#like flocks of birds wheeling in the air

[imperator-kahlo]

The Last of Us (2023- ) 1x02 | 2x02

[megalony]

You Called My Wife?

This is a new Jake Seresin imagine, my first request for Jake and I hope you will all like it. Please let me know what you think.

Taglist: @justagirlthatlovedtoread @musicistheway @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @luula @missdreamofendless @bradleybeachbabe @woderfulkawaii @amberpanda99 @daggersquadphantom @marvel-and-chicago-fan @angryknightstatesmantrash @minjix @lyje @kmc1989 @itsmytimetoodream @noonenuts @hiireadstuff @ashie-babie @classyunknownlover @jayyeahthatsme @sp1ritssz @dumb-fawkin-bitch @oliverstarksbae @gimatida @heart-35 @supernaturalstilinski @kyky9103 @wutheringhearts2275 @gay4hotmilfs @itshamleth @chaoticnosleepinfluencer @gs29 @wh0reforsmutstuff @mel-vaz @natashamea18 @chrisevansdaughter @alexandra848484 @deena-beena-weena @targaryenluvs @kpoplover-19 @marvelmenarebeautiful @gillybear17

@zoeybennett @mrspeacem1nusone @zephyrmonkey @estella-novella @eleventhdoctorsangel @kniselle @senjoritanana @shauna-carsley @dottierose @cfdhouse51 @darkfemme1 @rainechase45 @lolalolsstuff @jupiter1700 @ashdoctor @an-aliens-ghost @lunaroserites @houseoftwistedspirits @callsignwidow @winterreader-nowwriter @reneinii @bellsbomb @western-pyro

Masterlist

Summary: The Dagger squad don't know much about Jake's personal life. And when he gets hurt during an exercise, they are surprised who comes to look after him.

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Reaching into his back pocket, Jake pulled out the pair of sunglasses he had been carrying around with him for the last few weeks. The sun here back at home was intense and he couldn't stand the migraines it gave him. Even when he was up in the air, he often had his sunglasses on. He didn't care about the way the glasses pinched his ears or gave him splitting pains in the sides of his neck.

If Bob could wear his prescription glasses to see, then Jake could wear his sunglasses to stop him squinting so much and relieve the headaches he got that were becoming chronic.

His hands fell to his hips once his visors were perched on the bridge of his nose and he looked around.

It hadn't taken Jake nearly as long as he thought to complete his physical. They were doing physical assessments and training every other day to get them ready for their next assignment. They were going to be going against gravity, travelling up to G9 range and it would cause problems with breathing, taking in oxygen and could starve their brains for a few seconds, if not longer.

They all needed to be at their best physically and mentally to prepare for this and up to now, Jake was ready and rearing to go.

Today was training exercises on the ground rather than in the air. They were all doing different activities and now that Jake was rejoining the rest of the squad after his physical, he was supposed to be doing safety and maintenance checks.

He took a look around the open air field. Bradley was over to one side, looking like he was trying to do some physical exercises, but he kept stopping to quietly argue with Maverick who was following him around like a dark, looming shadow. Jake wasn't going to be going over there. He noticed Phoenix and Bob were at their aircraft in the middle of their maintenance. While Coyote was off to one side doing pushups; he had messed up somewhere if that was his punishment. And Jake had already passed Fanboy who was on his way for his own physical.

He busied himself finding one of the clipboards and he jogged over to his aircraft, smiling and patting his hand against the bulk like it was an old friend he was meeting up with.

He circled the aircraft like a vulture, checking the wings, the engines- which had had a run in with a flock of birds two days ago which Jake had been lucky hadn't completely ruined his left engine. He checked the wheels and made sure they were all clipped and chained down so the craft wasn't going anywhere without him.

Once all the outside checks were done, he climbed up the ladder and hopped inside.

It always felt weird to sit in the plane without his proper flight suit or his signature red helmet, but he wasn't going anywhere today. He was only turning the engine on to check everything was working and making sure he got all the right responses to show he would be ready for whatever training exercise he had to go out on next.

He slouched back in the seat, spreading his knees apart with the clipboard in front of him and the pen twisting between his fingers.

After ticking a few boxes, Jake tilted his head back and poised the pen behind his ear while his hand shifted to undo the first button on his uniform. He slid his hand beneath his shirt until his fingers found the familiar silver chain hanging around his neck.

He imbedded the ring into his palm that hung on the end of the chain, always tapping and jostling against his chest whenever he moved.

It felt safer to have his wedding ring on his chain rather than his finger. If he had any accidents and needed to be taken for a scan or for surgery, they would cut his ring off. Rings got in the way, jewellery got in the way and got lost but a chain around his neck was private and secure and more importantly, Jake had that ring as close to his heart as possible.

A soft look crossed his face as he brought his hand to his mouth and kissed the ring that had created a halo indent in the centre of his hand.

"I'll be home soon." He murmured against the ring as a picture of (Y/n) flashed before his eyes.

The last deployment Jake had been on had almost killed him. Three and a half months away from home. Three and a half months where he couldn't see, touch or feel his wife in his arms or have her lips against his or her body pressed up against his own. All he got were a few brief phone calls or five minutes of faceTime every other day, if he wasn't being shipped straight out from dawn until dusk.

He was much happier here where he could spend each night in his own bed, safe in his home with his wife. He didn't have to sleep alone or feel like he was going insane from having absolutely no physical touch or contact with (Y/n). Never before had Jake thought or believed in having withdrawal symptoms for another human being until he got married and had to face the prospect of leaving (Y/n) behind.

When he was done with his checks, Jake heaved himself up to his feet and climbed down back to level ground again.

He waved his clipboard up and down in front of his face like a fan, relishing the slight breeze it created to his melting skin. If he were back home in this heat his shirt would already be off and he would be lounging around in a pair of shorts. Or be would be on the beach in this weather. Either of those thoughts sounded very appealing right now.

He stood still for a few moments, taking in his surroundings and wondering what the next task would be, but his mind kept wandering off to the girl waiting at home for him. Exactly where he wanted to be right now.

"Bob, are you almost done?" Phoenix tilted her head back with an exasperated sigh, one hand clamped around her hip as she the other held onto the ladder Bob was perched on top of.

He was filling up their aircraft with fuel, they had half a tank but it was better to be safe than sorry because they didn't know how long they would be out on their next flight exercise. The last thing they needed was to be marked down and sent to do two hundred push ups because they thought half a tank would be sufficient.

"Almost." His voice was as passive as ever while he swiped his arm across his temple, wiping away the beads of sweat glistening in the afternoon sun.

"Bob, come on we've got other stuff to do."

He didn't know what happened.

One moment Bob was pushing his glasses further up his nose, rolling his eyes at his impatient partner calling up the orders below him. But the next, a shockwave was rattling up the ladder he was perched on and set him off balance.

His hands scrambled to steady himself before he fell off and he subsequently dropped the fuel line that had been in his right hand just as he unclipped it from the air craft that was now fuelled up. Bob scrambled for balance, bashing his legs into the side of the plane and earning a cut down his left forearm that scraped along a jagged edge on the ladder.

But it was the fuel line he was concerned with. It wasn't like filling up a car at the fuel station. The air crafts were large with tanks high up at the back. They had to use large funnel lines that looked like double sized garden hoses with a large round metal clip on the end the size of Bob's hand. That metal created a sizzling sound that sliced through the air when he dropped it.

The line swooped through the air like a bird trying to land but Bob could of cried when he heard a sickening crunch below him. He didn't want to imagine what it collided with- who, it collided with. His eyes snapped closed and he clung to the ladder, trying to gain his balance back so he didn't fall and break an arm or a leg.

The resounding crack echoed around the base and shuddered through everyone within close range. It was a sound no one expected to echo through the open air like that, it travelled far and wide and had everyone coiling in on the spot.

The metal end of the fuel line pelted down, gaining strength and speed as it swung past the ladder, lifted slightly into the air and smacked straight into the right side of Jake's head. Upon impact, his sunglasses snapped and flung off his nose and took flight on a course of their own, six feet across the base.

An awful crack shuddered through Jake's ears and rattled through his head as his eyes automatically snapped closed and his shoulders hunched up. Both arms recoiled into his chest as his clipboard slipped through his fingers that twitched and spasmed, unsure what to do as his body seemed to shutdown and recalibrate all at once.

The force sent his head snapping backwards until his neck got whiplash and his body followed his head's sense of direction, thrusting backwards until he landed harshly on the concrete floor.

Shockwaves rattled through his body causing his legs to shake and spasm out against the floor as if he was kicking and throwing a tantrum and all the air left his lungs when his back hit the floor. It took a few seconds for his diaphragm to loosen and allow his lungs to take in a deep breath, but when he did, a choked moan escaped his lips.

It felt like he'd been shot in the head.

He could feel his pulse throbbing through his temple and circulating all around the circumference of his head like someone pelting round a relay race. He could feel his veins throbbing and the blood steadily trickling down the right side of his face. The feeling of blood oozing down the bridge of his nose and around his eye socket made his nose scrunch up in disgust.

His hands curled and twisted against his chest, desperate to move but the sudden onset of trembling in his bones made it impossible for Jake to coordinate his body properly.

The trembling continued even as Jake suddenly realised he couldn't hear anything around him. He couldn't open his eyes. No sounds broke through the static barrier building up in his ears. He had no control over moving a single part of his body. It felt like his head had been severed from the rest of his body.

"Jesus Bob, what the Hell?!" Bradley spun on his heels and made into a sprint towards the three of them, Maverick hot on his heels.

The sight of Jake, laid out on his back, body overwrought with trembles and blood pooling steadily down one side of his face was a sickening sight none of them ever wanted to witness.

"I wasn't- didn't you see the ladder?" Bob hissed like a snake as he shakily slid down the ladder onto unsteady feet.

His hands began to rake up and down his thighs, wiping the sweat onto his trousers as his glasses started to fall down the bridge of his nose. He hadn't done that on purpose. He didn't just let go of the fuel line; Phoenix bashed into the ladder and knocked him off course. He would have fallen if he didn't scramble for his balance. It could just as easily have been Bob's head split open if he fell the other way or completely lost his footing on the ladder.

"I'm sorry-"

A groan spluttered past Jake's lips and stopped all their ramblings. He managed to curl his fingers around the middle of his shirt and he scrunched it up in his fists as tightly as possible. His legs continued to thrash against the floor but when he tried to open his eyes, he couldn't seem to do it.

"Oh God." He tried his best to reach his hand up towards his head but he could barely lift either arm from trembling against his chest.

Without his glasses that had been broken and flung off somewhere on the base, the sun was beating down on him with unwavering strength. His right eye was blinking furiously to try and stop the blood from getting into his eyes that were rolling to the back of his head that was pounding like a drum.

"Everyone shut up." Maverick's voice snapped through the air like a whip and stopped all their ramblings at once.

He crouched down beside Jake with Bradley on his other side with Bob and Phoenix hovering anxiously in the background and Coyote running over at the sound of commotion.

The wound looked bad. Maverick tilted Jake's head back and tried to touch his hairline to get a proper look. A large slash line went from his hairline towards his eyebrow and the skin had been split apart so neatly it looked like it had been cut with a sharp knife. Blood oozed out in every direction and splattered across Jake's temple and down his nose towards both his eyes like a jam donut had been tossed at his head.

He couldn't see his skull or any bone which was a good sign, but the blunt force could have been enough to crack his skull and give him a fracture. He most definitely had a concussion which meant he could have side effects.

He could start throwing up, he could black out or go fully unconscious, he could have a seizure if the impact was bad enough.

"Get him down to the medbay now." With a click of his hand over to the left, Coyote hurried forward and knelt down behind Jake while Bradley shuffled forward.

The pair of them carefully took one of Jake's arms each and looped them around the back of their necks.

"Alright, up. Let's get you up Hangman." Bradley looped his right arm around Jake's waist while his left hand gripped Jake's wrist. He held his breath and slowly pushed up onto his feet, slowly pulling Jake with him who looked very worse for wear.

Jake's head flopped forward as soon as he was sitting up. He groaned again, spluttering through a moan, spit forming on his lips and blood still trickling down his face. He could feel the shock setting in because even his neck was shaking now and once he was on his feet, his knees wavered and his legs felt oddly heavy and useless. He could barely stay upright and when his knees gave way, he slumped down like he was trying to sit on an imaginary chair.

His hands scrunched down around Coyote and Bradley's shoulders as each of them held his waist and kept him up on his feet.

Both Jake's feet bent awkwardly and the toes of his shoes scraped against the floor as the pair of them dragged him slowly towards the open hanger doors. He tried to move his legs and he did somewhat help them, but he relied on them to drag him along because he felt like collapsing to the floor and curling up into a ball.

He managed to find the will to open his eyes once they were inside, but the sight of the tiled floor disappearing and all the lines blurring before his eyes made his head swoon.

He found his eyes rolling around in his skull before he jolted forward with a croaky "Gonna puke."

True to his word, Jake tossed up his lunch the moment the boys paused in their quick shuffle towards the medbay. He felt a little better after that and he managed to lift his head once the three of them began their awkward tandem walk together.

By the time they were near the medic bay, Jake managed to place one foot in front of the other. He did an awkward walk and started to help them so they didn't have to heave him the whole way there.

"We've had an accident. The fuel line cracked Hangman straight in the temple and knocked him out. He threw up on the way down here." Bradley looked between the two medics idling around and waited for one of them to point towards the bed in the left corner of the large bunker space.

They trotted to the left and turned around, carefully easing Jake down until he was sat in the middle of the bed.

He felt more alive and a bit better once he was sat down. His head flopped back until the base of his head was touching the back of his shoulders and his shaking hands gripped the edge of the bed with intensity to keep himself sitting upright. It took all his effort to stop himself trembling and he tried to take deep breaths to ward off the sickness and the wave of dizziness that overwhelmed him.

"Okay Seresin, let's take a look."

Coyote and Bradley backed up until they were stood to one side. Neither of them fancied going back outside to finish off their exercises when Jake didn't look in his best shape. They would rather wait here to make sure he was alright and then head back to the rest of the team and tell them how he was fairing up. It was clear that Jake would be going home early today, he was lucky not to have been killed with that force, there was no way he was carrying on with any work today after this.

Jake begrudgingly lifted his head when one of the doctors stood in front of him. He let the man hold his chin and tilt his head from side to side to assess the damage and when he shone a pen light across his eyes, Jake winced.

A frightful yelp left his lips when the man tried to touch the wound and he reeled back with a groan.

"Afraid I'm gonna need an X-ray before I can stitch it. I'll clean the wound and get you some painkillers first." They were lucky the wound was on his head as they had a small, portable X-ray scanner in the back room they could use just to double check they didn't have to send him to hospital for urgent treatment. But if it looked okay, he could get some pain relief, be stitched up and sent home for the day.

"Great." Jake winced, trying to form a lopsided smile, but he couldn't quite manage it.

At least he would get to go home earlier than he thought.

***

"Hey," Bob groaned as sweat dripped off his body and onto a small puddle forming on the stone beneath him. His arms trembled as he tried to continue his push ups now that he was well into the hundreds. "Who's that?"

He nudged his nose against his shoulder to push the glasses further up his nose while he indicated his head to the left, signalling Phoenix's attention towards the person advancing across the base.

Maverick had told Bob and Phoenix to finish off Jake's safety checks, prep his fuel tank too and then do a set of two hundred push ups. They both knew they should have been more careful and they shouldn't have started squabbling like children when Jake was hauled off to the medic bay.

Phoenix lifted her head and glanced her eyes around, trying to find out who Bob was referring to. When her eyes set on a woman walking their way, her brows furrowed and she watched where she was walking.

She wasn't in uniform, whoever she was. She had on a baby blue tank top and a pair of denim shorts that stopped just before her knees. Her bag was hung on her shoulder, the strap clutched tightly in her hand and there was a nervous look plastered across her face.

The woman seemed to spare them a glance, noting that they were both sweating through their uniforms, before her eyes set on Maverick and she made a beeline for him.

"Mav, where is he?" (Y/n) bit her lower lip nervously when she reached Maverick who greeted her with a warm smile and a hand on her elbow.

"He's with a doctor, come with me."

(Y/n) nodded and let Maverick lead her inside the base. She couldn't quite believe how high up the ceilings were or how large the bay doors were, it was like everything was amplified as if giants worked and lived here. It felt strange to be walking round here with Maverick when Jake always said he would give her a tour round one day. Plans changed.

She had been expecting much worse when Maverick rang her and said Jake had had a 'minor accident' at the base, but knowing it was nothing to do with a crash or him being in a plane at all made (Y/n) feel better. It stopped her from having a breakdown or a panic attack as she drove down here, but she couldn't fathom what had happened. What kind of accident would her husband have when he was supposed to be safe here on the ground?

She glanced over her shoulder, noticing that the two others who had been doing press ups were now following after her and Maverick, presumably so they could see Jake too. They must be part of his team.

"What happened?"

"Phoenix and Bob, behind you," Maverick tossed a look over his shoulder and pointed his thumb in their direction. "Had a mishap when they fueled their plane. The pipeline dropped and caught Jake in the temple. I think he's got a mild concussion, but he'll be fine."

(Y/n) brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear, hearing her shoes clicking loudly against the tiled floor as she followed Maverick around three corners and down a long corridor until they were in front of a medical wing.

That didn't sound too bad. That wasn't nearly as bad as she had been expecting, but it still wasn't good.

Her husband shouldn't be getting into accidents like this at work. He shouldn't be getting smashed in the head with their equipment. He was a pilot, an aviator. He was training every day to be in top physical performance and here he was with a concussion because his team had clearly lacked concentration.

It took all the effort (Y/n) had not to run ahead once they walked into a large open unit almost the same size as the open field outside. There was only one patient in here and (Y/n) set her sights on him immediately.

Jake was sat on the side of a bed, his legs swinging back and forth like a child at a doctor's appointment. His hands were clutching either side of the bed, his lips were set in a firm line and he kept squinting and closing his eyes as a doctor was stood in front of him, cleaning his wound.

Once they were close enough, (Y/n) hurried past Maverick and dropped her bag down by the foot of the bed. She didn't want to get in the way when the doctor was clearly trying to assess Jake and sort him out, but the moment Jake glanced to the left, his eyes widened and he jerked out of the doctor's grip.

"Baby." The surprise was evident in his voice and he let go of the bed to reach an arm out in (Y/n)'s direction. As soon as he started curling his fingers in a grabbing motion, (Y/n) smiled and moved forward.

Jake immediately coiled his arm around (Y/n)'s waist and reeled her closer until she had to plant her hands on his shoulders to steady herself. His fingers squeezed her hip tightly and he kissed the top of her chest before he glanced over her shoulder towards Maverick.

"You called my wife?"

The shock was evident in Jake's voice, but it was the looks of the rest of the team that made him wince. He hadn't mentioned to any of them that he happened to be married, that knowledge was on a need to know basis and as his superior, Maverick was the only one who needed to know. For emergency situations like this if Jake ever got hurt or shot down or sent to hospital.

There was no way they could let him drive home and since he had been injured, Maverick knew it was best to call (Y/n) and let her know so she could come and pick him up.

"You got concussed and you won't be able to drive home. Yes, I called your missus. You're welcome."

Maverick placed his hand on his hip and tilted his head to one side. Once Jake was silenced with that one look, Maverick nodded to himself and turned to leave. He knew none of them would be doing any more exercises today and he was okay with that, they would call it a day and start again tomorrow.

"You're married?"

"You never mentioned you're married to such a stunning girl."

(Y/n) tilted her head to the right, figuring the man that said that must be Bradley, the one Jake said was close to Maverick. He had a raised brow and his lips quirked into a smile beneath his moustache while both arms folded tightly over his chest.

She could feel the glares Jake was sending towards Bradley, squinting and glaring over in his direction before he looked back up at his wife.

With a quiet groan, Jake moved his hands from (Y/n)'s hips so he could bind his arms tightly around her waist. His hands feathered up and down her back and he pushed forward until his lips attached to her exposed chest just beneath her collar bone.

"Why didn't you tell us?"

"Why did you need to know?" He countered, smirking tiredly against (Y/n)'s chest and he twisted his head so the left side of his face could press down against her skin. His cheek nuzled into her chest and he looked over at the team, watching the blush that rose to Bob's face that tilted down to look at his shoes and the way Phoenix rubbed the back of her neck bashfully.

He hadn't told them because it wasn't their business, they didn't need to know. He was in love, he was head over heels in love with his wife and in Jake's eyes, she was his little secret.

He didn't want the team teasing him or asking about her or trying to make jokes that he was tied down. He had dealt with that in the past with other people he worked with and he didn't like it. He smiled when people flirted with him in bars, but he kindly turned every one of them down and didn't let them get too close. (Y/n) was the reason why.

Sometimes it felt safer to keep (Y/n) as his little secret. What they did was dangerous, they had all lost friends in this job and it was hard to bring friends and family into this life. Jake didn't know if introducing (Y/n) to his team would be too much.

For him, it felt better to keep work and home life separate.

With a sigh, Jake lifted his cheek from (Y/n)'s chest, his lips forming a thin line as he stared up at her despite the headache that was swirling around behind his eyes. He scanned his eyes around the team who were all watching on eagerly like this was their favourite tv soap.

"Darlin', this is the dagger squad," Jake waved his hand around, muttering their call signs to which (Y/n) nodded earnestly. "Guys, this is my wife, (Y/n)."

"Nice to meet you all, even under strange circumstances," (Y/n) quirked a brow when Bob tipped his head down with his hands clasped tightly behind his back. Clearly he felt guilty for the accident and (Y/n) was sure she heard him mutter a soft 'sorry again' clearly directed towards Jake.

He wasn't going to hold a grudge. It had been an accident and a few stitches was much better than some of the injuries he'd gotten on this job. But he would be holding this over them in the future and he knew he had earned himself a few free beers down at the Hard Deck for this.

"How bad is it then?"

Jake felt shockwaves coursing through his blood when (Y/n)'s hands moved from his shoulders to gently cup his face in her hands.

He loved the feeling of her thumbs brushing across his cheekbones just beneath his eyes and the way her fingertips tapped behind the tip of his jaw near his ears. His lips curved into a smile, despite the aching in his temple that had gone down a little when he took the aspirin and painkillers he was given.

His eyes squinted up at his wife whose lips curved into a pouting smile while her head tilted to the side, inspecting the wound on his temple.

All the blood had been cleaned from Jake's face and neck and his head had been X-rayed and dabbed with anticeptic, all he needed now was stitches.

"What am I gonna do with you?" (Y/n) murmured softly while she tilted Jake's head down in her hands so she could pepper kisses against the middle of his temple which no doubt would be aching. She didn't want to touch or go too near the wound, she knew even a light touch was going to hurt and she didn't want to hurt him. But he leaned into her touch and groaned, tightening his arms around her waist while his hands slid further down her back.

"I can think of a few things."

"I don't think I wanna see that." Coyote ran a hand down his face and patted Bradley's chest before he began to walk. He would see what Maverick wanted them to do, whether they were all getting the afternoon off or just Jake. He murmured a soft "Nice to meet you, Mrs Seresin." And laid a hand on (Y/n)'s shoulder as he passed her.

"Yeah, us neither. Sorry again, Hangman, we'll owe you a few rounds when your back in action." Phoenix waved her hand towards Jake and dipped her head before she headed out with Bob following in her wake.

He uttered a soft "Nice to see you, sorry Hangman." before he followed Phoenix, silently praying they wouldn't have to finish the last twenty six push ups they had skipped when they followed Maverick and (Y/n) down here to the medic bay.

"Well, you look like your in good hands, so I'll catch up with you later. Maybe we'll see you soon, Mrs Hangman."

Once Bradley disappeared, (Y/n) managed to untangle herself from her husband's arms, causing him to grunt and pout dramatically. His hands reached out for her but she didn't move far. She stepped out from between his legs and moved to stand on his left side near the end of the bed he was perched on. Her arm looped around his back and her hand gave his shoulder a squeeze while she kissed the good side of his temple.

"When can I take him home?"

"I'll just do the stitches and then he's all yours."

Jake couldn't hide the grimace that flooded his face when he saw the needle and thread. He didn't like the inconvenience of stitches. His eyes briefly glanced up at (Y/n) before he shimmied round on the seat so his back was towards her. And he slowly reclined his head until the back of his head was settled down on (Y/n)'s shoulder.

He did his best to keep his head steady and his eyes fell closed when he saw an injection needle coming close. The numbing agent to make the stitches more bearable.

A low whistle passed his lips and when (Y/n)'s free hand curled over his thigh, Jake reached down and curled his hand over hers. He squeezed tight and tried to take slow, deep breaths when the needle finally started puncturing through his skin. It didn't exactly hurt, but he felt a sharp sting and each time the thread was pulled tight, Jake could feel his brow lifting as the skin was dragged back together.

Six stitches later and (Y/n) could barely feel her hand from how tightly Jake was squeezing it. She leaned her head down and kissed the top of his head, nudging her nose against his soft wavy hair as Jake finally opened his eyes.

"You're good to go with a mild concussion, Seresin. No flying for twenty-four hours, and if you go any higher than G7, I'll need to see you back here for a check over."

"Copy that."

"Thank you for patching him up."

When Jake hopped up from the bed, (Y/n) moved her arm lower to secure around his waist and she pressed a quick kiss to the side of his jaw which caused his lips to pull into a wide grin. He draped his arm over her shoulders, feeling much better than he did earlier.

The last thing he wanted to do was lean on (Y/n) and have her dragging him out of here like the guys had heaved him in earlier. He could walk on his own two feet again.

"That's going to leave a scar." (Y/n) murmured softly, reaching her left hand up to graze her fingers over his brow just beneath the row of navy blue stitches on his temple. It wasn't going to leave a dent or a prominent, deep line, but it would leave a faint streak of white like a dash of paint across his skin.

She pressed another kiss to Jake's jaw until he tilted his head down and captured her lips in a soft, burning kiss instead. "I know," He muttered softly against her lips, kissing her again and again as they walked as slow as possible out of the base.

"But I know you love my war wounds."

[freedomfireflies]

Overdrive*

Summary: The one where it's 1969 and Harry likes to drive really, really fast.

Word Count: 5.5k

Content Warning: 18+, smut, multiple orgasms, breeding kink, exhibitionism, very brief daddy kink

Five.

The sound of revving engines echoes between the tall, city buildings. Loud enough to startle a nearby flock of birds on a telephone wire as they take off into the dark night to escape the lurid noise. 

Four.

The smell of burning rubber is everywhere. Tires screech against the pavement as the smoke dissipates into the warm summer air and the drivers prepare for that familiar white flag.

Three.

There’s a murmur amongst the crowd. The bets have been placed and the anticipation has set in. They pick their favorite driver, and they hope that somehow, they’ll be able to beat the unbeatable. 

Him.

Two.

You can see your little speed demon just up ahead as he waits patiently in front of the makeshift starting line. He seems relaxed. Confident. One hand is settled on the steering while the other is flipping the bird to the driver beside him. 

One.

The flag waves and the drivers take off. A streak of color flashes across the street as each of the five cars attempt to take their place ahead of the rest. But nobody can seem to get an edge on the black Lamborghini Miura already skidding around the first curve, effortlessly leaving them all behind.

You grin. It’s harder to see the cars now that they’re on the other side of the buildings, but you can hear them. You can hear his engine, specifically. You’d know the sound anywhere. After all, he spent weeks introducing you to the ins and outs of his favorite toy. Showing you exactly how to care for it, with those rough, practiced hands that also happen to care for you, too. 

You catch a glimpse of his vehicle just before it disappears past the drugstore. He shifts gears and accelerates, just before the blue Stingray to his right can gain on him. You hold your breath as both cars drift around the corner onto the next road and the crowd begins to cheer. 

Harry hasn’t lost a race in weeks. You don’t imagine he could lose if he tried. In fact, he could be blindfolded with no brake pedal and a faulty transmission and somehow, he’d still be miles ahead of the competition. 

It’s one of the things you love most about him. The way his eyes light up when he gets behind the wheel. The way the engine purrs in his hands and the way he can bend the road to his will. 

The Stingray veers to the right in order to get ahead of him, but Harry seems to anticipate this attempt. He cuts the other driver off just before he can speed up and your heart jumps into your throat. The only thing you don’t like about his racing is how careless he can be at times.

If you’re in the car, he takes the utmost care to make sure you’re safe. That you’re never put in harm’s way.

But when he’s alone, he’s in a whole other world of his making. He doesn’t consider the consequences or the repercussions. He doesn’t consider you. The way you’d feel if you lost him. 

And you trust his instincts, you do. But you can’t always say you enjoy the show. 

The Stingray slams on his brakes as Harry takes off and slides around the second to last corner. Tire marks are painted across the cement in his wake and the crowd cheers. 

Your stomach twists. He seems to be doing all right, although one of his fatal flaws is that it’s nearly imposable to tell how he’s feeling. He’s eerily stoic when he’s under pressure and perhaps that’s a good thing. 

But that doesn’t exactly help you now as he zigs and zags across the road before finally reaching the last turn that leads into the final stretch.

This is it. You hold your breath as you watch from the edge of the sidewalk, hands twisting in front of your chest as he races across the last few hundred feet. It’ll be close—the Stingray is gaining on him with each passing second—but Harry’s undeterred. He switches into a lower gear and the engine comes alive. Giving the car torque for those last few inches as he flies across the finish line. And the race is over.

The rest of the cars follow shortly after and the growing crowd of onlookers all swarm the street. They cheer and they holler, and they flock to the handsome driver now stepping out of his vehicle, desperate to congratulate him. But those soft green eyes only search for you. 

When he finally finds you squished between the horde of admirers, he grins, and begins to push his way through to you.

The moment you meet, he picks you up, hugs you to his chest, and spins you around. And you squeal giddily, happy to be back in his embrace as you wrap your arms around his neck and hold on for dear life.

“My little lucky clover,” he whispers proudly. “What did I tell you, hm?”

The nickname makes your insides grow warm. He’s called you his lucky clover ever since that first race when the two of you met. He claimed he only won because he saw you standing there watching and was desperate to impress you. And that every race he’s won since has been because of you and your charming presence. 

You aren’t so sure you believe him, but you have to admit it sounds pretty on his tongue.

You laugh as he puts you back down. “I know, I know,” you finally concede. “You were right.”

“Mhm.” He smirks—cocky—before he’s surging forward to kiss you. Soft and slow and with a desire that almost feels scandalous for such a public place. “I always am.”

His tongue brushes against yours while his hand splays across your lower back to tug your body to his and the crowd cheers as you giggle. But you don’t fight the way he loves you. Instead, you cling to his shirt and allow him to take what he wants.

When he finally allows you a moment to breathe, you gaze at him curiously. “How fast were you going?”

“120 on the main stretch. 80 on the curves,” he says, then chuckles at the way you frown. “M’fine, Clover. I promise.”

“You agreed nothing over 100,” you remind him.

“Yeah, but I needed to win.”

“No, you don’t need to win. You need to stay alive.”

“Well, why can’t I do both?”

Unamused, you huff, and lightly slap at his stomach. “Not funny, H.”

However, he merely laughs aagain and pulls you back between his arms. “Come on, sweetheart,” he says softly. “You know I’d never die on you. I’d miss you too much.”

“Let’s hope so.” You push up onto your toes to bring your lips to his once more. “Cause if you die on me…I’ll kill you.”

His smile is smug as he kisses you hard before he leads you back to his car. The large mass follows, anxious to ask him questions or offer their praise. And he listens to dutifully, perching himself on his hood while pulling you between his legs. 

It’s the same after every race. The other drivers try to tease him while his growing group of fans are desperate to be noticed by him. He might not be inherently famous, but he is to this crowd. They love a lot of things about him. His skill, his confidence, his looks. 

And you can’t exactly blame them.

It’s impossible to tell if you want to be him or be with him. You imagine for most people, it’s both. He has a sort of relaxed assurance that seems to make everyone else around him comfortable. And there’s a mystery about him. An intrigue to know more about the man behind the wheel. About who he is outside of these races. What he’s really like. 

He slings an arm around your shoulder and pulls you back into his chest. He talks to the driver of the Stingray and they exchange comments about the almost collision that makes your stomach turn. But when he notices, he presses a quick kiss to your temple and changes the subject. 

However, the rowdy celebration is cut rather short by the sound of sirens as two police cars come slinging around the side of a building with their lights flashing and their microphones on.

Everybody scatters, a collection of wild cheers and hollering voices as the officers step out of their vehicles in order to round up the crowd and instruct everyone to return home.

But Harry is unfazed as he pats your hip and nods his chin up. He’s rather good at his getaway now. After all, you imagine he’d have to be with all the times the police have broken up these races. 

And he’s only been caught once.

You slip inside just as he starts the engine. The radio comes alive, the sound of Jimi Hendrix enough to rival the roar of the motor as places one hand on the back of your seat in order to look behind him before he speeds away from the scene, hangs a sharp left, and takes off down the adjoining road. 

The sound of sirens follow. There’s a cop car on the next street over, attempting to chase after him as Harry weaves in and out between the scarce traffic. He’s good—incredibly good—but they haven’t given up yet. 

They cross over and skid behind him. They’re getting closer and the red and blue lights are bright in the rearview mirror. Still, Harry is calm. Simply shifting gears with ease as the car accelerates and offers a bit more distance before he takes a last-minute right in order to shake them.

The force of the turn slings you against the side of the door and you huff as Harry shoots you a cheeky grin.

“Sorry, baby,” he calls over the music. “You all right?”

With a grimace, you nod and say, “Mhm. Just great.”

He winks before he’s blowing through one red light and then another. Somehow missing the few cars currently crossing the street while the police are forced to slam on their brakes as somebody passes. And once they lose sight of him, he veers into an old, abandoned alley to hide.

Seconds pass before they finally fly by. Oblivious to his plan as they head further into town while Harry takes another right and disappears from the city.

He cheers victoriously and rolls down the windows and you laugh as you gaze at him. Entranced by the way he nods his head to the music as a gentle, summer breeze blows through his curls. 

Freedom tastes better with him. Life is better with him. His hand on your thigh, squeezing, while he sings along to Jimi Hendrix and grins at the open stretch of road ahead of him.

You wouldn’t want to be anywhere else and he seems to bask in your admiration before he finally looks over.

“What do you say, Clover?” he says with a wicked gleam in his eye. “Wanna see what a hundred feels like?”

A bit hesitant, yet wildly curious, you nod. 

He reaches for your hand in order to help you across the car, and you crawl over the console until you can settle onto his lap. Once you’re snug over his thighs, his arms slip beside your middle to keep you safe while he holds onto the steering wheel, and you scoot back into his chest for support. 

And it feels good. Comfortable. Even though the car is going faster and faster with each passing second, you feel protected. You know he’d never let anything happen to you. And there’s hardly any danger out here, along the old, backroads away from the city and traffic.  

The needle on the dash rises higher and higher. 70…80…90. Harry’s grinning against your cheek as the wind dances across your skin. The moon is bright in the sky, illuminating the road even without headlights and it’s exhilarating. Limitless.

“How’s that, hm?” he whispers. He kisses your jaw before dropping his foot against the gas. “You sure you’re ready, sweetheart?”

You nod quickly and brace yourself in his hold. “Mhm.”

The car reaches 100 and it feels like flying. You laugh, giddy, and he grins. The straight stretch of empty street might as well be a runway and the faster you go, the lighter you feel. As though the tires will simply lift off the ground and carry you into the sky. 

He shifts gears and the car jolts forward as the needle jumps to 110. You gasp and squirm excitedly over his lap before he suddenly groans. The sound is low and strained and you recognize the lustful cadence almost immediately.

Amused, you bite the inside of your cheek. “You okay, H?”

He takes one hand from the wheel and places it on your thigh. Squeezing it once. Pointedly. “Don’t stop.”

You don’t. You squirm again, settling into the feel of the hardening bulge beneath your ass and he makes another noise that goes straight to your cunt.

Your lashes flutter. The world blurs and your heart races. Perhaps you shouldn’t be doing this while you’re going so fast but Harry is calm. He trusts himself and you trust him.

The needle rises.

“Harry,” you whisper and his knuckles go white against the steering wheel. “Harry, please—”

“What?” His mouth rests against your cheek and you whine. “What, Clover? What do you need?”

He wants to make you say it. Wants to hear the words on your tongue and you swallow thickly as you intertwine your fingers with his. “H…”

“What, baby girl?” He nips at your skin with his teeth. “M’I making you nervous?”

You nod and he chuckles. A dark, sadistic sound.

“Do you want me to stop?”

There’s a quiet moment of hesitation before you eventually shake your head. Of course you don’t. How could you?

“No?” He squeezes your leg, touch slowly slipping beneath the fabric of your skirt. “Good girl.”

The car begins to go faster. 115…118…120. The same speed he reached during the race and even if you knew it was fast, this feels infinitely faster.  

You gasp and clutch his hand. Terrified and enthralled all in the same moment. And even if you shouldn’t be, you feel insanely aroused. Legs squeezing together as he subtly bucks up into you.

The music is loud and the wind is loud and the sound of your heart pulsing in your ears is loud. 

And then…the needle drops. The car slows. The speedometer goes from 120 to 50 in only a few seconds, and you blink curiously before glancing back at him.

He says nothing. His expression is firm but stoic and it’s not until he pulls off the road and into the dirt that you understand.

He turns the car off, then pats your hip. “Get out.”

You swallow again and swing the door open. Crawling off his lap before obediently trailing your way to the front of the vehicle while he follows.

“Bend over.”

You do. The hood is warm but not hot and it’s almost inviting as you place your hands against the covering to brace yourself in wait.

“Let me see.”

Your breath catches as you move your fingers to the delicate panties beneath your skirt. You pull them down your quivering thighs and the summer air makes you shiver. You feel nervous under his gaze. Under the way he owns you. But it’s thrilling. Addictive. And it leaves no room for questioning as you drop your underwear to your ankles in the middle of the open desert. 

You hear him step closer. Feel his hand on your hip as he pulls the fabric of your outfit up in order to get a proper look. But he’s quiet. Almost too quiet, and you feel a touch warm as you wait for his remark.

“Have you been this wet all night, Clover?” he finally asks.

You nod once. “…yes.”

“Mm.” Another pause while his other hand begins to trail up the back of your leg, slowly pulling it open. “And when were you planning to tell me?”

“I…I figured you already knew.”

He hums and you can only imagine his smirk. “Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Is that what you were waiting for, then? For me to do something about it?”

“…yes.”

The tip of his finger drags its way through your folds and the sudden sensation makes you whimper.

“Then why didn’t you ask, sweetheart?” His tone is soft but condescending and you make another noise as you attempt to glance back at him. “Uh-uh. Eyes down, Clove.”

With a huff, you drop your chin to your chest and anxiously wait for more.

“Why didn’t you ask?” he repeats. “Thought I taught you better than that.”

 When your only answer is a needy mewl, he lands his palm against your ass in a sharp smack.

“Speak,” he murmurs. “When I ask you a question, I expect you to use your words and answer me. Is that understood?”

“Yes…yes, I’m sorry.”

“So why didn’t you ask?”

“Was…nervous,” you admit, glancing off into the dark night to hide the shame in your expression. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

He steps closer and his touch becomes gentler. “You were nervous, baby girl?”

“Mm. Knew you were busy and…and didn’t wanna be greedy.”

“Oh, my sweet girl,” he exhales before he’s grabbing onto the cheeks of your ass to pull you open. Allowing him an even better view of the way you drip. “Can always be greedy with me, you know that? Don’t have to be nervous. All I wanna do is take care of you. My time is yours.”

You release a stuttered breath before your eyes fall shut. You love the way he touches you. The way he cares for you. The way he humiliates you, even out here where nobody can see. 

“Look at you,” he whispers and you feel yourself clench around nothing. “Look at how pretty your little hole is when it’s so empty.”

The pad of his thumb brushes through your folds and he ignores the way you gasp his name.

“Think I should fix that?” he asks. “Think I should fill you up? Make it better?”

“Yes,” you pant. “Yes, please—”

“D’you need me to stretch you open? Hm? Play with your little cunny till you’re coming all over my cock?”

The dirty words inside his gentle voice feel criminal. Your mind turns to mush and you can do nothing more than press your chest into the hood as you excitedly wiggle our ass further into his hand.

He laughs, amused by your desperation in a way that only pushes you further toward the endless edge. “Is that a yes, Clover?”

You nod quickly. Your cheek rubbing against the car until you finally—finally—hear the sound of his belt flicking undone. 

The metal clink is music to your ears and you release a deep moan at the thought of the leather against your skin. Of his cock as it brushes against your clit, mindlessly teasing you past the point of no return.

“Easy,” he says. “Give me your hands, sweetheart.”

Slowly, you pull your arms behind you until he captures them in his hand. He wraps the length of the belt around your wrists until he can securely bind them to the small of your back, and once your mobility is gone, you simper.

“There you go,” he coos. “You okay, honey?”

Another nod. “Yes.”

“Gonna tell me if it’s too much, yeah? If I hurt you?”

“Yes…”

“Know it’s a tight fit, baby, but m’gonna make it work. Promise.”

And this vow makes your heart thumb against the inside of your chest before you feel him disappear from behind you.

And then…his tongue.

He’s dropped into a crouch in order to taste you, fingers locked around your wrists to keep you still while his lips suck on your pussy. 

“H,” you inhale, already undone by his technique. “I…”

He says nothing but the noise of wet licking echoes between your ears. His other hand pushes your leg away, creating more room for his head as he mouths at you. He flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue and you steel yourself against the hood, almost as though to get away.

“Careful,” he warns again. He smacks your thigh. “M’having so much fun. Don’t ruin it.”

And you try to be good. Try to stay still so he can do with you as he pleases. But it becomes increasingly harder when he nips at your cunt like he means to feast on you. 

Your fingers wiggle about the air, desperate to grab him. To clutch onto his curls or yank on his arm. But he keeps you restrained, keeps you compliant. And you are nothing but a toy for him to play with now.

You hear the sounds of the world around you. The crickets, the owls, the flock of birds flying overhead. You’re reminded yet again that anybody could drive by, even out here in the middle of nowhere. They could find you, bent over the hood of a Lamborghini as you get tongue fucked by the handsome man on his knees.

And yet…you don’t care. In fact, you almost hope somebody does pass. Because you know Harry wouldn’t stop even if they did. He’d keep going until you were unraveling in his hands as you whimpered his name.

As if to prove this, he adds a finger in beside his devious lips. “Gotta make sure you can take me,” he says in a low grunt. “S’too tight in here, Clove. Don’t think I’ll fit.”

You whine louder and angle your ass closer. Desperate to get his finger in as far as it’ll go. “I’ll take it,” you promise. “I will. Always do.”

“Always do,” he repeats in a soft chuckle. “That’s right, you do. Treat my cock right, don’t you, sweetheart?”

Nearly purring, you allow the subtle thrust of his hand to drag you closer to that blinding pleasure. 

“Do anything I ask. Even have my babies, wouldn’t you?”

The thought nearly does you in. Your tummy all swollen and full of him. Tits leaking milk that he’d eagerly lap up. The way he’d still treat your body like a temple. A prize to behold. Because you were carrying what he gave you. He fucked you so hard and so deep that you became a vessel for him. 

And even past that, you’ve always wanted to be a mother. Always wanted to start a family with him because you know he’d be a wonderful father. He’d take them to races and hold them on his shoulders so they could watch. He’d kiss all over their little cheeks and tuck them into bed. And your kids would know nothing but love. Because they’d look up to the two of you.

It makes you smile.

“What do you say, hm?” he whispers between kitten licks to your pussy. “You wanna have my babies? Wanna make me a daddy?”

He adds a second finger and begins to scissor them almost immediately until you cry out. Loud enough to startle a bird from a nearby branch and this proves to be answer enough for him.

“Okay,” he decides. “Okay, I’ll fuck your little pussy and get it all nice and full. Give you all I’ve got. And you’ll take it, won’t you? Hold it in your little belly like a good mama.”

You cum. Suddenly and without warning as the intensity of the orgasm explodes behind your eyelids like stars in the sky. You cum and you don’t get a chance to warn him or prepare or even hold off as you feel yourself drip down his hand. 

“God, H,” you moan. You sound pitiful. Voice hoarse from the way you’ve been wailing and arms sore from the way he keeps them behind you. Still, you don’t mind. The pain is pleasure in and of itself. “I…m’so…”

“Yeah.” He stands up and tugs his pants down. “I know, baby. I am, too.”

The tip of his cock drags through your soaked and sensitive pussy before he pushes in. He’s right, it is a tight fit. Even with the way you attempt to relax your muscles and draw him in. But it’s always snug with him and truth be told, you almost prefer it this way.

“There you go,” he breathes, dipping down to kiss your shoulder before drawing back his hips. “Just like that. Fucking hell, Clove, I wish you could see. Wish you could fucking see the way you look taking me right now.”

You wish you could, too. As it is, the feeling is enough to make your eyes roll back and send sparks of electricity up the length of your spine.

He keeps your wrists in his hand as he fucks into you. Sharp thrusts that sound sloppy and uncoordinated but feel like heaven. And there’s an urgency here. A desolate need to feel you unravel. He cares for you and he uses you all with the same technique. 

He grabs your leg and forces it up onto the hood. Giving him more room and a deeper angle just to hear you moan. And you hate that you can’t see him. Because you know how pretty he looks when he’s in control. His adrenaline high and his eyes alive with the possibilities of what he could do to you.

Instead, you choose to imagine. The way a few rogue curls must be sweeping across his forehead, unable to stay constrained beneath the sticky gel he likes to put in his hair. His chest is probably heaving, offering peeks of his tattoos beneath the white shirt clinging to his sweaty torso. His thighs will be flexing with each thrust. The muscles rippling in such a way that would surely make you drool. 

You understand why every woman you pass on the street tends to fawn over him. You know they’d do anything to take him home. Cook for him, clean for him, be good for him. Anything to earn his affection.

But you also know, his affection belongs to you. You’ve seen it, time and time again. He doesn’t even glance their way. He doesn’t notice when they giggle over him or when they try to call to him with their eyes. 

Because his eyes are always on you.

“You’re beautiful,” you hear him whisper. It’s soft—restrained. Almost as though he doesn’t mean for you to hear it. But you do and you nearly sink into the car in bliss. “Fucking hell, sweetheart. You’re perfect.”

A fervent heat rushes through your body from his praise and subsequently has you clenching around him. The feeling makes him groan and you’re proud of the way you can still care for him. Even if you can’t see him. Even if he’s the one with all the power.

“This sweet little pussy takes such good care of me,” he says and reaches around your tummy in order to press his palm against the subtle bulge there. “Every…fucking…time.”

You careen forward, cheek squished into the hood, skin dewy from the way your body shakes with pleasure. It’s always this close and somehow, he keeps you there. As though reminding you not to cum until he says so.

The hand on your stomach moves down until his fingers find your sensitive clit. He rubs and he plucks and he plays with your body with the same precision and skill he uses when he drives. Because no matter how much he loves to race, he loves you more. And winning you will always be infinitely better than winning some goddamn race.

“What do you say, hm?” he mumbles from behind you, rubbing the swollen nerves while pistoning his hips to yours. Dragging you closer and closer and closer. “You gonna cum for me? Gonna let me feel it?”

You nod and when you start to waver over that edge, he chuckles.

“Okay,” he agrees. “Okay, baby, cum.”

You do. Again. Harder this time. Louder. It’s almost cruel how easily your body breaks beneath him but before you can indulge in the feel of the way he follows…he’s pulling out. 

He guides you away from the hood and turns you both around. He sits in the spot you once were and he lets you see him. Because this is what you needed. The intimacy, the eye-contact. The beautiful look on his face.

He guides you closer with his hold on your bound wrists before pulling you onto his lap as best he can. He helps you place one leg back on the hood while his other hand moves to guide his cock between your overstimulated folds. Then, he brushes his swollen tip through, just to tease himself, before he’s pushing in.

And you can see him now. Can see the fucked-out expression on his face. The way his vision becomes hazy and his teeth grit together in ecstasy. 

You whimper, whine, cry out. You want to hold him. Want to wrap your arms around his neck and curl yourself into his beautiful, broad chest. 

But you can’t this time. In fact, he uses his grip on the belt to help roll you over his cock. A soft smile on his face as he whispers, “Just one more, sweetheart. Give me one more.”

He’s insatiable and greedy and you love it. Because you’d fuck yourself on his cock for the rest of time if you could. Even out here in the open.

“Wanna watch,” he whispers, then slips his other hand around the back of your neck to bring you down for a kiss. “Wanna watch the way I fill you all full of my babies.”

You make a rather pitiful noise against his mouth and he smirks. 

“You want that, too, don’t you, Clove?”

You nod, although you imagine it should be obvious. You’d do anything for him. 

“This little pussy was made to have my babies, wasn’t it?” he says and kisses the corner of your lips before moving down your neck. “Just made to be fucked by me. Perfect tummy to carry my kids. You’ll be so good, mama. Know you will.”

Your lashes flutter shut. The nickname breeds something new in your chest, a blossoming sort of urgency that almost makes it hard to breathe.

“Harry,” you plead. You nudge your nose against his temple. “Harry, please—”

“Shh.” His voice is soft. Still mischievous but kind. “I’ve got you. Yeah? M’right here. Just let me take care of you.”

And he does. He moves his hand from your neck to your shirt, slipping underneath until he can find your tits and give them a squeeze. 

“There you go,” he coos. “Oh, baby girl. Do anything for you, you know that? Just to keep you.”

He moves from your chest to your clit, and you know the second his fingers make contact, you’ll be gone. You squirm in anticipation, and he grins against your cheek before kissing you hard. Tongues and teeth colliding as he sucks on your lip and murmurs, “Can I cum in your pretty pussy, mama? Will you let me? Please?”

You nod so quick and so hard, your head aches. But it doesn’t matter because nothing else will ever compare to the feel of his hand on your body and his cock in your cunt. Releasing the warm, sticky offering that means infinitely more now than it did before.

He thrusts up into you a time or two, milking himself with your pussy before he drops back down and pulls you with him.

You’re both panting. Heavy, hard. Depleted of all energy as he holds you as close to his heart as he can.

Eventually, he frees you, tugging on the belt with one, easy pull as it comes loose from around your wrists. And the moment your arms are returned to you, you use them to grab onto his shoulders and bury yourself in his embrace.

He laughs. A delicate sound that makes you feel just as warm as his cock does. And you stay there for as long as you can until he finally nips at your earlobe and says, “Need to get you home, Clove. Don’t want you to get cold out here.”

“M’not cold,” you pout. “And we can’t leave until it works.”

“Until what works?”

You look down and he looks, too.

Then, he grins. A big, giddy grin that’s all teeth and dimples. “Oh,” he murmurs. “Can’t leave until you’re pregnant, huh?”

“Mhm.”

“I see.” He squeezes your hips and kisses your neck. “Gonna have to hold me in there, aren’t you? Keep me all snug?”

“Mhm.”

“All right, mama,” he says and you giggle. “We’ll stay until you’re all nice and pregnant. And then I’m gonna take you home and fuck you again. Just to make sure.”

Your stomach flips.

“S’that sound good, Clover?” he asks, and you bring your eyes to his in order to see him fully.

You smile.

“That sounds perfect, Daddy.”

For a more immersive experience, feel free to play All Along the Watchtower by Jimi Hendrix during the chase hehe

Beautiful divider by @firefly-graphics 💞

Taglist: @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @keepdrivingkisses @swiftmendeshoran @tiredinwinter @straightontilmornin @justlemmeadoreyou @harrysdaydreams @tiaamberxx @myfavfanficsever @littlenatilda @vamprry @fdl305 @ssaama @indierockgirrl @likeapplejuicenpeach @lukesaprince @closureesny @lc-fics @0nlythrowharrybeaux @hannahdressedasabanana @dylanobandposts21 @butdaddyilovehim-hs @floral-recs @itjustkindahappenedreally @samanddeaninatrenchcoat

[coldilikeit]

Yandere Batfam x Camp half-blood (Neglected reader)

Dc x Pjo

Part 9

______________________________

It was now morning, the air was humid and the chariots were lined up, everyone on the sidelines was packed with food, every second you wish you were in those benches

"One... Two.... Three... GO!" Tantalus yelled and the campers roared

The Ares chariot was quick, but the Hermes chariot led by the not twins Travis and Connor Stoll, Connor was shooting rocks in between the wheels of chariots

Leading first is the Hephaestus chariot led by Charles Beckendorf and his brother, second is Poseidon Chariot led by Percy Jackson and Tyson the cyclops

No way you were going to let them win

Your sister Yvonne Bailey Daughter of a multi-million fashion designer grabbed some arrows, her step mother (Aphrodite approved) was an Olympic archer, she taught Yvonne everything she knows

Which is lucky because in this race your opponents either throw arrows or bombs, even luckier cause someone on the Aphrodite cabin knows how to make arrow bombs (you duh)

And you may or may have not taken green arrows design but it's not like he can sue you, I mean come on you're dead

"No hard feelings (Name)" Annabeth smiles as her chariots bumps yours

Yvonne recovering from the shock stood up again quickly "You did not just do that", she prepared an arrow and shot at their left wheel, tried to shoot at least

The arrow instead hit the Hermes chariot and it crashed onto the Hephaestus chariot

Well they say it's better to destroy two chariots with one arrow

Now it was just You and Yvonne, Annabeth and her brother, Percy and Tyson

AND CLARISSE LA RUE????

For some reason, even if they were stuck at the back of the track trying to get he ricks out of their wheels, they managed to bypass the other burning down chariots in their way

It was fine, you liked a challenge, Then Stymphalian birds (flesh eating demon birds) started raining down from the sky and started pecking at the campers

A flock of these birds started to attack your chariot, without thinking you grabben an arrow and shit at them...

... without proper space distance, making the explosion close to you chariot

Yvonne grabbed you and ducked down and the horses who were carrying your chariot went feral trying to avoid the demon birds themselves

Percy who slipped out of the race, managed to grab a boom box and played this awful music that made the birds screech, but stopped them from attacking

The Apollo kids took this as a chance to shoot them down

And when you thought it was over, Clarisse came running through with her chariot and won the race

Despite the injuries of the racers and the non racers, they cheered

______________________________

Jason grumbled at the sight of his family, gloomy, "Hey, Breakfast has been ready for hours now, Duke is waiting!"

"I know but I found new information, according to here, Empousa only drink the blood of their victims, not eat them, that would mean there is still a body-" Tim has been researching every Greek monster ever since, trying to find a clue on how to see them properly

Diana had explained this most that covers the mortal eye from the divine world, with the announcement that the gods are real...

People have been starting to get stressed, since the most is still in effect, people are accusing each other of being monsters in disguise

"I don't get why you're doing so much for a fake" Jason glared, true he was shocked at the death, but... It's not like this was the first time (Name) died

The little replacement to protect dad's sanity was dead, so?

______________________________

According to Tantalus, we should be punished, because according to him the stymphalian birds were just minding their business and only attacked because they were bothered by Percy's horrible chariot driving

"go chase a donut!" Percy stomped off as Tantalus continues to yell at him and Tyson scurries behind behind Percy

I grabbed a piece of fruit from a table that managed to survive the attack and waved it around so Tantalus could see

And I ate it in front of him.

"Okay you too! Both you and Percy and the monster will be washing the dishes tonight" he yelled

"what, that's bull, everyone eats" said a brother of yours

"leave my sister alone, you're just mad you can't eat" said another brother

"how are you cursed to never eat and still be fat, that doesn't make sense" said one of your sisters

Annabeth's brows furrowed "That's not fair! (Name) Just ate! You can't punish her for eating!"

"alright smarty you're punished as well! Everyone cleans this mess! And make dinner for Clarisse if you want, a banquet or something, but stay the fuck away from my sight" now it was Tantalus's turn to stomp away

______________________________

(Name): eats*

Tantalus who was cursed to never eat: I'm offended

______________________________

@delias-stuff @sadslasher13 @ellaprime7 @wpdarlingpan @mountvesuvu @chinxinsomnia @nathaly36 @vanessa-boo @bat1212 @ceramic-raven @sweetconnoisseurgardener @dhanyasri @bella-wolf100 @shortnsweetsposts @roseapov @d3sperate-enuf @d3kstar

[filamentlights]

Small Talk (Manipulative)

Clone x OC Week - Day 1, Introduction || Rex x OC

Event Masterlist

SUMMARY: Undercover on the gleaming streets of Separatist planet Dio Ambra, Rex finds himself with the unusual problem of having a woman jump into his passenger seat and scream at him to drive like she owned the vehicle. Liya, gutter rat extraordinaire, pries her way through Rex’s standoffish behavior (and under his skin).

Word count: 3k

Tags & Warnings: cursing, canon typical violence, brief allusions to slavery, high speed chase across vaguely European-esque planet, Rex is So Done

“DRIVE, FUCKING DRIVE!”

That was all Rex had processed as the woman waved her hand clutching a pair of strappy heels launched herself into their speeder. Her sparkly white dress shimmered in the sun. Rex could only blanch as she whipped her head over, glaring as if to say well, what are you waiting for? Were he a weaker man, he would’ve flinched.

He opened his mouth to reply, not sure whether to be baffled, indignant, or both, but the blaring sirens cut him off. The tinny voices of droids buzzed.

“Go, we’ve got to go,” she barked. Left with few other options, Rex revved up the landspeeder and swiftly peeled away from the sidewalk.

“Left here,” she ordered.

He obeyed. Swerving past a flock of chittering birds, he caught a glimpse of flashing red and blue. Blaster bolts rang out. Behind them, police droids on speeders gave chase.

“Turn right!” She yelled, hair flying as she ducked. Reeling her arm back, she launched a gleaming heel which slammed square into a droid’s dome, knocking it off its speeder onto the street.

“Where are we- kriff!” He swerved to avoid a crowd of pedestrians. More blaster shots zipped around his head. The woman hurled her other shoe with deadly accuracy.

“Where are your blasters for shit’s sake?”

“On my belt.” He yelled back, thrusters squealing as he tried avoiding flattening someone’s grandmother. “Who are you?”

“Waves crash- ugh, into a cliff,” she screeched. She grabbed one of his pistols from his belt holster and began shooting.

“You’re the informant?” He yelled incredulously. She fired, making some nearby civilians shriek and run towards the buildings to hide. He blared the speeder horn and wove around the others on the road. “Kriff, don’t just shoot wildly. The pedestrians-”

Three shots rang out, nailing two police droids straight in the head. Their metal bodies and speeders screeched into the road as they crashed.

“Tell your general to get a new code phrase that isn’t cringy as shit,” she spat back, still firing shots from behind the cover of the seat headrest. One more droid crackled and hit the cobbled road. Rex cussed as they neared the end of a road. “Left!”

Metal screeched against a building wall. They hurtled down a small road between tall white buildings. Rex tried not to think about the unfortunate porg who couldn’t get out of the way fast enough. They crashed through clotheslines and dumpsters until the road opened up.

“You drove us to a karking cul-de-sac?”

“Just keep driving.”

“It’s on a cliff!”

“JUST. GO.” She snarled and grabbed the steering wheel. Shoving the blaster in his hands, she took over.

“Cover me,” she barked. Gritting his teeth, Rex obeyed. Firing shots that went purposely wide to avoid hitting any of the cowering bystanders, he felt his body lurch. Tearing through someone’s unlucky flowerbeds, she drove them straight towards the open air between two small houses. Metal shrieked and suddenly, he felt the weightlessness of being airborne before gravity reasserted itself with a scream. Huh, oh he was screaming. He was also falling, which seemed like an unfortunate commonality in his life as of late.

They landed with a harsh thud that reverberated into his teeth. He slammed his palms against the dash as they hit the ground and bounced harshly. His body jerked up before slamming down, tailbone against hard plastoid. His spine trembled. Rex looked down. They’d landed on what upon a bit of squinting turned out to be apartment complexes knitted so tightly together that the speeder had no issues running along them. Sirens blared above, bringing Rex back to his senses. He grabbed the steering wheel. The woman beside him collapsed into her seat.

“That was close,” she remarked, awfully upbeat.

“It’s not over yet.” His reply was a touch sour. He couldn’t deny the small well of annoyance when she just smiled sunnily. “They can still catch us.”

“Yeah, but they won’t follow us over. They can't legally go onto the rich people property that we just tore through, so they’ll have to go around. Droids.” She mused. “No independent thought.”

Well, that he could agree with.

Liya pretended to shift her dress as she glanced over. There’s generally not much information on clone troopers outside the usual propaganda, much less anything that would indicate any sort of personality in the people that corporate oligarchs in the Senate are using as meat shields. The closest she’s heard was rumors amid the slums of Dio Ambra following a flood of refugees coming from Christophsis—and even then, there wasn't much. Whispers of helmeted troopers moving so synchronously they seemed like shifting white sand dunes from afar. Regardless, it figured she’d get stuck with who was probably the most poster-boy perfect soldier those elitist Kaminoans could come up with.

Shit, even his breathing looked metronomically timed.

Go figure.

Studying his side profile with an intensity that led her to think he was purposefully avoiding her gaze, Liya wondered what made this man tick. A clone soldier. There were conflicting stories on Dio Ambra from where and how they came about, but everyone agreed it was…odd. A perfect army that appeared the moment war broke out. This man, who was conveniently trapped in a vehicle with her nosy ass, was ostensibly the first outside news source she’s had since taking this mission on this insular “no war in Ba Sing Se” hellhole planet. Liya embraced this revelation, since it meant she could bug him.

“So,” she began coyly.

“So?” His tone was unamused. She smiled to herself.

“So,” her lips curled around the syllable and dragged it out playfully. “Scared of heights?”

He choked, but tried to disguise it as a cough.

“What gave you the impression?” His attempt at stoicism was cute, but he’d already given himself away much earlier.

“The screaming. Hope you aren’t too hoarse from that. I’d hate to tell Skywalker that I broke his favorite soldier.” She mused.

“General Skywalker doesn’t have… favorites.”

“Oh? Then why’d he send you on this trip, Sergeant?” Liya tossed her long hair back with a flippant smile.

“Captain.” He corrected. She watched him reel in his irritation with a smirk. “It’s Captain Rex.”

“Your name?”

He nodded.

“You chose that yourself?” She tried not to sound too derisive, she really did, but something in her tone made the man twitch. Maybe it was in the way she said “chose” or her intonation of “yourself.” Or maybe it was just the fact that she was nosing into his business when clearly he did not want conversation. Yes, she could indeed be self aware. Either way, she watched his hands tighten on the steering wheel. Oops, she needed to say something to lessen that. She wanted to get under his skin—play the vapid little princess—not genuinely piss him off.

“Rex,” she said, testing out the sounds. Liya continued blabbing. “It has quite a nice ring to it. Rolls off the tongue nicely. Captain Rex.”

“I’m not too familiar with natties but I’m pretty sure normally people introduce themselves after learning someone’s name.”

Well. Judging by the steely undertone to his words, she hadn’t been very successful in not offending him. She pulled on a winning smile that went largely ignored.

“You may call me Liya. I chose it myself too,” she said, tossing her hair.

“Whatever you say.”

Liya laughed, tossing her head back and arching her spine. Throwing her hands in the air, she basked in the perfect weather. The heat of the sun was offset by the salty ocean breeze. It was perfect weather for her slinky white midi that probably cost more than her. She felt his gaze trail her pale neck and down her peeking décolletage as the sun illuminated her perfect skin. Beneath sooty lashes, still giggling, she watched his ears redden.

Perfect soldier or no, he was still a man.

He cleared his throat.

“That wasn’t that funny.” His hands gripped the steering wheel as he kept his eyes fixed on the road.

She leaned forward onto the dashboard. Crossing her arms on the warm plastoid, she laid her head down and looked at Rex from under fluttering lashes. She watched his jaw tick. His hazel eyes stayed stuck on the road ahead.

Damn, she’d have to try harder.

“Awfully nice weather,” she commented when the silence drew too long. Her new friend seemed intent on ignoring her existence, but she was well versed in the art of talking a lot about nothing. Really, she’d make bank as a politician. “It’ll be the only thing I miss about this planet.”

He said nothing.

“I mean, the architecture is beautiful.” She continued. “They have some stunningly rich culture here. Nice pastries. Oh but, their tyrannical rulers are a bit of an issue. Money rules, right? And, terribly authoritarian over here. Couldn’t even get a proper Holonet connection to the outside; I had to send an email by printing it out on flimsi and mailing it.” Liya threw her hands up and looked at him aghast. Partly because she enjoyed being dramatic, and partly to watch his lips tighten disapprovingly at her purported diva behavior.

“That sounds awfully difficult.”

She snorted at his dry wit. He didn’t even try to mask his disdain. “Sarcasm? I expected better from you, captain.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Yes, but that’s what conversation is for,” she slouched, watching his jaw tighten. Pushing further, she added a snotty, “do keep up.”

She could feel his temper slipping.

She clicked her tongue loudly. His jaw ticked.

“You won’t even answer me?” Liya let out an exaggeratedly burdened sigh. “I’m hurt.”

“Just keep quiet until we get to the ship.” He snapped.

Bingo.

Liya huffed, injecting as much hurt into the puff of breath as she could. She crossed her arms and turned away to look at the passing landscape. Stretches of shitty quality apartments knitted together. They were riding right above the slums of Dio Ambra, where the unfortunate and impoverished lay out of sight and out of mind of their rich overlords. She waited a moment, and then another. And right as she thought she’d actually pushed him too far, she heard a small sigh.

“What brought you here?” His tone was about as excited as someone walking towards a noose, but she could sense he was feeling apologetic. Ha, can’t stand seeing a lady in distress, was it? What a noble soul. Content to let him suffer in his own guilt, she let silence reign for a moment.

“It was supposed to be a quick job.” She began slowly, trying to sound reluctant. Liya kept her head tilted away, propped up on one hand and facing the scenery. “Hired by some rich princess to play house for a little bit. Fill in as a bridesmaid, since she didn’t have enough friends, while doubling as protection. But then the princess grew a bit…attached. Never had any real friends before so naturally my charm and wit were enrapturing,” Liya drawled playfully, deigning to look his way again and catching his exasperated eye-roll.

“She wanted to keep me there because she said I was the only one she could trust and that I would never betray her and whatnot, someone probably should’ve socialized her when she was younger. Beyond those bratty high-society debutantes.” She picked at her delicately manicured hands. “Let her see what us poors and impoverished live like.” Liya tacked on sarcastically, “good character building experience, no?”

“Anyhow, threw a fit anytime I tried to leave. Kept hiring me for this and that. Even shut down the shuttle ports. Would’ve escaped earlier—I can’t stand people like her—but ol’ Obi called in a favor for me to stay and gather some intel on the low.” She finished dramatically, flippant but…pensive. “And that’s me.”

“Huh.”

She resisted an eye-roll. Men.

“You’re not a very good conversationalist, are you captain?”

“No, ma’am-”

“Don’t call me that,” she cut him off sharply. He blinked, but she turned away trying to reign herself in. Oops, accidentally had a mood swing like a trebuchet at a glass castle! She’d apologize but, oh well she wasn’t built like that.

“No,” he said, quieter and then he gathered the courage to offer an olive branch. Grinning cheekily, “I’m not great with conversation, but I bet I have you beat?”

Liya almost fell out of her seat with the strength of her scoff. “Bullshit. In what world-”

Rex huffed in amusement.

“In this one, since I know how to introduce myself-”

“Oh yes, ‘It’s Captain,’” she mocked his low tone. “Captain Rex.”

“Least I didn’t just jump into a stranger’s speeder.”

Liya snorted, letting loose a sharp grin.

“It clearly wasn’t like that, there were extenuating circumstances-”

“And that required screaming in my face?”

Rex almost felt like a cadet back in Basic, as her piercing eyes lasered into him like his old trainers. He kept his hands firmly on the steering wheel and refused to wipe his palms.

“The planetary police force was tipped off and had been searching for me, as we just witnessed, so I’m sure you can understand the hurry.” She sniffed, though he could tell she was fighting a smile.

“You sure didn’t look it.” The words escaped him before he thought any better.

Her head whipped towards him.

“What are you insinuating?”

“Nothing.” He reeled in the instinctive sir. “You just looked very relaxed.”

Her glare intensified. Admittedly, Rex had thought the woman quite pretty when he first saw her. Wandering down cobblestone streets barefoot in a fancy dress and looking lost as she swung her pair of heels in time with her leisurely stroll. Dark wavy hair reaching her back juxtaposing perfect porcelain skin. She looked like the floating ads on Coruscant, standing amidst villas and green grass with some shimmering slogan above her head. Something so foreign. He’d felt oddly voyeuristic, noticing reddening shoulders as she lifted a pale arm to block the sun from her eyes.

Maybe her dark eyes met his.

Maybe he glanced away, rubbing the back of his neck.

Not that he would remember, since the moment she spotted him—pretending to be just another civilian—she jumped into the speeder and began screaming at him to drive.

“Running tends to attract more attention and suspicion. Better to look like an inconspicuous wandering tourist who got lost than someone running away from something.”

“And then you jumped into a speeder and began screaming to drive.” Rex didn’t know what was driving him to speak this way. He tacked on, “inconspicuously.”

The resulting glare was withering. In his periphery, he watched her red lips pull into a wicked smile and tried not to think of his jumping heart rate. He was losing his mind probably. The heat was getting to him.

“Maybe I like the sun.”

His palms sweated.

“I like the feel of it.”

Left? Left turn here, right?

“It’s hot. I like it.”

For a moment, Rex’s mind goes off without him. Without his permission, a million scenarios run through his mind. This woman smiling at him. A white dress hugging her figure, so bright under the sunlight it hurt to look at her. And even if he did tear his eyes away, an imprint on his vision would stay. A salty ocean breeze. Perfect red lips. And he wondered, would they smear?

“Right,” he manages to remark, as casually as he could manage. His mind frantically searched for something to change the subject. “You said you chose your name?”

They were nearing the ship. He could almost regret the end of this liminal moment. Driving on this vast, endless plane under a millennium blue sky. Bantering with this woman about introductions and weather, both incongruously easy to do yet feeling constantly on his toes with her moods.

“Yes.” She replied after a moment. In his periphery, he watched her stretch in the sun and sigh shortly, like his very question irked her.

“Not going to deign this clone more of an answer?”

“No,” Liya snapped. “You don’t know me.”

“Isn’t that what conversation’s for?” Rex echoed her earlier words. A frigid silence greeted him. He felt the need to say something, to make up for it. He considered her for a moment.

“You know, I almost named myself The Thunderer when I was four. Well, eight in nat-years.”

“No.”

“Yes,” he cackled. “I tried insisting on only answering to that, even stole the datapad my trainer had to splice into the attendance records and change my name. He made me do a month of being a training dummy for the older classes and scrubbing freshers for it.”

Rex watched her giggle.

“Such a powerful name didn’t stick?” She wiped her tears, still stifling her laughs. He felt oddly proud to be the cause of that.

“Nope. None of my brothers would call me that. Flat out refused.”

Liya laughed, seeming softer under the setting sun. “They really saved you, then.” She breathed out and whispered, “I named myself after I killed the man who enslaved me.”

Oh.

Rex pulled the speeder to a stop a distance away from the ship.

He’d landed the ship in a patch of scattered overgrowth, just the right color that his ship blended in well enough against the grays and browns. Thorny vines dotted the ground precariously, crunching under his boots. Rex came around to open her door like a proper gentleman in those old timey holofilms as he thought about a proper answer for her. He was still contemplating how to tactfully answer when he looked down and realized.

“Carry me?” Liya grinned cattishly, kicking her bare feet. Right. She’d used her shoes as goddamn projectiles. Heaving an exaggerated sigh, Rex leaned forward and scooped her up, feigning a struggle to pick her up, which earned him a jab in the sternum. He lifted her easily. She tucked herself into him, looping an arm behind his neck, her breath ghosting along his neck.

The walk was both longer and shorter than he wished.

But before he set her down, Rex realized he hadn’t ever replied.

“It’s a good name.” She looked up, a dark eyebrow cocked in amusement. He smirked. “Liya. Rolls off the tongue nicely.”

“Hah.” Liya grinned up at him, eyes gleaming. Rex felt his heart stumble. “Yours too, Thunderer.”

“The Thunderer,” Rex corrected.

A/N: Now I think Rex is such a good dude and WOULD canonically try and keep up small talk with civs and generally be a decent guy, but I also do think he’d get annoyed at someone who’s clearly never lived a rough life and is acting like a total prima donna like Liya was. Then she hits him with her "eat the rich-ness" and he thinks he's in love but he's is NOT comfortable in that fact. She’s like the bad boy rule breaker that a clone would absolutely love and live vicariously through. Like she’s cursing out senators? Damn, that's a repressed desire of mine. I love you. 

hehe how'd I do :D @orangez3st. Also event tag! @clonexocweek

[thatcheeseycandle]

T2024, Day 1: Dawn | TC-LRAU

Hours would've passed by now, seeing the sun would be rising on the horizon and flocks of birds would be flying through the sky. It was a peaceful day today.

It was the morning after such a celebration had happened last night, and the engine of the hour last night would start to be awaken to his shed door creaking as it opened, yawning as he opened his eyes to see who it was.

Four people, entering the shed, huh. That's five less people from last night. Eyeing the four people, he'd try to recall the basic things he might know about them.

Lloyd, the one who christened him with a name, well more like a name that was easier to recall rather than his already given name.

Then there were two other people he couldn't recognise, a fit ginger that seemed related to Emrys and a brunette with salt and pepper hair. But speaking of Emrys, he'd light up as he spotted him among the four of them in the corner.

Emrys would notice this as he smiled back at-

“Stephen, a good day to you, young Rocket,” he greets him as he steps on his foot plate, examining his controls and firebox door, while the other three start checking over his boiler and collect their tools.

But Stephen on the other hand, he'd glance outside the skylight above him, observing the clouds slowly move and form themselves into different shapes, though it wasn't as mystifying as the night sky it was still indeed a lovely sight to see.

The birds chirping were like the crickets chirping last night, except more calming. More pleasant and peaceful. It was so bright today, brighter than last night, he could see the birds flying over the shed and hear the ruffles of bushes from outside.

And speaking of brightness, the sun was starting to color the baby blue sky with a tangerine shade of orange as sunbeams shine through the clouds and into the shed through the windows, the light bouncing off his glossed livery as well.

As the outside got brighter and brighter, pushing out the cold air, a beam of light would start to form from the skylight. His crew paid no mind to it as they continued their work.

But then, the beam of sunlight would get brighter and brighter, to the point it'd-

“AGH!”

“oH CHRIST ABOVE-” Lloyd exclaims as Stephen’s eyes are blinded by the beam of light that suddenly shines over his eyes, nearly falling off the footplate from Stephen’s sudden flinch, seeing as he had just gotten on it. Though thankfully enough Emrys had grabbed Lloyd’s wrist, pulling him back on the footplate.

The other two young engineers would take a glance at the two on the footplate, seeing as they were behind Stephen’s tender digging through a crate of tools and materials. An awkward silence would fill the air for a bit.

Though the silence would break as the sound of screeching would amplify and ring through their ears.

“Fuck- Stephen!”

Emrys would make his way to the front of Stephen, seeing what he was doing.

“The light, thE LIGHT, THE LIGHT!”

Stephen was trying to reverse, but thanks to his brakes, he was starting to fracture them as his wheels tried to roll, his eyes closed tightly as he tried to avoid the sun that blinded him.

One of the young engineers would immediately climb onto the footplate of Stephen and release his brakes, suddenly stumbling forward as Stephen sped into the buffers behind him with a big- SLAM!

“What the bloody hell happened?!”

“Rocket! Are you okay?!”

He’d relax as the flames in his firebox stopped flaring up, calming down as he groaned from his buffers now aching from the sudden impact that came from slamming himself into the buffers behind him. Opening his eyes after they’ve stopped watering from the contact they made with the sun rays from above.

“I’m- I’m alright,” he croaks out as he takes a glance at this person who had just entered through the sheds, to which his eyes light up seeing who it is.

“You! Sir- Sir, you! You’re the man from that wall memory!”

“Wall memory?” the man raises an eyebrow at the young engine, confused as to what he means. Though a quick witted crewmember would hurriedly walk over to the man.

“Sir,” the crewmember starts before clearing his throat. “The young rocket, Stephen, meant to say photo.”

“Ah.”

“I apologise sir, we haven’t taught him an abundant amount of phrases up to this point.”

“I see.”

The man said as he gently took off his hat, kneeling down to Stephen’s level with a hard face yet soft gaze towards him.

“So then, tell me, young rocket, how much do you know of me?” He asks curiously.

“I know so much of you! So many stories of you being one of the wisest of engineers in this region, and you’re the one to design me!” 

“Oh really now?”

“Indeed! But then, I don’t know all of it. I don’t know your name.”

This would make the man chuckle softly at the sudden shift of enthusiasm to the cluelessness of the young rocket, his innocence infectious to most of the people in the room with him.

“Well, to introduce myself to a young yet revolutionary creation such as yourself; I am Robert Stephe–”

—-

“Stephen!”

“oH LADY–”

He’d flinch at the familiar yet sudden voice as he nearly slips off the flatbed he’s on, thankfully the ropes and clamps that support him underneath the tarp he’s been covered with would keep such an incident from happening.

As the engine in front of Stephen came to a smooth stop, releasing some steam, he could hear quick footsteps get closer and closer to his vicinity before they came to a stop, the tarp on him being lifted to reveal his face.

“Sir Robert?”

“Stephen, goodness me- Are you sure you’re better off without a soul lock? I understand how some of those locks would’ve brought discomfort to engines, yes, but you’ve been.. You’ve been restless these few days. I think those locks would benefit you with some comfort and rest.

“I say this with full confidence, I’ll be fine without one.”

“You nearly lost your balance while falling asleep, Stephen.”

“Keyword, nearly, I’ll just make sure to not let it happen again.”

Sir Robert sighed, “Alright then Stephen,” he says as he glances at Stephen, letting go of the tarp as it covered Stephen’s face, heading back to the cab of the engine pulling this flatbed.

Feeling his clamps be tightened, his mind would drift off as their journey on the rails continued.

Millie is out at Locomotion’s exhibition this week while he and Glynn are being transported to the NRM, it leaves him worried for Connor and Caitlyn.

From what he knew, they were the ones to take over some of their jobs alongside some of the narrow gauge engines, though knowing those two twins, he knew there would be some struggles.

What if something happened with Connor, say if his anxiety rose up again. Stephen’s noticed how on edge he’s looked the days before this week, though thankfully he hadn’t caused any delays to the express, but he’d guess some of the passengers would like a word with him after the slight turbulence.

And with him handling the main express while Gordon was away, it sure would’ve get to his nerves a bit.

He’d let out a soft sigh as he pushed back those thoughts. He just hopes Caitlyn would keep, as she said one time, ‘help him no matter how much the rails get bumpy.’

“Steph?”

His thoughts would cut off as he heard the call of a familiar voice.

“Yes, Dare?”

“Are you okay?”

“No, no- I’m just making sure.”

“I’m alright, didn’t you hear it earlier?”

“Alright.”

Well.. An awkward silence would fill the atmosphere as the only sounds that came from anyone present would be the chugging of Daire as rays of the sun shined through the tarp covering Stephen, helping him stay awake while he regained his consciousness.

But rather than continuing his last train of thought, his focus would go towards Daire.

Daire was quite the hard worker that one, always on time with his goods and was one of the few engines who got troublesome trucks to cooperate during rough times, was only soft towards those who were close with him. He was the embodiment of that phrase, ‘you respect me and I’ll respect you.’

Well, sort of. His gaze went faint as he recalled those times while he was among the humans, some of those big engines from the north would belittle him every damn chance they got, and it pissed him off thats for sure. It was quite unfair coming from the express engines who apparently were so glamorous, and at the time, were covered in filth and grime.

But in the end, they might’ve got the karma that was heading their way after the Beech-

“Do you ever miss them?” Daire suddenly murmured, breaking the silence.

“Pardon?”

“Do you- Do you ever miss your siblings, Stephen?”

“Well, I wouldn't say I had actual relatives, but I did have colleagues, friends who were like that, so I suppose I do. But I’ve accepted they're most likely in a better place,” Stephen explained with a glance down to his buffers.

“Oh, understandable.”

“Why do you ask?”

Now it was Daire's turn to look down at his buffers.

“Well, nothing.”

Stephen would let out a soft sigh. “Daire, you can say it,” he said as he could spot the silhouette of the Ivatt's through the tarp a little.

“No, no- Fuck it, I miss mine. There.”

“.. I figured.”

Daire would silently cursed himself underneath his breath as his speed starting picking up, trying to push back those thoughts. Though as subtle as it was nearing to be, Stephen would notice it as the wind started to push the tarp, feeling it float from his back buffers a bit, getting a bit concerned for the Ivatt tank engine.

“Look, Daire, no one can blame you for having those thoughts. Some others even went down the slope of insanity from having that happen to them, having to lose their siblings.”

“I know.”

“What I'm saying is; you can talk about it, you can let it out if you need to. It's better to let it out, rather than let it build up pressure until your safety valve bursts.”

“I know,” he croaked out, trying to force out words so as to not be rude, memories flashing through his mind as they came flooding in like a tsunami. Slowly flooding his mind.

As Stephen opened his mouth to continue, he'd pause for a moment. Browsing through his thoughts trying to look for the right words to say.

“If it helps,” he started as he cleared his throat a little. “I had this brother.”

“Really?”

“Yes, his name was Sans Pareli, though we called him Peppermint back then. He was a bit like you, always fidgeting with his wheels the second he woke up then letting it all loose when he got fired up for the day. Him and myself were very close. One could say we were twins, similar to twins.We lived together, in both engine and human lives, always there for eachother.”

“And your point?”

“The Rust had gotten him a decade from now.”  Stephen explained, his voice shockingly straight forward and empty. “Passed peacefully as he passed us his infectious laughter and jokes,” he continued with a crack in his voice.

Daire would be most shocked at this. “God, Stephen I’m so sorry.”

“You shouldn't be sorry, it's alright. ‘Those pricks can't best me at my worst, I'll just haunt them like a ghost for this halloween,’ he said. Even with that, I still grieved for weeks, months. Years.”

“I-”

“But you know what? I let it all out, and afterwards I felt the best I could feel. Like getting up a steep climb then speeding down the slope.”

“Wouldn't engines mock you?” Daire asked out of instinct.

“Well, if they did, it would be on them for being the pricks in that. I would just be grieving. And that means the same for you if engines pick on you for the same thing, your just minding your own business while they keep poking in. They’re the pricks, not you.”

Daire would stare at the rails deep in thought as he rolled across them, taking in the words of Stephen. It- He’s heard some of it before, yes, but it’s just hard to adjust to it. Adjusting to letting out emotions after blocking them out for so long.

There were times during his younger years where when he showed a drop of negative emotions, he’d be locked in a shed with a soul lock while having to struggle with such infectious, drowning emotions.

Unlike most engines in their recent years of life at the time, Daire was left to rot and rust from his emotions. But over time, no one, but himself were the only ones to save him from spiralling into absolute mental madness. Nearly succumbing to the other rust. That wretched rust that took his friends, his siblings away.

But over the years, he gained new friends, both human and engine. New friends that saved him from so many times he couldn’t even count it with blinking, and yet they’d save him a second before blinking!

As Stephen’s words finally sunk in long enough into his mind, he’d look to the orange clouds in the sky.

“Thank you.”

“Pardon?”

“I said thank you, horse, thanks.”

“Ah well, pleasure is mine. You young lads tend to need help, aside from mechanical help.”

“I’m beyond seven decades, Stephen.”

“You all are always youngins to me!”

Daire would chuckle at Stephen’s retort as they glided across the rails, his speed starting to ease down while being kept at a good pace, feeling his fire warm up more. He could feel his crew’s footsteps as they were nearing to the station.

As Sir Robert peeked out the cab, he’d spot a sign, it would read-

“Send a message to them! 30 minutes early, we’ve arrived at Kingfisher Halt!”

[adore-laur]

THE WAY OF LOVE

——

LONG BEACH, 1972

Tizzy heels, teetering like a playground seesaw. 

Fizzy soda, bubbling like a carbonated jacuzzi. 

Dizzy vision, warping like a kaleidoscopic mirror. 

The Pike Amusement Park holds the key to all these buzzing delights. With striking colors, candy smoke, whirling rides, electrified screams, and chic ensembles, Brandy has been stung by the metaphorical buzz. She feels like she's stumbled into a thrill-seeking utopia or a timeless rotunda of adrenaline. Her focus blurs as she waits in line for the Ferris wheel. The red, blue, and yellow gondolas spin around, almost making her nauseous on top of the pungent scent of powdered funnel cakes and greasy cheese fries wafting throughout the summer air. 

When the wheel stops with a rusty creak, a group of rowdy boys scrambles out and ushers themselves through the maze of metal bars to go for another ride. They flock behind her and laugh obnoxiously. They can hoot and holler all they want, but Brandy finds boys her age annoying. They're always arrogant and talk like they're taller than the trees. 

The unoccupied red gondola awaits the next passenger, and before Brandy can take a step forward, she's pulled into it by her older sister, Shannon. They store their woven purses under the seats and then sit down. The wheel moves up one spot to let the boys on, and Brandy peeks over the edge to find them jokingly rocking their gondola to mess with their friend, who's still stepping on. She scowls at their immature antics. They're creating such a ruckus! All she wants is a quiet and peaceful ride to the top to admire the fair from a bird's-eye view. 

"I just downed a slushy in record time, so I might vomit," Shannon informs through a hiccup. 

Brandy twists back around. "What flavor was it again?" 

"Cherry. I swear they spiked it with something." 

"Hey, at least it'll match the color of our gondola. Just make sure to vomit in your purse and not on my new sneakers, please." 

She'll be livid if her spotless Nike Blazers, which took literally months to save up for, get ruined.

Shannon rolls her eyes, but they quickly widen when the wheel jolts and starts up again. Brandy grips the edge behind her and looks down at the ground, which slowly becomes farther away. She can just barely see the boys doing the same thing.

She peers out at the fair when it comes to a standstill at the very top. Rides swoop, people parade around, and food trucks sparkle in the sun. She's appreciating all the excitement when suddenly an object faintly hits her shoulder. Something falls next to her thigh, and she picks it up with a confused dip to her eyebrows. It appears to be a piece of caramel corn. Is there a hole in the gondola above them? Is she hallucinating from all the vivid colors? Is it raining caramel corn? 

Her ears tune into quiet snickering and hushing coming from below. Of course, it was those ratty boys, Brandy thinks to herself. She grumbles under her breath and moves to sit directly next to Shannon so that she's out of their reach. 

The wheel begins to spin again, putting the boys above them. They're prattling on and gesturing wildly about some sports game they desperately need to catch on television tonight. Brandy can hear athletes' names and statistics spewing out of their mouths, but she can't understand anything. Sports genuinely bore her to death.

Brandy and Shannon get stopped at the bottom after only two rotations. They both huff in disappointment, mutually hating how this Ferris wheel rips people off. Grabbing her purse, Brandy follows Shannon out and carefully watches her step so she doesn't trip in front of anyone. They walk through the exit gate, and Shannon strolls ahead to throw away her empty slushy cup in a nearby garbage can. A sharp whistle makes Brandy stop and look for where the noise came from. It conducts her vision up to the yellow gondola. 

Great. She could've guessed that they were catcallers. 

She just scoffs and continues walking. God forbid her shoulders are showing! All she's wearing is a dandelion-colored jumpsuit that's not even terribly revealing. She went thrifting a while ago to find something that looked like an outfit Cher, her inspiration, wore on television a month ago. It's not an uncanny resemblance, but it makes her proud. 

"Hey!" 

Brandy halts again at the deeply spoken exclamation. She closes her eyes and mentally prepares herself for what one of them will say to her. She's gotten used to hearing strange and creepy comments, especially since she lives in a tourist city, and she usually chooses to ignore them. She doesn't know why she's about to entertain this certain circumstance. 

Rolling back her shoulders, she turns to face the dreaded gondola again. She's surprised at what her eyes land on. A boy is leaning over the edge and looking at her. He has long, curly hair flowing down to his collarbones, and he wears a white button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. A few buttons are undone, revealing two gold necklaces glimmering against his sun-kissed chest. Black sunglasses sit atop his head to hold his mane back. With a sharp jawline, pink lips, salient cheekbones, hypnotically green eyes, and a dimpled smile with pearly bunny teeth, Brandy thinks his face must have been sculpted by Michelangelo. He appears to be a rich boy who dresses like he's running late to a casual business meeting. What could he possibly want other than to bug her?

Crossing her arms, Brandy waits for stupidity to leave his alluring mouth. Her gaze is locked onto his so that she doesn't become entranced by his pillowy lips, the near-exact color of the strawberry taffy that vendors are pulling by hand down at the beach.

The mysterious boy folds his arms along the edge, placing his chin on them as if mockingly teasing her impatient stance. Standing under direct sunlight, she's starting to swelter. Or is it his intense stare and unreadable smirk that's making her sweat? She hastily gestures with her hand to get him to say something so she can leave. 

Two of his fingers curl back to beckon her closer. She puts her hands on her hips and begrudgingly marches towards him, tilting her head even more to maintain eye contact. He licks the right crease of his quirked lips and circles his pointer finger. "Are you perhaps a fan of Cher?" 

"Yes... why?" Brandy asks cautiously. If he even attempts to talk negatively about Cher, she'll have to climb up the wheel and kick his perfect teeth in. 

"Your outfit just looks like something she wore recently, that's all," he says while tossing some caramel corn in his mouth. Was he the one who threw it? "I really dig it." 

She rubs the back of her neck, feeling foolish for thinking he'd be another one of those arrogant boys she refuses to waste her time on. "Oh, thanks. She's my idol. Her fashion sense is unreal." 

He nods his head as he chews. "She's far out. Do you watch The Sonny and Cher Show?" 

"Every Sunday night on CBS. I always make sure I have no plans so I don't miss it." 

A dimple indents his face. "They're hilarious, aren't they? They make my belly ache from laughing so hard." 

"Totally." She steps closer when the wheel moves up one spot, raising her voice over the surrounding noises. "When Cher sings at the end, the entire world stops!" 

"Exactly!" His palm cradles his cheek. "Hey, can I ask you something kind of random? I have two—" 

"Let's go, Brandy, it's hot!" Shannon calls out. 

She whips her head around to find her sister tapping an impatient foot and miserably fanning her face with her purse.

"Coming!" Brandy shouts. She smiles and waves to the boy before she begins walking backward. A peace sign and a wink are thrown her way. The last thing she sees before she turns around is his lips mouthing the syllables of her name. 

She speeds up to join Shannon, who has a knowing look on her face as they head toward the gate to leave the fair. Brandy elbows her waist. She'll never hear the end of it if she reveals the conversation that was exchanged. 

On her way home, she realizes she doesn't know the boy's name. It doesn't really matter; she probably won't ever see him again. 

—— 

Later That Night 

It's nearing midnight when Brandy and Shannon arrive at Ruby's Roller Disco. Brandy is fond of partaking in the disco scene, but this is the first time she's been to this place. Shannon had told her it's where everyone goes nowadays. However, she prefers what she's used to, which is the old, rundown nightclub in West Hollywood that she's sure is going out of business soon because their only customers are her and elderly couples. 

Striding through the open doorway, strobe lights and sequined fabrics immediately set the lively tone. The dance floor is packed with bodies roller-skating and grooving to the music under the spinning disco ball. Brandy has changed into skintight bell bottoms and a front-knot floral blouse so that she's comfortable while skating. As she glances around, she can't help but notice how different the energy is here from the place she usually goes. There are more people her age and much more space to move. Also, better music, she hates to admit. They play "Hey Jude" about three times a night at the other disco. And yes, they play the entire seven minutes of it. It doesn't take long for her to develop a migraine by the time she leaves. She's positive she'll be going home with a migraine here as well, since a smoking lounge is to her right and the smell of weed and cigarette smoke is penetrating the enclosed area. 

Shannon has jetted off somewhere to rent skates for them both. Brandy sees people either making out to the slow song playing or passing joints around even though they're supposed to be doing that strictly in the lounge. Everyone seems to be minding their own business in their own dome of happiness, despite the raging world outside, polluted with protests and violence. If anything, dancing with strangers is an escape. 

Her sister returns, holding two pairs of skates, and hands the pastel pink ones to Brandy. They quickly tie them and then roll onto the dance floor as a sultry song ends. A guitar riff kicks in, and "Strange Kind of Woman" by Deep Purple booms through the speakers. The skaters begin coasting mid-tempo, finding a partner on the floor, or dancing alone. Brandy's not a fan of rock songs, so she moves to the edge of the floor and waits for the next one. On the other hand, Shannon has already found a man to grind with. She looks like she just fell in love with him. 

Just as Brandy starts swaying her hips to the chorus, two hands land on her shoulders from behind. She's about to turn around and smack whoever did it, but the warm palms leave just as fast as they came. Suddenly, a tall boy is standing before her. Not just any boy, though. It's the one from the fair. He's chewing bubblegum with a beaming smile, like he just won the lottery. He's sporting a blue, sparkly two-piece outfit made of denim. The trousers are tight against his legs, and the matching long-sleeved shirt is tucked into them with only one button clasped out of the four. Flecks of glitter are spread on his exposed chest. His hair is pulled back into a low bun, and a few curly strands are left out to frame his face. 

"You're the caramel corn boy," Brandy blurts over the music. 

"And you're the girl with the bangin' fashion. I love a pair of bell bottoms." His eyes trail up and down her body. He then snaps his fingers twice as his face twists in thought. "It's Brandy, right?" 

She smiles, watching the lights dance across his face. "Yes. I didn't catch your name at the fair." 

"Harry Styles," he says while tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. "I've never seen you around here before." 

"This is my first time here, actually. I usually go to the Slug Bug nightclub in West Hollywood." 

His nose wrinkles with a teasing grin. "Slug Bug? Isn't that where old people go?" 

"No!" She scoffs. "Well, yes. It's just calmer there, you know? I really vibe with the place." 

"I'm just pulling your leg." His hands rest on his hips as he looks around. "Are you here with anyone?" 

He smacks his gum and raises his eyebrows like the smuggest man Brandy has ever seen. She usually hates people like that, but she finds it somehow attractive when he does it.

"I'm with my sister. She's probably making out with a guy she just met." 

"Wow," he says with a laugh before glancing behind him. "Wanna dance with me? I can show you some stellar moves." 

As the words leave his mouth, "Love Is Life" by Earth, Wind & Fire begins playing. Everyone starts skating slower as the lights turn from cool to warm tones. 

"You don't have skates on, so dancing with me might be a little difficult." 

"You underestimate me, Brandy," he drawls, leaning closer. "You're looking at the smoothest cat at Ruby's. Ask anyone." 

Brandy juts her hip out and crosses her arms. "You talk a big game, Harry Styles. Show me what you got." 

He blows a perfect bubble with his gum until it pops. "Turn your pretty self around, then." 

Biting her lip, she spins around on her skates so her back is facing him. Harry puts his hands on her shoulders and guides her to the dance floor. He stops amid the dancing crowd, touching her waist and swaying her to the groovy bassline. Brandy uses the toe stop on one of her skates to keep from straying. 

"Weak moves!" she tells him. 

Harry's mouth lingers next to her ear. "Oh yeah? Stay here. I'll be right back." 

Brandy feels the absence of his touch and looks behind her to see him striding over to the DJ booth. She decides to skate a lap around the floor as she waits. She peeks a glance at Shannon, and her assumptions are correct: her tongue is down a man's throat. Good for her.

Moments later, she hears the familiar opening of a song she can never escape: "Brandy (You're a Fine Girl)" by Looking Glass. The song came out a couple of months ago and has been at the top of the charts, playing on the radio constantly. Hearing her name in a hit song is a blessing and a curse. It's a great song, but she always gets teased whenever she mentions her name. 

Brandy parks herself back in her spot and sees Harry shimmy over to her, making jazz hands with a grin plastered on his face that the turquoise lights motion over. He leans back and rolls his shoulders, singing along as he grooves to the horns. 

He spreads his arms out when he reaches her and says, "I just bribed the DJ with a nifty fifty. Please tell me no one has done that for you before." 

"How many other girls do you know named Brandy? This happens round the clock." She grimaces. "Well, not the bribing part. And did you say fifty dollars? Are you joshing me right now?"

Harry clicks his tongue. "Damn, I thought I was being clever. And yeah, fifty dollars. No biggie." 

Brandy shakes her head in disbelief. "Okay, so your name is Harry. Has anyone ever played you "Harry Braff" by the Bee Gees?" 

His arms drape over her shoulders as he sways with her. "My last name's not Braff." 

"My name's Brandy, but I'm not a fine girl." 

"I beg to differ," he says with no hesitation. He twirls her before asking, "What other artists do you listen to, Brandy?" 

She squints one eye as she thinks. "Cher, obviously. Diana Ross, Barbara Streisand, Aretha Franklin—any female powerhouse, really." 

"I think you're the love of my life." 

"Oh, shut it." Brandy holds her palm to her warm cheek. "Why, do you like them too? Shannon, my sister, only listens to Tony Bennett, so I have no choice but to be the sibling with good taste in music." 

"Is she sixty years old?" he teases with a laugh. 

"That's what I say! She's trying to get me to see him at some opera house, and I keep making excuses not to go." 

"My heart goes out to you in this challenging time. But to answer your question, yes, I listen to all those women. They're sick, so how could anyone not?" 

"A lot of men are scared of successful women, especially in the music industry." Brandy shrugs and moves closer to him. "They're just talking a bunch of jive." 

Harry nods. "Personally, I think Cher could kick them all to the curb. Men don't like that she knows what she wants." 

"How have I not met you before? I think you might be the love of my life too." 

His lips tick upwards. "What's your favorite Cher song?" 

She grasps where her heart is at the impossible question. "Gosh, probably "Do You Believe in Magic" from her Backstage album. It's a cover, but it's way better than the original. What about you?" 

He plays with the ends of her hair and replies, "Mine is "Lay Baby Lay." That one is so groovy." 

"That's such a good one. I love the—" Brandy is cut off when someone suddenly gropes her ass as they fly past on skates. She freezes, blood rushing to her ears. The music drowns out as she tries to determine if what happened was real. She feels like she's underwater. The only sound is her heartbeat on high alert. She slowly looks at Harry, seeing his nostrils flare and his darkened eyes gaze over her shoulder with spine-chilling intensity. Seconds or minutes pass by—Brandy doesn't know for sure—before she witnesses his posture straighten and his jaw tense. 

When the man flies past again, Harry quickly brushes past her and grabs the collar of his shirt to stop him. The force is enough for him to stumble on his skates and tumble to the floor. 

Harry crouches and sizes him up. "You have a death wish or something?" he threatens, chewing his gum faster. 

"Chill out, dude," says the man as he tries to unleash himself from the tight grip. "You're acting crazy." 

"Go take a look in a fuckin' mirror, you bogue piece of shit," Harry spits before standing back up and kicking the man's calf. 

Brandy's hand is swiftly taken in his grasp as he leads her out the door of the disco. Her skates are still on, so she lets go and moves in front of him to glide backward on the pavement.

"I could've handled it," she mutters, letting the fresh air cool her skin. 

Harry doesn't say anything as he pulls out his car keys. A beep echoes, and Brandy turns her head to see the headlights of a yellow Ferrari flash. As he opens the passenger door for her, he asks, "Do you smoke?" 

"Um, only weed. No cigarettes or anything like that." 

He hums and gets in the driver's seat. "Wanna share a joint?" 

She's thankful that what just happened isn't being dwelled on. She'd rather obliterate it from her mind. However, there's palpable tension severely present. 

"Sure," Brandy says, getting in his car. "Wait, I have to return my skates before I forget." 

Harry laughs to himself. "You really think they'll notice they're gone? Everyone who works there is higher than a kite." 

"Oh," she breathes out. "Sorry." 

He starts the car and rolls the windows down. "Want the first hit?" 

"Is it laced?" 

Shannon had taught her to always ask that. His eyebrows scrunch as he shakes his head genuinely. Brandy watches him lift his butt up on the seat, taking out a bronze lighter from his back pocket. The streetlights reflect off the metallic shine of the case as he opens it. He then opens the glovebox and shuffles through junk before finding a container of pre-rolled joints. His nimble fingers pick one up, bringing it to Brandy's lips. She holds it while Harry lights it, never breaking eye contact. She inhales and rolls her eyes back from the addictive smoke filtering through her body, letting it ooze down to her lungs before exhaling it out the window. Harry's eyes are now transfixed on her lips. 

Brandy passes it to him and says, "This is a really nice car." 

"Thanks, I stole it," he mumbles around the joint.

"What?!" she exclaims with a cough. 

"Psyche. Relax, yeah? I bought this bad boy a couple of months ago." 

"Don't tease me like that." 

"How would you prefer me to tease you, then?" 

"You're a chump!" She takes another hit before passing it to him again. "Listen, I should check on Shannon. If that guy who groped me is any telltale sign of the type of boys in there, I don't want her to be alone." 

"Did you both drive here?" he asks before hollowing his cheeks and inhaling more smoke. 

"No, we walked from our house. We live together on Brayton Avenue." 

"I'll drive you guys home. I'm not letting you walk around past midnight." 

Brandy stares at him. "You're not a serial killer, are you?" 

Harry smirks, spreading his legs more comfortably. "If that were the case, I think they'd have my face plastered in every newspaper." 

"Not unless you're clever," she mumbles under her breath. "I just met you, so I have a right to be cautious." 

"I know, Brandy," he says with a laugh. "I respect that. Now go; I'll find some tunes to play." 

She takes one last hit before she gets out of his car and skates toward the disco entrance. The weed takes effect rather quickly; Harry must get the good stuff. 

Sliding across the dance floor, she quickly spots Shannon in her neon pink top. Brandy coasts up to her and takes her hand. "We're leaving!"

"What?!" Shannon replies with a frown. "Why? We just got here!" 

"I don't feel safe. The boys in here are all weirdos." 

"Did something happen?" 

"No," Brandy says. "C'mon, I'll go to that stupid Tony Bennett concert if we can just leave." 

Shannon inhales deeply. "Fine. But Brandy Jean, you better keep your word, or else I'll kick you out of the house." 

"I pinky promise. That boy from the fair earlier is going to drive us home. And before you say anything, I trust him." 

"He's here?" 

"Yes, Shannon, for goodness' sake. He's very kind." Brandy leads her away from the dance floor and toward the exit. "Also, don't worry about your skates. They won't notice." 

They grab their shoes and skate out the door to Harry's awaiting car. His front door and the back one are open, and she can see him fiddling with the radio dial while holding the joint between his teeth. 

Brandy shoves her sister in the backseat. "Harry, Shannon. Shannon, Harry," she introduces promptly. 

He removes the joint and puts it out while glancing at the rear-view mirror. "How's it hangin'?" 

"Hi! You must be the guy my sister is in love with." 

Brandy twists back in the passenger seat and pinches Shannon's knee with the full intention of having it hurt. She then makes the gesture of cutting her throat before turning back around.

"Is that so?" Harry asks smugly. 

"Ignore her. Pretend she isn't here. She's a hologram." 

He just laughs and begins driving down the street. On the way, "Someday We'll Be Together" by Diana Ross and The Supremes plays on the radio. The windows are down, and the California breeze whips their hair around. 

Eventually, he parks in their driveway after being given directions. Shannon pats his back as a thank you, then hops out of the car and stumbles through the front door, not even bothering to take off her stolen skates. The door shuts, and she turns on what seems like every single light in the house. She's high out of her mind. 

Brandy faces Harry and says, "Thanks for the ride. I appreciate you not killing us." 

She's joking, but crime in California has been at an all-time high lately, so she's technically not. She won't tell him that, though. 

"'Course," he replies, taking his bun out and messing with his untamed hair. "Look, I'm sorry about that guy tonight. He shouldn't have touched you." 

She sighs dejectedly. "Obviously, he shouldn't have touched me. It's fine. I'm glad you knocked some sense into him." 

"It's not fine, Brandy," he insists with sincerity. "Don't downplay it. The prick should be in jail." 

"I don't really want to talk about it anymore."

"Okay, we won't," he says gently. A few beats of silence pass before he raises his finger and takes something out of his pocket. "Change of topic. Remember at the fair when I was going to ask you a question, but your sister interrupted?" 

Brandy squints at the small pieces of paper in his hand. "Yeah. Go ahead and ask me." 

"So, here's the lowdown. The reason I talked to you in the first place was because I noticed your killer outfit. Then, when you said Cher was your inspiration, I remembered something I had bought a while ago. It's a crazy coincidence." He holds out two paper stubs before continuing, "I have tickets. I was so bummed when I thought I'd never see you again, but fate must be working its magic today." 

"Tickets?" Brandy's eyebrows furrow. "For what?" 

"For the best night of your life," he says with a boyish grin. "Would you like to come to The Sonny and Cher Comedy Hour with me in Hollywood tomorrow night? None of my friends want to go with me because they think it's lame, but—" 

"I thought those sold out in less than a day!" she interrupts, her mouth open in shock. "If you're razzing, Harry, it isn't funny." 

"Brandy Baby. Hush for a second, yeah?" 

Her heart skips a beat. "Don't fake me out, please. I would do almost anything to see her in person."

"Shh..." He rests his pointer finger against her lips. "I wouldn't joke about Cher, Sunshine. The ticket is yours if you want it. Unless you want me to sit all by my lonesome." 

She whispers, "You're serious?" 

"Cross my heart," he says, making the gesture. 

"I-I would love to, Harry. That's so thoughtful of you to ask. For you to ask me out of all people, I mean, I'm honored." 

He plays with her moon pendant, looking up at her through his eyelashes. "You've got this energy about you—enigmatic, tantalizing. I think we'll have a wonderful time together." 

"You think so? I might faint when I see her." 

"I think it'll be life-changing, Brandy." 

She can't reply because his palm places itself on her cheek, rendering her speechless. Before she can process his touch, his lips pucker and slowly meet her opposite cheek. They're damp and cold, but somehow they spark a flame inside her body. 

Harry leans back and stares at her parted mouth. It feels like minutes pass as she waits for his next move. His hand moves down to the side of her neck. He leans forward slightly and leaves the softest kiss at her pulse point. Butterflies break out in her stomach, her breathing becomes shallow, and her skin grows hot. Her knees almost give out when his teeth nip the spot he just planted his affection on. 

"All right, I have to skitty," he says, like nothing just happened. "I'll be waiting out here tomorrow at six thirty on the dot. If you're not ready, you'll be in trouble. Time doesn't wait for Cher." 

Brandy has to blink several times to bring herself back to reality. "Okay. Sounds good. Gosh, I'm so stoked. Wait, what do we wear? I need to plan an outfit. Agh!"

Harry looks her up and down. "Something foxy." 

She smiles shyly and fidgets with the knot of her blouse. "I'll try my best. We both need sleep for tomorrow, so I'm going to go inside. Get home safe, Harry." 

"Always do," he says while twirling his keys. "Peace out, Brandy. Dream with me tonight." 

"I don't think I'll be able to fall asleep. And I expect you to wear something foxy as well." 

He runs his tongue across his teeth with a wide smile before kissing two fingers and holding them out in a peace sign as he retreats to his car. He revs the engine and reverses out of the driveway, speeding off into the night. 

Brandy can't help but agree that fate really has worked its magic today. 

—— 

Tomorrow Evening 

Brown silk and pearls galore. If Harry wants foxy, Brandy is giving it to him tenfold. 

She carefully adjusts the thin straps of her mid-thigh dress in her vanity mirror. The single layer of ruffle that dips into her cleavage is tight against her shimmering skin. The long pearl necklace wraps twice around her neck and then drapes down to her navel. White platform heels heighten her generously, and a matching leather purse completes her accessories for the evening. 

She peeks at the Kit-Cat Klock on her bedroom wall—only one minute until Harry is supposed to arrive. She exhales a nervous breath and makes sure she looks presentable. 

Bold mascara on top and bottom eyelashes—check. Glossy lips from her sister's coconut balm—check. Beige eyeshadow with winged eyeliner—check. Lacy black lingerie—check and check again. 

She's gambling with her luck, but from what she's seen, Harry oozes sex appeal, and it'd be a shame if nothing happened tonight. 

She hears a honk from outside her window as she sprays her citrus Dior perfume all over her body. He's here. Shutting off the lights, she practically skips down the staircase to open the front door. Shannon isn't home tonight, so she doesn't have to worry about her big sister's protectiveness about where she's going and who she's with. She walks down the concrete steps and toward his car. She hasn't even looked up yet, too focused on each step so she doesn't humiliate herself and trip over her clunky heels. 

The sound of keys jingling has Brandy eventually gazing up at him, and she almost trips at the sight. There Harry stands, leaning against the door of his yellow Ferrari with his ankles crossed over one another. His hair is let loose, and the curls seem more defined than before. He wears a geometric-patterned suit with plum and olive colors, the pristine blazer left open over a black button-up. On his feet are dress shoes that are polished to the nines. However, the most noticeable part of his outfit is a single strand of pearls around his neck. 

He must notice her staring because he laughs at the coincidence. "It seems like I've got a copycat on my hands," he says. 

"I wouldn't have taken you for a man who owns pearls," Brandy admits as she stops in front of him. "My mistake." 

He hums deeply. "I wouldn't have taken you for a woman who could just about drop me to my knees. My fuckin' mistake." 

She smooths her palms over the lapels of his blazer. "You look very handsome, Harry. This suit could put Sonny to shame." 

"Quite the compliment, doll. Dare I say that Cher has nothing on you tonight?" 

She narrows her eyes at him. "You don't mean that. No one can look as good as Cher, and you know it." 

"It doesn't matter because we"—he attempts to slide across the hood of his car but only gets halfway before he stumbles off slightly—"are going to have the best night of our lives. I got a cassette tape ready and some Cola for the drive there." 

Brandy amusedly watches him open the door for her with a dramatic bow. She maneuvers around the car and sits in the plush passenger seat. He closes the door before jogging over to his side, but not before tugging up his pants, adjusting his collar, and teasing his hair in the side mirror. She laughs at his antics and gets comfortable in the leather seat of his Ferrari. 

Once he's in, he turns the key in the ignition and presses a button on the radio to fast-forward the cassette tape already in the slot. He places a hand on the back of her headrest to reverse out and begins driving down Brayton Avenue toward Hollywood. It's about a thirty-minute drive to the CBS Television City venue where the show is being held. The seating time is at seven, so they should arrive on time. 

The cassette stops at "Sentimental Lady" by Fleetwood Mac. Brandy grins at his choice. 

"Know this one?" Harry asks while turning it up. 

"I do." 

He flicks his blinker on and smoothly merges onto the interstate. "Sing with me. Don't go shy on me now." 

She brings her knees up on the seat. "I'll only sing if you do." 

"Deal." 

They drive down the boulevard and past the palm trees, singing along to the voice of Bob Welch the entire way there and drinking ice-cold bottles of Cola. Before they know it, the building comes into view, which is a black-and-white structure with a large parking lot in front that's packed. There's orange tape surrounding it for the show being held tonight, and hordes of cars coming in are being directed by security. 

Brandy can feel the excitement and the buzz. It's something she wants to experience all the time. 

"Are you ready for the night of your fuckin' life?" Harry asks, fixing his hair in the rearview mirror. 

"Fuck yes," Brandy says. 

"Atta girl." He nudges her side. "You should swear more often. Life's more fun that way." 

They eventually get out of the car and begin following the crowd, tickets in their hands and heels clicking on the pavement. When they reach the door, they show their tickets and are ushered to the room where the show will be held. Brandy assumes they'll be part of the live studio audience tonight. She's never gone to a variety show before, and it's exhilarating.

Once they're situated in their seats, which are far back from the stage—but it doesn't matter since she's about to see Cher fucking Sarkisian—they wait for the show to start. 

"Gonna faint yet?" Harry teases from beside her. 

"I genuinely might." 

"I'll pretend to also faint so it's not as embarrassing for you." 

"Gee, thanks," Brandy mutters with a crooked smile. 

Over the next half hour, they converse about what songs they think will be sung tonight or what they will joke about. Brandy can't get over how handsome Harry looks in a suit. She notices his eyes keep gazing down at her pearls, burning her cheeks. She feels so comfortable around him. There are no awkward pauses in conversation since they have so much in common. 

When they're in the middle of talking about what the best flavor of soda is, the lights suddenly go out, making everyone gasp. 

A spotlight shines on the stage, music starts, and the screen lifts as Sonny and Cher walk out. The crowd goes wild, whooping and hollering for America's power couple. 

Brandy could cry. Her idol is in front of her, dressed in a white dress with pastel polka dots of pink, orange, blue, and red. Sonny wears a matching button-up under his white suit as they take center stage, holding hands. They sing a short opening song and then introduce themselves before getting right into the jokes. 

Throughout the show, Brandy and Harry laugh until their stomachs hurt. The dynamic between Sonny and Cher is unlike anything she's ever seen. The timing of the jokes, the chemistry, and the love are so magical to witness in real-time. After a hilarious and dirty joke, Brandy looks at Harry and sees him slap his knees in laughter, with eye crinkles and dimples on his gleeful face. It makes her swoon. The venue is cracking up—an infectious joy that only a room full of people gathered for the same thing could bring. 

At the intermission, some people leave their seats to go out and smoke or talk to others. Brandy is admiring the stage when Harry's hand suddenly nudges hers on the armrest. His pinky strokes the back of her hand. Her eyes are glued forward, but she feels it. It's the only thing she can focus on. 

His palm slowly wiggles under hers, and he interlaces their fingers together. They stay in that position until they have to clap when Sonny and Cher come back out. 

At the end of the show, Cher comes out by herself to sing a song to close the night. The golden spotlight behind her sets the intimate ambiance. She walks to the middle of the stage, and Brandy is blown away by her ethereal beauty. She wears a pink, frilly dress and a matching flower clip in her sleek black hair. 

"The Way of Love" starts, causing the room to go completely silent as she sings the bittersweet tune. Everyone's eyes are on her. Everything is still. It's like it's just her in the room.

During the song's crescendo, Brandy can feel Harry's gaze on hers as Cher's powerful voice belts for the audience. She doesn't want to look away, but when she feels him lean in, his musky cologne invades her senses as he squeezes her hand. A kiss to her temple is planted, blooming into heat that spreads over Brandy's face. She turns her head and whispers, "What was that for?" 

His green eyes glimmer in the low light. "You just look really pretty," he whispers back. "And happy."

She smiles giddily and continues watching the performance. When the song ends, everyone gives a standing ovation as Cher bows and exits the stage. The cheers continue long after she's gone, and Brandy looks around the room in awe. She feels like she's in a dream. It went by so fast. 

"Let's skitty," Harry says in her ear while clapping. "The traffic will be terrible getting out." Brandy nods and grabs her purse. Harry intertwines their fingers together and leads her towards the exit. 

It's dark when they reach outside. People are talking loudly about the show and smoking near their vehicles. Harry starts his car once they're both in, turning the headlights on and tapping his finger along the steering wheel. A whole minute passes, and he still hasn't started driving. His eyes are zoned out on the dashboard. 

Brandy waves a hand in front of his face. "You okay?" 

He looks over at her almost shyly. "Would you want to stay at my place tonight? I've got plenty of room for us to chill." 

"Really?" 

"Yeah," he says. "I'd regret saying goodnight to you so soon." 

Brandy contemplates the offer. She hasn't stayed at a boy's house in a while, but she trusts Harry. She's had such an enjoyable time tonight that she'd hate herself if she just went home. 

So she says, "I'll stay with you. Do you have a phone? I'd need to call my sister before she calls the fuzz and they show up at your house." 

"I have a wall phone in the shape of a heart, if that's what you're asking." 

"I wasn't, but that's cool," she replies, mesmerized by how his lips form around certain words. "You know what else is in the shape of a heart?" 

His elbow leans on her headrest. "Sock it to me." 

Brandy smiles and places her forearm on the console. "Your lips." 

Harry swallows, then asks, "What else about my lips?" 

"They're the color of strawberry taffy. Not sure if they would taste like it, though." 

"You know what they say, right?" He glances at her mouth. "There's only one way to find out." 

Brandy doesn't know whose lips crash into whose first, but it doesn't matter because they taste better than any sweet in a candy shop. Their lips part with a wet pop, and Harry mimics the noise with his mouth. Brandy giggles and kisses his bottom lip hungrily.

"Coconut," he murmurs, twirling a strand of her hair around his pointer finger. "Far out." 

Some glossiness from her lips has transferred to his own, so Brandy wipes it off with her thumb. "Let's head back before it ends up in other places," she suggests boldly.

Harry gives her an open-mouthed smile, then kisses her cheekbone before palming the wheel and reversing out of the parking spot. During the drive, he shows her the new cassette tapes he bought recently, gushing out facts about the artists and pointing out the guitars used in certain songs. Brandy listens the entire time with intrigue in her eyes. 

After thirty minutes, Harry pulls into his driveway. His house is much smaller than expected for someone with decent money. It's a yellow ranch-style home with a collection of neatly trimmed landscaping, including shrubs and a single sycamore tree. The garage door is see-through, and the house's white trim pops compared to the dull neighboring houses on the street. 

Brandy's trance is broken when Harry opens the passenger door for her and holds out his hand. She takes it. He guides her to his front door, lets her step past the threshold first, then flicks the lights on. 

"I'm going to change really quick," he murmurs in her ear before brushing past her and strolling into another room. 

Brandy takes the opportunity to observe his multifarious decor and interior design. The copper-colored carpet in the living room feels cloud-like beneath her feet as she wanders around. Assorted sizes of orange, yellow, and white low tables are placed around the conversation pit, and potted ferns contrast nicely with the overload of orange. A yellow leather couch is embedded around the pit, and a table in the middle has a vase of dahlias and a collection of glass bongs. An inlet in the farthest wooden wall holds a box television and a piano. Drawers, books, and a radio surround the remaining space. 

On her left is his kitchen. A small island with a basket of bananas is surrounded by oak cabinets. More plants are either on the refrigerator or hanging from the ceiling. Everything is organized. Everything is placed with purpose. Everything is Harry. 

Speaking of the devil, Harry returns wearing what looks like pajamas, and Brandy laughs at their luxuriousness. He has on a red, floral check-print jacket and matching pants that could be straight from a fashion catalog, for all she knows. He's shirtless underneath, with nothing but a cross necklace on his chest, and his feet are bare as he walks toward her. 

"It looks like you're just wearing another suit."

"Can I tell you a secret?" He leans in. "It's totally a suit." 

She snorts. "I wouldn't expect anything less." 

Harry flops backward onto the couch and rests his hands on his stomach. Brandy thinks it's the most endearing thing in the world. 

"Stop staring at my paunch," he says with a grin. "I can't help that Coca-Cola makes me bloated." 

She sits next to him. "It's cute. The butterfly tattoo is a nice touch to your paunch." 

"Yeah? Is that a kink of yours? My paunch?" 

"Let's stop saying paunch. And no, you dork, it's not a kink. I'm just not a fan of boys with rock-hard abs and steroid-pumped biceps. I like a natural body." 

His knuckle runs along the exposed part of her thigh. "Same here." 

Her skin heats under his touch. "Can we smoke weed together again? Let's end the night on a high." 

"Oh, she's a comedian now?" Harry groans, gets up, and walks to a table in the corner of the room. "You take a girl to one comedy show, and suddenly she thinks she's Joan Rivers," he mutters teasingly. 

"Get bent! I'm funnier than you; just admit it." 

He cackles, and she turns to watch him put a vinyl on his portable record player. She notices that his hair has transitioned into a middle part sometime throughout the night. 

"Chain of Fools" by Aretha Franklin crackles through. He walks back to her with a joint and a lighter, then boldly straddles her thighs on the couch. Brandy just about dies. 

Harry lights the end of the joint and asks, "Do you know how to shotgun kiss?"

Her eyes widen. "I know what it is, but I've never done it. I've always wanted to try." 

"It'll rock your world." He shifts on her lap to get more comfortable, and she can thoroughly feel his cock through his pants. He must not wear underwear to bed. It should disgust her, but her mind is too frazzled by their current position to care.

Harry takes a hit from the joint, keeps the smoke in his mouth, and then cradles her cheeks with gentle palms. He leans in and places his thumb on Brandy's bottom lip to open her mouth, resting it on the bottom row of her teeth. The smoke releases down her throat. The feeling is euphoric, intimate, and sensual. 

She breathes out, the residual smoke blowing in his face, and she falls into a trance, looking at his lustrous lips. "I thought you're supposed to kiss someone when you do it." 

He twists her pearls around his finger and gives them a light tug. "C'mere, baby. I'll kiss you all you want." 

His hand holds her head as he guides her lips to his. They connect, and it's like ecstasy unfurls in her heart and stomach. With unhurried movements from the weed, their lips move against each other like they're the last drop of water in the desert oasis.

Harry's tongue slips into her mouth, so she sucks on it tenderly as her hands linger on his waist. He's still straddling her, his bulge pressing against her. His free hand holds the joint away from her as they move their lips until they're numb and swollen. Brandy eventually breaks from the kiss to catch her breath, leaving Harry whimpering helplessly.

"Can I please touch you?" he begs with bruising kisses to her neck. "Tell me what you like. What makes you feel good? Tell me where it feels good." 

"You can touch me." 

"Where? Tell me where it aches, honey." 

Brandy lets out a soft and short whine. "Everywhere." 

"Where do you need my hands? Talk to me." 

"My neck. It feels good when I'm choked." Her eyes snap open at what she just exposed. She immediately backtracks by adding, "But we don't have to do it if you're not—" 

"Don't move," Harry interrupts, springing off her and dashing to his bedroom. 

Brandy can hear shuffling and drawers opening and closing. She toes her heels off as she waits, then stands up to roam to his record player. She sifts through the stray vinyl on the table, eventually removing the Aretha Franklin disc and replacing it with an Ike & Tina Turner one. She meticulously places the needle so it plays "Come Together." 

Brandy is admiring his wall art when she feels something cold against her arm. She looks down and has to do a double-take at what she sees. Is that a dog collar? 

"I'm not into barking like a dog for a man," she says, her head completely empty while gazing at the black leather. 

He kisses the pearls at the back of her neck. "This isn't for you, Brandy. You've already got a choking toy." 

He tosses the collar onto the nearest table, then reaches around her front to wrap her pearls around his hand until they're tight and restrained. His other hand fidgets with the zipper at the back of her dress. 

"May I?" he asks. 

What she's wearing underneath will surely come as a surprise to him. She nods, her eyes rolling back from the pressure. His fingers trail along her upper spine until they reach the zipper. Brandy can feel his breath on her skin as he slowly pulls it down until the material loosens against her body. 

"Fuckin' hell." Harry nudges his nose into the side of her neck and moans softly. "What's this, hmm? Been hiding this from me?" 

Brandy feels him bring the straps of her dress down her arms. She turns around, Harry's grip on her pearls loosening, and she shimmies the silk material down her legs the rest of the way while keeping eye contact with him. The lace lingerie is revealed, and Harry's eyes are glued to her chest like a teenage boy. He walks backward until he bumps into the table, bending down and blindly grabbing the collar from behind him. 

"Put it on me," he says breathlessly, like he can't get air in his lungs. 

She takes it as Harry turns around, taking off his own pearls so she can fasten them around his neck. He holds his hair up so Brandy can loop the collar belt through the clip. She doesn't tighten it too much, but just enough so that a pleasurable pressure should be felt. 

"Good?"

He hums. "Perfect." They walk down into the conversation pit. Brandy waits for Harry to initiate something. 

"Lie down for me, love," he says while he drapes his pearls over the television. "Legs spread." 

She bites her lip to hold back an excited smile, then lies on the couch, obeying his command by spreading her thighs. Harry takes off his jacket and sits on his knees between her legs. His fingers run along the lace detailing of her lingerie. 

Brandy squirms from the tension and whines. "Touch me. You said you would."

"Patience. You said I could touch your neck. I've got two hands, baby, so where do you want the other one?" 

She palms her core and moans at the sensitivity. She's wet already. "Here. I need you right here." 

His fingers move the fabric covering where she needs him, circling his fingers in her wetness and pushing them into her. Her back arches, and she reaches her hand around the back of his neck to tug the collar's strap. His head tilts back, his mouth parting from the choking sensation. 

Harry pulls her strand of pearls as two of his fingers begin slowly thrusting in and out of her. She breathlessly moans, her airway restricted. She moves her hand to squeeze his cock through his pants. 

"Don't do that. You'll make me lose it right now." 

"Make me come. Please, Harry." 

His fingers thrust faster and curl skillfully to hit all of her sensitive spots, his thumb pressing down on her clit to bring her to her climax. He balances on his knees to get more leverage, his necklace dangling over her body. Brandy grabs onto his wrist, which flicks with each movement. 

"You're fuckin' beautiful under me and falling apart like this." 

"I'm almost there. Keep going. I feel it." 

He grinds against the couch. "Where do you feel it?" 

Her hand presses against her lower stomach. Harry removes his hold on her pearls and places his hand over hers. "Yeah? Feel that pressure? I'll make it feel better, I promise." 

He moves his mouth down to lick along her entrance, and that's what does it for Brandy. She cries out as the pressure pops like a needle in a balloon. She comes around his fingers, holding onto his bulging, tattooed arms. 

"Harry... oh, it feels amazing." 

He removes his fingers and brings them to his mouth to taste her arousal. "You did so good for me." 

Once Brandy winds down from her orgasm, Harry gets up and walks to his kitchen. She hears the faucet turn on, and he returns with a damp towel soon after. He wipes her with the lukewarm fabric, then sets it on her stomach for a bit, the warmth feeling heavenly on the slight pressure still there. 

"Come to bed with me," he says lowly, removing the collar. "We can smoke and giggle until we crash." 

"Don't you want me to take care of your... you know, boner?" 

He shrugs. "Sometimes it feels good if I let it ache until morning. Plus, I'm high and drank, like, a gallon of cola, so I don't think it'd taste any good." 

"Fair point." Brandy reaches out her arms. "Take me away, Casanova." 

He laughs and pulls her up, then quickly grabs his lighter and another joint before guiding her to his room down the hallway. His bedroom is simple, with several shelves and drawers along every wall. His bed is low to the ground and stays with the house's orange theme. 

Harry climbs into his bed and points to his dresser. "You can wear one of my shirts if you'd like." 

Brandy opens it and searches through endless ripped and faded T-shirts. She removes her lingerie and grabs a Blue Öyster Cult tour shirt to put on. She then crawls onto the memory foam mattress. 

"Did you know," Harry says slowly, "I'm fuckin' stellar at doing a Cher impression?" 

Brandy notices the weed he smoked throughout the night, which makes him talk more deeply and languidly than he already does. "Say psyche right now." 

His head on the pillow whips toward her like a meerkat. "No joke. Give me a song to sing with her voice." 

He's totally bullshitting, but she goes along with it anyway because his being high is incredibly endearing. 

"Okay, do "All I Ever Need Is You."" She flips on her side to face him. "Let me sing Sonny's parts. I bet I could do his voice." 

"You go first. I don't want to be outshined." 

Brandy takes a quick hit of the joint before clearing her throat.  "Honey, all I ever need is you," she sings, trying to imitate Sonny's unique voice. She feels like she's floating from the weed in her system, and she's never felt happier. 

"Winters come, and they go," Harry joins in loudly, and Brandy loses it at his terrible impression.  "And we watch the melting snow!"  He belts the lyrics with one hand on his chest and one in the air.  "Sure as summer—"  He chokes on the last word and eventually gives in to the giggles. They laugh hysterically until tears brim their red-rimmed eyes and their sides cramp. 

Brandy looks over at him, finding his nose scrunched up. His laughs come out silently, and she's absolutely enamored. 

Once their laughter dies, she sighs happily and rolls onto his chest. "That was gnarly and not in a good way." 

"Like you were any better." 

She sticks the joint between his teeth. "We'd make an awful tribute band." 

"You'd have to dress up as Sonny," he mumbles around it. "Can you grow a mustache?" 

"Better than you could. Can you pull off Cher's wardrobe?" 

He removes the joint and exhales smoke up toward the ceiling. "I think I could wear a dress, yeah. But I don't think it would flatter my paunch very well." 

"Here we go again," she says lightheartedly. "'Bring back paunchy men' should be your new advocacy." 

He laughs, pinches her hip, and then reaches over to shut the lamp off. After stamping the joint out in the ashtray on his nightstand, Brandy feels his arms wrap around her body. She nuzzles further into his cozy chest, feeling his long curls tickle her cheek.

Pure ecstasy courses through her bloodstream. The weed heightens every touch, every graze of his fingers, and every breath he takes from under her. Suddenly, his lips move to her ear, soft puffs warming her skin as his legs tangle with hers. He murmurs in a sleep-laden voice, "Dream with me, Brandy Baby." 

She stays silent and sinks deeper into his embrace. Little does he know that every second spent with him so far has already felt like a dream that no psychedelic could ever bring about. 

—— 

The Morning After 

Soft, melancholic piano notes wake Brandy from a deep slumber. It's a haunting composition with drawn-out notes that echo into the bedroom, where she lies under the warm sheets alone. Harry must be the one supplying the morning serenade. 

She's too drowsy to place her finger on what the song is, so she stretches her sore legs and swings them over the edge of the bed to follow the wistful melody. It leads her to his living room, where the rising sun casts golden light beams on the carpet. Dust particles float, and birds chirp outside the open windows. Soon enough, she finds Harry sitting in the glow of dawn, his back turned to her as his nimble fingers run along the glossy piano keys like it's second nature to him. The brass pedals groan and creak under his sock-clad feet, his head bobbing to each note that beautifully flows out. He's wearing a grey turtleneck sweater tucked into black slacks, and his hair is pulled into a loose bun. 

He pats the wooden stool beside him, sensing her lingering presence. "Sorry I couldn't give you a morning snuggle. I woke up with weed brain." 

Brandy walks over and sits next to him. "What are you playing?" she asks, watching him press down on the keys. 

""Crescent Noon" by the Carpenters. It reminds me of a mournful autumn." 

"It was a nice sound to wake up to. You're very talented." 

"Thanks," he says with a faint smile. "I always try to play a little before I go to work. It starts my day off right." 

It hits Brandy that she really doesn't know much about his personal life. "Where do you work?"

He stops playing, mumbling, "It's lame." 

"Tell me," she encourages, sticking her cold hands under her bare thighs. "I won't judge. I'm a lousy waitress if it makes you feel any better." 

He sighs and shuts the piano lid. "It's volunteer work, more like. I read books to the kids at the public library on Victoria Street." 

She gasps. "That's awesome! I might have to stop by sometime." 

"My friends always tease me for it," he says, his ears flushing pink. "But I really like it there. Seeing their faces light up when I sit them on my lap or do a funny voice makes my day sunnier." 

"I'm sure it makes their day sunnier too. What time do you have to leave?" 

Harry glances at the ticking clock on the wall. "I need to be there at nine, so in about five minutes." 

"Oh," Brandy whispers, slightly embarrassed. "I'm sorry for waking up so late. I'll let you get ready." 

"Uh, I can take you home on my way." 

"Sure thing. I'll go grab my stuff." 

While roaming his house, she picks up her dress, lingerie, heels, pearls, and purse. Once everything is messily balanced in her arms, she sees Harry holding the front door open. He has on dress shoes that tap almost impatiently as he waits for her. 

Something feels off. Brandy swallows a lump of trepidation and walks out the door, ignoring the bizarre energy shift. Harry shuts it behind her and quickly slides into the driver's seat of his convertible as she gets in the passenger seat. He starts the engine, then turns on a random radio station before driving toward her house, which she's surprised he remembers. "My Cherie Amour" by Stevie Wonder plays quietly. The drive is otherwise silent, and it doesn't feel right. 

Seven minutes pass before he pulls into her driveway. The sun peeks over her roof, making the pavement sparkle. Shannon's car is parked in the garage. Hummingbirds flutter their wings by the trumpet honeysuckles lining the sidewalk. All these things should bring her comfort, but she feels nauseous instead.

Harry wipes his palms against his slacks, fiddles with the air vents, scratches his head, then shatters the silence. 

"I think this should be a one-time thing." 

Well, that's definitely not the first thing she wanted to come out of his mouth. 

He clears his throat and continues, "I'm not really a relationship guy, you know? I don't think I could provide that for you if that's what you're looking for." 

Not a relationship guy. Didn't he basically ask her out on a date? Selflessly granted her the best night of her life? Ignited her skin with bruising kisses and touches? Apologized for not snuggling with her in the morning? Did she get the completely wrong idea? 

"Sorry, I'm a little confused," Brandy says, shaking her head. 

Harry lets the car run, its rumbling engine filling the dreadful atmosphere. "You're not the problem. I should've told you sooner, and that's my fault." He shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. "I like being around you, yeah? It's just... well, I'm in my early twenties, so I want to coast through life for a bit before I get into anything serious. Figure shit out. Figure myself out." 

The unexpectedness of it all makes her clam up. A surge of humiliation sears her throat when she says, "Oh, okay. That makes sense. I understand where you're coming from." She's saying everything she doesn't want to, but the words keep spewing. "I had fun last night. Thank you for letting me experience Hollywood." 

"Thanks for catching my drift. The last thing I want to do is lead you on." 

"You didn't." He sort of did. "Timing doesn't work out sometimes." It felt like it was working perfectly fine. 

"Timing's a bitch," he says, knocking on his dashboard. He then checks the radio clock and sighs. "I should go before I'm late." 

Brandy swallows roughly. There's no point in trying to change his mind. She won't hold him back from living how he wants to. But why is he being so nonchalant about it? She feels like she's being flung to the side without warning or care. It almost feels like last night meant nothing to him.

After nodding and unbuckling her seatbelt, she says, "Well, I hope everything runs smoothly for you. With the volunteer stuff and all." 

"I appreciate it," Harry replies, sticking a piece of gum between his teeth. "Hey, what restaurant do you waitress at?" 

This boy is giving her whiplash.

"Um, Cheyenne's Café. It's on Cudahy Street, right off Pacific Boulevard. Kind of a hole-in-the-wall place." 

"I might have to stop by sometime," he says with a grin, repeating her words from earlier.

Brandy suddenly feels annoyed at his apathy for her heart, which he ruthlessly stomped on and crushed, so she opens the car door and steps out before her emotions get the best of her. Boys disappoint her and only keep their word for a short time. She doubts Harry will visit; he's probably letting her down easily. 

"Maybe you should," she says, a hidden bite in her tone. "They have mouthwatering banana waffles." 

He closes his eyes and groans deliciously. "That's it. You've convinced me." 

She plasters on a fake smile and gathers her belongings. "Goodbye, Harry. Enjoy the sunshine today." 

Harry's hand lightly grasps her wrist as she's about to walk around his car to reach the front door. Consecutively, there is a stroke of his thumb, a skip to her pulse, and another crack in her breaking heart. 

"See you later, Brandy." 

One last stroke is given before she reluctantly lets go and opens the door. She slams it shut, making the entire house rattle, then throws her things onto the nearest flat surface. Her sister is sitting at the kitchen table, reading the daily newspaper, and drinking a tall glass of orange juice. Brandy huffs, remembering she forgot to call her last night. Shannon glances up at the sound and leisurely takes in her appearance. At that moment, she realizes Harry's shirt is still on her body. It makes her bottom lip tremble.

"Where were you?" Shannon asks warily. "Why do you look like you're going to cry?" 

Brandy covers her face with her hands and lets out a wretched sob. "Harry…"

Shannon immediately envelops her in her arms. "What happened? Are you hurt?" 

"Remember the boy that drove us home? I stayed the night at his house, but he said it should only be a one-time thing because he's not looking for a relationship right now, and I pretended that I was okay with it." She sniffles against Shannon's chest. "But I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it, but I-I got scared because he looked so sure of himself. I didn't want to force him to fall in love with me." 

Shannon sways her consolingly. "Why didn't he say something before he took you to his place?" 

Brandy shrugs. "I don't know, Shan. Boys are dumb." 

"That's very true. Why don't you take a shower while I fix breakfast for you? Let's talk more about it later."

"Okay," she mumbles, wiping her useless tears away and moping to her bedroom. She curls into bed and pulls the covers over her entire body. She can't bring herself to take a shower. Her throat and head hurt. Her heart aches. 

It's impossible not to think about yesterday and how divine everything was—how Harry had kissed her with his strawberry-taffy lips, touched her with sheer desire, and made her feel like she was floating through a dream. The words he spoke were enthralling. The music he played bared his soul. The way his eyes crinkled when he laughed could make just about anyone fall head over heels. How could she forget the moment he looked at her in the venue with an expression she thought could be love?

Brandy throws the duvet aside and sulks over to the record player on her dresser. Cher's Gypsys, Tramps & Thieves is already on the platter from when she got dolled up last night. She carefully adjusts the tonearm and crawls back into bed. 

The first track begins, and it can't erase her sorrows since it's the same song Cher sang to the crowd. 

Damn those lyrics that will forever remind her of Harry. Damn his ravishing smile, his alluring voice, and his sugarcoated ways of stringing her along. 

Above all, damn their fate. The course of fate can be a cruel thief. It can be by chance or by choice. It can come when least expected and give a person the right feeling at the wrong time. 

Brandy realizes fate is like that Ferris wheel she rode. It led her on with its appeal and took her for a spin. Then, before she could even soak up the feeling, it stopped. It let her off, and she never reached what she yearned for the entire way around.

Perhaps that's just the way of love.

——

[pocket-lad]

AOH my god has this been done before wait. Huge Adelaide “death” scare (not dead !! Never . But def roughed up and unconscious) I’m unsure where this could fit into any of the amazing fics u made but we need Ian inconsolable , I want this man in tears almost if that man even cries. All the angst. (then the insurmountable relief and softness when she wakes up lol) You characterize him super well, I’m so curious to see what you could possibly do with this idea..

Let's tear this man down >:)

~

Alan marched into the bunker with Ellie, intent on locating a gun or two to take these raptors out. And then they were out of here for good. It was a shame he also had some devastating news to deliver - news that might get him killed by something other than a dinosaur.

It all happened in the blink of an eye. They were in a large clearing, maybe a mile from the visitor’s center, when a herd of Gallimimus wheeled directly toward them. It was so fascinating, the way they flocked like birds. He honestly could have sat there all day.

But they were very large dinosaurs, and he was in charge of three exhausted, vulnerable people. Urged on by Adelaide, Lex, and Tim, Alan sprinted back the direction they came, each hand holding onto a child for dear life.

A big log rested on the grass ahead, and it offered as good of protection as any. Without slowing down, he and the kids leapt over the side then pressed their backs against it, waiting for the dinosaurs to pass. But as he did so, he felt the infinitesimal weight on his shoulders disappear and a faint scream filled the air.

When he realized what it was, it was too late. Alan’s head whipped around to locate Adelaide and catch her, but the moment his eyes landed on her was the moment of impact.

Before her body could tumble off the side of the log, Alan gathered her up and held her close to his chest so that they could wait out the herd. She wasn’t moving.

The dinosaurs disappeared, but Alan was too scared to pull Adelaide into the light. He sat there, blinking and breathing, nothing more.

“Dr. Grant?” Lex said, worried by the sudden shift in his demeanor.

That was all Alan needed to pull himself out of it. He slowly extricated his hand from his chest and laid his palm out flat.

Adelaide laid limply in his hand, her limbs bending every which way and her hair splayed out across his palm. Alan floated her around, trying to get a good angle to see if her chest still moved. When he couldn’t see anything, he held her up against his ear. He didn’t hear anything, either. He had no way to know if she was breathing.

“Is she okay?” Tim asked.

“I don’t know.”

***

Malcolm was going to kill him. There was no world in which Malcolm didn’t kill him. Alan couldn’t say he didn’t deserve it. It was now a matter of how to break it to the man.

The first thing Alan heard when he entered the bunker was, “Where are they? Where is she? Are they okay?”

The only sound that followed was the hum of the emergency lights.

There was no point delaying the inevitable. Ian, Ellie, and Hammond watched Alan intently as he reached into his chest pocket and pulled out an impossibly tiny person. Ellie already knew what was coming. She couldn’t bear to watch, yet somehow she couldn’t force herself to look away.

Alan held Adelaide out on his palm.

“What - what - what’s this?” Ian asked.

Alan closed his eyes. “Ian, you have to understand-”

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, you bring me - you bring me Adelaide right - right now.”

“Ian-”

Ian quickly snatched Adelaide from Alan’s hand and held her up to his own eyes. If her chest was moving, he sure couldn’t see it. In an effort to quell the sudden burst of anger and sadness and fear and guilt, his jaw tightened so hard he thought his teeth would shatter. He slowly raised his gaze up to Alan. “What happened?” he seethed.

“We were running and I jumped over a log. She fell from my shoulder and I couldn’t catch her in time. I’m sorry.”

Ian looked Adelaide up and down, his eyes flickering back and forth in disbelief. She was so small, even smaller when she wasn’t awake to try to make herself look bigger. Even collapsed and unconscious, putting no effort into holding herself up, she was still so light. He gently nudged each of her limbs into place so that she at least looked comfortable. They moved all too easily under his fingers. 

“Della,” he whispered. “Della, come on. We’re going to get out of here, Della. Adelaide, come on.”

“Ian-” Ellie interrupted, tears welling in her eyes.

Ian ignored her. He held Adelaide to his chest. Maybe his rapid heartbeat would wake her up. She complained that it did that sometimes when she slept in his pocket. He frantically pulled her away to check. Still asleep.

The sound of clanging metal caught his attention. Dr. Grant was in the middle of pulling a couple guns out of storage. He didn’t even look bothered by the circumstances. Ian’s face turned red as an unbridled rage bubbled up in his chest.

Without thinking much about it, he shoved Adelaide at John Hammond, who instinctively reached up to hold her. Ian would need both of his hands for this. He lunged from the table directly at Grant, relying solely on his one remaining good leg. He more so fell into Alan, but grabbed him by the shirt collar and pinned him against the wall with his body weight. The gun clattered to the ground. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Get off of me!”

“You killed her. You son of a bitch, you bastard, you killed her.”

Alan couldn’t procure a response in his struggle to get the tall, heavy man off of him. With the help of Ellie, he was finally able to push him away, back toward the table he came from. If it wasn’t for Malcolm’s wilting leg, Alan wasn’t so sure he would have won that fight.

His clothes rumpled and his patience growing thin, he regarded Malcolm as he leaned against the table, panting. He looked in bad shape.

“I am sorry, Ian, I really am. But those kids are out there and we have to go find them before something happens to them, too.”

Ian wasn’t listening. He shot up - Grant’s irritatingly calm voice was all that was needed to prompt a round two - but Ellie eased him away again. His leg screamed in pain. He slowly slid down the side of the table and slumped to the ground. His conversation with Hammond came rushing back.

“She’s three inches tall, John!”

“And who brought her here?”

Ian had been too eager, blinded by his pride. He wanted to be the one to show Adelaide the world. She told him she didn’t want to come here. She was scared to leave the house, to travel far away, to be around a bunch of unknown giants. She was so scared that a human would take her away. Ian laughed it off at the time, thinking she worried too much, and that if he showered her it wasn’t so bad, maybe she’d open up more. He thought he knew what was best for her. He should’ve listened.

From the beginning, it was painfully clear that it was only a matter of time before someone got hurt. The park was doomed to fail, perhaps even catastrophically, and when dinosaurs were the main attraction…He just couldn’t imagine the ones to get hurt would be him or Adelaide. But the systems that fail don’t reward those who predicted their failure. Failed systems don’t discriminate. They take down everything in and around them.

“Give her here,” Ian muttered numbly. Hammond nodded, gently handing her over. Adelaide’s head lolled from side to side as he did so. She looked the same. Still unmoving. Still unconscious.

In the heat of the moment, Hammond was the closest and only option. If Ian was going to beat the hell out of Grant, he didn’t want Adelaide’s delicate body anywhere near the fray, so he pushed her into Hammond’s hands. Ian trusted Hammond, in most aspects, about as far as he could throw him, but he trusted he would keep the borrower away from harm for a few minutes. He trusted him with the task more than Grant, at least.

Ellie bent down to Ian’s level and rubbed his arm in reassurance. Then she was off with Alan to do something. Save the kids, maybe? Ian wasn’t paying attention.

His eyes bored into Adelaide for an eternity, searching for any sign of life. If he stared long enough, he was bound to catch a twitch of her hand or a flicker in her eyes. She was bound to wake up.

For once, Hammond didn’t say anything. He didn’t have any smart comments or consoling words, and for that, Ian was grateful. If Hammond opened his mouth, he was going to get hit.

A single tear leaked out of Ian’s eye and trickled down his cheek. And then another. And another. He wasn’t crying. He didn’t cry. His face didn’t contort and his breath stayed relaxed, but the tears built up too much and the dam broke.

One landed on Adelaide, drenching her face and shirt. Ian moved her out of the way.

It was his duty to protect her. She was always so confident and full of life, it was hard to imagine she wasn’t as durable as any other human. But she wasn’t. She was tiny and fragile. Ian forgot that, or maybe he ignored it. Either way, his blindness got her killed.

What was he supposed to do now? Take her back to Texas? And then what? Adelaide would be gone forever, with nobody to remember her except the few people who made it off this island.

“Why don’t we get you into the car?” Hammond suggested. Ian’s tear soaked face and dead eyes made Hammond falter for only a second before he continued. “They may need a pickup when they’re done.”

Ian didn’t want to move. But the world kept on moving whether he wanted it to or not and Adelaide deserved to go home. It was time to leave.

Hammond carefully helped Ian to his feet and supported him as they made their way to a Jeep. Not once did Ian look away from Adelaide. Not when they left the bunker, not when they left the building, not when Hammond situated his leg in the Jeep, not when they pulled up to the visitor’s center.

Not until he heard Dr. Grant’s voice. “Mr. Hammond, after careful consideration, I have decided not to endorse your park.”

Ian glared at him, and in their brief moment of eye contact, he saw the guilt plastered all over Grant’s face. He’d live with that guilt for the rest of his life. Good.

The presence of the people around him slowly came to his attention. Ellie and the kids stared at Adelaide.

They were worried. Maybe sad. He knew that. But the way they stared wasn’t like the way he stared. It was an invasive stare that would make Adelaide undoubtedly uncomfortable if she was awake. Instantly, Ian closed his hand around her and held her to his chest so that they couldn’t gawk anymore. They didn’t deserve to look at her anymore.

“Dr. Malcolm, is she-” One of the kids asked.

“Yeah, yeah, um…she’s…” He took a shaky breath.

“What are you going to do?”

“I uh, don’t know. What do you think I should do?” Ian asked. When he looked up, he saw it was the girl talking. Lex.

“Um…”

“No, really, cause I haven’t - I haven’t the foggiest idea.” The intensity built as he spoke. What kind of ridiculous question was that, anyway? What are you going to do? Kill John Hammond and Alan Grant and tear this whole island to the ground. That’s what he was going to do.

“Let’s leave them alone, okay?” Ellie suggested quietly.

Alan helped Ian into the helicopter when they arrived. He climbed in and pulled his hand away from his chest. Maybe this time…

But still she laid there, as dead to the world as before. Her face was slack, her body bruised and bloody. And there was nothing Ian could do to fix it. There was always something Ian could do to fix it. There was nothing Ian could do to fix it. 

Alan spoke. “Ian, believe me, I never-”

“Just - just don’t.”

“I did everything I could-”

“Hey, uh, I said DON’T.” Ian’s voice boomed throughout the interior of the helicopter. The space fell into an uncomfortable and agonizing silence. They lost so many people, but to have one of the dead trapped inside with them as a constant reminder…

Ian blinked away the oncoming tears as he slammed his head back against the headrest, studying the ceiling. He absently stroked Adelaide’s arm. He always liked to feel her in his hand, to know she was right there, safe with him. She was always safe in his hands. If only he had kept her with him when he lured the T-Rex away. But no, she just as easily could’ve gotten herself killed there as well.

Ian handed Adelaide off to Alan the previous night because he knew he would watch after her. Because Alan was a dinosaur expert and an all around smart, level-headed man. He would take better care of her than Ian could. Logically, the choice he made was sound. So why did just looking at Grant bring on such bitterness and hate? Why was he filled with so much regret? Why did it hurt so bad?

The world passed them by. Pelicans flew alongside the helicopter, uncaring and free. Hammond regarded the mosquito trapped in amber that sat atop his cane with detached interest. Alan and the kids fell asleep. Ellie watched them, wishing she could take a picture. Ian didn’t feel anything, save for the cold, lifeless weight in his palm.

A loud gasp for air accompanied by a large spasm in Ian’s hand drew everyone’s attention.

Adelaide was soaking wet and disoriented. Her back protested her startled jump into consciousness, a sharp pain radiating up her spine, through her neck, and into her head so that she could hardly move.

She tried to recall the previous events. There was a field. Dinosaurs. Running. She was thrown into the air and then…nothing.

She was in a hand. It was warm and spongy and she could feel the life pulse beneath her. Whatever they were doing and wherever they were now, Adelaide almost thought it was better she didn’t know. Almost.

Ian’s mouth fell open. If he couldn’t believe Adelaide was dead an hour ago, he sure as hell couldn’t believe she was alive now. But she was. She may have been extremely hurt, extremely scared, whatever, but she was alive, and the gaping hole in his chest left behind by her death flooded with relief so strong it was nearly tangible.

Ian regarded the borrower with the same intensity he did when he first snatched her out of Alan’s hands. His eyes jumped back and forth, searching not for a sign of life this time, but for a sign that she was hurt. His hand stayed motionless, frozen due in part to shock.

“Adelaide,” he breathed.

Adelaide blinked her crusted eyes open. Just lifting her arm to wipe the gunk away sent another flare up her back. She could have sworn that that was Ian’s voice. But she was probably dreaming again, and to get her hopes up would be to have her hopes dashed. Again.

“Ian?” she whispered tentatively, still unable to see through the haze.

Air came at her fast, and before she could brace herself, Adelaide was pressed into dark fabric, held tight by the hand. No matter what dinosaur they were running from, she did not want to be in this position. She thought Alan understood that.

Not only that, but it hurt. Whatever caused her to black out, it did a number on her body, and there was no way it could stand this pressure for much longer. She wiggled around as much as her poor body would allow, pushing and shoving along the way.

Adelaide thought she felt something along the lines of a laugh come from the Bean with the way the chest abruptly contracted and expanded and the way she could hear the expulsion of air through the giant lungs.

Why would he laugh? What was going on?

Gravity forced her into a prone position as the hand pulled her up into the air, and light emerged all around her.

They were not on the island. At least, they weren’t in nature. The world around her was metal. And the person holding her was not Alan. It was Ian. Ian was alive.

“Oh my god!” Adelaide cried.

“Oh my god yourself!” Ian said.

“Oh my god yourself! Ian!” She scrambled to an attempted stand but settled for a seat. She surveyed the palm around her, grabbing his thumb with both hands and pulling it close. She ran her hands along the skin. It was real. He was real.

The thumb suddenly sprouted a mind of its own and pushed inward, nudging Adelaide’s shoulder. She flinched but remained unbothered because it was Ian Malcolm, alive and in the flesh. A large drop of water splashed down next to her.

Adelaide just nearly dodged it, the quick movement hurting her back. But that wasn’t the issue. The issue was the water itself. It was a tear... Ian was crying? Crying wasn’t something Adelaide thought he was even capable of. Something must’ve gone horribly wrong, but she couldn’t think of anything so bad that it would make him cry. Who died?

Instead of asking any helpful questions, the one that came out of Adelaide’s mouth was, “Is that why I’m wet?” It didn’t escape her notice that she was still soaked from the torso up. Not only did Ian Malcolm cry, but he cried on her. Gross.

“Della, we thought you were dead.”

“W-What?” Adelaide had blacked out a number of times in her life, most of them being around Beans. Something about the toll of living in a constant state of fear…Regardless, it wasn’t unheard of for her to go unconscious from time to time. Before she could ask why they thought this time was any different, Alan’s voice came from across the helicopter.

Right. There were other people here too.

“You fell when we were running from the Gallimimus,” he said, and for once it was the giant who had trouble maintaining eye contact. “I couldn’t catch you in time. I am so, so sorry.”

“No, you don’t - you don’t get to talk to her,” Ian said.

Adelaide jumped in. “Woah, calm down. I should’ve held on better. That’s my fault.” She shifted her focus. “Thank you, Alan, for watching over me.”

“Don’t thank him,” Ian scowled.

“I can thank him if I want to thank him!” Adelaide shouted, but doing so caused another flare in her back. Ian’s thumb returned, gently resting on her chest. The weight forced her to lie down, which she assumed was his intention. If she had the strength to fight it, she would have, but laying down did feel nice.

Alan watched the pained movements. “You hit the ground hard. I’d take it easy if I were-” His advice was cut short by a glare from Ian.

Adelaide rolled her eyes. “It’s okay. We’re okay. We’re going home.” She slowly scooched over until she was resting up against his chest, relishing in the soft fabric of his shirt and the heat that human Beans seemed to have an endless supply of. “You know I’m never letting you out of my sight again?” It was only partially a joke.

Ian chuckled. “Oh, you think I’m going to let you out of my sight? Cute.”

Adelaide’s body vibrated in time with his voice. “I am not cute,” she insisted.

At the same time, she curled her body up even further against his chest, pulling her legs close and feeling the slight rise and fall as he breathed like the gentle rocking of a ship. As the minutes passed, she paid attention to his heart rate while it progressively slowed down. He really was worried about her.

Ian watched her settle in. Adelaide was correct - she wasn’t cute. She was absolutely adorable. And absolutely alive. And they were absolutely going home.

[hunty627]

More stories that Grant can make up with his model trains when he rebuilds his model railway layout.

Caitlyn plays Keepy-Uppy. Dorie’s little sister Caitlyn came to the docks to see Thomas was awaiting a friend of his. Fernando was coming to visit Sodor all the way from Brazil. He was gonna show Thomas and his friends how to play Keepy-Uppy, a game where the engines have to keep the beach ball in the air.

Rosie to the rescue. Rosie wants to know what it’s like to being a rescue engine. She decided to go on patrol and look around for any emergencies.

Gordon goes the extra mile. Gordon the big engine was given the extra mile award for saving the ice cream. But Philip was envious of it and wanted to know what it’s like to wear a special rosette. But a bird took Gordon’s award and flew away. Will Philip get it back before Gordon comes back from his express runs?

Dominic and the Duke and Duchess. Spencer came to visit Sodor and he was being as boastful as ever. But when he got into an accident one day, the Duke and Duchess of Boxford were worried that they wouldn’t be able to get to their important dinner at Vicarstown station. So, Dominic volunteered to take them in Spencer’s special passenger cars.

Smith and the track cleaner. Smith was very excited. A new track cleaning wagon had arrived on Sodor and he was gonna pull it along and clean the tracks. Sir Topham Hatt wants to make sure he cleans all the tracks on every part of the line.

Kayley and the mysterious critter. Kayley was taking the workmen to do some late night track maintenance in the forest. But then she saw something moving through the air. It looked like a furry creature with a bushy tail and it can fly. Kayley told the other engines, but some thought it was a load of rubbish. But Thomas told Kayley to ask zookeeper Jack from the animal park to find out what it is. And it’s actually a flying squirrel.

A spicy hot delivery. Noor Jehan the diesel engine from India came to visit Sodor with a delivery that came all the way from her home. It was a delivery of fruit and vegetables from India. Thomas saw some coconuts. But he saw a vegetable he had never seen before. It was none other than Indian dragon fire peppers, one of the hottest peppers in the world.

The little old twins reunite. Skarloey was feeling sad because for the past few years, his twin brother on the mainland, Talyllyn hasn’t ran in a long time and was worried his twin would be scrapped, as told by Diesel, as well as Splatter and Dodge. Sir Handel told Skarloey not to take any notice, but then one day, Skarloey woke up to find a huge surprise. Talyllyn was in his shed! He told him that he had been fully repaired a few weeks ago and is back in service and came to visit his twin.

Not-so-tuneful toots. Rusty the little diesel got himself into an accident at the quarry with the troublesome trucks, which ended up causing his horn to only make the low note. Will Rusty be able to cope with this before he goes to the Vicarstown Dieselworks to be fixed by Den and Dart?

Dart goes solo. After Daisy’s sister, Rose the diesel railcar broke down due to some sand getting into her engine, Sir Topham Hatt requested Dart to look after her passenger duties while Den repairs Rose. Dart was bummed that he wasn’t gonna work alongside Den, but he knew he pulled passengers before when he pulled the express with Den & Sidney. But can he handle a local train?

Stafford’s super stopped. Stafford had broken down when making a delivery of coaches full of passengers, but his battery was fully charged. But Amanda volunteered to lend him a wheel. But will she get Stafford’s passengers to the station to catch their bus before dark?

Poy and the popcorn. There was going to be an Ultratrain movie playing in the ride-in theater, and Poy was requested to deliver the popcorn there, but a flock of pigeons wanted to eat it. Poy wanted to get away from them, but pigeons are fast too. Will she get the popcorn to the ride-in before the pigeons try to eat all the popcorn in her freight cars?

[lordgrimwing]

Omen: BITE #01

Fëanor sat on a three-legged stool just outside the fiber shed in the warming morning air. A distaff stood beside him, golden flax fibers held in place against the light breeze by a string. Wetting his fingers in the bowl resting on the knee of the leg he wasn't using to keep the spinning wheel turning, he reached up to the distaff and pulled a few more strands down to add to the thread. 

He'd been at this for several hours, since guiding Maedhros through the morning animal chores, Laurë tagging along though she was still too small to be of much help with anything other than the chickens. Yesterday, Nerdanel said the planting season would be upon them in a few more days, and they would all be too busy to find time to spin the processed flax fibers. He wanted another ten skeins ready for mangling so the children could entertain themselves while their parents were still out in the fields. 

He'd send Maedhros and Laurë away after the chores to help their mother with their younger siblings and to play. There wouldn't be much time for that once planting started and the rest of the homestead woke up from the sleepy grip of winter, at least not for several weeks. Now, he worked in contented quiet, the whirring of the spinning wheel a steady accompaniment to the clucking and scratching of roaming chickens.

The kitchen door squeaked open, and out toddled little Celegorm. He was just about two years old now, learning to navigate the world on his own and constantly slipping away as soon as people took their attention off of him, which was a lot easier now that he had a new little brother. Fëanor respected the tenacity even if it sometimes left him scrambling to find the toddler before he got into too much trouble.

Seeing that this time Celegorm was making his determined way across the yard toward Fëanor, he decided to just keep an eye on his progress.

Halting step after halting step, the child made his way from the door and out into the yard. He moved forward with determination, his little eyebrows set in serious lines, his mouth tight with focus. He had a goal to reach before anyone inside noticed his disappearance.

Without looking away, Fëanor reached up and pulled down a few more fibers to add to the thread. His foot pressed the pedal rhythmically, keeping the wheel spinning at a constant speed without thought. 

Celegorm toddled onward.

A hen pecked her way across the yard, eyes focused on the ground as she searched for the first insects or earliest sprouts. Large, with black and white barred feathers, she enjoyed a spot at the top of the flock’s pecking order. Used to a certain degree of respect from the other animals, she clucked to herself with little regard for the world beyond the end of her beak.

Fëanor saw the collision coming.

Celegorm took one last step forward. His arms pinwheeled out to the sides as the hefty bird bumped against his thighs. He swayed, and the hen, irritated, pecked at his toes. With a little cry of mixed surprise and pain, he went down.

He tumbled over the bird, knocking her down as he went. She squawked and flapped her wings, battering his bare legs with stiff feathers as she tried to righted herself. With very ungraceful flopping, she extricated herself from the undignified heap they became. Ruffling and puffing out her feathers, she gave a parting peck to the boy's heel and returned to the most important task of finding food.

Celegorm lay sprawled out, arms extended flat across the ground and face planted in the damp grasses. He hadn't quite managed to catch himself with his hands on the way down. 

Fëanor paused his spinning, foot coming off the pedal and fingers pinching the end of the thread. He watched his son's back rise and fall under his little shirt, waiting to see how he would respond.

After a few seconds, Celegorm raised his head and stuck his tongue out as he coughed out several blades of grass and some dirt. His scrunched up face looked like he was confused or thinking very hard more than about the cry, and Fëanor relaxed on his stool. The spinning wheel started up again as he pulled down more flax strands and offered an encouraging smile.

Remembering that he had a destination other than the soft ground, the toddler got his knees under himself and shakily climbed to his feet. He had a scrape on his thigh from a stone and scratches on his legs from the chicken, but he ignored these as he started forward again, determined to cross the half-dozen yards to his father. Fëanor let his attention drift back to his work now that he was safely on his way again.

After one more stumble over a particularly uneven patch of ground, he finally arrived. 

Fëanor felt short arms reach part way around his side. He looked down.

Celegorm stood next to the stool and smiled up at his father as he gave him as big a hug as he could manage. Green grass stuck to his teeth in a couple spots and he had dirt on his nose.

“Papa,” He giggled.

Fëanor dropped a hand to the boy’s head and lightly tousled the thin, pale hair. “Hello, Cele.”

Celegorm turned his face into his side, nuzzling his nose back and forth. He pressed his lips together and tried giving a raspberry kiss, but it was decidedly unrewarding on fabric instead of skin.

Fëanor snorted. "Silly goose," He said and reached up for flax.

Without warning, sharp little teeth clamped into the flesh just above his hip. Even though they were small, Celegorm's jaws pinched down painfully tight.

Fëanor's foot stuttered on the pedal and the wheel made an unhappy sound when he pressed down too soon and too hard.

"Ah!" He exclaimed, grabbing for the aching spot with one hand, the other desperately clinging to the end of the thread.

Celegorm ducked out of the way, pulling back and out of his father's reach. "Hehe," He laughed, pure excitement etched across his face.

“No,” Fëanor reprimanded him, still clutching his side.

The toddler made a burbling sound with his lips, stuck out a very wet tongue, and ran away as fast as he could toward the safety of the house.

Groaning, Fëanor pulled his hand away, checking the shirt for a tear or bleeding. There was evidence of neither of those, and he breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Maedhros!” He shouted, rubbing at the aching spot to soothe it. “Get Celegorm! He’s biting again!”

Realizing the coming roadblock to his escape route, Celegorm turned hard away from the house. He stumbled but regained his balance and kept running, skinny arms pumping hard as he headed for the barn.

The back door flew open. Maedhros stepped out, head already swiveling to find his wayward brother.

“Barn,” Fëanor directed, turning his attention to the kinks that worked their way into the thread while he was otherwise distracted. 

“Sorry,” The boy said, referring to both for letting the toddler slip away and the biting.

His father shook his head, brushing aside the apologetic words. “Just catch him.”

Maedhros nodded and jogged after his brother.

[violetvaughnart]

In a monochrome world painted in shades of silence and whispers, a solitary figure stands at the nexus of an invisible crossroad, a child whose silhouette is cast lightly upon the canvas of an aged city. This is not merely an ordinary moment; it's a silent passage through time. Before him, buildings rise like relics of an older age, their stone-crafted faces adorned with the patina of stories untold, their bell towers brooding under the weight of their history.

Within the air's gentle embrace, pigeons, those gray-clad messengers of the skies, flutter and wheel in a dance choreographed by unseen forces. The child, with arms outstretched, is a conductor commanding an avian symphony, his movements both an invitation and a farewell. Each bird, a charcoal stroke against the pallid sky, breaks from the flock in a fluid arabesque of freedom and unity. They are thoughts released to the heavens, ideas birthed by the innocence of youth.

The young protagonist, amidst the flurry, stands anchored in the abstraction of the city. His gaze, though unseen, is undoubtedly cast upwards, absorbed in contemplation of the creatures who transcend the grounded turmoil of human existence. This moment, suspended in the grace of the birds' ascent, is his tacit communion with elements beyond the reach of mortal touch.

In his bearing there is a wistful maturity, a recognition of bonds that tie him to the earth even as his spirit yearns to soar. The birds, in their flight, echo his own latent desires to transcend, to explore realms of possibility as yet dreamed only in the far corners of his awakening mind.

There's a profound quietude in this exchange, an acknowledgment of the vast and intrinsically linked expanse between human longing and the unfettered liberty of nature. Yet, in the softness of his silhouette and the gentle reach of his hands, there lies an ember of resilience, an indomitable spirit that rejoices in the simple purity of connection.

And so the scene remains, a timeless vignette that speaks of potential and remembrance, each feather’s beat a soft drumroll in the theater of life, where every flight begins with the courage to leap and every landing with a hope to rise anew.

[theblinkserial]

Chapter 4

July 12, 2024

5:18 PM (CST)

KTXB Evening News

20 minutes after The Blink

Andy Waller is not a world-famous newscaster, not by a long shot. If you asked someone in New York or California who he was, they wouldn’t have a clue. But ask that same question in one specific corner of northeast Texas, you’ll find that everyone knows Andy Waller’s name.

And if they don’t, they certainly know his face. Perfectly symmetrical, clean-shaven, distinctly charming, Andy’s youthful face appeared every night on TV screens throughout the local area just before Wheel of Fortune, where, for the last five years, it had stolen the breath from middle-aged women sitting beside their snoring husbands on the living room couch. Andy Waller had become a household name for countless families throughout the state, a man who sat right across from the couch and read the events of the day out loud with that devilish grin flashing out at his audience.

Today, however, Andy is not smiling.

“We—We’ve just got another video,” he stammers from behind a BREAKING NEWS banner along the bottom of the screen. His voice no longer has that over-enunciated confidence inherent of newscasters. Instead, he has reverted back to his native Texan drawl. “This one was sent in by a viewer from Mount Vernon a few minutes ago. Can we switch over to that one?”

A moment passes, Andy’s face awkwardly motionless in the center of the shot as the news crew works to pull up the video, then the screen cuts to black.

It starts with a view of a Little League game filmed from the bleachers. The field is old, the borderlines between sand and grass blurred in several places from wind and time. A chainlink fence surrounds the field’s perimeter, and beyond it grassy Texas fields extend to a wall of forest far in the distance. Small shadows of cottonball clouds drift effortlessly across the world. It is a perfect summer day.

The metallic ting of a bat striking a ball, then the sound of parents cheering and clapping as a young boy runs tottering toward first with everything he’s got. Just before he reaches the base, the camera drops and gasps fill the stands, the same sound you expect to hear when one of those Little Leaguers gets hit by a foul ball, but when the camera pans back up it is like four hours have passed in the span of a few seconds. Twilight now blankets the scene in a hazy dimness that causes the camera to auto-adjust its focus. A blurry flock of small birds takes flight over the field, followed by a handful of bats zigzagging through the air at the mistaken belief they overslept their circadian alarm clocks. The cameraperson aims upward and zooms in on the Sun, and it is immediately clear that something is wrong.

Though at first washed out from the brightness, the camera shortly begins absorbing more and more detail as the Sun’s glare diminishes. What started as a perfect circle has morphed into a gibbous shape, like the moon a few days after it is at its fullest. As the shape continues to deform, the sky begins to darken, the clouds changing from white to gray and then to almost black. In less than half a minute, the Sun has become only a fraction of its former brilliance, the progression resembling a sped-up video of the moon’s phases. From full to gibbous to quarter in the span of a few seconds.

The crescent Sun wanes further, its last sliver glinting like firelight along the blade of a new scythe. Beads of light flash and pop along this strange hairline curve in the sky, sparking briefly against the ever-darkening backdrop, and then it is gone.

The video goes black, but concerned voices can be heard from the parents in the stands. Were it not for these whispers, people watching from home might think the video has ended, but it hasn’t. The camera zooms out to show the field now bathed in the harsh glow of tall stadium lights. On the field, the Little Leaguers stand with gloves hanging limply by their sides, all of them staring straight up at the stars.

All but one.

The kid who’d been headed for first moments earlier is now rounding third, too focused on scoring a home run to realize the world just ended. He slides across home plate and jumps to his feet, fists raised and a triumphant grin on his face as he looks to the stands, then his gaze shifts upward and he begins to cry.

This is where the video ends and Andy Waller’s perfect face returns to the living rooms of Texas. Rather than charming, though, his face is haggard and haunted. Shocked. Afraid.

“Uh,” is all he manages to say before glancing slightly up above the camera. He stands up and walks out of frame, leaving an empty desk in the shot. A minute passes like this. Indistinct voices mumble in the background, doors creak open and clang shut, footsteps shuffle around just out of view.

When Andy returns, his eyes are somehow even more haunted than they were, like he hadn’t believed the videos and reports coming in until he looked outside for himself.

“Uh,” he repeats, then clears his throat, remembering the hundreds, maybe even thousands, of unseen eyes currently fixed on him. “I just looked out the window and, uh, the sky is dark. This is real. The—The Sun seems to have . . .” Andy trails off, eyes again drifting back behind the camera as all thoughts of TV broadcast etiquette leave him.

He doesn’t know that his segment is already in the process of going viral, that, because it is one of the earliest and clearest videos shared of the Sun’s death, it is already being posted to Facebook and Twitter and Reddit and being sent to other news stations around the world, where it is shared again and again. He doesn’t know that his face will shortly be one of the most famous faces not just in Texas, not even in the United States, but in the entireworld. He has always wanted this kind of fame, has always secretly prayed for the day his face would be beside the likes of Anderson Cooper and Lester Holt, and his prayer to be a celebrity television star will be answered a dozen times over before the week is out.

Andy has no idea that in the next few days, his brief segment will become the most watched video on the Internet, breaking records as the fastest growing viral video in the history of the world.

He also has no idea that it will be one of the last viral videos mankind will ever produce.

[invisiblue]

Also felt like sharing an old list of vine that i have:

you want a treat? yas YAS

merry crisis merry crysler

1 thing worst than a rapist

mouthwash shots (luke vines)

rebecca is not what u thinking

drugs owl

run umbrella

my imortal black cat

red dress lana del rey chicken

is that a weed? Im calling the police 911

ipot microwave snoopy dog

2 bros chilling

im still a piece of garbage

the flock is in the air

pepe the frog - hello darkness my old friend

and they were roomates

Its a fucking bear (all around me are familiar...)

vaccum cleanner shes a maniac

thts free water hotel

road work a head yeah

AA AAA AAAA bateries

black panther blows paws psipsispsi

ttttttarget

hello hello hello teacher

what are those? CrocksD,

that was legitness

country boy i lov u :p

if you love me let me gooo grass

Jared 19 i dont know how 2 read

bring the beeties any thing for u beyonce

im michael with a b, where is the b?

3 dinos crawling in my skin

thx Obama

helium balloon car

helium balloon church

2 girls michael jackson walking

brandon whats num1? bitch I dont give a f

UKs look its the fucking rain

Goofy Goof wake me up

goat dont you yell at your mom

guardiam of the sand fuck off

look at this graph

fuck that shit im out

what the fuck photo/calculator in a show

im lesbian a thought u were american

This bitch is empty yeet

a piss of your water, its vodka, its vinegar

look at all of those chickens

cooking lady 2 shots of vodka

sounds trapped in your mind yoga

bible studies we're all children of jesus

lets go to the beach beach nicki minjaj

avocado guaca mole guaca guacamole

child throws doll law and order SVU

lipstick in my valentino white bag

*sneeze* nice ron

lebron james

oh drink this vodka dumbass skyy

false rat supermarket is it real

yaaa yaaahh boy basketball ball head

omg is that alowded? couple hugging

welcome to jesus line youre alive

whoever trow that paper your mom is a whore

BICTH

ADAM

we’re breaking free

little girl wii sports

birds running away from wave

jonny has 19 bootle of soup mind yo business

is that a chicken (little pig)

hurricane katrina more like hurricane tortilla

and omg colesterol

im librarian

cockroach you need jesus

i wash me in my clothes

2 free tacos

pasta in the pocket

anything better than pussy a rly good book

can i pls get a waffle

0,69 cents not enough for chicken nuggets

4 female ghostbuster feminists are over

kevin kevin watch the light dude

nacho credit card transaction complete

you mess with my truck

oriental lady with her cat

scrolling insta declaration of independence

make me yoyo man but the yoyo master

ask me what kind of tree we have

ωσω smoke

guy bottle flips glass of water

dont tell your mother DIE FOR EACH OTHER

piano SAIL

hum, shithead? Its Shafi

blink once if youre hitler omg

lollipop snake (take me away)

10M point for griffinpuff

who is that pokemon? its pikachu/ cleafary

COD: BOIII - Awekening

little dog with italian flag (italian music)

hahaha i do that

duck youre just like your father

why dont we just relax? turn on the radio

go back to sleep and starve

love yourself accept yourself

wtf kyle step the fuck up

cute carnivorous plant xtmas

little dog running sofa all around me...

jesus car take the wheel

watch your language jesus car

im 11 so shut the fuck up

round and round rihanna bathtub

how do you feel about the corner dog

its time to wake up noo penguin seadog

you have to say that youre fine

if your name is junior raise your hand

do inch worm like to party?

inch worm dancing fast

kidnaping in school its okay he woke up

little girl car its gonna eat you omg

boys gets his free taco who can say

frying pan naruto sound

2 girls dancing store alarm

i smell like beef

pumped kids vine

*mission impossible music* camera spoted

PATRICIA honey can u be quiet

jonh bbq and foot massage

my impression of britsh driver

am i a womf

hipism that was magestic

happy birthday raven i cant swin

4x4 = 16

jurassic park mom and baby screaming

sony logo

photosinthesis hacked

not being racist i love goat cheese

what a those? converse dino jurassic park

tampons? TAMPONS

oh for fuck sake oh for fuck sake

bitch call me ugly i sad bitch where? muslin

yas Yas YASSS dinos jurassic world

cat walking car horn ☆ive been feeling☆

how did u kill cap ameri? shield size of a plate

guy making phone sounds

rapper guy looking in the dictionary imposs

mission imposs little hamster

40% sale/sail music

ladie lipsinging car

u feel so nice dino toy petting real cat

little puppy runnig shoe store

guy scooter never gonna dance again

trump know a lot about truck binbinbinbin

yungman grave

Liam Neeson vine

iridocyclitis

topic out of question permission denied next

we are in this together political discurso

old lady what are they saying

shaking my head shaking my head

hey dont you want to be famous?

I should have left u... But you didnt

fuck off janet im not going to your bby shower

chillary clinton, im just chilling

any spirits here, this sounds like shakira?

10 people died in a fire last night news

verified in twitter but are u in the eyes of god

i want ro be president slavery legal again

cheerleader and mascor together

*shoot* thats why mom doesnt love u

cowgirl boot fucking bitch DISGUSTING

little kitty keyboard xxxxxxxxx

im from every continent in africa

car sound made by instrument

girl walking away kitchen dad upset

girlfriend take a real gun from game

move im gay

faces eating faces disagreeing

thats not correct according to encyclopedia...

zack stop za stop

freestyle dance teacher

rip u face off, what did he do? He f pushed me

on all levels expect physical im a wolf

we all die u either kill yourself or get killed

shaved my eyebrows i...d...k

my birthday gift on my birthday present

cheese of thruth immigrants cause cancer

guy driving dancing classic music girl filming

woman full cigarettes cherif

naruto run university

Soup for my family

[charlenasaxen]

The Birds Quotes

“On December the third, the wind changed overnight, and it was winter. Until then the autumn had been mellow, soft. The leaves had lingered on the trees, golden-red”

“Then, at midday, he would pause and eat the pasty that his wife had baked for him and, sitting on the cliff’s edge, would watch the birds”

“In autumn those that had not migrated overseas but remained to pass the winter”

“Great flocks of them came to the peninsula, restless, uneasy, spending themselves in motion; now wheeling, circling in the sky”

“Restlessness drove them to the skies again”

“Black and white, jackdaw and gull, mingled in strange partnership, seeking some sort of liberation, never satisfied, never still. Flocks of starlings, rustling like silk, flew to fresh pasture”

“the smaller birds, the finches and the larks, scattered from tree to hedge as if compelled”

“he watched the sea birds too. Down in the bay they waited for the tide.”

“the sea birds raced and ran upon the beaches. Then that same impulse to flight seized upon them too. Crying, whistling, calling, they skimmed the placid sea”

“a message comes to the birds in autumn, like a warning. Winter is coming. Many of them perish. And like people who, apprehensive of death before their time”

“The birds had been more restless than ever this fall of the year, the agitation more marked because the days were still”

“Always, in autumn, they followed the plow, but not in great flocks like these, nor with such clamor”

“And daring, some of them, taking no notice of the tractor. One or two gulls came so close to my head this afternoon I thought they’d knock my cap off!”

“It will be a hard winter. That’s why the birds are restless.”

“saw the birds still flocking over the western hills, in the last glow of the sun. No wind, and the gray sea calm and full.”

“Campion in bloom yet in the hedges, and the air mild. The farmer was right, though, and it was that night the weather turned”

“east wind, cold and dry. It sounded hollow in the chimney”

“Nat listened, and he could hear the sea roaring in the bay. Even the air in the small bedroom had turned chill”

“Then he heard the tapping on the window”

“He opened it, and as he did so something brushed his hand, jabbing at his knuckles, grazing the skin. Then he saw the flutter of the wings”

“The wind must have driven it to shelter on the sill”

“The bird had drawn blood. Frightened, he supposed, and bewildered, the bird, seeking shelter, had stabbed at him in the darkness.”

“Presently the tapping came again, this time more forceful, more insistent”

“there’s some bird there trying to get in. Can’t you hear the wind? It’s blowing from the east, driving the birds to shelter.”

“there was not one bird upon the sill but half a dozen; they flew straight into his face, attacking him”

“Suddenly a frightened cry came from the room across”

“There came a second cry of terror, this time from both children, and stumbling into their room, he felt the beating of wings about him in the darkness”

“I’m here,” shouted Nat, and the children flung themselves, screaming, upon him, while in the darkness the birds rose and dived”

“swiftly he pushed the children through the door to the passage and shut it upon them, so that he was alone now in their bedroom with the birds”

“He felt the thud of bodies, heard the fluttering of wings, but they were not yet defeated, for again and again they returned to the assault”

“the little stabbing beaks sharp as pointed forks”

“He dared not stumble to the door and open it, lest in doing so the birds should follow him”

“at last the beating of the wings about him lessened and then withdrew, and through the density of the blanket he was aware of light. He waited, listened; there was no sound except the fretful crying of one of the children”

“The fluttering, the whirring of the wings had ceased”

“Dawn and the open window had called the living birds; the dead lay on the floor”

“Nat gazed at the little corpses, shocked and horrified. They were all small birds, none of any size; there must have been fifty of them lying there”

“robins, finches, sparrows, blue tits, larks, and bramblings, birds that by nature’s law kept to their own flock”

“now, joining one with another in their urge for battle, had destroyed themselves”

“Some had lost feathers in the fight; others had blood, his blood, upon their beaks”

“The sea, fiercer now with the turning tide, white-capped and steep, broke harshly in the bay. Of the birds there was no sign.”

“His wife sat up in bed, one child asleep beside her, the smaller in her arms, his face bandaged”

“there was blood at the corner of his eyes. Jill said it was the birds. She said she woke up, and the birds were in the room.”

“Robins, wrens, all the little birds from hereabouts. It’s as though a madness seized them”

“they can’t be hungry yet. There’s food for them out there in the fields.”

“His face, too, was drawn and tired, like hers. They stared at one another”

“The sight of the kitchen reassured him. His wife’s roll of knitting on her basket chair, the children’s toys in a corner cupboard.”

“the brown hills that had gleamed in the sun the day before looked dark and bare. The east wind, like a razor, stripped the trees, and the leaves, crackling and dry, shivered and scattered”

“He had never known a change so swift and sudden. Black winter had descended in a single night.”

“Did you drive away the birds?” asked Jill, restored to calm because of the kitchen fire, because of day, because of breakfast”

“It was the east wind brought them in. They were frightened and lost; they wanted shelter.”

“Fright made them do that,” said Nat. “They didn’t know where they were in the dark bedroom.”

“Perhaps if we put bread for them outside the window they will eat that and fly away.”

“No,” he said, “it’s not going to snow. This is a black winter, not a white one.”

“He hardly knew how to explain it. Now, in daylight, the battle of the birds would sound absurd.”

“Once in the bedroom, they wouldn’t know where they were to. Foreign birds maybe, from that Arctic Circle.”

“Had it not been for those corpses on the bedroom floor, which he must now collect and bury”

“Scores of them, came in the children’s bedroom. Quite savage they were.”

“Cold, maybe. Hungry. You put out some crumbs.”

“You had to endure something yourself before it touched you”

“It must have been fright that made them act the way they did. Blue tits, wrens—it was incredible to think of the power of their small beaks”

“he could scarcely stand, the force of the east wind was so strong. It hurt to draw breath, and his bare hands were blue.”

“as he opened up the sack the force of the wind carried them, lifted them, as though in flight again, and they were blown away from him along the beach, tossed like feathers, spread and scattered”

“He looked out to sea and watched the crested breakers, combing green”

“Then he saw them. The gulls. Out there, riding the seas.

What he had thought at first to be the white caps of the waves were gulls. Hundreds, thousands”

“They rose and fell in the trough of the seas, heads to the wind, like a mighty fleet”

“They stretched as far as his eye could reach, in close formation, line upon line. Had the sea been still, they would have covered the bay like a white cloud, head to head, body packed to body.”

“Yet what could they do? What could anyone do? Tens of thousands of gulls riding the sea there in the bay”

“Reports from all over the country are coming in hourly about the vast quantity of birds flocking”

“causing birds to migrate south in immense numbers and that intense hunger may drive these birds to attack human beings”

“they’re all out there, riding on the sea, waiting.”

“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “It says here the birds are hungry.”

“You think they would break in, with the windows shut? Those sparrows and robins and such? Why, how could they?”

“He was not thinking of the robins and the sparrows. He was thinking of the gulls. . . .”

“He wondered if they would take these precautions up at the farm. He doubted it. Too easygoing, Harry Trigg and his missus.”

“in London the sky was so dense at ten o’clock this morning that it seemed as if the city was covered by a vast black cloud.”

“the streets and pavements were crowded with people standing about to watch the birds”

“There would be others like him, hundreds of them, who did not know what it was to struggle in darkness with a flock of birds”

“There would be parties tonight in London, like the ones they gave on election nights. People standing about, shouting and laughing, getting drunk. “Come and watch the birds!”

“Do you think they’ve enough soldiers to go around shooting birds from every roof?”

“I don’t know. But something should be done. They ought to do something.”

“Nat did not want to scare her. He thought it possible that she might not go to town tomorrow.”

“We’d be better off in the old days,” he said, “when there was food for a family to last a siege, if need be.”

“Candles. They were low in candles too. That must be another thing she meant to buy tomorrow. Well, it could not be helped.”

“stood in the garden, looking down toward the sea.

There had been no sun all day, and now, at barely three o’clock, a kind of darkness had already come, the sky sullen, heavy, colorless like salt. He could hear the vicious sea drumming on the rocks.”

“it was not the sea that held his eyes. The gulls had risen. They were circling, hundreds of them, thousands of them”

“It was the gulls that made the darkening of the sky. And they were silent. They made not a sound. They just went on soaring and circling”

“What’s the matter?” asked his wife. “You’ve gone quite white.”

“Keep Johnny inside,” he said. “Keep the door shut.”

“The gulls had risen higher now; their circles were broader, wider; they were spreading out in huge formation”

“Something black rose from behind them, like a smudge at first, then widening, becoming deeper, and the smudge became a cloud”

“and they were not clouds at all; they were birds”

“he knew, from their speed, they were bound inland, upcountry; they had no business with the people here”

“They’ve been given the towns,” thought Nat; “they know what they have to do. We don’t matter so much here. The gulls will serve for us. The others go to the towns.”

“She hopes to go to the pictures tonight. She’ll squeeze some fellow’s hand and point up at the sky and say ‘Look at all them birds!’ She doesn’t care.”

“He could see the gulls now, circling the fields, coming in toward the land. Still silent. Still no sound.”

“They were spreading out in formation across the sky. They headed, in bands of thousands”

“They still circled overhead. Nor did they fly so high. It was as though they waited upon some signal.”

“And she was crying too. His sense of urgency, of fear, had communicated itself to the child.

“I wish the gulls would go away. I don’t like them. They’re coming closer to the lane.”

“He put her down again. He started running, swinging Jill after him.”

“Everyone’s gone bird crazy, talking of nothing else. I hear you were troubled in the night. Want a gun?”

“I’d be obliged if you’d run Jill home. She’s scared of the birds.”

“Why don’t you stop behind and join the shooting match? We’ll make the feathers fly.”

“Trigg must be crazy. What use was a gun against a sky of birds?”

“Now they were united. Some bond had brought them together.”

“The farm, then, was their target. They were making for the farm.

Nat increased his pace”

“The kid has run inside,” said the farmer. “Your wife was watching for her.”

“My missus says if you could eat gull there’d be some sense in it”

“All right. See you in the morning. Give you a gull breakfast.”

“As he jumped the stile he heard the whir of wings. A black-backed gull dived down at him”

“In a moment it was joined by others, six, seven, a dozen”

“Covering his head with his arms, he ran toward the cottage. They kept coming at him from the air, silent save for the beating wings. The terrible, fluttering wings. He could feel the blood on his hands, his wrists, his neck.”

“If only he could keep them from his eyes. Nothing else mattered. He must keep them from his eyes.”

“with each dive, with each attack, they became bolder”

“And they had no thought for themselves. When they dived low and missed, they crashed, bruised and broken, on the ground.”

“he stumbled, kicking their spent bodies in front of him”

“he hammered upon it with his bleeding hands. Because of the boarded windows no light shone. Everything was dark.

“Let me in,” he shouted, “it’s Nat. Let me in.”

“he saw the gannet, poised for the dive, above him in the sky”

“It dropped like a stone. Nat screamed, and the door opened. He stumbled across the threshold, and his wife threw her weight against the door.

They heard the thud of the gannet as it fell.”

“The backs of his hands had suffered most, and his wrists. Had he not worn a cap they would have reached his head. As to the gannet . . . the gannet could have split his skull.”

“The children were crying, of course. They had seen the blood on their father’s hands.

“It’s all right now,” he told them. “I’m not hurt.”

“I saw them overhead,” she whispered. “They began collecting just as Jill ran in”

“I shut the door fast, and it jammed. That’s why I couldn’t open it at once”

“Thank God they waited for me,” he said. “Jill would have fallen at once.”

“Furtively, so as not to alarm the children, they whispered together”

“Only Jill looked anxious.

“I can hear the birds,” she said. “Listen, Dad.”

“Muffled sounds came from the windows, from the door. Wings brushing the surface, sliding, scraping, seeking a way of entry. The sound of many bodies, pressed together, shuffling”

“Now and again came a thud, a crash, as some bird dived and fell.”

“Some of them will kill themselves that way,” he thought, “but not enough.”

“the shuffling, the tapping, and more ominous—he did not want his wife or the children to hear it—the splinter of cracked glass”

“Now he could hear the birds on the roof, the scraping of claws, a sliding, jostling sound”

“The boards he had placed at the chimney bases might give way. In the kitchen they would be safe because of the fire. He would have to make a joke of it.”

“The birds would be imprisoned in the bedrooms. They could do no harm there. Crowded together, they would stifle and die.”

“The usual programs had been abandoned. This only happened at exceptional times. Elections and such.”

“Then the announcer spoke. His voice was solemn, grave. Quite different from midday.”

“where several people live together, as in flats and apartments, they must unite to do the utmost they can”

“The birds, in vast numbers, are attacking anyone on sight and have already begun an assault upon buildings”

“They played the national anthem. Nothing more happened.”

“Is it the birds?” asked Jill. “Have the birds done it?”

“No,” said Nat, “it’s just that everyone’s very busy”

“Try as they did to ignore it, they were all aware of the shuffling, the stabbing, the persistent beating and sweeping of wings”

“Presently he went up to the bedrooms and listened, and he no longer heard the jostling for place upon the roof”

“They’ve got reasoning powers,” he thought; “they know it’s hard to break in here. They’ll try elsewhere.”

“His wife looked up at him, her face alight. “It’s planes,” she said; “they’re sending out planes after the birds.”

“He did not want to tell her that the sound they had heard was the crashing of aircraft”

“What could aircraft do against birds that flung themselves to death against propeller and fuselage”

“Somehow the thought reassured him. He had a picture of scientists, naturalists, technicians, and all those chaps they called the back-room boys, summoned to a council”

“Upstairs in the bedrooms all was quiet. No further scraping and stabbing at the windows. A lull in battle. Forces regrouping.”

“The wind hadn’t dropped, though. He could still hear it roaring in the chimneys. And the sea breaking down on the shore.”

“There was some law the birds obeyed, and it was all to do with the east wind and the tide”

“When the tide turned again, around one-twenty in the morning, the birds would come back. . . .”

“you’re not to go and leave me alone with the children. I can’t stand it.”

“It was pitch dark. The wind was blowing harder than ever, coming in steady gusts, icy, from the sea. He kicked at the step outside the door. It was heaped with birds. There were dead birds everywhere.”

“These were the suicides, the divers, the ones with broken necks. Wherever he looked he saw dead birds. No trace of the living. The living had flown seaward with the turn of the tide. The gulls would be riding the seas now, as they had done in the forenoon.”

“on the hill where the tractor had been two days before, something was burning. One of the aircraft that had crashed”

“The bodies would have to be clawed at, pecked, and dragged aside before the living birds could gain purchase”

“He set to work in the darkness. It was queer; he hated touching them. The bodies were still warm and bloody. The blood matted their feathers.”

“He noticed grimly that every windowpane was shattered. Only the boards had kept the birds from breaking in. He stuffed the cracked panes with the bleeding bodies of the birds.”

“He dreamt uneasily, because through his dreams there ran a thread of something forgotten. Some piece of work, neglected”

“Some precaution that he had known well but had not taken, and he could not put a name to it”

“They’ve begun,” she sobbed. “They’ve started this last hour. I can’t listen to it any longer alone.”

“It was the smell of singed feathers. The smell filled the kitchen. He knew at once what it was. The birds were coming down the chimney”

“Stand back,” he shouted to his wife. “We’ve got to risk this.”

He threw the paraffin onto the fire. The flame roared up”

“down upon the fire fell the scorched, blackened bodies of the birds”

“The children woke, crying. “What is it?” said Jill. “What’s happened?”

“choked with the smoldering, helpless bodies of the birds caught by fire”

“Stop crying,” he called to the children. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, stop crying.”

He went on raking at the burning, smoldering bodies as they fell into the fire.”

“That was the line. Keep her busy, and the children too. Move about, eat, drink; always best to be on the go.”

“She wouldn’t come near him, though. She was staring at the heaped singed bodies of the birds.”

“This was the way to face up to it. This was the spirit. If they could keep this up, hang on”

“No sense trying to make the children rest. There was no rest to be got while the tapping and the scratching went on”

“He sat with one arm round his wife and the other round Jill, with Johnny on his mother’s lap and the blankets heaped about them”

“a new rasping note struck Nat’s ear, as though a sharper beak than any hitherto had come to take over from its fellows”

“Could the hawks have taken over from the gulls? Were there buzzards now upon the sills, using talons as well as beaks?”

“Three hours to go, and while they waited, the sound of the splintering wood, the talons tearing at the wood”

“when he reached the landing he paused and listened. There was a soft patter on the floor of the children’s bedroom. The birds had broken through. . . .”

“No mistake. He could hear the rustle of wings and the light patter as they searched the floor.”

“He did not want her to come; he did not want her to hear the pattering of the feet in the children’s bedroom, the brushing of those wings against the door”

“The black-backs were different; they knew what they were doing. So did the buzzards, the hawks. . . .”

“he knew they were beaten. They could not continue through the long day without air, without rest, without more fuel, without . . .”

“The result was the same. No news bulletin came through.”

“The rasping, tearing sound grew fainter every moment. So did the shuffling, the jostling for place upon the step, upon the sills. The tide was on the turn. By eight there was no sound”

“There isn’t going to be any news,” said Nat. “We’ve got to depend upon ourselves.”

“he knew he must reserve his strength for the right things, not waste it in any way. Food and light and fuel; these were the necessary things.”

“Not so the land birds. They waited and watched. Nat saw them, on the hedgerows, on the soil, crowded in the trees, outside in the field, line upon line of birds, all still, doing nothing.”

“He went to the end of his small garden. The birds did not move. They went on watching him.”

“I’ve got to get food,” said Nat to himself. “I’ve got to go to the farm to find food.”

“Take us with you,” she begged. “We can’t stay here alone. I’d rather die than stay here alone.”

“The birds,” she whimpered, “they’re all out there in the fields.”

“They won’t hurt us,” he said, “not in the light.”

“the birds did not move. They waited, their heads turned to the wind.”

“the sheep had knocked their way through, to roam unchecked in the front garden”

“No smoke came from the chimneys. He was filled with misgiving. He did not want his wife or the children to go down to the farm.”

“The living birds perched on the group of trees behind the farm and on the roof of the house. They were quite still. They watched him.”

“Jim’s body lay in the yard . . . what was left of it”

“Trigg’s body was close to the telephone. He must have been trying to get through to the exchange when the birds came for him.”

“Sickened, Nat knew what he would find.

“Thank God,” he said to himself, “there were no children.”

“halfway he turned and descended again. He could see her legs protruding”

“I’ve only got five hours, less than that. The Triggs would understand. I must load up with what I can find.”

“His wife and the children could not see Jim’s body from there”

“Her eyes watched his all the time. He believed she understood; otherwise she would have suggested helping him”

“He waited a few minutes, jangling the receiver. No good though. The line was dead.”

“there was no sign of life at all, nothing in the fields but the waiting, watching birds. Some of them slept—he could see the beaks tucked into the feathers.”

“No smoke came from the chimneys of the council houses. He thought of the children who had run across the fields the night before.”

“I should have known,” he thought; “I ought to have taken them home with me.”

“He lifted his face to the sky. It was colorless and gray. The bare trees on the landscape looked bent and blackened”

“The cold did not affect the living birds waiting out there in the fields.

“This is the time they ought to get them,” said Nat; “they’re a sitting target now.”

“The cold did not affect the living birds waiting out there in the fields.

“This is the time they ought to get them,” said Nat; “they’re a sitting target now.”

“Go quickly past that second gate,” whispered his wife. “The postman’s lying there. I don’t want Jill to see.”

“he would look up, searching the sky for aircraft. None came. As he worked he cursed the inefficiency of the authorities.”

“looked out to sea. Something was moving out there. Something gray and white amongst the breakers.”

“He was wrong, though. It was not ships. The Navy was not there. The gulls were rising from the sea.”

“with ruffled feathers, rose in formation from the ground and, wing to wing, soared upward to the sky.

The tide had turned again.���

“The tapping began at the windows, at the door. The rustling, the jostling, the pushing for position”

“Won’t America do something?” said his wife. “They’ve always been our allies”

“Still, as long as the wife slept, and the kids, that was the main thing”

“The smaller birds were at the window now. He recognized the light tap-tapping of their beaks and the soft brush of their wings.”

“wondered how many million years of memory were stored in those little brains, behind the stabbing beaks”

“I’ll smoke that last cigarette,” he said to his wife. “Stupid of me—it was the one thing I forgot to bring back from the farm.”

He reached for it, switched on the silent wireless. He threw the empty packet on the fire and watched it burn.”

[shiratoribounce]

Somewhere in the distance the waves were crashing, the brief reprise of the blue waters turning into a pink hue as the sun lowered towards the horizon. The seawater carried itself in the air as the clouds rolled in from the east –  the cliffs hanging over the violent tidal pools as it swept and swirled amongst the jagged rocks at the foot of the cliffs. From the west the trees blew, the leaves and the flowers and the birds all enmeshed as it existed during the day, hiding itself in the deepest shadows at night, as it seemed to have never existed in the first place. The green bushes, the rich brown dirt, all had turned into a pitch, cold black, its faint escape from the daylight never grasping the light of the day. 

The train came trudging down its worn tracks, the slugging of the locomotion beating each nail and rail, the wheels bumping to its percussive sound. I sat staring out into that horizon, skewed by the reflection in the window in front of me. I could see my worn face, yet ironically young, something as if I had never experienced life before in the first place. My hands swept my hair, and I continued to peer out of that stained window, the figment of my character fading away against the deep blue scene in front of me. 

I must have narrowly escaped what would have been the enterprise of the day –  the succumbing of the very nature of the times that swallowed me whole. I couldn’t understand what had happened, yet here I was, sitting in this train by myself on the way to see my friend. My friend. Or was he an acquaintance? If a friend were to not talk to you for years, does he remain the same person that you had last left him at? I gripped onto my jeans tightly as I wondered what his reaction would be when I saw him.

The train passed through a series of open land, the faint green grass blending into a sweet faded green as we passed them by. The occasional tree stood lonesome towards the center horizon, its solemn existence an unwavering match to the pale blue sky that hid in the back. I fidgeted with my ring as I continued to express my gratitude towards the existence of this very day ahead of me.

The music playing in my headphones. The submission to the locomotion. The figment of time. The light that slowly faded away. All was a symbol of what I had wanted to become; the transient soul that justified the existence for a new day.

“You shouldn’t have come.” he would tell me.

“You know why I’m here.” I’d practice my lines out loud in the train, not minding the bystanders next to me. “And why is that?” “Why’d you cut me off?” His face became white, the raging expression in his face slowly dissipating. He curled his lips, and laughed aloud. “You’re not even worth it, bro. We haven’t spoken in years. Just leave.” “I can’t. I need answers.” “You want an answer?” “Yeah.” “It’s because I find you insufferable. You’re annoying. You’re a nuisance. In fact I’m embarrassed every time I see you.” I sat back, taking in the words from him. I fidgeted with my ring, the slow metallic sound scraping each other as it whirred against my finger. I would feel the cold steel against my thumbs, the rockiness of the edges in his expressions, the smooth grandeur of his existence overshadowing my own. I leaned my forehead against the window, feeling the coldness of the glass, the thumping of the tracks beneath me.

“You need to leave. Now.”

The words clung onto the clouds as its faint silhouette blended in within the reflection of my pupils in the window. I heard the train chug along, the steam whistle blowing as it howled forward. 

If one were to leave a friend that they knew for more than ten years, how easy would it be to leave them in an instant? The oceans would tumble as they fell against each other, the small flock of birds flying with the wind, layering over the gray clouds above. Like small lacerations within the flesh of my skin, I was reminded of why the bleeding words of a lost friend could do so much to stain the glass that one looked through on the train. I saw in myself him, and within him I saw myself. But the more I fought the urge to lose him overall, the stronger he appeared in my head.

There was a painting long ago that I fell in love with –  a painting that I had seared into my brain like a fervent obsession over a narcissist’s own reflection. I was sitting in the European Art’s wing at the Norton Simon when I happened upon “it.” “It” was Pontormo’s Deposition,  a violent depiction of Jesus being carried off the cross, his disciples sadly looking around as his limp body hung atop them. His eyes would reveal no life left in him, his skin painted in with a slow hue of purple, the translucency in the figure depicting the same death I witnessed when I euthanized my cat. The faint colors would evoke a sense of juvenile isolation within me, a child forever lost and forgotten from the home, as I warmed to the idea of never giving into the death of one's righteous mortality. And in this proclamation the figures (or were they disciples?) in the painting would begin speaking to me, their lost eyes asking for the morally right direction to which I could not answer right away. Who was I to guide the way when I myself have found myself in the wrong direction, the wrong steps this whole time? I found myself within them, carrying his limp body as it hung atop our limbs, heavy from our own grieving. I’d provide it with my eyes the same silence my mother gave to me, the same silence I was given when I asked for love, and burrowed deep within this was the forgiveness I was never given. I sat there, my eyes tunneled into the vision of Pontormo’s Deposition. I held onto the cross on my necklace,  the shiny steel beating with the faint heart of Christ, the fingers tracing along the outline of the horizontal, then vertical lines, almost long, a little too long, imagining Him to be staked in the middle. His body still warm, the glow of the heat grazing my own. Yet as my eyes glanced over the dead face of Him, it floated along the warm blue tone that led to the grieving face of Mary, her hand placed forward, almost pointing towards me. I felt lost in the painting –  my eyes wandering as I looked from one face to another –  glancing into the deep green meadows to which I let my feet carry me deeper and deeper until I saw nothing but the trees behind me. And in this gliding motion I had felt the north star above, Mary, and the disciples, the mourners, walk amongst me as I ventured further away from the reality around me.  I let my hands free from the bench as I tried to lock my fingers with her; and in this moment I had shared the same grief as her. 

Within the frame I had understood I lost everything. I lost everything. How does one come back from that? How does one find redemption once death has happened? I begged for forgiveness, I begged for mercy. I begged for everything to be okay for me. Yet, I never heard the voice come back. Because I was dead. And He was dead. 

“It” was never in my dreams, yet it always appeared in front of my head, my eyelids that became too sore as the neon-like colors would fly against my figure. My body in itself was drenched by the same colors Pontormo threw onto the canvas, the green, pink, blue hues covering my very face. It stood before me. I knelt before the very figure in front of me, my knees buried deep into the ground. I clasped my hands together, and prayed. And I prayed.

Prayers are interesting because they often go unheard.

At least for me. And in these moments I send the intimate letters to an abyss fully understanding that a response was to never be sent back my way. I wondered where they were being heard at least, or at least, being heard at all. I would pray for forgiveness. I would pray for my happiness. I would pray that my work went well. I would pray that my friends would like me again. Then the scenes of the Pontormo painting would flash before my face, the voices speaking to me clearly, almost as if they were whispering it in my ear.

“You will never be forgiven.”

The loud train whistle blew in the distance, the sound of the wheels hitting the tracks. We entered a long dark tunnel, the mouth of the entrance surrounded by shrubbery and olive green leaves. As we went in deeper, the faint shadows of my hand flickered under the train lights, the fingers dancing on the floor beneath me. The reflection of my face in the window disappeared as the black walls of the tunnel swallowed me whole.

I had been friends with Nino since my time with him at college. At the time I was in a small community college, not knowing what I wanted to do, and even deciding what major to go into was a worry for me. What mattered was that I was out of high school, away from all of the mistakes I made there. I was somewhere new, somewhere where I could be a new person entirely.

It was located in Pasadena, a small city in the Los Angeles area –  the city in itself had an old charm to it, like a place that had once been important but now has settled into something more of a quiet, unhurried life. There were tree-lined streets, with restaurants whose names haven’t changed for decades, and used bookstores that smelled faintly of wet pages. Towards the north you could see the large San Gabriel mountains that stood tall amongst the clouds, lining the horizon with lumps of green and gold.

At the time I was working at a pizza store 10 minutes away from the campus to fund my own studies. During the day I would go to class, and in the night I would work my shifts at the store. Filled with grime and dusted cheese, my body would be sore as I went into class the next day. Boards filled with math from my lectures became foreign to me and slowly my body disintegrated as I wove through the schedule of going to work, studying, and then going to class. Yet, despite the filled schedule, I seemed to be able to perform fine with passable grades.

Nino and I met in an elective film history class – something with a focus in European film, though neither of us really paid attention. I primarily used it as a time to fall asleep before my shifts while another boring 60s black and white film played on the large screen. One day Nino nudged my shoulder as I was sleeping, asking me if I had a pen he could borrow.

“No, sorry,” I said as I woke up half dazed.

“Shit, okay.”

He pointed to my battered book, Norwegian Wood, and asked “Are you reading that?” Yeah I told him. “Why?” “Struck a chord with me. Loved the movie too. Kiko was so fine in it.”

Nino had a way of explaining things that always tied back to the women that were involved or mentioned in any piece of work. He was like an encyclopedia for any movies, any books, any form of art, really. He wouldn’t explain a whole lot of why he liked something, but you knew the piece struck a chord with him if there was a woman, like Kiko Mizuhara in the Norwegian Wood movie, mentioned. That way, he always had a way of remembering things, and could always bring up a piece from his memory like a well worn library.  In fact my obsession with fashion started from him when he took me to my first fashion event in some dingy art gallery in Skid Row of Los Angeles. 

And so started our years-long friendship. We often would grab a coffee after class to discuss movies and films, girls we were dating at the time, or even go to museum galleries together to talk about the paintings that hung in there. He would often stand in front of a painting for a long period of time, ignoring the other patrons that wanted to view it, or take a photo in front of it, but rather just stood there idly as he soaked in the information in front of him. Then, he’d turn to me and say something along the lines of “I don’t know what’s going on here. I like it.” And in turn I’d ask him why he’d like it and he’d always respond with a shrug. “Don’t care.” One day I asked him why he didn’t care about the deeper meaning of the art he liked. We were sitting in his backyard, smoking a cigarette and drinking a cold Americano. The sun was bright, beaming down on us.

“I used to really care about that shit, you know?” he responded. He shook his neck back and yawned. “I’d spend nights trying to think about a piece, then study up on it. Read the history about the author, artist, whomever. Then try to make my own conclusions about it. Then one day I looked up from my books thinking ‘what the fuck am I doing?’ and stopped ever since.”

“What made you change?” I responded. I carefully tapped my cigarette into the stuffed ashtray, the mountainous pile of cigarette butts overflowing. “It’s like this right,” he said, motioning his hands in a small ball. “The artist always starts with something blank. It could be a piece of paper for a writer, a canvas for an artist.” 

I sat, listening to him as I took another drag.

“So then they start layering things onto this blank paper. Both physically and figuratively, right? Because they start writing lines, drawing words, and they’ll take their experiences and then add that within their lines.” His hands widened and widened as he continued to speak. “So now there’s a bunch of symbols and shit within these lines that we can’t see. I mean, can you see it in the painting?” He sat there, sitting and rounding the imaginary ball in his hands. “I mean, yeah, I can see it. If the colors are painted in a certain way I know the artist was sad or something. And if the words of a poem used happy words then I guess I’m supposed to be happy.” He snapped his fingers, and pointed at me. Then, he started laughing. “And that’s what I mean! All this shit isn’t really supposed to have deeper meaning at the end of the day. How the fuck would you know if they wanted you to feel sad with sad lines? Happy with happy words? It’s all bullshit. It’s all just a pile of bullshit.” He then took his hands, rounded it to a ball again, and then figuratively scrunched it up like a ball of paper. He continued.

“We always perceive the world based on our own lens. But who informed that lens?” I answered that it was probably our experiences, but before I could explain my reasoning he cut me off. “Exactly! But have you crossed paths with Miller? Manet? You haven't, right?” “I guess not.” “That’s what I mean, man. We go on about our world trying to justify everything based on our own rationale. Yet our own rationale is never a shared experience. We just try to inject ourselves in these narratives, trying to find a place in that piece. But honestly I think it’s impossible. So now you have these art critics saying what piece is good and what piece is bad and what merit is that on? The fact that something was supposed to be conveyed in some proper way, based on their own experiences?” He raised his voice, becoming more animated. “It’s all anecdotal, dude. Whatever piece that the artist makes is an encapsulation of what they were feeling, what they conveyed. But you and I won’t really know that until they say that explicitly. We sit here like monkeys trying to dissect a large puzzle piece but in fact all we have are the pieces, never the full picture. Doesn’t really help that these guys try to be mysterious anyways.” I sat there confused. Wasn’t there a discrepancy in his own thought process? I wondered. He noticed my confusion, and paused from his tangent. The sun continued to rain down on us, the heat making me sweat. I tried to drink my Americano but noticed it was just a cup full of melting ice now. The cars zooming in the background filled the silence in the air as we thought of our conversation.

“Sometimes I feel lost in it all,” he then said, his voice in a whisper. “I just don’t get anything anymore.” He hung his head down, the ashes reaching the butt of the cigarette. He let it burn for a while, not noticing that it was already at the end. “It’s hard because I can’t understand anything. I can’t understand what’s being taught in school. I can’t understand what I’m doing in my job. How the fuck am I supposed to understand art?” “In the end isn’t it just how it’s supposed to make you feel?” “And who the fuck cares about how I feel?” Nino said, his voice trembling. He threw the cigarette on the ground. “No one gives a fuck! I try to do everything right and no one fucking cares, man! So why the fuck am I supposed to care about some little piece of fucking paper? Does THAT care about me?” “I don’t think so dude.” I tried to pacify him with another cigarette but he swatted my hands away. “I don’t need that shit. And quite frankly I don’t fucking need you. All of this is some bullshit. We all go through the same timeline, the same dates, and yet, we never cross paths with each other. You ever lived in my shoes?” “No, but I try.” “You try but objectively have you? As in, have you literally lived my life?” “If you put it like that, then no, I guess not.” “So what gives you the fucking reason to comment on my life? What gives us the reason to comment on someone else’s life?” “I don’t know but I thought it mattered that we tried?” “It doesn’t fucking matter because it doesn’t bring any results, man. It’s all performative bullshit. You can’t understand my life through some pansy little strokes on a canvas. You can’t understand my life just because you’re able to string together a couple of cool words onto paper. Who gives a shit?” He sat there, massaging the space between his eyes. “It doesn’t make me a better person. It doesn’t contribute to my life at all. And all we want is to be heard and to be seen but everyone gets it so wrong, man. So who cares about the attempt? And even for those that do, who gets to really see it? It’s always in some muted white room and you have to pay money to get in and even if you want the piece it costs thousands and almost always millions of fucking dollars. So now I’m asking the sincerity of it all. Like, who gets to keep this piece of emotion? Now it’s just a bunch of millionaires buying this shit and the artists that made it are millionaires themselves.” “Then you have these kids in these private art schools learning about the art but guess what? That costs thousands of dollars. So now it’s just a bunch of rich people jacking each other off, and you’d think the artist was some starving little fucker, but him? Her? She just sold it for millions so now she’s part of that whole jerk off train. It makes me sick.” “It was never meant to be real man. All of this,” Nino said, motioning the space around us with his arms. “Yet we always try to make it real and we always fail at it, and those who are heard are the ones that ignore all of us in the end.”

We sat there for a moment in silence again. The backyard was dirty, and was lined with grey cylinder blocks that looked so worn down that it could fall at any moment. In the right corner stood some sunken trees, and weeds that grew all over the ground. We were sitting on some plastic folding chairs, mold growing on the bottom, and the pool across from us fluttered with a slightly green hue. “Art never really has a deeper meaning at the end of the day, man.” Nino said, his voice now in a small hush. He took another drag of the cigarette, and downed the rest of the iced coffee.

I sat in the train still thinking back on that experience, and even 10 years later, I still didn’t understand what he meant. We were 18 years old at the time –  practically children that were thrown into the real world and told to behave and act like adults. But at that time we barely understood what our responsibilities were, fragments that we gradually picked up off the floor to get a sense of the direction of our wind. Nino and I headed to the same place –  we were lost, yet we had a curiosity for things that we only liked for each other. Somehow though, in that process, we gradually understood that in fact, there really was no place for us at all, but we had to make it work. We would butt into everything that we could, share the same stories of rejection, the same eyes of regret that we felt from everybody that saw us in the world. He always shared that same skepticism he showed to me in that backyard, and the voice that he wielded always had a level of hostility for it, as if someone were to attack him at any moment. He believed in never having to defend oneself by defense, but by offending everything else before he could be attacked. There was always, constantly, a moment where he didn’t like someone, and that number grew as the years went by. I would stand in the corner with him, listening to his tangents about the loss of morales, or the misunderstanding of himself, thinking that I would forever be on his team. But as grief accumulated, so did his resentment towards the world build like a small fire in a dry forest. By the time I had realized the leaves of the trees were on fire, I was already deep in the belly of the forest, too late from getting out.

I understood we were juvenile. But did that justify the fact that we would go our separate ways? I confided in him about my wife, who was only just a girl I was seeing at the time, and he laughed in my face.

“You’re dating someone like her bro?” he said as he snickered, playing with his phone. “What do you mean? I think she’s cool,” I said. I felt a little hurt from his laughter, but I continued. “We had a huge argument last night but I can’t seem to shake it off.” “And what’d you fight about again?” he said, continuing to play with his phone. “She keeps bringing up her ex.” “And do you know why?” “Why?” “It’s because you’re his replacement, duh.” He put his phone down and looked me in the eyes. “Any girl who spends her time in the past is a lost cause.” “But I really like her and I want to work it out.” “How the fuck are you going to work out something that can’t even be touched? The past is the past, you’re chasing ghosts.” I thought for a moment. I had meditated on this question before my drive over to seeing him, and I responded with the answer I thought fit best. “By trying to influence the present.” Nino laughed out loud, clutching his stomach from the amount of noise he was making. “Dude,” he said, still laughing, “that’s the most retarded thing I’ve heard.” “I’m serious bro, I think she’s the one.” “You’re going to be unhappy if you try to stay with her, dude. Just break up” “I can’t do that. I don’t want to hurt her feelings.” I then whispered, almost so that he couldn’t hear me. “I don’t want to be alone anymore.” But my attempt to be quiet failed. Nino picked it up instantly, his body shifting into a more serious shape. He straightened his back, and crossed his arms. He sat there, thinking for a moment. Nino always had to sit in silence for a handful of minutes to say something that he wanted to say when it was serious. 

“If you let your fear of being alone get to you, then you’ll always be alone. Even if you had a thousand bitches in your arms, even if you could fuck all of them, you’ll still be alone.” “I don’t think you understand. Not a lot of women genuinely like me. I think she even loves me dude.” I pointed at myself. “And she likes, no, loves a loser like me? I feel like I need to see it through.” The air became light, the darkness of his room darker.

“I’m afraid I can’t be your friend if you stay with her bro.” Nino said. His face looked tense, almost as if there were words piling up in his mouth, almost ready for it to spill out violently.

“You’re joking, right?” “No, I’m serious Jun. You’re going to trap yourself and I don’t fuck with people like that.” “Dude, I just can’t leave her.” Nino shook his head, then stood up. “Get out, bro.” “What?” “Get the fuck out of my house.” He pointed at the door. “Bro?”

“You’re a fucking bum,” Nino said, his tone cold. “Didn’t know you would be one too. Can’t have you around me. Pick your shit up and leave.” I stood up silently. I gathered my jacket, and put on my shoes as his cold face stared at my every move, making sure that I did exactly what he told me to do. And as I walked out the door, I heard him snicker, and slam the door shut. I walked to my car, and turned around to see his house.

The birds flew above my head, the sound of their wings fluttering. I could feel their gaze at me as I was staring at the house, knowing that Nino was in there, probably laughing at me behind those closed doors. Maybe he was texting his friends, letting them know that he had just cut me off. I’m not sure. The train exited the tunnel and I could see my reflection in the window again. Ten years. And all it took was one conversation for us to never become friends anymore. It would be one more hour until I would reach the city he lived in.

[noorbu]

A Letter from the Heartland: Discovering Sichuan’s Hidden Tibetan Soul

My Dearest Friend,

I’m sitting by the window of my childhood home in Ruo’ergai, a cup of butter tea warming my hands, watching the first snowflakes of winter dance over the grasslands. The wind carries the faint sound of prayer wheels turning at the nearby monastery, a melody that has cradled my soul since I was a child. Today, I write to you not as a scholar or a tour guide, but as a daughter of this land—a place where Tibetan culture thrives in harmony with rivers, mountains, and skies that stretch into eternity.

When I left Sichuan to study abroad, I quickly realized how little the world knows of our corner of Tibet. To many, “Tibetan culture” conjures images of Lhasa or the Himalayas, but here in Sichuan’s Ruo’ergai County, the heartbeat of Tibetan life pulses just as strongly, woven into the fabric of daily rituals, festivals, and the very soil beneath our feet. Through Noorbu.com, I hope to share this hidden gem—a land where prayer flags flutter beside winding rivers, where elders recite Gesar epics by firelight, and where the scent of roasted barley lingers in the air like a love letter to tradition.

Let me take you home with me, through memories and moments that define what it means to grow up Tibetan in Sichuan.

Chapter 1: The Rhythm of Our Days

My earliest memories are steeped in the rhythms of Tibetan life. Each morning, my mother would rise before dawn to churn butter tea, its salty aroma mingling with the smoke from our hearth. My father, a herder, would sing to our yaks as he led them to pasture—a deep, resonant tune that seemed to echo the mountains themselves.

One ritual I cherish most is the making of tsampa. As a child, I’d sit cross-legged on the floor, grinding roasted barley in a wooden dongmo (mortar), while my grandmother told stories of Snow Lion Mountain, a local legend about a guardian spirit disguised as a peak. “The mountain watches over us,” she’d say, pressing a pinch of tsampa into my palm. “Eat this, and you’ll carry its strength.” To this day, the taste of tsampa—earthy and slightly sweet—transports me back to those mornings, where time moved at the pace of falling snow.

But our culture isn’t confined to homes. It spills into the streets during festivals like Losar (Tibetan New Year), when the entire village becomes a canvas of color. Women don chubas embroidered with coral and turquoise, their sleeves swirling like storm clouds during the Gorshey dance. Men compete in archery contests, their bows strung with yak sinew, while children scramble for khapse (fried cookies) shaped like crescent moons. Last year, a tourist asked me, “Why do you celebrate so loudly?” I laughed. “Because joy, like prayer, needs to reach the gods.”

Chapter 2: The Land That Shapes Us

Ruo’ergai is more than a backdrop—it’s a living ancestor. The Yellow River, which carves a golden path through our grasslands, is called Ma Chu (Mother River) here. Every summer, my family would pilgrimage to First Bend of the Yellow River, where the water turns back on itself like a lover reluctant to leave. My father taught me to read the river’s moods: “When it glows turquoise at dawn, the gods are pleased. When it roars brown, they’re arguing.”

Then there’s Huahu Lake, a mirror of the sky where flocks of black-necked cranes—sacred birds in our folklore—nest each spring. I once asked my uncle why we never fish there. “The lake is a monastery,” he replied. “Would you disturb a monk at prayer?” Even the wolves, recently spotted roaming near Haqu Lake, are respected as guardians of balance, their howls a reminder that nature writes its own laws.

But the soul of Ruo’ergai lies in its peatlands—a vast, spongy tapestry that has stored carbon for millennia. As children, we’d sink our hands into the damp earth, marveling at its warmth even in winter. “This is the breath of our ancestors,” my grandfather would say. Today, scientists call it a “carbon sink.” We call it life.

Chapter 3: Hands That Weave Tradition

Tibetan culture isn’t just lived—it’s crafted. I grew up watching Aunt Yangchen spin yak wool into thread, her fingers flying as she hummed songs about nomadic heroes. “Every knot holds a story,” she’d say, weaving patterns of eternal knots into rugs destined for newlyweds. Those rugs, now sold through Noorbu.com, carry blessings for longevity and unity.

Then there’s Tibetan papermaking, an art I learned from Old Tashi, a monk whose hands were maps of wrinkles. We’d gather wolfgrass roots in autumn, boil them with ash, and pound the fibers until they sang. “Paper is memory,” Tashi told me as we stretched the pulp over wooden frames. “Without it, our prayers would scatter like dust.” Today, his paper cradles sacred texts in monasteries across Sichuan.

But nothing compares to the thangka paintings in our local temple. As a girl, I’d sneak into the studio to watch artists grind malachite into emerald greens or mix gold dust with glue. Once, I spilled a drop of saffron ink—a sin that cost me three days of scrubbing floors! Yet the monk-artist forgave me, saying, “Mistakes are just prayers in disguise.”

Chapter 4: When the Plateau Dances

To know Ruo’ergai is to dance with it. Every July, the Yardung Festival transforms our grasslands into a carnival. Nomads arrive on horseback, their saddles clinking with silver bells, to compete in races where riders stand upright on galloping steeds—a feat that left a French tourist gaping, “It’s like ballet at full speed!”

But the true magic happens at dusk, when hundreds gather for Guozhuang, the circle dance. As a teenager, I’d blush when boys from neighboring villages joined our line, their boots stomping in rhythm. “Lift your sleeves higher!” my mother would chide. “A stiff arm scares away luck!” Now, tourists timidly mimic our steps, their laughter blending with the drone of dranyen lutes. One visitor confessed, “I’ve danced in Paris clubs, but this… this feels like coming home.”

Even our winters pulse with life. During Losar, families build Lungta (wind horses) from barley dough, their manes flecked with turmeric. We’d climb hills to release them, racing to see whose horse flew farthest. Mine always tumbled into snowdrifts—proof, my brother teased, that “even the wind knows you’re clumsy!”

Chapter 5: A Table Set with Stories

Food here is communion. Take yak meat—a staple that fueled my childhood adventures. My mother’s stew, simmered with wild onions and cordyceps, was said to cure everything from frostbite to broken hearts. “Yaks eat herbs we can’t pronounce,” she’d wink. “That’s why their meat’s wiser than pork!”

Then there’s butter tea, a brew so thick it could anchor a ship. I’ll never forget my college roommate’s face after her first sip. “It’s… salty?” she gasped. “Exactly!” I grinned. “Like the tears of a happy mountain.”

But the greatest feast is Guthuk, served on New Year’s Eve. We’d hide dumplings stuffed with wool (for kindness), coins (for wealth), or—my favorite—chilies (for spice in life). The year my city-bred cousin bit into a chili, his flailing dance brought down a curtain rod! Yet as we swept up the debris, Grandma mused, “A home without laughter is just a house.”

Why Noorbu Exists

Years ago, in Singapore at a café, a classmate asked, “Do Tibetans in Sichuan even have their own culture?” Her question struck like a winter gust. How could I explain that our culture isn’t a relic but a living breath—one that adapts without fading? That same week, I sketched Noorbu’s first logo on a napkin: a eternal knot embracing a snow-capped peak.

Through Noorbu.com, I invite you to experience Sichuan’s Tibet not as a postcard, but as a heartbeat. The yak wool shawls in our store? Woven by Aunt Yangchen, who still sings to her loom. The hand-painted thangkas? Created by monks who mix pigments with devotion. Each piece is a thread connecting you to our highland home.

Come. Ride with us during Yardung, taste butter tea at a herder’s tent, or simply sit by Huahu Lake as cranes trace hieroglyphs in the sky. Let Ruo’ergai remind you that culture isn’t confined by borders—it’s carried in the stories we share, the crafts we cherish, and the land we call mother.

With warmth from the Tibetan plateau, Pema བདྨ

Visit Noorbu.com to carry a piece of the plateau into your world.