your knuckles and wrists, as you squeeze out the dripping water, Sarah’s soft cries in your ears enough to push past your own pain.

Half-way between an inhale and an exhale, you think you hear your name. 

Ellie already has another dry towel loose around one of Sarah’s legs. She glances at you, her brows knitted together. 

Ready? She asks without words.

You drape the hot towel around her leg and Sarah yelps. She thrashes in her father’s arms as you wrap the towel tighter and tighter. Expecting Joel’s inevitable bark, a hard shove against your shoulder, get away from my daughter – but it never comes. 

As soon as you tighten the towel as firmly as it can safely go, Ellie slides in next to you and begins to massage the muscles in her calves, her feet, her toes. 

Sarah whimpers again, but the sound isn’t as sharp, pain-choked. Joel holds her tighter, as if her torso is also knotted and could be relieved with warmth.

On an inhale, you pick up the other half of the towel, drench it in boiling water, and wring it out with your bare hands. A silent prayer for lotion is fleeting as it drifts through the dense focus of your mind. You squeeze out the dripping water and wrap Sarah’s other leg, prepped again by Ellie. She watches you as you tug and tuck the steaming towel, her own focus as sharp as a tack, mirroring your motions as you knead and massage the muscles. 

After a few minutes of faint whining, a couple of sobs, the room slips into an exhausted silence. Her breathing slow on his chest, Joel draws back her damp curls and finds her face relaxed, asleep. His mouth parts and the skin around his eyes goes slack.

Relief. 

With a shudder, Joel knocks his forehead against hers, his thumb on her chin as if to feel her breathing. You look away, the moment so tender it shouldn’t be witnessed. 

You realize then how badly your palms ache. 

The towels have lost their immediate heat, so you unwind them. Ellie’s small hands overlap yours as she helps. For some reason, you can’t bring yourself to look her in the eyes. The both of you fall back into roles most comfortable to you. 

The wet towels gone, you wrap her legs more tightly this time, slightly past the edge of comfort. You ease her back, flat into the bed, and some small part of you is aware Joel is letting you guide her. He slips out from behind her when you tuck her in, tight with another blanket around her legs. She could be exhausted for days after this.

“We’ll need to keep heat on her legs every thirty minutes, fifteen if we can manage,” you say as you fold up the damp towels. Joel hasn’t moved. Stares down at Sarah’s small body. “I’d like to keep a warming pan here, to have hot water on hand if she wakes up in pain again. When she comes out of it, she needs water and food. Have her eat it slowly, small bites at first.”

You remember a doctor at the hospital where you trained as a nurse give advice to a newer doctor: medical mysteries and illnesses are one thing. Nervous parents are something else. 

You call his name and he doesn’t move. 

You step forward, touch his forearm, and he blinks at you. He feels so remarkably solid.

“Joel. She’s safe.” 

“Do you want me to go get more towels?” Ellie’s gathered the damp towels off the floor, her chest wet. She stares at Sarah’s bed frame. 

“Get breakfast first. Then I might need your help later.” She nods, turns to go, but hesitates. Her mouth is pinched tight, eyes wide, looking for something to ground her, to calm the vortex that the adrenaline in her veins widens with each beat of her heart. She looks so . . . childlike. 

She looks so much like Anna.

The momentary fortified strength shatters and you're afraid again. What do you say to comfort her? What would Anna say? Good job, I'm proud of you, thank you -

But then she turns away, carrying the dripping towels, and you lose your chance to parent.

Joel has curled himself into the rocking chair by her bed, so close his knee touches her mattress. He holds her thin hand in the cup of his two massive palms. His heel taps loosely, quietly against her rug, every possible outcome of this morning striking him in the chest with each drop of his foot. His face is a blurred, dark shadow, hanging between his shoulders.

To describe Joel in this moment, nervous seems quaint. 

In silence, you gather up the tepid pale of water and exit the room, closing the door after you.

The rest of the day passes in haze, tendrils of sleep still between the cracks in your brain left there by the harsh break into consciousness. 

You have Ellie feed the animals, and you start a load of laundry. The ratio of dry towels to wet is rapidly becoming unbalanced and you know after the initial attack is over, pressure is more important than heat. Sarah has barely moved all day but she is responsive and drinks water when she comes out of her deep sleep. You’ve made soup again – a heavy meal that doesn’t require much managing and can be easily re-served – and it gives you time to think. Sarah mentioned the doctor skipping town, that he had all but dropped everything and ran. You wondered what else might be in the doctor’s old shop. Morphine seemed too valuable to have been ignored in any ransacking, but often doctors kept a secret supply, unbeknownst to even most nurses for special cases or when supply was low. You think about that and stir the pot as the sun crawls across the sky. 

With your head bent over the pot, something moves in the field outside and you watch with surprise as Ellie leads one of the cows, Fauna, out of the barn. Through the rippled glass, you watch her talking to the cow, her face scrunched up in concentration, and shockingly, Fauna appears interested, her big ears flicking back and forth. But Ellie leads her only a little bit from the barn, in the grass but visible from the house. She drops to her knees and takes out a wooden stake and a hammer — nevermind where she found those – and then ties Fauna’s lead rope to top of the stake sticking out of the ground.

Ellie wags her finger, her back to the window, her stance very serious. You smile to yourself and to Anna as she marches back inside and shortly returns with Flora, the other cow, to do the same. She gives them both a stern talking to, as evident by her hands on her hips, before turning back to the house. You glance down, knowing she wouldn’t appreciate it if you saw her babysitting the cows. It was what Joel did every morning – let the cows out to graze – but she did it in her own Ellie way: on a smaller scale and perhaps with a little more gentleness. 

See, Anna, she’s all grown up.

By nightfall, both of you are exhausted. You don’t know how Joel manages to run this place by himself, especially with a sick child, but after one day, you’re ready to curl up into bed and never leave. Ellie looks like she’s about to face-plant into her soup, her eyes half-shut. You smile, stretching, before gently shaking her shoulder.

“Go to bed, Ellie. You’re exhausted.”

She blinks harshly, indignant and scowly, as you take both your bowls to the sink. “‘M fine. Just a lil’ –,” she yawns deeply, “sleepy.” 

“You’re right. My mistake.”

“Besides, we got coffee coming, don’t we?” 

On the counter, your make-shift coffee press gurgles, the cap steaming from the bubbling water over the grounds you found in the cellar. You eye her over your shoulder.

“You don’t even like coffee.” 

“Yeah but you’re staying up, right? You and Joel?”

Neither of you had seen Joel leave Sarah’s room all day. Ellie eyes the ceiling as if she can see right through it. 

“I’m taking him some food and a cup of coffee,” you say as you finish drying the plates. There’s a rigidness to your hands as you delicately lay the plates flat, unconsciously careful to keep them from making a sound as they touch. “But at St. Joseph’s, some of the nurses would offer to keep vigil, to give the parents a chance to rest.” 

You know in your heart he won’t take it. You just hope he finds your coffee inoffensive.

But Ellie doesn’t respond. She sits still, staring at the ceiling. 

“Ellie, she’s going to be okay.”

Those bright eyes fall on you. “You can’t know that.”

In your hands, you wind the damp towel between your fingers. They’re pink and still ache but the rough linen is a welcome distraction from the churning acid in your stomach.

“This isn’t going to be like last time,” you say, your hips against the counter. “Sarah’s infection is nowhere near her lungs. And she’s been responding to treatment.”

Ellie drops her gaze, her bottom lip curled between her teeth. 

“Don’t say that unless you mean it. Unless you can swear to me.” 

One of life’s simple truths: parents lie. 

You recognize there is a part of her that wants you to look her in the eyes and lie. She’d be angry, eventually, if your lies were exposed, but in that moment, as she sits in an unfamiliar house, at an unfamiliar table, with you and this wretched ailment the only things she knows to be constant – she wants a comfort you can’t give her. You are not capable of parental truth.

“I can’t promise anything.”

She inhales, breathes shaky, and exhales, the spoon in her hand trembling. “I know.” 

Hands full of a white, chipped food tray, you knock twice carefully with one hand like you had been trained to before opening the door. The lamplight has been turned on, but the room, blanketed in darkness and shadows, looks the same. Sarah sleeps deeply, if not well, her hand curled by her face against the pillow, her heavy storm of curls cradling her head gently. Joel watches her, as still and silent as the moon. His foot has settled, but now he breathes so slow he might not be breathing at all. 

Of all the terrible things you had seen during your time as a nurse, witnessing someone like this is always the hardest. Feeling helpless is a sentiment you are all too familiar with and the thought of someone just sitting there and watching you with your grief makes your skin itch. 

“Joel.” A formality, because those trapped in a cyclone of worry require a slow approach, easing a startled animal. “I brought you something to eat.”

Speaking, it lets him acclimate to your voice. 

You set the white tray on Sarah’s dresser, a piece of furniture meticulously crafted. Like Joel’s room, there are books everywhere, but more animal drawings, some directly on the walls. Sarah’s brilliant personality expanded here, in the blues and pinks, not capable of being contained in a single body. 

A body that seems so small and fragile in that little brass bed, while her father looms impossibly large.

“Joel.” Again, soft, but this time you put a hand on his bicep. Never near the neck, an older nurse warned you, that area is sensitive. His denim shirt is soft beneath your fingers, nearly bleached white from the sun and worn smooth from dust and dirt and wind. You think you smell churned earth and hot leather in the instant it takes you to kneel down beside him, your grip sliding from his shoulder to his forearm. With the other hand, you tip a steaming cup into his open palm. 

“Sarah told me you liked coffee.”

Slowly, as though he had blinked and reality disintegrated and reformed around him, Joel’s gaze slides from Sarah’s waxy face, to yours, and then the hand on his forearm. The back of your scalp prickles, the bulwark of courtesy shaking, before you remember you’d done this hundreds of times, to people of all ages, men and women. He seems to understand this – a professional gesture – and he takes the mug from you. With an almost perplexed expression, he stares into the nearly black liquid, his jaw tight. 

And then he drinks, without saying a word. 

You think you might have heard a low rumble from him, a pleased groan as heavy as the plow in the barn outside, but the floorboards creak when you stand up, so you might have been imagining things.

“This tastes good,” he says bluntly, voice weather-beaten. You smile into the bowl of soup as you wave a hand over the steam to cool it down to something bearable. “How?”

Despite his monosyllabic responses, you take this as a good sign. Something tells you that you’ve made exceptional progress by getting him to talk at all. 

“I got pretty good at making cowboy coffee, as my sister used to call it, before we moved to Oklahoma. You already had the beans in the cellar,” you say, shrugging as you bring the soup over to him. He eyes it warily, as if this is not the appropriate time to eat, as if his own suffering would make Sarah’s lessen. 

You’d only ever seen that instinct in a handful of parents while in the hospital and it made something wide and warm press up against your chest bone. 

So you don’t give him a choice. You push the soup into his hands with enough speed that he has to take the bowl or drop it entirely. He, like most people with common sense, takes the bowl. He has a second to frown at you before you turn away to Sarah. 

“And I suspect they were hidden down there on purpose?” You ask as you take out another blanket from the basket beside her bed and flutter it over her legs. You remember stories about the women working with Elizabeth Kenny filling quilts with rocks or beans, anything with weight, and putting them over the affected limbs of polio patients. The compress soothed the ache. 

Sarah snores gently in her sleep as her father behind you laughs, a soft rush of air from his nose, his mouth preoccupied with a half-grin. 

“I try not to hurt her feelings,” he admits quietly. You hear the clatter of metal on porcelain as you fold and refold the blankets to carry more weight. “That girl is a lot of things, but good at making coffee isn’t one of ‘em.” He slurs around the soup in his mouth. 

It’s hard to believe she’s only a year older than Ellie. They have both lost things, indescribable things at too-young an age. But where Ellie carries it in the grip of her hand around her knife, Sarah takes it on the chin. 

Polio, a disease of freezing agony. 

You wonder how much of Sarah’s inner world she keeps to herself. 

Like with Ellie, you fight the urge to brush a lovely curl away from her cheek. 

“You have a special girl here, Joel.” 

You feel his gaze on the back of your neck and you drop your gaze from her pristine face, remembering it’s not your place to look at her like that. Not like how you want to look at her.

Not like how you might want to look at him. 

Joel shifts on his feet, leaning forward to put the now empty bowl on the ground.

“I know.” By the strength of his tone, he admits to knowing that you see the bright light about Sarah like he does and so he lets you look. Your heart stutters at this silent transference and you grab blindly for that mask of noble duty. 

“How has her breathing been?” You sit down next to her and pick up her wrist, feeling for that steady pulse. You relax slightly when it’s easy to find. The beat of it is a little faster than you would like, but it hasn’t woken her up. 

“Good.” A disgruntled groan from the chair as he adjusts behind you. His voice is rich like molasses, dripping warmth down the knots in your spine. “Woke up here n’ there, like you said. Gave her food. Got her water. But she just went right back to sleep.”

“But she ate and drank?” 

He nods out of the corner of your eye. You check the mobility of her joints and they seem to be back to their natural looseness. Whether she’ll feel strong enough to walk is another matter entirely, but it’s not good to worry him unnecessarily. 

“That’s good, Joel. That’s really good.” 

You smile at him and finally, finally, the corners of his eyes soften, his brows pluck up, and he breathes deep. The tension leaves his body the way steam leaves a lake in the hours before dawn, the cup of coffee resting on his thigh. His gaze falls from your face to hers, shrouded in shadow.

“She’s never slept this long after an attack,” he says quietly. “Always restless, pain flaring up. We once stayed up a whole day and night when it got bad.” 

He shakes his head, clears his throat a bit as if the words in his mouth leave behind a mucky, sour taste.

“Thank you. For treating her properly.”

For doing what I couldn’t. 

It’s true. But no amount of reassuring – I’ve just had training, you did the best you could – would dissipate that repugnant scent of guilt lingering in the air. You are forced to let it linger, unable to say a single damn thing that would mean anything to him. 

As he finishes the last dregs of coffee, Joel unwinds his long legs from beneath the seat and his knees crack. Stiff joints after a long day of stillness, but immediately his fingers fly to that same spot he touched in the barn in that afternoon, his mouth tight from the unexpected flash of pain. 

Immediately you kneel down, worried at the slight hiss he made, fingers inches from his thigh when he straightens.

“You don’t have to–,” he shifts as if he can pull away from your touch and stay seated. “It’s not that bad –,” 

You frown at him. “Can the person here who has had actual medical training determine that?” 

Something light flickers over his eyes, so fast it might not have been real, smoothing the lines around his mouth. Joel nods, glancing to the floor. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

That single word almost splits your skull in half like lightning. 

You are immediately grateful for the heavy shadows in the room. Your palms, smarting all day, are now blistering with heat. Mouth shut tight, you don’t trust whatever sits behind your lips, so you begin your inspection of his muscles. Thumbs down, you feel along the lines that lead down to his knee.

Hard, firm, you notice. Made solid by work and toil. A few of the bricklayers and farmers you’d attended to had muscles like these. Despite the rough denim and how unsettling it is to be this close to him, it’s easy to lose yourself in the methodology of the human body. You’ve learned to read sinew and bone and scar tissue like a map and you come to find that the topography of Joel Miller is mountainous. 

“So, mhm, where’d you learn to make coffee?”

You thought the stiffness in his thigh was due to lingering pain, but when you look at him and his guarded expression, chin tilted into his chest, fingers tight around the bottom of the seat, you realize he is uncomfortable. He is made uncomfortable . . . by you. Something sharp pokes through a slot between your ribs and you sit up straighter, trying to make your touch even more clinical if possible. But what he says next, you aren’t sure if it’s genuine or genuinely meant to hurt.

“Your husband?” 

You shake your head. “My sister, actually. Ellie’s mom. We’d trade night shifts when she was a baby. One of us would come home from our second job, and the other would leave for their first. Anna said she’d never have survived those first years without coffee.”

You can hear the question he wants to ask buzzing in his head, your thumb rubbing therapeutic circles around the inflamed area. But instead he asks:

“And you . . . you like coffee?” 

You shrug. “I don’t think I ever slowed down enough to ever taste it in the first place.” 

With Joel Miller, silence means a thousand things. It’s not the way he looks at you, but the way he looks into you.

“Anna always said we’d be fine, that two unmarried women with a baby could make it in the city. But I wasn’t so convinced. There wasn’t much time for something like enjoying the taste of coffee because I was always busy taking every job I could get.” 

“Like treating sick kids.” He says it like he just found a piece of you off the ground and added it to a sprawling puzzle. He politely stares over your shoulder.

You swallow, throat tight. “Actually, um, Anna had it - polio - too. I took the job as a nurse to learn how to treat her from home.” 

Those heavy eyes swing into you full force and you can feel your stomach roll and collapse against your spine. 

“Every case is different, Joel. What I did for Sarah, it wouldn’t have helped someone like Anna.” 

“But she died?” A third unwelcome presence. 

“Yes. She went fast. There was nothing anyone could do to save her.”

There was nothing you could do to save her. 

Your thumbs are starting to ache, but you don’t want to leave just yet. You want to sit and listen to his voice, even if it’s pitched in anger towards you. 

But it’s not. His next words come out soft, if not a little bit disbelieving. 

“Where did you come from?” Joel asks. “You said the city, Oklahoma. How’d you end up in fuckin’ Dalhart, Texas?” 

You use your elbow on the thicker muscle up his thigh and he tries very hard not to wince. 

“We grew up in Boston. City girls all our lives. We had big plans of catching the bus line and going all over the country, just the two of us, but then Anna got pregnant and overnight, everything changed.”

He nods, knowingly. You add that to your own Joel Miller mosaic.

“I met the man I’d marry while I worked as a maid in a motel. He was a banker, or so he told me, and he wanted to whisk me away. We were three months behind on our rent, so I told him yes, I'd marry him after knowing him for a week — as long as I got to bring Anna and Ellie with me. All he talked about was money, so I thought he had it. What he did have was enough to get us to Oklahoma, buy some farm equipment for the wheat boom, and then lose it all in a handful of years.”

“And then we lost Anna. We lost my husband. I went back to trying to find a job in town with no jobs.” You pull your hands back, the deep tissue of his thigh flushed with blood from your therapy, and having nothing more to do, little more to say, you drop them into your lap. “Just after we missed the payment for the equipment for the second month, I got a letter from a man claiming to be my long lost Uncle Robert. I hadn’t eaten in three days and Ellie just got tagged by the police for shoplifting. I sent him a letter back and he said if I sent him our last twenty dollars he’d get us set up in Dalhart where he had a successful car dealership. I did and he didn’t and if you hadn’t picked us up, I don’t know what we would have done.” 

You sit with the hot truth of it and he sits with the both of you. It’s silent in a way that only a house in the middle of nowhere can be. Sarah stirs in her sleep, her legs rustling the sheets, but doesn’t wake up.

“You don’t have to do that here, you know.” He straightens his legs, just as quietly as the rest of the house. He crosses his arms over his chest and you think about the muscle just under his forearm, thick and immobile as sea-drenched rope. “Not eat . . . for Ellie’s sake. There’s enough for you and her. Always.”

You think of the cellar with its soft dirt, cool air, the endless rows of stored fruits and vegetables and meat, buried like a still-beating heart beneath the dust-whipped house in a paradise on the prairie. 

“But I understand the inclination.” With you on the ground before him and Joel leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his broad back arching under the stripe of white moonlight, he looks at you. 

Really looks at you. 

Like recognizing like.

A passing in a distorted mirror that might be me but it’s not but I think I know you all the same there is a thing just like me out in the world and it sees me.

Slowly, hesitantly, as if he’s afraid you’ll bite, he reaches forward and takes your wrist from your lap. The calluses on his thumb brush roughly against the knot of bone as he twists your palm upward. Pink, too pink, a stinging color, even in the low lamplight. Joel works his jaw back and forth, staring at your palm with weary concern, as if it told him things he didn’t want to know. 

His gaze lifts and your fingers curl instinctively in. He’s trying to make you look and you don’t want to. He sees your sacrifice and you don’t want it called that, there’s certain nobility in sacrifice, in a sort of suffering for other people, but it’s not sacrifice if you go willingly and despite you not wanting to look, not wanting to put a name to it, not wanting to take up any space at all, he looks at you like he, a man as broad and wide and powerful as he, is grateful. 

For you. 

Every bulwark inside of you, every foundation that you had built yourself because you never had the chance to grow hearty roots somewhere permanent, rumbles. Shakes, beneath a single solitary, rolling earthquake. A landslide of earth behind the strength in his eyes. 

“For her, for Sarah, I’d do the same,” he says. 

For her. For the children in your lives. 

Do you even like coffee? All you know is how to make it. What would you do with it if you did? If you liked coffee? If you loved it.

If there was someone outside yourself and Ellie to make you coffee simply because you wanted it. Because you were in a circle of people for whom people would do things for. For her. For you. 

The heart of Joel is like coffee: dark but warm. 

Your wrist slips between his fingers, finding refuge again in your lap. 

“I know.” 

You wonder what it would be like to be within Joel’s circle of people for whom he does things. To be given coffee, just because you want it. 

You bet it’s warm.

You stand up, collect the empty, used things, and wish him a good night. 

A noise and sunlight startles you awake. Your eyes tear open, hand flat on an open pool of sunlight in the center of the mattress, head twisted and knees bent up by your chest. In your sleep, your body twisted itself into a Gordian knot, unable to escape the dreams about the cellar ground turning into coffee beans, and the cramped bloodflow leaves you disoriented until you can roll onto your back and remember where you are. The smells that surround you. 

You hear the noise again and you think of Ellie and in that instance where complete consciousness returns to you, the weight of her is gone. Literally.

Ellie is not in the bed beside you. 

The room’s brightness is suddenly too bright, the clear, electric blue sky too blue – it’s too beautiful and it lulled you into a sense of comfort. Stupid, so stupid. You ignore the warm floorboards against your bare feet, the faint birdsong from outside, as you rush towards the source of the sound, towards Sarah’s bedroom – oh god, I was wrong it’s too late it took her in the night and I –

The sound you do not recognize, the sound you could not comprehend while buried in dreams and memories, is the sound of laughter. Loud, full laughter.

The brass bed creaks as Ellie uses the mattress to fling herself into the air. On the other end, just as determined to reach the ceiling, is Sarah. Hands outstretched and reaching, her legs bend and flex and propel her up and up. Every time she gets within a handful’s reach of the ceiling, Ellie’s laughing, cheering her on, and then it’s her turn, Sarah giggling as Ellie’s face scrunches up as she reaches out towards the blue sky on the other side of the roof.

“Oh, hey!” Ellie says, pink-faced and causal, half-way out of breath. Sarah spins, mid-way through a jump, her eyes bright, sweat peaking on her brow line. “Sarah bet – I couldn’t touch – the ceiling — so we’re taking turns – loser has to shovel – the barn!” 

You watch, dumb-struck, as the bet continues, the girls laughing and criticizing each other and offering techniques as they work in tandem to fling the other one higher. Sarah is flush with vitality, with life, with a dewy glow reserved for spring mornings when the earth stretches awake after the death of winter.

And Ellie . . . she looks her age. 

The earth has shifted beneath your feet, while you were sleeping, and a seedling has been planted, the dawn of something new, something fresh and utterly unexpected. You can feel it in your bones. Hear it in their laughter. 

“Not a bad thing to wake up to.” 

Joel, arms crossed, eyes soft, leans up against the door frame, blue striped pajamas low on his hips, a thread-bare white undershirt cupping his biceps. He eyes you from toe to head and stops when he meets your eyes. You wonder how long he’d been standing there – if he too woke to noises he couldn’t explain, rushed in here, and found something miraculous.

The smile crinkles his eyes as it unfurls across his face. 

“I haven’t heard her laugh like that in a while,” he says quietly, head tilted towards the bed, as if there could be any other meaning. “I owe you one.” 

You could say the same thing about Ellie.

There’s the line, the boundary of the circle to the place of being warm. He’s not cleared the way for you, not invited you across, but he’s shown it to you. You can see it, feel it, and know what it takes to get there.

Your smile blooms. The girls’ laughter rings throughout the house and into the sunlight.

But, outside of paradise, away from the river and the white a-frame house, from the horse and the cattle and the long strands of prairie grass, where there is not enough to eat and the earth is in its death rattle, the wind blows. It swallows up dust, and dirt, and fine sand, gluttonous. It swirls and pulses, agitated and restless and seeking violence. Spinning with the power to blind with a single whip of dust, it spins up over the earth in its death rattle, where there is not enough to eat, towards the prairie grass. Towards the horse and the cattle. Towards the river and the a-frame.

Towards paradise with the promise of total ruin. 

END OF PART I 

series masterlist | AO3 Link | prologue | part ii

[sebastianswallows]

Nobody's Darling — 1. The Road

— PAIRING: Benny Cross x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: Benny comes across a girl walking alone in the middle of nowhere and offers her a ride to the nearest town. They stop at a motel.

— WARNINGS: none

— WORDCOUNT: 3.1k

— A/N: Hello, my dears! So yeah, I saw The Bikeriders because of Austin (and Tom Hardy) and of course I had to write something for it 😂 I've been labouring at it for the past two weeks lol This was meant to be a one-shot but it kept growing and I decided to split it into chapters. The plot is partly based on something that happened to me, namely I missed my stop and the bus drove me way out of the city before I realised what had happened 💀 Anyway, hope you enjoy it! 😘💕✨

Grey clouds floated across the sky. Fields of yellow and burnt grass rolled along like waves. A string of birds cut through the far horizon. The fading light of the sun seeped softly through the glass and warmed her cheek but she was happy to keep sleeping, caught in that special spot between awake and dreaming when her thoughts were peaceful, settled, and she could weave from them a pretty fantasy. The chill of a November evening didn’t quite make it into the bus but the windows were already fogging and the seats grew cold.

She woke up with a start when the wheels struck a hole in the ground and everything jolted.

“Where am I?” she groaned, squinting at the window. Her reflection frowned back but beyond it, she could see… nothing. She was in the middle of nowhere with only naked fields and swaying power lines around her. She checked her watch and her heart stopped.

“I should’ve been home by now. Oh no, I did not sleep through my stop,” she whispered to herself — but she did. “Wait! Driver!”

She got up and ran to the front, scrambling past all those empty seats, her jacket in one hand and purse flailing in the other. The driver gave her a bored expression as she leaned panting against the divider.

“Wait, please, I need to get off! Where are we?”

The man looked at her with all the serenity of an overworked drone in a dead-end job. He didn’t seem particularly alarmed to see her there, nor did he seem to care about her predicament.

“Halfway to the next town,” he mumbled as he started to slow down. “There’s another stop ‘bout a mile back.”

“Great…”

“Next bus comes tomorrow ‘round seven thirty.”

“Oh.”

She looked around again as if she could see something different from up here but it was all the same. The vastness of it frightened her and she half-wished she’d never woken up.

The driver pulled over at the side of the road and tilted the cap on his bald head, his teeth tight around a toothpick.

“You’ll be alright?”

“Yeah…” she said automatically. “Sure.”

He opened the door and her whole body began to tremble, the situation suddenly completely real. She gathered all her nerves and put one step in front of the other, and as soon as her feet were on the ground the bus started to move again, driving away.

The sun was dipping into a pool of pink and the birds that circled overhead were growing louder. She was alone in a darkening field with nothing in front of and behind her except for lamplight spilling yellow and pale over an empty road and dead grass all around. If she regretted getting off that bus, it was too late now.

“At least it was warm inside,” she muttered. “But I could never make it back in time for work tomorrow from the next town… Damn it.”

There was nothing left to do. She sighed to herself and started walking back. In her head, she tried to calculate how late it would be by the time she made it home but each result only scared her further.

“Best not to think about it,” she said. “Just keep walking…”

She hadn’t gone on such a hike since she was a little girl, and never far outside of town. She’d only walked through fields and meadows and the forest that stretched east. There was certainly no time for it since getting hired at the local newspaper, and she liked it that way. Her days were measured and predictable, her clothes were always clean, and nothing ever hurt her — except her back if she sat down writing for too long. She was scared now not just because she was alone and in the dark but because she’d never done a thing like this before. Her heels were unsteady on the crumbling tar and her purse felt heavy on her shoulder. Insects were singing in the grass and creatures rustled through it that she dared not think about. Were there snakes around here? Rats? She pulled her jacket tighter around herself.

After half an hour she came across the bus stop that the driver mentioned. The sign for it was half-chewed off and the wooden bench was worn and stained a sickly yellow beneath a flickering light. She considered for a moment sleeping there until the morning but then the ignominy hit her: to sleep on a dirty wooden bench under the flutter of moths and mosquitoes. To come home unwashed and stinky with her hair a mess and her stockings torn. And if any of the neighbours saw her… No. She walked past that bus stop and didn’t look back, and soon found herself surrounded by darkness again.

“You deserve it,” she muttered as she wrapped her arms around herself, her body ambling forward with none of the grace and poise she had half an hour before. “How could you fall asleep? You weren’t even that tired, and the bus ride is so noisy. You couldn’t wait another ten minutes to get home? Idiot, idiot…”

The walk back to the city was taking longer than she thought it would, and by eight o’clock she was still out there. The sky was sprinkled with stars and the wind was flitting gently through her hair and the creatures in the bushes were growing ever louder. If she weren’t so cold and terrified she might have felt exhausted. Her feet hurt and her back was bent under the weight of her purse and she hadn’t eaten since noon. But suddenly, in the distance, she saw a glint of something made of glass and metal — it was a phone booth. The joy that rushed through her wiped all her pain away and she hurried to reach it, nearly tripping. She felt halfway home as soon as she stepped inside its murky walls.

“Please work, please work, please please please.”

She picked up the receiver and held it on her shoulder as she opened the phone book and started leafing through for the nearest police station. They would be obliged to come and pick her up — that is if she could only explain where she was…

“Hello? Operator?” But no voice came from the other side. The tone was dead. “Operator?” she tried again, her voice growing shaky. “Hello? Anyone?”

As she kept tapping on the phone hook, desperate to reach someone, a bright light came peeking over the horizon from the direction she had just come from. It couldn’t have belonged to a car but whatever it was that approached her was fast and loud as all hell. She held her breath as she watched it getting bigger, brighter, closer. This was the only driver she’d seen the whole night and she was equal parts hopeful and horrified of just what it could be. After all, what kind of person would be out driving at this hour on a weekday?

She forgot about the telephone as she followed this strange light until it was close enough to blot out all the darkness. It blinded her for a moment but that thunderous rumble soon settled to a pur and it stopped on the other side of the road from her. When her eyes adjusted to the brightness she realised it was a motorcycle, thin and lean and silver.

Its rider propped himself against the ground on one long leg clad in blue jeans and reached into his pocket. He was tall and slender, his figure swathed in shadows, his motions simple but relaxed and almost elegant.

“It doesn’t work,” he said as he lit a cigarette. “Been broken for a while now.”

The flash of flame from his zippo lighter gave her a hint of his face. He was young, perhaps even younger than her, with full pink lips and a slight stubble, soft blue eyes, and a sprinkle of dirt like freckles on his face. There was a wildness to him and an air of gentleness as well, but his jacket was a dark denim and thick with patches, symbols that probably meant something to him — he must’ve belonged to some sort of “club”. She didn’t know much about bikers aside from what she read about them in the papers, but they’d always seemed to be a bunch of layabouts. Aside from drinking far too much and smoking she knew they got into trouble with the law, had fights, caused accidents, and were generally dangerous to be around.

“I’m… just trying to get to town,” she said in a wary voice.

“Well, I’m headed that way.”

She said nothing, her hand still frozen on the telephone.

“Want a ride?”

It was a tempting offer but one that made her shiver. She’d never been around a man like that, never even exchanged words with one, and everything that she expected from his kind — rudeness, lewdness, and a bad attitude — was suspiciously absent from him. He looked at her with those soft eyes, his long leg braced against the road, and waited. She should have accepted his offer, she should have just gotten on his bike and wrapped her arms around him, but… she couldn’t.

“No, thank you.”

He kept on smoking quietly and looked her up and down much as she’d done with him. She wondered what he saw… She was probably a pathetic sight and a strange kind of person to come across in such a place. When his eyes finally left her figure they strayed across the wilderness. There was nothing around them for miles, they both knew that, and other cars wouldn’t be around that road for hours.

“You know how far away you are?” he asked, rolling the cigarette between his fingers.

“I’ll be fine.”

“It’s a long walk.”

“I don’t want to…” She was about to say she didn’t want to ride all the way back with a stranger but instead said, “trouble you.”

He didn’t react at first, keeping that air of stillness about him that made her wonder what he thought. But after a few moments, he nodded and dropped the cigarette, crushed it underneath his boot, and with a leisurely motion mounted his bike once more and revved the engine up. Before she could say another word he’d already sped into the distance and left only a cloud of dust behind.

She almost felt sorry to see him go. Almost felt guilty too… She didn’t want her distrust of him to be so apparent or to cause offence, no matter what kind of a person he was. But she told herself he must’ve been a dangerous man and that she was better off alone than riding back to town with him. Well, she wouldn’t be riding back with anybody now… The telephone line was dead, just as he’d said. The wire must’ve been disconnected somewhere.

She wanted to cry. Instead, she began to walk once more, trudging through the dark.

The sky was as black as a curtain cast across a silent stage and against it lit from below the pale lights of interspersed lamps. The roaring of the bike got slowly lost in the road that lay before her and soon only her steps echoed to remind her of how alone she was. She watched the small light of the rider fade and hugged herself against the cold, holding the purse to her chest as if it could protect her. Her feet were hurting so much she worried they were bleeding and she considered taking them off until she looked down at the road and its uneven dirty tar. She closed her eyes even as she kept on walking, too tired to gaze out at the same old nothingness again.

But then she heard a roar floating on the wind and felt a tremble in her chest as if an earthquake was approaching, and when she opened her eyes again she saw that lone light making its way back to her. He seemed to ride back faster than he did as he was leaving and he reached her in no time at all. She slowed down to a stop and so did he, parking right beside her.

“Hey,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck in an awkward, boyish way. “Look, I’m sorry if I scared you earlier. But I can’t just leave you out here. You sure you don’t want to —”

“Alright,” she said, her voice already weak and weary. She was hungry and cold and scared that she’d never make it back to town that night. Too scared to refuse his help a second time. “Just… just get me to the edge of town. I can make my own way home from there.”

If he was surprised at how quickly she accepted now, he didn’t show it. He simply moved closer to the front of his seat and made space for her behind him.

She took a deep breath and approached him carefully as if he rode a beast, not something made of metal. It looked solid and precariously thin at once and yet he straddled it confidently. The saddle looked just big enough for two. She hopped on as best she could and tried to keep her legs together but when he looked at her over his shoulder he shook his head and laughed.

“Legs on either side,” he said. “You’ll fall off if you ride like that.”

“But, my skirt…”

He looked up and down her legs and she tried not to read too much into the way his eyes had darkened.

“Roll it up,” he said in a low and soothing voice. “Don’t worry. I won’t look.”

She held her breath as she rolled her skirt up high enough so that she could throw her other leg over the side. He waited while she settled into the position and planted her feet firmly.

“Ready? Hang on,” he said as he revved the engine up. “I’ll go real slow, alright?”

“A-alright…” she said as she placed her hands timidly around his waist.

But he didn’t go slow, at least not by her standards.

It was completely different to riding in a car, more visceral and real with no windows to protect her. She let out a little scream and clung to his body more tightly than she meant to, eyes falling shut, legs tightening around his bike. He smelled of gasoline and metal and several days’ worth of sweat cooled down by the chilly autumn night but he felt so solid in her arms, so firm and steady, even as the world flashed by. Eventually, she was brave enough to rest her cheek against his back and opened her eyes to look at the vacant countryside. It was a little frightening, as she expected, but peaceful too. As she fisted her hands in his jacket, right over his heart, she tried to peek over his shoulder but could just see the side of his face, focused and relaxed, and the white circle of the headlight. Somehow, that was enough for her. His hair tickled her forehead, feeling softer than it had any right to be, and she found herself smiling. There was something base and ancient in the way he smelled, the way he spoke, even in the way he moved. It was as if he had in him the blood-memory of an ancient Knight on armoured steed galloping alone and steadfast through the fields and woods of untamed lands.

The outskirts of town were much tamer than that, however, and before long they could see the faint lights of the outermost buildings, squalid flats, and blinking advertisements. When he started slowing down she felt herself breathe a sigh of relief. It must’ve tickled the back of his neck because he bent his head forward as if to get away — or to ask for more.

“Where are we?” she asked once the noise of the motorcycle died down.

“Marshal Avenue,” he said, easing the bike to the side of the road.

She didn’t know exactly where that was, but she guessed they were on the other side of town from where she lived. All along the street were boarded-up shops, derelict flats, and liquor stores. Across from where he parked was a building that looked to be about a hundred years old. She could hardly fathom walking home at that hour, especially through a neighbourhood like that, but it was better than being in the middle of nowhere.

“Well, thank you. For the ride.”

He lit another cigarette and dismounted the bike, rolling his broad shoulders to unwind. She got off quickly, scrambling to cover her legs in the crumpled skirt before he turned around and saw her. He gave her a look over his shoulder when he heard her fussing and slowly turned around.

“You sure you don’t want me to drive you home?”

“Yeah, I… I can walk from here.”

He looked at her and stayed quiet but there was something in his eyes behind that veil of smoke that made her curious about what he had to say. He simply nodded and turned toward that old building behind him. She hugged herself and looked up and down the street, waiting for him to say anything — to ask for money, to make fun of her for thinking she could make it home, to make a pass at her…

“Well, good night,” she said.

And as soon as she started walking away he spoke to her again.

“Hey, it’s kinda late. They got rooms upstairs.”

“What?” she asked, turning on her heels a bit unsteadily.

“Owner knows me,” he shrugged, crushing the cigarette beneath his boot and immediately lighting up another. “Could get you one for cheap.”

She shifted her weight from one foot to another and looked around pretending to think… but her eyes kept coming back to him. He puffed quietly away and gazed at her with no design behind those clear blue eyes, looking just as uncertain and awkward as she felt standing in the middle of the street. She didn’t want to trust him but a part of her responded in the same way that she did when she saw a homeless puppy.

“You mean, a room of my own?”

“Yeah.”

She looked from him to the large building again.

He could probably tell that she was torn because he helpfully supplied, “They got food too. Hungry?”

She was. It had been over twelve hours since she’d eaten or had anything to drink.

“I kind of am.”

“Me too,” he said. “Come on.”

[octuscle]

Road Trip to a new life

Bloody hell, Chuck thought to himself! They can't just forget me here! His football team was on its way home from an away game. A very successful away game. And they all had their star quarterback to thank for that. And that was him, that was Chuck. And now they had all just taken a pee break. At a rest stop in the middle of nowhere. And hey, Chuck had been flirting with the cute waitress at the diner. And yes, he had fucked her in the broom closet. Hehehe, he thought to himself for a brief moment. A map of the state, showing the broom closets where he'd fucked basement girls, cheerleaders, or even teachers from schools he'd usually flunked out of shortly afterward. That would be a cool idea! His grin didn't last long. Shit, the team bus had left. Without him. And now he was standing here in the rain with no idea how he was going to get home.

A truck came to a halt next to him. A horn sounded very loudly. Chuck didn't react yet. The passenger door opened and a bearded guy looked out. "Son, you look lost. Can I give you a ride?" Chuck hesitated for a moment. He was still far too confused, far too angry to think clearly. "Sure, that would be cool," he replied. And climbed into the cab of the monstrous truck. It smelled of cigar smoke and sweat. Chuck looked at the driver. A short, slightly overweight guy. Unkempt. The dirty T-shirt ended just above the large belt buckle and showed a roll of flab. A greasy mullet peeked out from under the trucker's cap. Shit, Chuck thought to himself. Maybe that hadn't been such a good idea. The trucker lit a half-smoked cigar. "My name is Pete. If you want one too, there's one in the compartment right in front of you. Chuck shook his head, tensed his biceps and said, "Chuck! Thanks for the ride. And I don't smoke. I'm an athlete." Pete stretched out his right arm and felt Chuck's biceps. "Hm, feels good. It'd be a shame if you stopped working out." He blew a puff of smoke in Chuck's direction. And his hand moved towards Chuck's chest. "Wait, wait," Chuck moved to the right in a sit. "No homo, dude. I only fuck pussy." The driver just glanced briefly in Chuck's direction and smiled. His teeth were nicotine yellow. "I don't care what YOU fuck." He blew another puff of smoke in Chuck's direction, pulled his hand back and began kneading the bulge in his crotch. "Thanks for the ride, I think I'd better get off now." Another puff of smoke. Chuck went dizzy. "Comrade, the next stop isn't for another six hours. We have a schedule to meet." Chuck tried to keep a clear head. But the smoke was making him tired. His head felt like it was full of absorbent cotton. "All right, Pete," he mumbled. And fell asleep.

It was dark outside when Pete shook him by the shoulder. "Get up, sleepyhead. We'll take a break in fifteen minutes and then change drivers. Chuck yawned and stretched. Driver change? What was Pete talking about? And more important now was his latte. South of his big belt buckle, Chuck made a big tent in his pants. Of course Pete had noticed it long ago. He had long since taken his puny boner out of his pants and was wanking it. As a passenger, you had your duties. And it was still a quarter of an hour's drive. It wasn't the first time Chuck had blown someone in a driver's cab. Driver's cabs, filthy toilets in truck stops, broom closets in cheap diners. He could manage anywhere. How long had he been driving aimlessly on the highways now? Two years? Got there. You had to take what you could get. And Pete was actually out of his league. But he took him a good part of the way. Gratitude was a must.

Chuck walked a little wide-legged towards the restrooms at the service station. Pete must have cum. Chuck hadn't yet. They wouldn't be driving on for another hour at the earliest. It was going to be hell if he didn't find someone to fuck by then. In the light of a lantern, he leaned against the wall, his erection still clearly visible. He took a cigar from his leather vest, lit it and waited. Almost five minutes. Then a greasy business traveler in a cheap suit walked past him. A look that lasted a little too long. A grab in the crotch. A mumbled "20 without a rubber?". And everything was clear. It had been a few days since Chuck had showered, but the guy was still greedily going down on Chuck's greasy, cheesy cock. Premium beef. Yes, that described his cock very well. And this premium beef had just been sucked clean for 20 dollars. And then Chuck sank it into the guy's ass.

Chuck couldn't understand guys like Pete. When you were out on the street, you had to take care of your body. Okay, Chuck more than others, his body was his asset after all. But while Chuck shoveled in lots of chips and a big burger and drank three pitchers of beer, Chuck ate his steak and salad, drank water and used the last few minutes before leaving to do a few pull-ups and push-ups at the fitness station behind the toilets. A few other long-distance drivers loitered around him. If they hadn't had to drive on, Chuck could certainly have earned a few more dollars. But as it was, he climbed into the driver's seat. If he hadn't had to drive, he would certainly have had a few beers. As it was, another cigar would have to do. Pete snored in the back of his bunk. Chuck turned the radio up a little louder to stay awake. And he steered the truck south through the night.

At the next break and before the driver change, Chuck was able to earn a few more dollars. There were many truck stops where he was known as a colorful dog. When you heard his heavy footsteps and the creaking of the leather, it was like a bell on a Pavlovian dog. Chuck had been traveling the country for many years. A mixture of hustler, temporary trucker and casual laborer. He had flunked out of college at some point. Stupid thing to do. He'd had a thing with a woman once. And she'd claimed he'd raped her. That taught him a lesson, since then he only fucked men. They appreciated his mouth, his ass and his cock. And paid well.

Somewhere in New Mexico, Pete threw Chuck out of the truck. He had to be out of the cab before the finish line. Pete would be in big trouble if it came out that he had let someone else drive the truck. He thanked Chuck with a masterful blowjob and a box of Cuban cigars. They would probably never see each other again. The country was big… Chuck rarely got in the same truck twice.

Chuck loved the feeling of the sun on his body. He was able to use the stop for an extensive open-air workout, a good meal, two lucrative fucks and even a shower. Now let's see where he was going. He stood by the road. It wasn't five minutes before a car stopped and the driver asked him if he could give him a lift. Chuck only asked if he could smoke in the car. Only if he didn't just put the cigar in his mouth, was the answer. Chuck got in the car. On the road again!

Pics by @ki-kink

[daydreamer-in-training]

The cave

Penguin x f!reader

Description: You are the new crewmate on the Tang, separated from the rest of the Heart-Pirates and stuck in a cave with Penguin, you get the chance to get to know each other more; Penguin opens up about his past; realization of feelings; Reader is implied to have had a difficult past

✨Inspired by, and a precursor to this gorgeous fic by @fanaticsnail, strongly suggest on reading that as well!

Word Count: 4.300+

Imagesource

Notes: First fic i am uploading on this account! <3 And what better chance to dedicate my first upload to @/fanaticsnail for her birthday. That was yesterday and i missed finishing this fic at said day by 20 Minutes. Its not a fanfic about Heat or your gorgeous OC Tobiuo, but i hope you‘ll enjoy this anyways Snail! ;-; I probably would have never done this without you! <3

Please note that English is not my first language and i am very tired while uploading this :D Enjoy everyone✨

Spoiler Warning: for the non-canon events of the novel, which contains the story of how Law, Bepo, Shachi and Penguin met. I haven't read it myself, so i‘m basing this off of the fandom-wiki article and i‘m mixing my own interpetation with it

TW: the word fuck, bit violence and blood in Penguins backstory, so its canon-typical violence i guess

„I think she doesn‘t really like me, Shach.“ Penguin let out a frustrated groan as he couldn't play a card in the game he and his best friend were playing.

„Well, if you think that, because she's stubborn as hell and can‘t accept any help, I suppose you're right,“ the redhead said nonchalantly and played another card „She must hate us all then“.

„Shame, she's really something…“ Peng murmured more to himself, more concentrated on the game than on what he was saying. He pulled another card from the deck. Shachi raised an eyebrow at that, his grin bared some of his sharp teeth.

„Give it some time“, both of them looked up as they heard Law's voice, he was leaning on a yellow wall of the Polar Tang next to them, arms crossed in his usual stoic manner. He must have overheard them talking. „She's only been here for a handful of days, “ he thought about what he said next for a moment „And it's not easy to like you two from the start, you know? I‘m talking from experience here!“ the dry humour in his voice was evident, but he got the Middle finger from his best friends for that comment anyways. He chuckled lowly at that and pushed himself from the wall. „Seriously… it wasn‘t easy for her, at least what she told me about. But I think she fits in here very well, so give it some time.“

The two men's obscured eyes met for a moment, and they nodded, „Aye Cap!“They both saluted him half ironically with a grin, and he left with a satisfied look on his face.

„So… she's really something huh?“ Shachi teased and played another card that earned him the win to this round. Peng groaned again and rolled his eyes.

~

„It's nothing, really!“ you protested, hiding the limb as best as you could „It barely even hurts!“. But Penguin could see how your eyebrows furrowed in pain just a little bit. He grabbed your forearm gently to make you stand still. You looked back at him annoyed. “What!?“

„Sit down, before you make it worse.“, he gently pulled at your arm, agitated by your stubbornness and worried that you got hurt for him. „We don‘t know where we are going or where the others are anyways“ he added in an untypically stern way as you didn‘t move a bit to sit down.

You and Penguin were separated from the rest of the crew by an attack by the residence of the island you made landfall on earlier that day. They don‘t seem too keen on having pirates around and made that known quite quickly. As you were all exploring the nearby area, the cliff you were walking on got hit by a large missile.

You were talking to Bepo about the map you had acquired when the explosion hit the rocks and made the earth underneath you shake. Suddenly the view around you was obscured by thick smoke. You could barely make out the large boulders that fell down from the cliff above you. One is directly falling towards Penguin and Shachi, who were standing closest to you.

Instinctively you did the only thing you could think of and tackled Penguin out of the way. You felt a sharp pain in your ankle! Disoriented, he let out a scream of surprise as you two tumbled down the cliffside. Luckily it wasn‘t too steep. Nevertheless, you two rolled for a good couple of moments before coming to a halt in a bush at the base of the cliff. Penguin managed to grab you and hold you close to him, all while protecting your head with his large hand while you two were falling.

A moment passed between you two in which you stared into his obscured eyes.„Fine“ you pouted, sitting down on a rock nearby. „We should call the others“ you suggested tiredly, roaming around in your bag “I have the Den-Den here somewhere…“

Penguin used your distractedness to crouch down in front of you and take a sneaky look at your ankle. He wanted to grab your boot gently as you pulled it away. „I`ve already told you, it's not-“ You regretted that motion instantly, yelping as a sharp pain shot through your whole leg. Tears pricked at the corner of your eyes as you looked away from his face, pouting.

„Nothing huh?! Just let me take a look, aye?!“, he looked up at you, his eyes covered by his hat but his mouth twisted into an annoyed grimace. He knew you hated getting help from others anyway, he figured that much out since you joined the heart-pirates a few weeks ago. Being vulnerable and all that wasn`t easy either when everyone was still a stranger to you, he understood that.

You opened your mouth to protest him, but he wasn`t having any of it. „No! No arguing anymore“, frustrated by your stubbornness, he took off his hat and threw it to the ground in front of him to blow off some steam. „I`m a trained medic, you know?! It's not just Law that knows these things!“

It was always just Law-this and Law-that with you. You obviously admired their captain, but somewhere deep down, it knawed at Penguin.

“Just let me help you“, his eyes were displaying the full dimensions of his emotions right now. Annoyed and tired and most of all worried, he looked up at you, his eyebrows meeting in the centre of his forehead in a silent plea. „Please trust me!“.

You let out a quiet little gasp, taken aback by Penguins' actions just now. It wasn`t his outburst that made your thoughts come to a halt, no. It was his eyes.

Those shining light blue eyes were like arctic ice, swimming in the ocean. They contrasted beautifully with his dark hair. You didn't expect him to have such beautiful eyes, so full of emotions. Is that why he was wearing the hat all the time? Because otherwise, everyone around him could bear witness to his emotions all the time.

You were transfixed, staring down at him with round eyes, your standoffishness had left your body completely, leaving you speechless.

His gaze softened at that. How cute! „You are part of the crew now. The heart pirates take care of each other, promise“, he assured you, his voice much softer now. You gave him a nod to confirm that he was allowed to take your boot off now, still unable to say a word.

You were watching his nimble fingers gently unlace the boot, trying not to inflict too much unnecessary pain. „S´might hurt a little…“ he warned you, so you could brace yourself as he took off the boot. You clamped our eyes together but remained brave, bearing the sting that came with the loss of the shoe. You immediately feel more vulnerable, now that the bootshaft wasn't there to stabilize your ankle anymore.

You winced as you saw how blue it already was, it didn't look like it was part of your body anymore. „Oh damn, it's super swollen“, he looked at it with a curious fascination only a medic could display, chuckling a bit. The dark-haired man immediately grabbed his bag and took out a medical kit and looked through it. „Be right back“, he murmured as he stood up to search for something.

You wordlessly watched him take off and rummage around on the ground nearby while taking his famed hat from the ground in your lap, to brush off the dust gently. A happy „aha!“ in the near distance signalled that he had found what he was looking for, running back to you with a spring in his step. You gulped back the lump that formed in your throat while watching him take care of your injury so intently, still patting his hat gently. He didn't even notice that you had picked it up as he came back, to focus on his task of bandaging you up.

„I will make you a temporary brace, s`alright?“ he presented the two twigs to you that he had found and resumed taking out bandages and tape. „This will keep you stable until we can put you back together properly on the Tang.“ he assured you while gently taping the sticks to your skin to hold them in place while he bandaged your ankle.

Your fingers gently graced the pompom on his hat to keep you occupied. “I trust in your skills Penguin, I`m sorry… I didn't mean…“ Your voice shook a bit as you held back a tear. You were in pain and very tired. And on top of that, it was new to you that someone else took care of you in this way.

Peng's head snapped up at the tone of your voice, his heart skipped a beat as he saw your sad expression. His gaze flickered for a moment. Then he gently grabbed the hat he just now realized you had in your lap and put it back on his head, his stunning eyes now hidden again. As he took it, your fingers gently grazed his, sending electricity through his body. In that moment he was glad his gaze was hidden by the fabric again, or it would give his tender feelings away immediately.

„Well,“ he chuckled to lighten the mood „I might have to amputate the leg still! Looks reaaal bad y´know?!“ now he was the teasing, old Peng you`ve come to know. While he resumed bandaging you up, making sure it was snuck against your skin, he continued his musings „We`ll make you a neat wooden leg, then, aye?“ the suggestion making you chuckle „But You`ll have to wear the heart pirates jolly roger on it! Cap will make you! But don't worry, I will paint it onto the wood myself, promise!“ his bright grin was infectious and you found yourself in a much better mood now.

He looked up at you, proudly presenting his finished handiwork on your ankle. It felt much more stable now. The corners of your mouth twitched a little as you looked down at the goofy man grinning up at you. You couldn't help your lips turn into a smile. „Thanks, Peng…“ you whispered.

A raindrop landed on your nose, and then another on Penguin's head. „Oh no“, you said in unison while looking up at the grey clouds shrouding the sky. „I saw a cave over there, let's get shelter there!“ he suggested and stood up, holding his hand out to you. You nodded and took it to stand up carefully. After a bit more bickering and you refusing to lean on him or be carried by him, you two made it over to the cave, right when it started pouring buckets.

„Guess we should stay the night, it's late anyway.“, his casual suggestion made you go stiff. Stay the night with him in a cave? Alone?! „W-we could try to call the others, “ you said instead of agreeing „Maybe they are close and we can return to the Tang“. But as you took out the tiny Den-Den Bepo gave you earlier, you found it to be broken. Unfaced by your fruitless attempt to avoid this, Penguin turned around and scanned the cave for anything dangerous as well as a good place to make a little fire with the branches he picked up on their way here. The sun was starting to set and it was already dark in the cave as it was.

„Sit down and relax. I‘ll prepare a fire.“ he gave you a tired look that left no room for argument. You furrowed your brows and opened your mouth but closed it again immediately. You were exhausted and a stinging pain reminded you of your injury. „Okay…“ you murmured in defeat and sat down at a spot Penguin deemed worthy for your „relaxation“.

You slowly lowered yourself and stretched out your insured leg while he built a little firepit nearby. You grabbed the bag you had with you and searched through it for the little food you had on you. That must do for the night. He was starting to be satisfied with the way the fire looked, which would keep you cosy for a good while.

Mesmerized and tired you stared into the flames that were starting to grow bigger and lighter. Then, out of the corner of your eyes, you noticed him standing up and pulling down his Boilersuit from his Torso.

„O-Oi, what do you think you‘re doing?“

He looked down at you and grinned mischievously “What? Does me undressing you make you that nervous?“ the low tone he used to tease you with made your heartbeat go a little faster. He dared to make eye contact with you as he slowly pulled the fabric from his arms. You tried to remain unfazed by his provocation, keeping a stoic face. But your gaze flickered over the defined muscles of his arm and torso that were now only clad by a black tank top. „As if!“ you quickly tore your gaze off of him and pouted, your face hot. But your bashfulness wasn't lost on him as he tied the upper half of his boiler suit around his waist. „Relax… I‘m just a bit warm from the fire s‘ all“ he chuckled and crouched down again to stoke the fire a bit more.

From the corners of your eye, you checked if he was still looking at you, and when he wasn‘t, you allowed yourself another good look at him. It was strangely intimate seeing him without his usual attire. It never occurred to you before that underneath the Boilersuit was the body of a… well a strong and trained fighter, which was honestly a bit idiotic of you, since he was one of Law's most capable fighters. As you slowly trailed the muscles of his arm with your eyes, you stopped at a huge scar that seemed to stretch around the main part of his forearm like a bracelet. It looked like he almost lost his arm at one point. Your blood froze in your veins at the thought.

As he softly called your name, you snapped out of your ogling, a bit anxious he caught you. „Look…“ he said breathlessly, his eyes flickered around the cave. You followed them and gasped as well. The cave walls were littered with shimmering purple crystal clusters of all sizes, and the big stones on the ground as well. Now that the soft light of the fire illuminated them, they sparkled and shimmered. It was as if you were surrounded by purple stars.

You barely noticed Penguin sitting down beside you, transfixed by this beauty. For a little while, you two were sitting shoulder to shoulder, admiring the Amethysts sparkling around you. „This is beautiful…“ you whispered, not wanting to destroy the comfortable silence between you two. „Yeah, beautiful indeed“, he whispered close to you. But his eyes weren't on the amethysts, they were on you.

His hunger made itself known then by a growling noise in his stomach, that made you snort. „I guess you're hungry?“ you grinned up at him and he nodded. You pulled out the little snacks you bought with you and handed them to him. „Here, eat that. Sorry it's not that much, but it's at least a little something.“ Penguin and you shared the small portion in comfortable silence. When you where finished, he stood up again to add some wood to the dying fire. You used that chance to examine the scar on his arm again, and this time you saw it was actually circling his whole forearm.

„Peng…your arm…was it…?“ the words tumbled out of your tired mouth before you knew it, but you managed to stop yourself before you asked the intrusive question. He followed your gaze down his arm to his scar and nodded in confirmation. „Yeah, it was torn off“. You gasped at this blunt answer, shocked by his casualness and the fact itself. „S-sorry…“, you cursed your stupid ankle for hurting so much, else you would pull your knees toward you and bury your face in them.

He sat down next to you, a gentle smile on his face. Nothing in his demeanour indicated that he was angry or uncomfortable with you. „I don't mind you asking…“ his fingertips graced instinctively over the scar tissue on his forearm, his days of feeling insecure about it were long over. You looked up at Penguin again, scanning his half-hidden face. You wished you could see his eyes just now, wondered what they would tell you about his feelings. The dim light of the dying fire painted his features in a soft and warm way. „How did you… how did it happen?“ your sleepiness gave your curiosity free rain. Your shoulders touched his as you leaned closer to him.

Your heart clenched at the thought of that. No kid deserved to experience this kind of stuff. „One day we met Law. We were little shits at that point. He confronted us for beating up Bepo before, we wanted to beat him up for that as well.“ Penguin laughed honestly at the memory. You looked up at him curiously. „And what happened? Did Law give you the scar?!“

He reassured you with a nod, his smile widening at the memory of the scar. "It's a scar that is very dear to me. It's how me and Shachi met Law and Bepo," his quiet confession hung softly in the air for a moment. "Wow, that was more than eleven years ago," he realized now. Your weight began to weigh on his shoulder, and he opened his arm invitingly. You looked up at him, confused and stubborn, but you gave in, blaming it on your tiredness and exhaustion. With a huff, you leaned against him as his arm wrapped around your shoulder. His touch was warm and comforting.

„My parents were killed in a storm when I was a young teenager… Shachi and I were sent to live with his aunt and uncle. They treated us like shit, those bastards.“ he spat those last words bitterly. He sighed and resumed „It was too much and we ran away and lived in a small shack in the forest. Swallow Island was fucking cold in the winter and we survived by stealing food and weapons from the nearby village.“

The dark-haired man looked down at you, his blue eyes shimmering mischievously under his hat. „Kinda yeah. He knocked us out with his devil-fruit power. But that wasn't the last time we saw him of course. And our bad luck did not end there either.“

Lost in his story, his fingers trailed small shapes on your arm, it made you shiver a bit. „A few days later, we were searching for berries in the forest when a wild Boar attacked us. We must have provoked it somehow… I was so scared.“ his arm around you tightened as he looked into the flames of the fire. „It gave Shachi a huge gash in his stomach, the white snow was red all around us. I tried throwing a bomb but I panicked and it blew off before I could and that damn boar tore off my arm, “

Penguin swallowed the lump in his throat before he continued. His fingers lazily went up and down your upper arm again. He remembered seeing his severed arm in the white snow, it felt so sureal to him back then. It still does. „And Law and Bepo.…they found us and treated us, even though we were compleat assholes to them! We would have died if it wasn't for them and a man named Wolf. Law managed to reattach my arm, he gave his everything.“

Your heart ached for Penguin. He went through so much, but at the same time, it made you feel less alone with your past experiences.

„Peng….“ you whispered into the silence that replaced his story. He looked at you wordlessly, and you couldn't make out much of his face, since the fire was now just gleaming ambers in the firepit. But being so close to him, you were able to look into his eyes again and you didn't need to see more, because they said enough. „Thanks for sharing that with me…“sleepiness laced your voice.

He slowly looked from one eye to the other, then to your lips, that were so close to his. “We should sleep now, we need rest, “ he said, damning himself a little. You closed your eyes and nodded. Sleep found you quickly as you leaned against his strong shoulders. He waited till your breath was even and he was sure you sleped. Even though you were stuck in a shit situation, he considered himself lucky right now. His lips lightly graced your temple „Good night…“.

~

The next morning you woke up still leaning against Penguins, his arm was a comforting weight around your shoulder. Aside from the pain in your ankle, you did sleep quite well. Peng was already awake for a little while before he felt you moving. To be honest, he didn't sleep much, and how could he when you were so close to him? „Good morning“ You didn't have to look at his face his wide grin was evident in his voice alone. You sat up slowly and nodded „Good morning…“ feeling a blush creep onto your face, you avoided eye contact. Before you had enough time to think about the situation you were in and your feelings about it, you heard your names outside the cave.

~

“Aaand?“ Shachi teased his best Friend, poking his elbow into the other ribcage „What happened in that cave?! You had the whole night to yourselves after all“, his voice was teasing and lighthearted, „Did you finally make a move? Is she a good kisser?“. „No!“ the red-haired man blinked in confusion at the sharp answer, it came out harsher than Peng intended. He looked away, pulling his hat further into his face to hide the intense blush on his face, „Sorry man…“ he murmured, „No…nothing of that sort has happened…“. He could feel his heartbeat quicken again, as he recounted the memory of your little cuddle session to Shachi. A reassuring hand landed on his broad shoulder and made him look at his best friend, who had a soft grin on his face. „Crushing hard?“. Peng let out a defeated groan, he would never hear the end of it now.

Your laughter echoed abroad the deck of the Polar Tang, making Shachi and Peng look towards you, talking to Hakugan and Bepo. And there it was again, that smile of yours that made Penguin's stomach burst with butterflies.

A dorky smile crept on Peng's lips, he shook his head at his friend's suggestion. „No Shach… not crushing“, he confessed as he leaned against the railing, turning his head to the sky, „She`s it, man.“ he turned his head to his friend, who had nothing teasing to say for a change, just listening intently. „I want her to be mine…forever…“. As he said it out loud, he turned the amethyst geode he took from the cave with him in his pocket.

Shachis neutral expression twisted into a wicked grin, baring his sharp teeth. „I guess I have to step up my wingman game then! With your measly flirting skills, you wouldn`t have a chance without me!“, he teased and earned a light punch on the head from Penguin. „Shut up, you jerk!“ he shouted for everyone to hear.

You watched the dynamic- duo of the Polar-Tang bicker from afar, giggling at their antics. You were transfixed on Penguin, who had fun as he started to chase his friend across the deck playfully, cursing at him. Your heart swelled fondly at the tender moments you two had shared last night and you wondered if you would be able to stare into those beautiful eyes again soon.

✨

[avastrasposts]

Big Sky Country - ch. 1

Cowboy!Frankie x OFC

Hi!

I'm really excited to post the first chapter of my new fic after posting a little snippet of it almost a month ago! In it we meet a cowboy version of Frankie as he returns to New York to patch things up with his "maybe girlfriend", but he also makes a connection with another woman, who makes this lost cowboy feel welcome in her Brooklyn bar.

No age gap, OFC story, angsty as fuck in parts, some smut, and I'm putting poor Frankie through hell again (I love him, I swear...)

And a big shout out and thank you to @i-own-loki who made the beautiful banner!

Warnings can be found here - contains spoilers but please read if you know certain themes may be upsetting for you. This fic is dark in parts and I don't want to upset anyone.

Series Master List

Main Master list

Prologue

The Greyhound bus rumbled away down the pin straight highway, heading west, towards the darkening mountain range. The sun slowly sank behind the highest peaks, soon their shadows would touch her feet. Looking back, east, towards a past she’d left on a whim, she sighed and let her eyes drift up to the indigo sky. Big sky country indeed. 

So alien to her eyes, so open to someone used to living their life surrounded by tall buildings, busy people, small trees in small parks. 

Here, the open prairie gave speed to the cold wind that hurtled down from the mountain range, whipping dirt from the road, tugging at her loose hair. She briefly closed her eyes against the particles of dust, inhaled deeply, tasting it on her tongue, dry grass in the air, a hint of snow from the mountains. No way back now, the bus too far away to stop. Only her duffel bag and a phone number, hoping he’d pick up and let her in. 

He pressed his thumb to the button with her name, the taxi behind him rolling away down the crowded street. The buzz from the intercom added another layer of noise to the assault on his ears. 

He dropped his hand. 

Waited.

Glanced down the street, letting the tall steel and glass buildings pull his gaze upwards, to the thin sliver of dirty gray sky visible above them. With a sigh he dropped his eyes down, towards the end of the long street, where the buildings seemed to merge into one solid wall. He knew he was looking west, could feel it in his bones, in the way his feet wanted to start walking towards it. Towards the tall mountain range behind his home. 

He pressed his thumb against the button with her name on it again, the buzzer grated his skin. He had a way back, nothing stopping him from hailing a cab, climbing back on the Greyhound and heading west again. 

But she was here. If he wanted to make this work, he needed to be here. 

Chapter One

A wall of warm air hit Frankie as he pulled open the door to the bar, chatter spilling out onto the street. His shoulders pulled up to his ears, the environment uncomfortable to him and he stopped just inside the door, scanning the room for something familiar apart from the smell of stale beer in the air. This bar was the first one he saw that looked like it would maybe serve someone like him, a Texas boy, fresh off the bus from Montana. He’s pretty sure he still has horse dung stuck to the bottom of his cowboy boots, his old army duffel bag slung over his shoulder. 

The door behind him opened again, cold air hitting the nape of his neck under the ball cap. 

“You growing roots, old man?” 

The line is followed by a man snorting and a hand on Frankie’s arm, pushing him to the side. He would snap, bite back with a threatening remark, or at the very least fix the man with his most intimidating soldier scowl. But he just took two steps to the side, his shoulders creeping closer to his ears as he tugged at his cap, the movement unintentional, a nervous habit. He knew he was out of place here, a stranger. 

The young man, a yellow backpack slung over his shoulder and long hair pulled into a bun, shoved his way past Frankie, catching the eye of the woman behind the bar. 

“Hey, dickwad! Behave yourself or I’ll have you barred,” she barked, her eyebrows furrowed as she jabbed her finger at the man and he raised his hands in a weak gesture of apology as he sauntered towards the bar. 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he snarked, heading towards a loud crowd further in, walking away and ignoring the frown from the woman. She turned her attention to Frankie instead and looked him up and down, an appraising look, before meeting his eyes. 

“You coming or going, cowboy?” 

“Uuh..coming,” he managed to press out, picking up his feet and walking to the bar. He felt heat creep up his neck at being so easily pegged as a cowboy, an out of towner, swallowing down the urge to turn on his heel and bolt out the door. He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck and the woman behind it gave him a smile, setting down a coaster with a flick of her wrist. 

“What can I get you? You look like you’ve traveled far.” 

“Just a beer, thanks,” he said and she gave him a softer smile, pity flashing across her face. 

“This is Brooklyn, cowboy, I’ve got twenty beers on tap and forty in bottles,” she said and he felt fatigue set in, can’t even order a normal fucking beer in this city. He sighed deeply, dropping his head between his shoulders. But the woman just chuckled in a low voice, tapping her hand on the bar just in front of him. 

“Don��t despair, I’m a good bartender, I know what you’ll like.” 

He picked up his head as she stepped away, grabbed a glass, and moved to a tap further down the bar. Shooting him a quick grin, she began to pull the pint, amber liquid filling the glass, topping off with a creamy white head. He watched her from under the bill of his cap, shouldn’t really appraise her, but he couldn't help it. The fitted jeans on her curves, and the faded bar uniform shirt tied at the waist instead of tucking it in, made his eyes drop down over her ass in a way a man trying to save his relationship with another woman should avoid. And she clocked him, checking her out when she turned towards him again, making him snap his eyes to his hands on the bar. Heat crept up his neck as he rubbed the small bullseye tattoo next to his thumb. 

“Amber ale from a local brewery three blocks from here,” she said and placed the pint on the mat in front of him. 

“Thanks,” he replied, watching the bubbles rise to the bottom of the head, “looks good.” 

“One of my favorites, I’ve always had a soft spot for amber ale,” she nodded, picking up a cloth and returning to the never ending duty of cleaning glasses. 

Frankie picked up the glass and took a long sip, humming as the ale slipped down his throat. 

“Damn,” he said, “that’s good, that’s really good.” 

“Told you,” the woman smiled at him and he gave her a quick smile in return before he took another sip. 

She watched him from the corner of her eye as she moved around the bar, clean glasses getting wiped and stacked. Clearly a newcomer to the city, she’d called him ‘cowboy’ and he hadn’t protested, the boots and the duffel bag giving him away, even before she saw his uneasy eyes roam around the bar and his nervous shuffle. She’s used to assessing anyone who stepped in through the door, the loud ones, the quiet ones, the ones who are only coming to make trouble. 

This man was one of the quiet ones, she doesn’t think he’s loud even when he’s in his own element, surrounded by friends. 

As he took another long drink from his pint, she turned and picked up glass, catching his eyes on her. She smiled warmly at him, wanting to make him feel welcome, at least in this bar. The city outside is usually brutal to newcomers, and this one seemed to carry more of a burden than most. 

“So you’re new to the city?” she asked him, moving back to his side of the bar, pushing long strands of ginger red hair back behind her ears before wiping another glass. 

“Yeah, came in on the bus a few hours ago,” he replied and she nodded. He doesn’t look like he flew into the city, he’s got the tired face of someone who's spent too many hours leaning against a window, watching the Midwest slip past. But underneath the tired eyes there’s a warmth, a softness in the way he gives her a small crooked smile that makes a dimple appear on his right cheek. 

“Spent two fucking days on it,” he sighed, rubbing a large hand over his face before he lifted his cap and swept his thick curls back. She was temporarily mesmerized by how they bounced back around his ears as he squashed the cap back down. 

“Two days? Where did you come from, Texas?” she asked, her eyes widening at the thought of spending two whole days on a bus, but he shook his head. 

“No, I think Texas is like three days, I came from Montana,” he took another long drag of his beer. 

“I’m guessing this isn’t a weekend trip then”, she quipped, putting down the cloth, all the glasses done, and leaned back on the counter behind her. There’s more work to be done but the stranger chuckled softly at her joke and it pulled her in, making her smile in return. 

“No, I’m here to stay with someone, my..ah-a friend, of sorts,” he said, “Gonna see if I can find some work around here, try a different type of life.” 

“What do you do?” she asked, “Maybe I know someone who knows someone, that’s usually how it works here.” 

“Back in Montana I work with horses, on a ranch,” he replied, rubbing his thumb over the condensation on the beer glass, “Before that, I was a mechanic, cars, helicopters, anything really, I can usually fix it.” 

“That’s a pretty handy skill,” she replied, sounding impressed and he gave a little shrug, as if the ability to fix helicopters was something inconsequential, “I’m sure you’ll find work, especially if you can fix old cars, lots of those around here.” 

She turned and grabbed a notepad from next to the till, “What’s your name and number? I’ll keep it on hand and ask around for you.” 

“Really?” He sounded surprised as he sat up a bit straighter, “Uh yeah, I’m Frankie, Frankie Morales.” 

“Nice to meet you, Frankie,” she smiled back at him and slid the notepad across the bar, “Write it down, and your number. I can’t promise anything, and I’m not recommending you to anyone, I’ll just let them know you’re looking for work.” 

“Yeah, sure, of course, but anything helps,” he replied, grabbing the pen and jotting down his information. 

“What’s your name?” he asked, as he passed the notepad back to her. 

“Aisling,” she replied, slipping it in next to the till again. 

“Do you own this place,” he asked, looking around the bar. When he looked back at her she was shaking her head. 

“No, not at all, I’m just the bartender,” she said, “Give me a minute, I’m just gonna serve these guys.”  She gave him a quick smile and headed down the bar to two men who had just sat down. 

Frankie watched her as she took their orders, smiling and laughing easily as she pulled a beer for one of them. The men, her age, are both hanging on to her every word as she makes a joke,  the blonde one clapping the other one on the shoulder with a loud howl. She winked at him and turned, reaching for a bottle on the top shelf to serve the other man. As she stood on her tiptoes, stretching to reach, her shirt rose up, a soft sliver of creamy skin exposed in the dim light of the bar. Frankie couldn’t help but stare at the glimpse black underwear peeking out above the edge of her jeans, a flash of lace, his mouth suddenly dry as his cock reacted. He dipped his head, but couldn't keep his eyes away, she swayed on her tiptoes, refusing to get the stepladder and her breasts pressed against the shirt as it rode up higher. Frankie had an image of her underneath him, all that soft flesh, warm and smooth under his rough palms, sweet smelling and whimpering.  

She managed to slide the bottle off the shelf and grab a glass. Frankie peeled his eyes away, looking down at the now empty pint in his hands, pressed his thumb into the tattoo, forcing his thoughts in another direction. At the end of the bar, Aisling rang up the customers’ order and wiped down the bar before coming back towards him. 

“Do you want another?” she asked, nodding towards the empty glass. Frankie considered it for a beat and then shook his head. He wanted a clear head when he went back to the apartment, he needed to say the right things to save the relationship with the woman who lived there. He already knew that not even in his head could he bring himself to call her ‘girlfriend’, he’s far from sure that’s what she is anymore, not with the way they left it. 

“No, I can’t,” he said, “It was good though, what do I owe you?” 

“Fourteen fifty,” Aisling replied and he tried not to cough at the price as he pulled his wallet from the back of his jeans. 

She took his bills and he left her a tip on the bar that she deposited in the tip jar with a smile. 

“Uhm…tell me,” Frankie said, absentmindedly tugging at his cap, “Do I really look that much like a cowboy?” 

Aisling’s smile softened as she heard his nervous question, “Well…yeah, the cowboy boots are kinda a give away,” she replied, “It doesn’t exactly look like it’s a fashion choice, and the whole jeans, suede jacket, belt buckle look…” She motioned over his body as Frankie’s eyes dropped down to his jeans and belt, hidden from view by the counter. 

“You’re good,” he said, a small chuckle escaping him, “You got all that just from when I came in?” 

“Tricks of the trade,” she replied, “I need to know who steps into the bar and read them quickly.” 

“So you assessed me as soon as I walked in? What else did you pick up on?” He was curious now and leaned forward on the counter as she laughed. 

“Well, I’m cheating because we’ve been talking for a bit now. But you do look ‘new in town’ and I’d say ex-army maybe?”

“I guess the duffel bag gave it away?” Frankie smiled, glancing down at the old bag at his feet. 

“No, they’re ten dollars at the army surplus stores,” Aisling replied, shaking her head, “But you sat down with your back against a corner, and I bet you can tell me exactly where the exits are and how many people are in here and which ones could give you trouble.” 

Frankie raised his eyebrows in surprise at her and she shrugged. 

“You’ve been scanning the room since you walked in.” 

“Yeah, you’re not wrong,” he replied, letting his eyes roam across the room again, it’s instinct at this point, inherited from years in the army, “I quit the army years ago but it’s a habit I can’t seem to drop.” 

“What did you do? Mechanic?” Aisling asked and Frankie shook his head. 

“Helicopter pilot, which means I had to be able to fix anything, but mainly I flew things, anything really.” 

Aisling gave him a closer second look and the pieces fell into place, his quiet demeanor, the way he held himself, not exactly folded in on himself, but as if he was  trying to stay unseen and not be noticed unless he wanted to be. A strong, solid body gone slightly soft with age, betrayed by the gray in his beard and hair, small white scars across his knuckles, evidence of old injuries.

“What?” he asked as he noticed her eyes scanning him. 

“Just building the picture,” she said, a small crooked smile, “You know us bartenders, always trying to figure out the story of our patrons.” 

“Not much of a story,” he said, tugging at his cap and hiding his eyes, “just new in town, looking for work.” 

“Everyone has a story, Frankie Morales.” 

He shrugged at that and fumbled for his phone as it began to ring. Aisling gave him a quick smile and stepped away to let him answer in private. 

Frankie’s jaw ticked as he saw the name on the screen, Eva. He’s been expecting her to call since he left her front door. Their front door, maybe. The truth is, he doesn’t know where they stand anymore. They’d met in Florida, after a doomed mission to South America that left so much pain inside him, and a rift between old friends. She’d been a calming presence, someone who seemed to have his back when his mind spiraled out of control. But she hadn’t been enough, being in Florida became oppressive, and it wasn’t just the humid heat. The old haunts from the days he’d spent trying to numb his brain with white powder, bars and venues filled with memories of the friends he’d lost, both those who’d died and those who still lived, it all became claustrophobic. 

When Herb, his sponsor at the NA, first invited him to the ranch in Montana he’d scoffed at the idea. He was a pilot, not a ranch hand. But after a close call, nearly falling back into the habit, he’d taken him up on the offer and gone out there for two weeks. Herb had convinced him by talking about the clear, cool air making it easy to breathe, the open sky making the mind feel less claustrophobic. And he’d been right. The first evening they’d sat on the porch, the mountains at their back, the open prairie in front, and Frankie had looked up at the endless sky and it was almost as if he was back in a cockpit, flying close to the stars. Nothing encroached on his mind, no buzz in his ears, nothing tugged at his memories, just the open sky and an endless horizon. 

The two weeks of hard ranch work, aching muscles, blistered hands, sealed the deal. If he wanted to truly start over, he needed to leave Florida and come here. 

Eva had been enthusiastic at first, pulled in by Frankie’s talk of the horses, a new foal that had just been born, the small cabin they’d live in. He’d shared the pictures he’d taken, all rustic beams, sturdy wood furniture and a hammock on the porch. It looked like a romantic western dream and that’s what they both really thought it would be. And for the first few months they were happy. 

But when Frankie found peace and calm in the solitude of the isolated ranch, felt free and unrestricted, she began to feel claustrophobic and suffocated. The nearest town, a forty-five minute drive away, didn’t offer much of anything. She found work online and began to resent the life he’d trapped her in. That was the word she’d used, trapped. When the fights became a daily occurrence, Frankie felt the familiar itch of wanting to escape come back. Starting, as always, in his feet and crawling up his body until he spent more time out on the ranch than in the cabin. And for every hour he stayed away, Eva resented their life more, resented him more. 

Until eventually, one late evening when he came back after five days on the trails with a group of guests from a neighboring ranch, she’d left. Only a note saying she’d accepted a position in New York with the company she worked for. A line about needing a different type of life, no invitation to come with her, to follow her, just signed /E and that was it. 

He’d called her, spent hours on the phone when she eventually picked up, begged her to come back. Offered to move to a ranch closer to a bigger town, find a compromise where he could still have the peace of the ranch life, but let her live her life too. But she loved New York, after the silent cabin, she craved the noise and the tempo of the city. 

Eventually he agreed to come to New York, to see her new life and maybe find a place in it. But the city was an assault on his senses after so long on the ranch. The peace that his spiraling mind had finally found evaporated as he navigated the city, the metro, her friends, the bars. His feet itched, the skin around his nails was picked raw and he felt on edge, even in the apartment, his mind never getting a chance to be quiet. 

Eva called it his need for control, to always have a plan of escape, a way out. He knew it was the years in the army that had shredded his sense of safety, left his nerves ragged and too exposed to the mundane background noise of a city. Maybe he’d be able to deal with it some day, but now, he needed the silence. 

After two months in Brooklyn, he left. A loose promise from both of them to maybe try to patch things up, to try the long distance thing. But when he sent a text, saying he’d returned safely to the ranch, and she didn’t reply for two days, he knew it was over. And he didn’t miss her. He had loved her at some point, he thinks. But their lives didn’t match, their needs too different. And he saw that he should maybe not be with anyone while he laid down the foundations of a new life in a new place. He needed to find a way to live with himself, in silence, before he considered sharing his darkest sides with someone else. 

And then Eva called. Six weeks after he’d left Brooklyn. He could hear the heavy traffic behind her as she walked down a street somewhere, leaving a clinic that had confirmed what she’d suspected. 

“I’m pregnant, Frankie, and it’s yours.” 

The words floored him, sent a sharp jolt of dread through his system, his feet tingling, then his scalp. A baby. In New York. But his baby, their child. And the dread was replaced by nerves, how would they do this? Would she want to raise the baby in New York or come back to Montana? He had space for a child here, a guest bedroom with a view of the mountains. It would be a perfect nursery, he could paint it, build a crib with Herb’s help, the nearby town was a good place to raise a family when the child was old enough to begin school. Without even stopping to think, he built a new life around the unborn child. 

Or hell, even New York, he’d make himself put up with New York if that was what she wanted. The apartment only had one bedroom but maybe they could move further out, get a bigger place. He could renovate pretty much anything, he was sure of it. Maybe they could find a quiet neighborhood with trees, where his mind could find peace even in the city. Without even stopping, he built another new life around his, their, unborn child. 

“I don’t know if I’m keeping it, but I wanted to tell you.” 

Eva’s voice had been hard, letting him know that she was doing him a favor by telling him, letting him be part of it. 

“I’ll come to New York, I’ll get a bus today,” Frankie pleaded, “Let’s talk this through, a few more days won’t make a difference.” 

She’d conceded, and he’d thrown stuff into the old duffel bag, left a message with Herb, and driven to the crossroads where the Greyhound stopped. 

Now he was here, in a Brooklyn bar, looking down at her name on his phone as he pressed the green button to answer. 

Chapter 2

A/N: And we're off! I'm so nervous, I really hope you all will love this and follow along as I explore this new version of Frankie! I hope to post a new chapter every Sunday so fingers crossed life doesn't get in the way too much!

❤

Tagging the ususal suspects: @harriedandharassed @inept-the-magnificent @sheepdogchick3  @readingiskeepingmegoing @noisynightmarepoetry @survivingandenduring @vabeachazn @amyispxnk @oberynslady @vabeachazn @amyispxnk @thewiigers @laughing-in-th3-purple-rain @casa-boiardi

[steveseddie]

green and yellow

rating: t | cw: none apply | word count: 2,270

tags: eddie munson lives, and he graduates!, established relationship, fluff, soft boys, steve harrington is smitten

for the @steddielovemonth “love is watching them do the stupidest things and falling harder for them every time”

click here to read on ao3

***

Steve is grateful when Principal Higgins finally ends his boring speech and steps down from the podium.

He started dozing off halfway through it, and he could feel the kids starting to get restless next to him, impatient for the moment they’ve all been waiting for.

The first one comes when Higgins calls Robin to the stage. Steve stands up and puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles, while the kids clap and hoot and cheer. Further up front, Mr. and Mrs. Buckley clap for their daughter too, but in a more subdued manner.

Robin climbs the steps to the stage, tripping on the very last one but catching herself just in time before she faceplants. Her face is bright red as she accepts her diploma, but she’s grinning widely. She makes eye contact with Steve and waves frantically, Steve gives her two thumbs up and an enthusiastic smile. After she walks back to her seat, Principal Higgins starts calling more names. Steve sits back down, but still claps politely for all those kids that he’s seen around town, but doesn’t really know.

When it’s Jason Carver’s turn though, Steve doesn’t clap and neither do any of the kids. He glares at him as he makes his way across the stage, grinning and waving as if he hadn’t attacked Lucas months ago or tried to get Eddie arrested or killed, and later on, expelled from school when the charges were dropped. Clearly, only Steve and the rest of the party hold a grudge because everyone else in the gym claps for him, making Steve’s blood boil.

After a few other names are called, Principal Higgins makes a special mention to Chrissy and asks for a minute of silence. Steve’s eyes scan the first few rows where the class of ‘86 sits in their caps and gowns, looking for Eddie, knowing that Chrissy’s mention would probably have upset him.

He spots his messy bun tucked under his cap. He can’t see his face, but he can see the way he’s tugging on one of his earrings, which Steve has only ever seen him do when he’s feeling very anxious. He wishes he was sitting next to him or that he could at least meet his eyes to let him know he’s here.

The tugging stops when Principal Higgins moves on and calls more names. Finally, he calls Eddie’s.

Steve and the kids don’t let there be even a second of silence, they all jump to their feet as soon as the name is called and give Eddie an ovation as big and loud as the one they gave Robin. Not as many people from the crowd join in, a few strangers here and there and Eddie’s uncle at the front, but it doesn’t matter. Eddie’s grin is blinding when he jumps onto the stage. Steve suspects there might be more than a few people glaring at him in the audience, giving him nasty looks, but no one could be able to tell by looking at Eddie who waves and bows and throws kisses at the crowd like they all came here to see him.

Principal Higgins hands him his diploma with a pinched face. Eddie takes it and Steve holds his breath. Next to him, he hears Dustin whisper, “do it, Eddie, do it!”

And almost as if he’d heard Dustin, Eddie raises his right hand and gives Principal Higgins the middle finger with the most manic grin Steve has ever seen on his face.

“Son of a bitch did it!” Dustin says, throwing a fist in the air and another wave of hoots and cheers starts in the back of the gym. Steve has half a mind to scold Henderson for his language, but he lets it slide, joining in on the cheering with another two-fingered whistle.

But the Eddie Show isn’t over yet, if there’s one thing that Eddie’s good at is giving a performance. He runs to the podium, grabs the microphone and uses it to address the crowd with a, “So long, suckers!” before dropping it on the floor, doing a dramatic curtsy and jumping from the stage. He runs all the way to the back, people’s heads whipping around to stare at him. Steve sees more than a few horrified looks, but there are also people trying to hold in their laughter.

Steve’s eyes don’t linger on them, they follow Eddie as he skips through the chairs. He knows that no one in that gym is looking at him the way he is- with literal hearts in his eyes.

Eddie finally reaches them, sitting in the very last row because by the time they arrived (late because herding a gaggle of teenagers never gets any easier) it was the only place with enough free chairs to sit all of them.

Eddie ruffles each kid’s hair, one by one. Even Max’s, who in any other circumstances would bite his head off for it, but not today. She’s grinning just as big as the others.

When Eddie reaches Steve, the last one of their group, he’s expecting to get the same treatment, and he sighs inwardly, thinking about all the time he spent on his hair this morning. But instead of messing it up like he did with the kids, Eddie cups Steve’s cheeks in his hands and stands on his tiptoes to plan a kiss to Steve’s head. By the time he falls back on his heels and lets go of his face, Steve’s cheeks have turned the brightest shade of red. Eddie winks at him, then he faces the audience one more time, throws up his devil horns and runs out of the gym.

With Eddie gone, Steve sees people’s eyes shift to him and his face flushes even more if that’s even possible.

He’s grateful when Principal Higgins picks up the microphone and asks everyone to take their seats again so they can continue after that rude interruption.

Steve flops down on his chair, but he can’t focus after that. His face feels like it could burst into flames any second and he swears he can still feel Eddie’s lips against his head.

A part of him wishes Eddie kissed his lips instead, even if, realistically, Steve knows that it would’ve been suicidal to do that in front of so many people. But who cares? He thinks. Just another way to say fuck you to this shitty town.

Steve only pays attention when Higgins calls Nancy’s name, near the end, and then he’s cheering and clapping and whistling again as she gracefully crosses the stage and picks up her diploma.

Shortly after that, Higgins asks the crowd to give it up one more time for the class of ‘86 as they all toss their caps into the air.

Steve’s eye catches something green on the floor almost right in front of him. It’s Eddie’s cap, which probably fell off his head from all his jumping around. He picks it up and tucks it under his arm.

Once the ceremony is over, everyone starts heading to the front to congratulate the students.

Steve hangs back. Robin is currently congratulating the rest of the band kids that graduated with her and he can see her parents waiting to smother her with a hug. Nancy is nowhere to be seen, probably taking the time to congratulate everyone in her class because she’s nice like that. Steve can give them a big hug later, as well as the bouquet of flowers he got for each of them.

For now, he has something to do.

He slips through the doors of the gym and goes looking for Eddie.

He finds him right outside the school, leaning against one of the walls with a lit cigarette between his lips. He’s staring down at his diploma so hard that he doesn’t notice Steve.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to be smoking on school grounds,” Steve says, walking over.

Eddie’s face lights up when he sees him, he grins at him with the cigarette dangling from his lips. “What are they gonna do? Expel me?”

Steve shrugs. “Higgins could take your diploma.”

“Over my fucking dead body,” Eddie says, but he snuffs out the cigarette anyway after taking one last hit. “Do you think he enjoyed the show?”

Steve snorts. “I’ve never seen someone’s face get so red, I thought he was gonna pop a vein.”

Eddie gives a bark of laughter. “What about you, Harrington? Did you enjoy it?”

“It was quite the show, Munson.”

He does a flourish with his hand, hinging at the waist. “I’m glad it pleased your Majesty.”

“It wasn’t just me. I’m pretty sure the kids worship you right now. They might be already planning to build a statue in your name.”

“Oh the people of Hawkins are going to love that,” Eddie says with a snort. Then his gaze falls on the cap in Steve’s hands. “Hey, is that mine?”

Steve nods. “You forgot it inside. When you were making your grand exit,” he says, twirling the cap on his finger like he would a basketball. “Can I?” He asks, gesturing at Eddie’s head.

Eddie grins. “Go for it, handsome.”

Steve nearly drops the cap when Eddie calls him that, but he doesn’t. He gently places it on top of Eddie’s head. When he does, Eddie blows out some air, making the tassel flutter. “You also forgot to do this,” Steve says, flipping the yellow tassel from the right side to the left. “There. Now you’ve officially graduated.”

He expects Eddie to make a joke or do a silly face, but instead he goes still, his eyes following the tassel as it swings back and forth. Then he says quietly, “It doesn’t feel real. Sometimes I feel like nothing that happened after the Upside Down is real. Like I died there or I fell into a coma, and this isn’t really happening.”

Steve grabs Eddie’s shoulders, he waits until Eddie meets his eyes to talk. “It is, Eds. All of it. You lived and you graduated and you showed everyone who ever doubted you that they were wrong.”

Eddie swallows thickly. His eyes dart over Steve’s face. “Sometimes you don’t feel real either. Sometimes I can’t believe that you-”

“That I love you?”

Eddie’s eyes widen to the point Steve thinks they might pop out. “You- what?”

Steve didn’t plan to say it right now. He wanted to wait until it was just them after the party that he’s throwing for Eddie and the girls at his house. He wanted to make it romantic. But it’s like he can’t help himself, the words bursting out of him.

“I love you, Eddie. And I’m so proud of you.”

Eddie whines low in his throat, eyes glistening with tears. “Goddammit, do you know how fucking unmetal it is to cry at your graduation? Fuck you, Steve!” He says, furiously wiping his eyes.

Steve lets out an undignified scoff. “I tell you I love you and you say fuck you?”

“Oh God, you keep saying it,” Eddie whispers, like he’s talking to himself.

“I will keep saying it ‘cause it’s true. I love you, I’m in love with you. The whole time I was watching you in there I wanted to yell ‘that’s my boyfriend and I love him!’”

He knows he’s laying it on too thick, but he doesn’t care. Not when Eddie’s tears fall and he looks at Steve with awe in his eyes. “Steve.” He shakes his head, the cap slides to the side, sitting crooked on Eddie’s head. “You’re such a sap, but I love you too. So much. I couldn’t have done this-” he gestures at the cap and the gown and the diploma, “-without you.”

Steve smiles. His heart feels like it could burst out of his chest when he hears that Eddie loves him back. “You could’ve, but I’ll make sure you never have to.”

A few more tears fall from his eyes and Steve uses his thumb to wipe them away. He can hear the noise coming from inside the school getting closer and louder, and he knows they have maybe a couple of minutes before people start exiting the school.

“Okay, no more tears, today is about celebrating. Besides, the brats will never think you’re cool again if they see you crying.”

Eddie laughs wetly, but manages to put himself together. Steve takes his hand and intends to drag him along to go look for his uncle and their friends, but Eddie stops him.

“Wait,” he says, using his free hand to cup Steve’s jaw and bring him in for a quick kiss. “Wanted to do that inside, but. You know.” Steve nods. He knows. “Okay, let’s go find everyone. Uncle Wayne bought a camera just for this and he I know he’s dying to use it.”

Then he’s dragging Steve toward the doors at the exact moment they open and people start pouring out.

Eddie can’t keep holding his hand after that with the kids crowding around him and taking turns hugging him or jumping on his back. Then it’s Wayne’s turn, who gives Eddie a heartfelt hug that he sinks into with the biggest smile Steve’s ever seen. Then it’s Nancy and Robin, and then Steve again. Then it’s pictures and piling everyone inside Steve’s car and Nancy’s station wagon.

There, Steve gets to hold Eddie’s hand again, over the center console as he drives them away from Hawkins High.

With his free hand, Eddie flips off the building, and everyone in the car, including Steve, cheers.

[bu3ckers]

never be like you

•paige bueckers x fem!reader

•angst, explicit language, fluff

•nsfw

summary | oc is paige’s highschool best friend, except they’ve always had feelings for each other. when they got to uconn, things got complicated..

author’s note: this is loosely based off of never be like you by flume!! best friends to lovers is my favorite trope ever so enjoyy. also im too lazy to put my auto caps on, so im sorry if there’s any spelling mistakes

-

halloween 2019

hopkins, minnesota

11:30 pm

*oc and paige are both 18*

-

this was my last halloween party of my highschool years. as paige and i were dancing together in a random senior’s backyard, my mind began to wander. maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the weed, or maybe it was because she was staring into my soul with the most lust filled gaze ever. i broke out of my trance to find her smirking, tilting her head towards her car. “wanna get out?” she mouthed, knowing i wouldn’t be able to hear her over the music. i nodded in response and she gingerly took my hand and jogged out of the backyard. i struggled to keep up, still feeling the slight effects of the pen i took a few hits of almost an hour ago. she wasted no time driving back to her house, knowing her parents and brother were gone for the weekend. her free hand was gripping my thigh, dangerously high as i bit my lip in an attempt to simmer my excitement down. i dont know why i never told her how i really felt - i know she felt the same. but there was something telling me that she was just toying with me.

-

she finally pulled into her driveway and ran around the car to open the door for me. i stumbled out, gripping the blonde for balance. “get on” she said, holding out her arms, gesturing for me to jump into them. i obliged and she lifted me up, her hands going to my ass as i wrapped my arms around her neck. she walked to her door and opened it, slamming it closed with her foot once we were inside. she set me down to put her keys on the table before surging towards me, bringing me in for a passionate kiss. she lead me to her room, lips never leaving mine. after her door shut, the whole night became a blur. the only thing i remember was waking up with a pleasant pain between my legs, wrapped in paige’s arms.

-

august 2020

storrs, connecticut

7:30 pm

-

it was move in day for me and paige. we’d graduated from hopkins together and somehow ended up committing to uconn together. we both decided it would only make sense for us to dorm together. boy was i wrong.

-

jerking back tears while watching my parents leave along with paige’s wasn’t easy. paige noticed me standing there alone, staring at the road long after they’d left. she came up behind me, her hand going to the small of my back as hot tears were now flowing freely down my face. “no, no, no, it’s okay don’t cry, you’ll see them soon”, she said, allowing me to fold into her open arms. she held me as i soaked her shirt with tears, completely disregarding the box filled dorm that was waiting for us. i stayed wrapped in her embrace as the parking lot emptied and my tears subsided. the sun began to set as i lifted my head from her chest, looking up at her with glossy eyes. she looked down at me with a pout, trying to cheer me up. i giggled at the sight, watching her mouth turn up into a smile as she did a little fist pump. "see, all better” she joked, cupping my face and wiping my tears with her thumbs. “i bet you feel real accomplished” i said through a snotty laugh. “you know i do” she replied, her breath catching when she looked at the beautiful sunset. the sky was painted deep orange and yellow, pale pink reflecting onto the clouds making them look like cotton candy. i watched her take in the sunset, admiring the way it shone on her perfect face. i peeled my eyes away to look at the sunset myself. it was ethereal. i got lost in the sky, unaware that paige was gazing at me with a soft smile. i turned my head to find her staring, and before i could tease her about it, she connected our lips in a slow, sweet kiss. her hands gently held my waist as my arms traveled to wrap around her neck, pulling her closer. my lips moved expertly against hers as her hands moved up my back. i pulled away, smiling up at her. “you’re so beautiful”, she began, watching my face redden, “i love you”. my eyes widened a bit at the last statement. “i love you too p”, i replied, reaching up to kiss her again.

i had to keep reminding myself that we were just best friends, even though i was beginning to hate the label. best friends don’t kiss like that. best friends don’t have sex every so often. and best friends sure don’t talk to each other like that.

-

present day

9:45 pm

storrs, connecticut

-

paige was hanging out with her teammates while i was in class. i loved her team - they treated me like a sister, especially the freshmen, who always looked up to me. i had just gotten home from my last class, exhausted and burnt out from the amount of work i had to do. when i got back inside, i overheard paige, aubrey, kk and ice talking about something, someone. “so, paige, how’s your lil girlfriend?” kk joked. it clicked in my head that i was the topic of conversation. i stopped in my tracks as paige began to respond. “what girlfriend?”, she replied. “come on p, stop playing dumb, we all know you guys aint best friends” ice retorted. i peeked through the door that was cracked open and watched aubrey playfully punch her in the shoulder, laughing. see, throughout our freshman year, i had to deal with the amount of girls paige brought home. i hated that era of her. i knew she was just being a dumb college girl, i knew she didn’t care about those girls, but it hurt me to think about the fact that i was one of the many girls on her roster. when she finally changed her ways to focus on basketball after her acl injury, i felt a wave of relief wash over me. sure, it meant that i was also cleared off her roster, but we still resumed our normal not-best-friend-like activities. i held my breath as she began to answer. “i’m being serious, she’s my best friend and nothing more. i don’t even like her like that for real. i mean, she’s not even my type”, she replied. i practically winced at every word that left her mouth. she couldn’t be serious, right? i didn’t know what else to do in that moment. i turned around, grabbed my keys and stormed out. im guessing she heard me, because as i was running down the hallway she flew outside and sprinted to catch up to me. “shit, yn, you heard that?” she said when she got to me, exasperated. i turned around to face her guilty eyes. “yeah paige, i did. do me a favor and fuck off for me will you?” i replied, my words shaky as tears pricked my eyes. i ran downstairs and made my way outside before she could even reply. i started my car and began to drive mindlessly, just wanting to get away. i pulled into an empty dunkin’ lot, let my tears flow freely, and cried for what felt like hours.

-

paige’s pov

10:00 pm

storrs, connecticut

-

none of my words were true. i liked her so much, i just didn’t want to tell them right there. azzi was the only one who knew.

watching tears build at her waterline crushed me. i’ve never made her cry before. her words hit me hard. i wanted to follow her, i wanted to be the one to comfort her just like i did on move in day. i knew she wouldn’t let me in - she never did. she always had her walls up and rarely cried in front of me.

i checked her location, wanting to know if she was safe at least.

dunkin: hartford, ct

i had no idea why she was all the way in hartford. i knew she had a habit of absentmindedly driving when she was upset, but she’s never gone this far. fuck. i seriously hurt her. as much as i wanted to drive to her, i knew it was a bad idea. it took everything in me to trudge back to my dorm, our dorm. i opened the door slowly, my head hung low. aubrey, kk and ice were waiting behind the door, confusion painted on all of their faces. “p, what the fuck was that?” aubrey said. “man, i fucked up big time. i lied to y’all, i really do like her. i just didn’t wanna tell you guys”. “do you think we’re stupid? we knew girl. you suck at lying” kk retorted, snorting. “oh”, i replied, biting my lip. “go get your girl bueckers” ice said, ushering me out of my own dorm. i grabbed my keys and hopped into my car, wasting no time driving to her. luckily she was still at that random dunkin’, although i knew she didn’t exactly want to see me. i pulled up next to her car and peered through her window. the only thing i could make out through the heavy rain coating her window was the sight of her holding her head in her hands, her chest heaving up and down. it broke me to see her like that. i just sat there and watched her for a while, my face turning white when she eventually noticed me. her expression immediately shifted from miserable to livid as she switched from park to reverse, quickly pulling out of the lot. i didn’t even try to follow her. i sunk into my seat and ran my hands down my face, pinching my eyelids and hitting the steering wheel. i fucked up, bad.

-

oc’s pov

11:00 pm

storrs, connecticut

-

i booked a room at the graduate hotel, solely to get away from the blonde. i only planned on staying there for the weekend because of the ridiculously high prices. i checked in and didn’t even bother putting my stuff away. i just flopped on the bed, burying my face in a pillow. stop thinking about her. you’re not her type. my mind was in a million different places at once, but it seemed to go silent when i checked my phone. they were all notifications from paige, about 16 missed calls and 20 unread messages. they ranged from “im so sorry” to “i miss you” to “are you okay?” to “where are you??”. tired and angry, i took her off my allowed people on do not disturb. i couldn’t bear to think about her at all. i quickly got changed into my pajamas and settled into bed, feeling cold and empty without paige’s presence beside me. it was weird falling asleep without her around me. i don’t think i’ve slept without her since freshman year started. i guess it’s never too late to try new things.

-

4:30 pm

storrs, connecticut

i spent practically the whole weekend rotting in the graduate hotel. i was honestly getting tired of ignoring paige. i missed her so much, but she didn’t have to know that. checking out of the hotel felt so good, and i was finally ready to speak to her after regaining my composure. i made my way back to our dorm, preparing to let her in and explain herself. i walked in only to be met with paige and another girl. she looked exactly like me, a doppelgänger if you will. her hair, her height, her eyes, everything. it looked like a friendly interaction, as though paige was planning to get up and leave, but i didn’t even let her reach the door. spinning on my heels, i stormed out for the second time this week, slamming the door in her face. i had enough. i’d seen enough. the sound of the door opening behind me angered my soul. “don’t fucking follow me paige”, i yelled, not even looking back. i didn’t want to see her face at all. i heard the door close quietly, footsteps trailing behind me. i was ready to scream at her. instead of being met with the tall blonde, i turned to see my doppelgänger. “hey, i don’t have any idea who you are, i was just leaving anyways but i’m not really interested in paige for real. she looked like she needed a shoulder to cry on..but that’s none of my business. i’m on your side babe, if anything” the girl, who’s name i learned was jade, spoke. her tone was gentle. she sounded genuinely concerned. “thank you, at least someone here understands me” i replied, laughing slightly. we exchanged numbers and i thanked her again for being so kind. she smiled and i left, needing somewhere to stay. although i was close to the entire team, azzi was the one i was closest to. well, aside from paige. azzi, paige and i have been sort of like a trio since highschool. whenever azzi came to visit, we had the time of our lives. we were so excited when she announced her signing with uconn. i texted her the whole situation and she immediately replied, welcoming me over. i sped over to her place, which wasn’t far from paige and i’s. she was waiting for me at the door, worry painted on her face. i began sobbing as soon as i saw her, just needing to be comforted. when we got inside she brought me over to the couch and pulled me into her lap, holding me as i hiccuped and shook uncontrollably. i cried until i couldn’t anymore again this week. this wasn’t like me. i never really cried like this. how could paige be causing all of this?

my tears turned into sniffles and azzi’s shirt was soaked. after i finished crying, i sat in her arms, my head buried in the crook of her neck, a comfortable silence filling the room as i regained composure. “honey, what happened?” she finally spoke, her voice soft. i lifted my head and began, “i overheard paige talking to aubrey, ice, and kk on friday.. they were teasing her about me and she said that she never liked me at all and that i wasn’t her type and…oh God”. my head fell into my hands as more tears began flowing down my face. azzi instantly pulled me back against her, rubbing my back to soothe me. “shh, it’s okay, i’m right here. you’re okay”. “i caught her with another girl azzi”, i confessed, sobbing harder. “oh hon..” she replied, visibly upset with paige. “i swear, im gonna kill her” she muttered to herself. i mustered out a slight, snotty laugh at her anger. “i wanted to give her the light of day after she tried to explain what she said about me, but that was the last straw. i don’t know what to do now”, i spoke, my voice cracking, tears still spilling down my face. “you don’t have to do anything right now, just stay here and take a break. you need it. i’ll be right here” she answered. “thanks az, i love you” i told her, meaning every word. i don’t know what i’d do without her. “i love you too”. i continued crying in her arms as the sun set.

-

paige’s pov

azzi’s apartment ..

-

i couldn’t help but follow her to azzi’s apartment. hearing everything she said and how she said it broke me. her voice, her tears, everything about it made me sick to my stomach. it made it worse that i was the one who did this, again. how could i be so stupid? how could i try to fill the void she left? nobody could ever be like her. i wasn’t going to let anything happen between jade and i. i couldn’t bring myself to. i had to tell her that. but seeing the look on her face when she saw me that night, the way azzi was cradling her as tears streamed down her face was too much for me. i couldn’t stand to see her like that. i quietly slipped away from azzi’s apartment, not being able to see her crying anymore. when i got back to our place, i tried texting her again. it was pointless - she hadn’t even replied to the texts i sent her on friday night. i sat on the couch and pondered for a while. deciding to test my luck, i headed back to azzi’s apartment.

-

oc’s pov

-

my tears finally faded as i began drifting off to sleep. azzi noticed my eyes drooping which inclined her to lift me off the couch and carry me to her room. she laid me down and tucked me into her bed. “get some rest, okay?” she whispered, lips pressed to the crown of my head. i nodded and smiled sleepily up at her. “thank you az” i murmered. “of course” she replied, turning on her fairy lights and flicking the light off. she closed the door, leaving it cracked open slightly. i heard some commotion coming from outside the door, but i eventually fell asleep, tear tracks drying on my face.

-

paige’s pov

-

speeding right back over to azzi’s apartment almost cost me my car privileges, but i didn’t care. i needed to see her. i flew down the hallway and practically banged on azzi’s door. after about a minute or so it opened, and i was met with azzi’s stern glare. she was visibly angry with me, for good reason. “paige. are you stupid or dumb?” she said. not really what i wanted to hear. “i know, i know, i messed up bad. but i need to explain to her. i need to talk to her”. “you do realize she’s completely broken and wants nothing to do with you? she’s also asleep right now”. great. i just want to see her face again. “can i just..” my voice trails off. “can you what paige?” i clear my throat. “can i just see her, please?”

azzi thought for a few moments.

“fine, go, she’s in my room”.

i thanked azzi profusely and quietly shuffled into her room. there she was, sleeping like an angel with the fairy lights perfectly illuminating her face. she looked beautiful during any time of day. i stood over her for a while and just watched her sleep like the weirdo i was. eventually, i got tired of standing and oh so gently sat down on the edge of the bed, careful not to wake her. a heavy sigh escaped my mouth as i watched her sleep peacefully. my arms and hands apparently had a mind of their own, because before i knew it i was stroking her face gently. i couldn’t bring myself to stop. her face is so perfect, everything about her is so perfect. i slightly brushed my thumb over her lips, trying not to wake her. i failed as soon as my hand reached the top of her head, petting it and stroking the hair down her face. she began to stir under me, blinking her eyes open. i knew she was a heavy sleeper and it took a few minutes for her to wake up, so i continued to graze her face. when she began to gain consciousness, i panicked and planted my feet in the ground to stand up. a soft voice stopped my escape.

“paige?”

i froze in place and waited for her to speak again.

“what are you doing here?” she asked in that adorable, sleepy voice she has when she first wakes up.

turning around, i slowly walked back towards the bed where she laid, curled up in azzi’s fuzzy blankets, head craned slightly to see me.

“oh uh, i was just-“

i stopped.

“hm?”

“i was checking..on you.”

“why?”

she was waking up fully now.

“because i hurt you. and i’m sorry.”

her expression changed from sleepy to upset, and i noticed the tear tracks that stained her face.

“you’re sorry?” she answered, tears welling up in her eyes. “now you’re sorry? do you realize what you put me through?” she said, hot angry tears flowing freely down her soft cheeks.

“i-“ i tried to retaliate, but stopped immediately when she broke down sobbing.

“baby i-“

“don’t call me that”, she spat, glaring at me through wet eyelashes.

ouch.

“how can you casually come back here and sorry your way out of this? don’t you know how long i suffered watching you hook up with all of these girls in front of me? don’t you realize how hurtful it was to be one of those girls on your ever growing roster? do you even know how long i waited for you paige? all throughout our little friends with benefits phase in high school, all while i became a hook up and not a best friend, all while i was there for you when you tore your acl, all of it. and then you go ahead and tell aubs, ice and kk that i’m not your type? that you never liked me like that? and then proceeded to hook up with a girl that looks exactly like me? don’t you know what that does to someo-“

“i love you”.

-

oc’s pov

-

“i love you”.

i stopped my rant instantly and shot my eyes up to meet hers. she immediately looked down and took her bottom lip in between her teeth.

“you what?”

“i love you. more than anything”.

i scoff and laugh a little, shocked.

“but i thought-“

she cuts me off by leaping onto the bed and bringing me in for a long kiss, pouring out every pent up emotion she had built up in her. our lips moved against each other perfectly. i didnt want to admit how much i was craving this. she slid her tongue into my mouth and they danced together as we made out. it was sweet. it was everything i had been missing. we slowly dwindled down and pressed our foreheads together. she took my head in her hands.

“i. love. you.”

i sniffled and lightly smiled up at her.

“you do?”

“i’ll say it again and again and again. however many times it takes for you to believe me.”

“you would?”

she brought her lips to my forehead and spoke against it, still holding my face.

“of course i would”.

laughing breathily, i retaliated.

“i love you too. i love you more, actually”.

she peeled her lips away from my forehead and looked me dead in the eyes.

“not possible. all those girls? they’ll never be like you.” she said, grinning wildly, waiting for my response.

my finally dried face turned damp again and my mouth turned up in a smile as happy tears streamed down my face. i hugged her so tight and cried into her neck, kissing it simultaneously.

“i love you paige. so much”.

“i love you more baby”.

pulling away from her neck, i crashed my lips onto hers. we made out for what seemed like hours, basking in the warmth that we brought each other.

azzi smiled at the sight of us making up, proud of her idiot best friends who didn’t know how to deal with their feelings.

we finally headed back to our place together. we went straight to our room and laid down, limbs tangled together.

my head rested on her chest as she gently played with the ends of my hair, curling them with her fingers.

the world had stopped spinning. paige and i were girlfriends. not best friends. everything aligned.