#like it's just another Tuesday for her to get got by this living piece of clothing. she even finds it entertaining if not a little annoying

[angelbitezzz]

Okay here's the rest of that doodle page lol (crops under the cut)

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[hrtsdevils]

dog-eared. | jh86

summary reader and jack broke up before he was drafted to the nhl. after years of watching from afar, jack finally sees y/n in person. past feelings are brought up to the surface.

pairing jack hughes x fem!reader

wc 2.6k

an my lovers… also another gracie fc sorry idk what to tell you! also for the sake of the plot pretend that the devils play the ducks on tuesday instead of vancouver thanks!!! loosely based off of everywhere everything by noah kahan ft gracie abrams

It had been years since you’d seen Jack. You broke up right before he started his NHL career as it seemed like your plans didn’t align. You’d be going to college in California, as USC had been your dream school your whole life. You dreamed of living somewhere where it was sunny and it was never freezing, unlike the weather in your hometown of Toronto. He dreamed of making it big in the professional league, which he was so close to achieving already.

The breakup between you two was mostly mutual. It happened in your 2005 Honda Civic, in the parking lot of a gas station after you had gone to buy soft drinks. The two of you could feel the breakup impending, and it felt as if the weather channel told you a meteor would be hitting Earth within minutes. As if the sun was about to collapse. The silence was deafening as you started your car, putting your drink in the cup holder. He followed suit.

“I..” He started before you cut him off.

“You think we need to break up?” You asked, giving him a soft smile. It wasn’t genuine, it was quite the opposite. You just didn’t want him to feel guilty, you thought it was the right thing as well.

He nodded softly, “I just think we’re on two separate paths… you know?”

“Yeah, I get it.” Your hands tensed under your thighs, as you were using them as hand warmers. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Buttons.” That had been his nickname for you since the 8th grade. You had a perfect little button nose, and it quickly caught on and everybody would use it for you as well.

The drive back to his parents’ house was in silence, as neither of you had much to say to each other. In about ten minutes, you were parked in front of his house. “You’re still going to come to my birthday party, right?” You asked. You were turning eighteen in a few weeks, June 7th.

“Yeah, I will.” He smiled sadly, “It’s not over. We’re just separating until we get brought back together.”

You huffed, “When’s that? Whenever fate decides?”

“Precisely. Call it a dog ear.. you like to read, right?”

“Yeah, I would never doggy ear my books though.” You giggled, “Bye, Jacky.”

That was the last you talked formally. He never did come to your party, texting you an excuse about how he had a training camp that day. You didn’t believe it, but you never said anything about it. It had been years, you watched him succeed from your dorm room and then to your small apartment couch. Your roommates never understood your love for the sport, but you always attributed it to being from up north.

That was a reason, but not the only one.

Every year you anticipated the Devils coming down to Anaheim to play the Ducks. That was practically the only time you watched Jack in person. You were particularly excited this year, as his little brother Luke would be playing too. You adored Luke, he was so sweet and well-mannered, especially to you. Trevor would also be there. He wouldn’t be playing as he was injured, but you’d caught him after a few games to catch up and he was your little piece of Michigan in California.

It was a Friday game, which met that the tickets were slightly higher and there were fewer of them. You finally got your good friend, Cecilia, to agree to go with you. She was familiar with your love of hockey, and she knew you went to a lot of games. She didn’t know you knew two players on the ice, and two players up in the press box. As you were buying your tickets with her, you got a text from Trevor.

trevor zegras 🐣 : hey buttons r u coming to the game? idk cause jacks playing

You hastily replied, trying to shield your phone from Cece in the most subtle way possible.

y/n buttons : yeahhhh i was jst about to buy my tickets bahaha

trevor zegras 🐣 : don’t buy them ❌❌ i have a club ticket right above the benches if u want it

y/n buttons : usually yes i’d love to but i’m bringing my friend cece

trevor zegras 🐣 : i have 2! i’ll send em to u later

y/n buttons : thanks trev i appreciate u ☺️

You put your phone down and closed your laptop. Cece was a couple feet away on hers, but looked at you when your laptop snapped shut. “Did you buy them?” She questioned, scooting closer to you. You shook your head.

“Kind of? Well, one of my friends is on the team and he’s injured, he offered us seats right behind the bench.”

Her jaw fell slightly, “You never told me you had connections!”

You smiled, “I don’t really, I usually buy my tickets. This was a first time thing, I think he might be drunk.” You tried to explain it in the least suspicious way possible. You didn’t want to seem boastful, but an explaination had to come from somewhere.

You two discussed the arrangements for a couple minutes longer. From outfits to hair to transportation, you were more excited for this game than you had been for any others. Maybe it was because it was Jack’s team, or maybe it was because someone finally seemed to share your admiration for the sport.

Who knows, it was probably the latter.

The day came quick, as it was only a day or two out from your initial conversation. The tickets usually dropped in price right before the game, but luckily you didn’t have to spend the money on it regardless. You lended Cece a Zegras jersey that he got you, while you chose to wear an unnamed 30th anniversary jersey. You still had a few hoodies with Jack’s last name on the back, from his time with USNDTP, but you wouldn’t be wearing those tonight.

You arrived shortly before warm-ups, but when you looked at your section and seat numbers you realized Trevor wasn’t lying about you being right behind the bench. He just never mentioned that it was the away bench. You watched from your seat as the boys entered from the tunnel. They weren’t facing you, but you watched to make sure they didn’t turn around at least not now.

You managed to go a little while without being seen by Luke or Jack, that was until Cecelia got extremely into the game. The Devils had a goal in the late first period, opening up the scoring. Luke was sitting on the bench about a foot to the left of Cece, and once they scored she started banging on the glass.

As he stood up to cheer, he turned around due to the banging. The first thing he did was make eye contact with you. His eyebrows raised, and he blinked as if you’d disappear when his eyes opened. He didn’t say anything as you tried to avoid his gaze, and simply turned back around.

The game continued on, and you didn’t see him say anything to Jack. Soon enough, it was intermission and you felt safer. Like eyes weren’t on you anymore, even though they never were. It went by fairly quickly as the two of you watched the silly halftime games that usually were played by young children. As soon as the Devils came back through the tunnel, Jack turned around and looked at you. He kept sneaking glances as they warmed up again before the start of the second.

The rest of the game wasn’t as fun, as the brunette kept staring at you. As if you couldn’t go to hockey games, his hockey games. As if he couldn’t help looking at you. As if he missed you.

It didn’t help that Cece kept shouting at you, telling you that the cute one kept staring at you and that he wanted you. You knew her best interest was at heart, but she had no idea the magnitude of your situation with said cute one. You entertained her teasing of you, and how she kept pointing at you everytime Jack glanced your way.

By the end of the game you were over it. You wanted to escape and go home before the off chance that you ran into Jack actually happened. It was relieving when you got into the car, but startling when your phone lit up with a single message from Jack. Cece was giggling to herself, looking up one of the cute guys she saw on Instagram. She was oblivious to the situation

jack hughes : hi why were u there

You tried to think of an excuse, but eventually you realized it wouldn’t matter if you told the truth or not.

buttons 🩷 : because i was given tix my trevor.. and i go to a lot of ducks games

jack hughes : oh no other reason?

buttons 🩷 : u think i went for u?

jack hughes : maybe a little. sorry for bothering u buttons.

buttons 🩷 : don’t be sorry. how long are you in anaheim?

jack hughes : tonight n then flying up to seattle

buttons 🩷 : where r u staying?

It was a twenty minute drive back up to your apartment, but with your speeding it was around seventeen. Cece didn’t question your urgency as you dropped her off at your shared apartment, and left immediately after. She was a little bit tipsy. As you drove to the Marriott in Anaheim, you thought about what you were doing.

Throwing away years of peace for the same boy who disrupted it all those years ago. If you started to have feelings for him again, who knows how much you life could be uprooted? Everything could be ruined. All the progress and the getting over Jack. Your Jack. You knew you were risking your own personal journey by going to see him, but at this point you didn’t care.

The hotel receptionist was reluctant to let you up, as she knew who was staying there. The skepticism on her face was present from the very moment you walked in.

“Look, I know him and I know his room number, so can you just let me go up?” You pleaded with hed. Going to a room usually wasn’t necessarily an issue, the issue here was that a sports team was staying. She might’ve thought you were a crazy stalker fan.

As she was about to answer, Jack exited the elevator and spotted you talking to the receptionist. “She’s with me.” He told her, as he walked up to the desk. “Thanks, though.” You had texted him a minute prior about the receptionist, but you didn’t expect him to rush down.

“Hi.” You breathed as you made your way toward the elevator, “How’ve you been?”

“I’ve been good.” He stopped before the elevator, “Would you rather go for a drive? I’m sharing a room with Luke.”

Your story paused in a car, so you were unsure how this would turn out. Maybe it will be different this time. “Sure.” You replied softly.

You two walked to your car in silence. You were about to get in the driver’s seat, but he insisted on driving. “You should drive slow around here, there’s a bunch of cops at night because of drunk college students.” You chuckled, “I’ll tell you when you can speed.”

You buckled up, and he started your car. It was an upgrade from your Honda, being a more recent model of a Nissan. “So, why’d you come to the game?” He asked as he pulled out of the hotel’s parking lot.

“I go to a lot of Duck’s games. Trevor plays, of course I go watch him.” You started, “He offered me club tickets, and I figured they were behind his bench. They weren’t, obviously.”

“So you didn’t go for me?” He questioned once again, “I don’t believe that, Buttons.”

You rolled your eyes, “I kind of did. I’ve been while you were playing for the last three years, but I still like hockey in general.”

“I’ll believe that.” The silence sat for a little while as he drove 25 down the city roads, the radio wasn’t even playing. “Do you think we could’ve done long distance?”

You shook your head, “No, not then at least. That’s why we broke it off. Maybe now.” You said the last part quieter, just enough so that if he wasn’t paying attention he wouldn’t have heard it.

But of course he was paying attention. You were his everything before, and possibly even now.

“Now?” He questioned, “What do you mean by that?”

“When we broke up, you said our page was dog-eared. Bookmarked. It was more like a pause until we were ready and mature, or at least that’s how I took it.”

He smiled, “I remember that. Do you think we’re ready and mature?”

You shrugged, looking at him. “Maybe, just this semester and then I’m done. I chose to graduate a semester early. I could move back east, we could be closer. Even without I think we’d be mature enough for long distance.”

The chances of this moment happening just weeks before you graduated was an alignment of the stars in itself. This could be everything you wanted, without disrupting your peace.

“If you need a place to stay, you can always stay with me and Luke.” He offered, “To get on your feet, if you come back.”

“Maybe.” You hummed. His hand was resting on the gear shift, even though it was an automatic. You made a move to lay your hand on top of his, squeezing it gently.

It was a soft step in the right direction. A step to getting the love of your life back, which is what you’d wanted since the minute you broke it off. It’s been a long three years without him, he was your best friend and you intended to make up for the lost time soon enough. You wouldn’t bring up how he never contacted you either, because it was far in the past. You were both kids at the time and you can’t hold a grudge about that.

As he re-entered the hotel parking lot, you smiled at him. Your hands were now intertwined on top of the cup holder region, and you never wanted to let go. His hand was more rugged than before, matured and weathered, but it was still a comfort you had missed. He dropped it to shift the car into park.

“So, I’ll see you soon then?” He asked, as you got ready to get out. 45 minutes had passed between getting into the car and now. You conversed about your current life and your future. Your future together.

You nodded, “Yeah, hopefully. Keep in touch, okay? No ghosting me.” You stepped out of the car and walked around to the driver's side as he got out as well.

The two of you shared a hug, but exchanged little words. You could hear the cars around you, and the sounds of the city were still alive. “Bye, Jack.” You released him from your embrace.

“Bye, Buttons.” He smiled, “I’ll text you.” He turned around and walked back to the hotel as you watched, a smile gracing your features as well.

You’d love him forever, whether you got back together or not. You believed he felt the same. You were glad that Trevor had known about the seating on the tickets, and made sure they got to you. You were also glad Luke saw and recognized you. You were excited to see him. The end was over, and the new start was just beginning.

[natasha-in-space]

Every so often, I can't help but think about all the dirty jobs Saeyoung had to do during his time as an agent. I'm not talking about the usual digital crime stuff he feels comfortable enough to mention openly. I'm talking of those missions he'd rather just shut up and never speak a word about. What about all the missions that went wrong for him, back when he was still young and inexperienced?

The fact that he has blood on his hands is apparent to us. But, do you ever think about whether or not he was forced to kill an innocent? Be it by some cruel accident or by direct order from the higher ups he had no choice but to obey? Have you ever thought of him having to make a quick elimination on yet another corrupt member of society, only to realize that his family, who has nothing to do with this, had seen him?

Have you ever thought about him doing everything he can to fix this: coming up with shaky lies on the spot, attempting to fabricate evidence, eventually resorting to pitiful begging that goes nowhere. But there should not be any witnesses. It's too late to turn back now. He got sloppy. His DNA is already on the scene of the crime. If he refuses, he not only puts his own safety at risk, but these people will get eliminated regardless. The least he can do is make it quick and painless. Have you ever thought of him still having to come back to his sad parody of a home and pretend like everything is fine? Like this was just another Tuesday, and not one of the most sickening things he had to do and witness?

Have you imagined him sitting down, staring at his bloodied hands with a blank and glassy look to his eyes, his weapon still in his grasp, and his ears ringing from every shot he has fired? Have you ever thought of him feeling so utterly disgusted and ashamed of himself that it almost seems like the silver cross on his neck that has always brought him a sense of security, is burning through his clothes and straight into his flesh? He won't take it off, no matter how heavy it feels. He wears it as a constant reminder of the sins these hands have committed. He knows that God has seen it all. He knows that, much like Lucifer, he will never be allowed to step foot over the Heaven's Gates. His soul is too sullied. Too dirty. Too sinful.

I feel like these are the days when he goes complete MIA. He tells everyone in the RFA later that he just slept through these few days.

He maintains contact with V, just in case. But, really, he spends these few days just... in a daze. Luciel has no remorse for selling his entire life away to guarantee his brother's happiness. He does not regret sullying his hands in the darkest sins this world had to offer, if only it means that Saeran's hands will get to do all the good things he has always dreamed about. He does not regret forsaking his own childhood, because he never thought of himself as a child in the first place.

But, in these moments... as the events of what he has done continue to unfold in his head over and over again, like he never even left, he feels it. Regret. Guilt. Disgust.

Luciel harbors a deep hatred towards his parents. He hates his joke of a mother, who has brought nothing but endless torment on her own children for ruining the life she foolishly destroyed all by herself, something he despises with all his heart. He hates his father for forcing them to live in constant fear and paranoia, just for the unforgivable crime of being born into this world. He hates every bystander who has done nothing to correct such an unfair act of pure cruelty unfolding right in front of their eyes.

But, as his vacant gaze keep drifting back to the equipment he has stashed away in one of his many drawers, a grim thought claws at his insides, tearing him apart piece by piece like a vicious parasite feeding on his flesh: is he... really that different from them?

Vanderwood ends up being the one find him, slouched in his seat, his hands still caked and crusty with blood. They just sigh, already knowing what happened. It's something they all had to go through. They just sit next to him, letting the younger agent know he's not alone. And, once Luciel's shoulders start to shake with choked, painful sobs, they don't say a word. They just let him break down into their arms.

It's one of the rarer moments of tenderness between the two.

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Cause You Had Nothing Better to Do (AO3)

Carol Perkins/Barbara Holland || ~10k, complete || Part of the Steddie Upside-Down AU, but can be read as a stand-alone with some background info: Barb never died, Steve gets possessed by the Mindflayer instead of Will. || hut/comfort || Angst and Fluff and Smut || developing relationship || getting together || falling in love || mutual pining || porn with plot || smut || fingerfucking || frottage

Smut begins 6k in, the beginning and end is outlined with red asterisks (***), for skipping purposes.

I get this ache - and I, I thought it was for sex, but it's to tear everything to fucking pieces. -Ginger Snaps, 2000

***

There’s a fucking bat full of nails clutched between her palms and Carol Perkins swears she just coughed her entire fucking heart up onto the broken down bus Barb had just ditched her on. Barb’s shoulders have always been broad, jaw firm, eyes flinty, but Carol’s pretty sure there’s a fucking monster out there, and all the other girl’s got is an abandoned tire iron. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” Dustin mutters under his breath where he’s hunkered down beside her, staring out the window with wide, adoring eyes as a high school junior walks out to face death like it’s any other Tuesday.

“She’s insane,” Max whispers, but even her usual bitchiness is tinged with a level of hero worship that Carol cannot live with.

These are all fucking kids, and she’s what, four inches taller than the shortest of them? How is she supposed to protect any of them no matter what deadly, suspiciously blood-splattered weapon Barb pushes into her hands?

“She’s awesome,” Dustin says, grinning gummily like this is cool to him.

“She’s going to die,” Carol hisses, unimpressed by how shrill her voice comes out. If she’d known letting this little twerp get into her car would lead to this, she might’ve shoved him out on his ass.

The thought’s punctuated by the meaty thwack of Barb’s crowbar connecting with something Carol’s pretty sure isn’t the dog Little Red’s been insisting it must be. Then, Lucas shouts out, “another one, two o’clock!” from his vantage point out the top of the bus, and there’s another one. 

“She’s going to die,” Carol says again, despairing, even as she tightens her fingers around the baseball bat, takes a deep breath, and heads toward the door. “Don’t leave the bus.”

“What are you doing?” Wheeler whines, but she doesn’t care. The kid’s a twerp, and besides, there’s something three seconds away from leaping at Barb’s back.

The door squeaks as she wrenches it open, loose on hinges that haven’t been oiled in years. She wastes precious seconds yanking it closed behind her, and for what? The flimsy piece of metal and glass isn’t keeping anything out. But Barb had told her to watch the kids, and she’s abandoning her post. So, she closes the door and prays to a god that’s never called her back that the piece of shit holds.

“Behind you!” Carol calls, and Barb turns, crowbar arching with her momentum and smacking the thing directly in its horrible face.

The first one’s still circling Barb like a vulture, though, so Carol runs and stands at her back, covering all sides.

“What the hell are you doing?” Barb spits, but she backs up a step until she’s pressed against Carol.

She’s short enough that her head hits the solid plane of Barb’s back, and she feels small, suddenly inadequate in her body, and she hates it.

“Saving your ass?” Carol says, voice cracking as she finally gets a clear look at the thing that’s definitely not a dog.

Its paws are all messed up, like human fingers that never quite grew all the way, and it’s naked and hairless, glistening in a way she hasn’t seen outside of plucked chickens at the grocery store. Its mouth’s a furled pucker, almost funny to look at until the thing opens up to shriek in her face and she catches sight of what looks like hundreds of canine teeth, each pointing directly at her.

Carol can feel her mouth moving, but she can’t hear her own voice past its shrieking, can’t parse her thoughts as she clenches the bat and swings with all her might into its gaping maw.

The hit of the bat doesn’t seem to do much, but then the nails get stuck in the fleshy bits of its mouth between all those teeth, and when she yanks it free, the thing yowls and skitters back on its impossible legs.

Something black and oozing splatters across her, obscuring her vision until she reaches blindly up to her face and rubs it off with the sleeve of her cardigan. It’s viscous and sticky against her skin, and even as she keeps her bat raised, she shudders at the feel of it dripping off her hair and beneath the collar of her shirt.

She doesn’t notice she’s lost track of Barb until the other girl’s back slams into her hard enough that she barely locks her knees in time to stay on her feet. They press against each other, Barb’s warmth the only thing shoring Carol up and keeping her on her feet as that thing starts scurrying back toward her, mouth open wide with an inhuman shriek.

She swings again wildly, missing entirely, but it still shuffles back a few feet at the remembered pain of nails rending flesh.

Both the things circle them now, hemming them in. Carol matches Barb step for step as they spin in tandem, trying to keep each in their line of sight. Carol’s arms feel like leaden weights as she holds the bat upright, trying to mimic Tommy’s stance during his brief stint as a baseball benchwarmer.

“We’re fucked,” Barb mutters, and Carol finds herself inexplicably laughing as she keeps her eyes trained on the thing’s absence of eyes.

“Always thought it’d be Steve at my back when I died,” Carol says, grin more a baring of teeth than a smile.

“I thought it’d be Nancy,” Barb replies, voice strained.

Carol wants to turn and see the expression on her face. She knows the way Barb’s eyes go flinty and hard when she’s insulted, or the way she smiles when Munson says something endearingly stupid. She wants to know what her mouth looks like when she’s facing death down.

But they’re still circling, a dance where if even one of them falters, they both go down, one after another. So, she keeps staring down her prey, and when one lunges, she swings.

Her shoulder’s wrenched with the swing, but when she pulls the nails free from its flesh, the circle’s bigger now, those things giving her and her bat a wider berth.

“I’m not so bad though, huh?” Carol asks, and she’s still smiling, not-blood splattered against her teeth. She licks it off without thinking and gags at the taste—seaweed gone off.

Barb snorts. “Speak for yourself,” she replies, back pressed once more against Carol’s. “You’re the worst person I know.”

Carol laughs, braying and sharp in the quiet of the junkyard. She opens her mouth to reply, but then Lucas shouts, “there’s another one, six o’clock!” and she screams instead, wordless and enraged.

They can’t take three of these things, can’t even really take two. So, when she feels Barb swing her crowbar, she swings her own bat, spins wildly, grabs Barb’s wrist and bolts toward the bus faster than she’s ever run in her life.

“Go, go, go!” Dustin’s shouting, door propped up and body half out the open door against all of her orders, as if his wild gesturing will somehow make them faster. “Come on!”

Carol shoves past where he’s partially obstructing the door, tripping to safety. She falls, knees hitting the metal floor of the bus hard enough that she can feel it in her jaw. She lets go of Barb’s wrist, but not quickly enough to stop the other girl’s downward momentum. Barb ends up sprawled along Carol’s back as Carol lays there stunned, the children scuttling around them to secure the now-closed door of the bus.

The not-blood’s cold enough that she can tell herself that’s why she’s shivering. Barb’s body heat against her back is almost shocking. She wants to sink into it and let this nightmare play out without her. But something connects with the bus hard enough to shake it, and Barb jerks her up, leaving her seasick on dry land.

Barb rushes to the door, and Carol watches, stock-still as it crumples like wet tissue paper against the thing’s claws. Barb beats the shit out of it, glistening with sweat as she raises her tire iron and brings it down, again, and again, and again.

The kids rush past her to huddle in the back, and Dustin’s got his stupid walkie-talkie out, his voice begs for assistance that they all know isn’t going to come in time. Carol shivers as he says, “we are going to die!” with a fierceness beyond his years.

Carol stands, an island in the middle of a horror movie, waiting to be eaten alive. The slut always goes first, and there’s been writing on the boy’s bathroom wall for years.

Barb will protect the kids. Carol can just stand there, waiting for the inevitable final breath to fill her lungs.

But then Little Red screams, and Carol’s bolting for the back of the bus without thought, bat raised high in her shaking arms. They rip the fucking emergency exit at the top of the bus wide open, and one of those things is slinking through, chittering brokenly.

It’s too far up for her to reach, but Carol swings anyway, violently back and forth like she’s got a torch and she’s trying to light the thing aflame. It shrieks, saliva dripping down onto her face. She screams back, loud enough that her vocal cords protest and crack. 

It closes its mouth and looms down at her, silent and menacing before turning its head like a dog scenting the air and disappearing from view entirely.

The bus is silent in its wake as they all stand, listening to the braying of these monstrous things grow farther and farther away.

Carol turns to Barb, a compass pointing true north. Barb’s already looking back. There’s black ooze splattered across her dorky glasses and the swell of her cheek, and she’s still clutching onto her crowbar, mouth a firm line.

Carol trembles beneath her gaze, a shiver running down her spine. The moment elongates, neither of them blinking. Like this, it’s just the two of them—no monsters, no children to protect, nothing but the absence of warmth where Barb’s back should be pressed up against hers.

She doesn’t want to take her eyes off Barb. It’s absurd; they’re not even friends, barely acquaintances, but it’s like the past however the fuck long its been with the other girl pressed up against her back has hollowed out a spot within her.

If she can see Barb, they’re both alive. If she can feel Barb, everything is fine.

“What happened?” Lucas asks, and his voice breaks up the quiet moment.

Barb looks away first, turning back to what’s left of the door to peer out into the junkyard. Carol watches, unmoored without Barb’s eyes on her, Barb’s back against hers, Barb’s skin beneath her fingers.

The door rattles as Barb swings it open. It clangs against the side of the bus with the momentum of her swing, hanging loosely by the one hinge it's still attached to.

From her vantage point, Carol can’t see past the broad plane of Barb’s back to what’s outside. She’s still got her crowbar in her hand, but she lets it hang loosely at her side as she leans out of the bus.

Dustin leans into her space, peering around her into the junkyard. “You guys scared them off,” he says, turning to smile up at Carol as if she’d done anything aside from scream and flail.

“As if,” Carol scoffs, rolling her eyes, but there’s a bubble of warmth unfurling in her chest as the kid just keeps smiling gummily at her.

“They all left at once,” Barb cuts in. She steps out of the bus, and Carol’s heartbeat kicks up as she loses sight of her entirely. Carol rushes after her, almost bowling Wheeler over in her haste to keep the other girl in her line of sight. Barb’s looking into the rapidly darkening forest. Carol can just barely hear the monstrous howls of those things, drifting toward them on the wind. “They’re going somewhere.”

And that’s how Carol ends up tromping along the woods with Barb, a gaggle of kids trailing behind them. For such obnoxious dweebs, they’re being shockingly quiet right now, their whispers barely carrying to her ears.

Barb’s not saying anything at all, but she’s using the tip of her crowbar to push branches out of their way, holding each one back long enough for Carol to clear the obstruction before letting it swing back, unimpeded.

“Can’t believe monsters were what you were all hiding from me,” Carol says, cutting through the suffocating silence. “I thought you were all fucking or something.”

Barb snorts and elbows Carol gently in the ribs before stepping back away, maintaining their carefully cultivated distance. “You really think it’s more likely that I’d willingly sleep with Steve Harrington than that there’s monsters?” She says it like it’s absurd. As if monsters with more teeth than hair hadn’t just tried to eat them.

“I don’t know,” Carol replies, biting her cheek against a laugh, "he did always have a thing for bitchy redheads.”

“Fuck off,” Barb replies, but she’s suppressing her own laugh now, Carol can tell.

Carol watches the way the edges of her lips tug up, like she can’t help herself. She’s so caught up in watching the other girl, that she doesn’t notice the root Barb had already stepped neatly over until her foot’s caught on it and she’s sent sprawling in the dirt.

The twerps all snicker, but Barb doubles back immediately and bends down toward her, hand outstretched. Carol takes it.

“You okay?” she asks. Barb’s hand engulfs hers, enclosing it entirely in her warm skin as she pulls Carol back to her feet. Carol stares up at her, breathless beneath the weight of her big, brown eyes. “Carol.”

Carol shudders, then nods, squeezing Barb’s hand, not looking away from her face.

“You’ve got a little…” Carol says, gesturing with her free hand to her own cheekbone. Barb lets go of her hand to swipe at her own cheek, missing the black ooze entirely. “Here, let me.”

Carol reaches across the space between them. Before she makes contact, Barb flinches, leaning away, so Carol pauses, hand hovering in the air between them. Only when Barb leans incrementally back toward her does Carol let her fingers settle against Barb’s cheek. Most of the stain brushes off, staining her fingers black, but there’s a cluster of stubborn, partially dried flakes still staining Barb’s pale cheek like invasive freckles.  

Carol smooths her fingers gently over them, reveling in the warmth of a living body beneath her hands. Barb shudders, so she does it again before pulling the sleeve of her cardigan down over her fingers to use its abrasive cuff to scrub the rest free.

“Thanks,” Barb murmurs, barely audible even in the quiet of the night. Carol pulls her gaze up from pinkening cheeks to meet Barb’s eyes, hand still raised to her cheek.

She gets lost in Barb’s brown eyes, watching, almost hypnotized as her pupils dart all over Carol’s face like she’s looking for something. Carol doesn’t know what it is but finds herself hoping she’ll find it there.

Barb leans closer, a blotchy red high on both of her cheekbones. Carol gasps, just once, entirely lost, but then Mike fucking Wheeler interrupts the moment with a whiny, “can we go?” and Barb immediately leans back, averting her gaze.

Barb turns around without a word and continues on. Carol’s at a standstill, hand still raised, cupping the air like she’s still holding Barb’s cheek in her palm, even as she watches the other girl’s back grow smaller in front of her.

“Hello?” and it’s Dustin this time, pushing at her back. “Let’s go!”

“Watch it,” Carol hisses but she follows Barb’s disappearing back further into the trees.

***

Things keep happening. Barb should be used to it by now, after last year’s Upside-Down debacle, but it’s worse this time. She’s somehow ended up in charge of Mike Wheeler and all his shithead friends.

Even with her brother in the thick of things, Nancy’s conspicuously absent. Jonathan, too. Last year had been bad. But she’d had backup, and a plan.

Now, she’s just stumbling around in the dark, Carol Perkins trailing behind her close enough that she keeps kicking her fucking heels every other step. Barb makes a valiant effort at being mad about it, but it all blusters out before she can get a real steam going.

Her cheek’s still warm where Carol had cupped it.

Barb clenches the tire iron more firmly in her hand and picks up the pace, Carol hot on her heels.

Any warmth flees the farther they walk in. The sound starts small, then grows the further in they go. Each step is a struggle. Nancy would investigate – she’d follow the sound to its source, no matter what it takes, all in the name of answers.

That’s what she’d done when Steve had been missing. But Steve’s back now, and Barb’s steps are faltering.

It’s like the Demogorgon all over again – these things’ shrill calls travel straight to her nervous system, sending signals to her feet to flee. Before she can, she’s breached the trees.

There’s a cliff face in front of her so she stops, holding her arm up to halt any of the kids before they go stumbling off the edge. 

It’s too dark to see much. Still, they all squint down, trying to catch sight of where the monstrous screeching is echoing up, ricocheting off the cliff’s face. Dustin whips out a flashlight, trying to shine it down to the ground, but the beam of light is swallowed up in the darkness, illuminating nothing but air.

“I don’t see anything,” Dustin says.

Barb rolls her eyes just as Carol says, “no shit.”

Lucas, inarguably the best of the bunch, lifts his binoculars from where he’d left them dangling from a string around his chest and squints through them.

“It’s the lab,” he says, leaning forward like that will somehow make him see more clearly. “They were going back home.”

“Let me see,” Barb demands, holding her hand out beckoningly toward him until he pulls the binoculars from around her neck and places them in her waiting palm without complaint.

She presses the eyepieces hard against her glasses, trying to get them close enough that her eyes focus. Once the image becomes clear, it takes her a minute of swinging them around until she focuses on the target.

She can’t see much past the fluorescence of their security lights, just the edge of a building ensconced in trees. But the sounds are converging on that point, and it sounds like a lot more than three of them.

“Shit,” Barb says, stunned into inaction.

What’s there to do? The place is going to be fucked, and they’ve got two close-range weapons between them.

But then Mike Wheeler peers around her and says, “isn’t Will in there?” in the smallest voice she’s ever heard.

Dustin swears and begins hailing another code red. Barb doesn’t turn away from the lab, afraid that if she turns her back, they’ll all converge on a different single point, and it’ll be them.

“I read you,” Will’s crackling voice comes through Dustin’s walkie talkie. “What’s the situation?”

The sound of fireworks cracking off one after another sounds in the distance. It takes her a moment to realize they’re gunshots. Then the screaming starts, barely audible from this distance. How could anyone be in there and not know the situation?

Is Steve in there with him?

Is Eddie?

“Demodogs are converging on the lab!” Dustin yells over the cacophony those things are making. Demodogs? Is that what they’re calling them? “I repeat, Demodogs are converging on the lab!”

“Hop’s at the lab!” Joyce’s voice comes through, just barely audible like she’s talking from far away.

Barb thinks she should care about the way Joyce’s voice cracks. Chief Hopper’s mostly a good guy who doesn’t deserve to be eaten by a Demodog. As if anyone does. But Joyce said he was at the lab, not we.

“There an adult with ya?” And that’s Uncle Wayne.

Barb sighs with relief, finally turning her back on the lab and shepherding the kids back the way they came, while they all squabble over the walkie talkie.

That’s Eddie and Steve accounted for. If they were in trouble, no way in hell would Wayne leave them alone.

They run to the car on Wayne’s orders, and Barb floors it to the Byers house, Carol in the passenger seat, the kids arguing in the back. Then she’s fighting the Demodogs again, this time with Wayne at her side, Carol hunched over her best friend.

Barb doesn’t feel safe again until the Demodogs are dead, and she’s hunkered down in the back of an unmarked van, Carol pressed tight against her side, like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.

The bat feels right in her hands, like it fits the grooves in her fingers perfectly, even after all this time without it.

She might never let it go again.

It’s a struggle not to get out of the van and beat Billy Hargrove’s face in with it, but Carol Perkins is rolling around on top of him, fists flying, and someone’s got to watch her best friend while she’s busy.

She keeps Steve behind her, bat raised in case that creep takes even one step toward them.

Her palms feel bare when Max snatches the bat out of her hands, wielding it against her own brother.

Things happen fast after that. The de-possession of Steve Harrington leaves her breathless and shaking in clothes soaked through. She huddles into the passenger seat of the van and watches Carol drive.

She’s not a good driver, a little too fast, taking curves too wide, but with her best friend passed out in the back seat, Barb can’t blame her. It’s not until they’re parked and climbing out that Carol whispers into her ear, “I don’t have my license.”

Barb’s laugh is too loud, undercutting the somber mood surrounding them. Carol nudges into Barb’s side, looking pleased enough that she kind of wants to strangle her.

They’re separated once they reach the hospital. Barb endures the doctor’s examination with as much grace as possible, staring at the closed door of her exam room as they bandage her minor scrapes.

Carol had been much worse—a bruise already swelling up the side of her face, cuts on her palms, god knows what else hiding beneath her clothes.

It doesn’t take long for them to set her loose. She peeks through the open door of Steve’s hospital room, but Carol’s not there, it’s just Ms. Byers and Will sitting dociley at Steve’s side as he slumbers on.

Placing her vulnerable back to the wall, Barb drops to the cold linoleum outside his door to wait. Her head tips back, eyes closed as she listens to Will and Ms. Byers quiet voices.

Something nudges Barb’s leg, and her eyes shoot open. Carol’s peering down at her, the toe of her shoe pushed up against Barb’s thigh. The palm of one of her hands is wrapped in white gauze, and there’s something shiny lathered across her swelling cheek.

She’s still covered in Demodog blood and dirt. Barb doubts she looks much better.

“What are you doing?” Barb asks.

Carol snorts. “What am I doing? You’re the one on the floor.”

She holds out her hand, palm open and beckoning. Barb takes it without thought. Carol attempts to pull her up, almost going down herself until Barb raises to her knees by her own power.

Once she’s up, Carol doesn’t immediately let go. Barb trails fingers soothingly over the gauze on her palm as Carol peers into Steve’s hospital room.

“Have you heard anything?” Carol asks.

Barb shakes her head before realizing Carol isn’t looking at her. “No.” They both stand there for a moment, staring at Steve Harrington’s sleeping form, hand in hand. “We should go home.”

Carol whips her head around, a mean snarl on her face. She looks half-feral, cardigan ripped and stained, hair plastered to the side of her head, the only clean thing on her the pristine white of the gauze on her hand. “What?”

Barb squeezes her hand, resisting the urge to shush her like she’s a spooked horse. “We need to rest—”

“But—”

“—and Eddie’s not going to leave,” Barb continues, talking right over her, “so someone needs to be ready to relieve him when he drops.”

Carol continues glaring for a second before rolling her eyes with a muttered, “boys.”

Barb’s hand itches to reach out when Carol drops her hand. She doesn’t, just takes two quick strides to catch up with Carol as she starts off down the hallway without a word.

“Wanna call your parents?” Carol asks. “We’ll need a ride.”

Barb grimaces. Her Mom will be worried by now, and it’ll only get worse if she strolls in covered in dirt and unexplainable grime. She’s not ready to face her suffocating care.

“Think I’d rather walk,” Barb mutters.

Carol’s lips quirk up, and she grabs Barb’s wrist, fingers like a brand on her skin as she pulls her along. “Come on.”

She’s pulled to the van where they’d abandoned it in the parking lot. She doesn’t protest when Carol pushes her into the passenger seat. 

“I thought you didn’t have a license,” she says, already buckling her seatbelt. 

Carol does something Barb can’t quite grasp to the dangling wires of the van, and the engine sparks back into life. She looks back to Barb with a wild grin, not bothering with her own seatbelt before backing out of the space and peeling out of the parking lot. 

“I think we’ll have bigger legality issues if we get pulled over.”

Barb hums, watching the trees and houses blur past. They’re not going in the direction of her house. She can’t bring herself to care. Just the thought of walking through her front door makes her shudder. Wherever Carol brings them, it’s bound to be more peaceful. 

“We could’ve walked,” Barb replies, not looking away from the window.

“You would’ve dropped.” 

She’s probably right. Even seated, Barb’s legs feel shaky with fatigue, and the bumps and bruises on her body ache with every movement. Barb sighs, slumping further into her seat as the miles pass by. 

Carol pulls into the driveway of an unfamiliar house. They both sit, staring up at it for an endless moment before Carol pulls at the dangling wires and the engine cuts out, leaving potent silence in its wake. 

She shuffles into the back to grab the bat from where Max had abandoned it after whatever the hell they’d done when they’d taken the van for a joyride. 

“Come on,” Carol orders before jumping out of the van and jogging up to the front door with energy Barb can’t understand.

Barb follows Carol inside. 

***

Carol closes the front door behind them both. She pushes her face against the closed door, sighing as the silence of her vacant house falls over them both.

“Carol?”

She lets herself droop against the door for a second more, tired beyond what words can convey, before dropping the bat beside it like a discarded umbrella. It thunks ominously against the hardwood. She hopes the wood scars.

When she levers herself back fully upright and turns to face her guest, Barb looks just as exhausted, the drooping of her eyes amplified by the round lenses of her glasses. They’re covered in mud and blood, both red and black, so Carol turns without a word and leads the way toward the bathroom. 

When she opens the door, her Mom’s clothes are discarded on the floor, and there’s remnants of make-up all over the sink. Carol looks down at the proof of her Mother’s existence and feels nothing at all. She bends down to grab a clean towel from beneath the cupboard and places it into Barb’s waiting arms.

“I’ll get you some clothes,” Carol says quietly, shuffling past Barb and closing the bathroom door behind her.

The separation cuts, so she hurries into her bedroom to rummage through her dresser for something suitable to wear. Barb’s bigger than her, both tall and broad, so she digs through her drawer until she finds a sufficiently oversized shirt and a pair of Steve’s sweatpants.

She stares down at the bundle of clothes for a moment before pulling out a cozy pair of socks as well.

The bathroom’s unlocked when she makes it back, shower already running, so she opens the door and puts the pile of clothes on the toilet. But when she turns back to the door, she can’t bring herself to leave.

She closes the door and jumps up onto the counter to wait.

Barb’s glasses are abandoned beside the sink. Carol picks them up gently, holding them up to her eyes to peer through. Barb’s eyesight must be atrocious, because even looking through them for a moment leaves her queasy.

Without getting off the counter, she turns sideways on her perch to run them under warm water. When the stubborn black stains persist, she uses her fingers to gently smooth hand soap over the spots. They slowly disintegrate under her ministrations, leaving black drips in the basin of the sink.

Carol turns off the water and wipes them dry on the cleanest part of her shirt.

That done, she stares at the closed curtain, waiting for Barb to emerge so she can have her turn.

It doesn’t take long before the shower shuts off entirely, bathroom quiet aside from the dripping of the leaky showerhead. Barb must know she’s in here because her hand reaches out to snag her towel from the rack without pulling back the curtain, and when she finally opens it, the towel’s wrapped securely around her body.

She’s still dripping, hair a curly wet mess atop her head.

Carol gazes at her, transfixed. Barb tends toward long-sleeved shirts and full pants, so the freckles are a surprise. They travel down her shoulders, fading until they disappear entirely beneath the towel. Her skin’s pale aside from the mottled bruises on her knees, and she’s full of soft, rounded curves.

Carol’s fingers twitch against the porcelain lip of the counter as she stares thoughtlessly at the sliver of Barb’s thigh that shows in the gap where the drapery of the towel doesn’t quite close.

Barb clears her throat, and Carol raises her eyes back up to her face. She looks strange without her glasses, eyes somehow smaller in her skull. “I brought you clothes,” Carol says, not looking away from her.

Barb’s eyes flit around the bathroom until they catch on the clothes folded neatly on the closed toilet lid. She nods, stepping carefully over the lip of the tub, now dripping on the linoleum of the bathroom floor.

Now that the shower’s free, Carol’s skin damn near itches with grime. She slips off the counter and slides past Barb, her shoulder brushing Barb’s arm. She hopes none of the filth on her body transfers to Barb’s clean skin.

Carol slides the curtain closed before stepping out of her clothes and tossing them onto the floor, piled atop Barb’s own discarded attire. She stands there, naked and chilled straight through, listening to the sounds of Barb shuffling into clothing Carol hopes will fit her.

She waits for the sound of the bathroom door opening. It doesn’t come.

The water’s already hot when she turns it on. Her shoulders drop immediately, all that tension she’s been collecting in her spine for days sloughing off by increments. She shoves her whole head under the stream.

It stings against her bruised eye, but she doesn’t care, too relieved to watch all that grime swirl down the drain. Only once the water runs clear does she fumble for the shampoo and soap, sudsing everything up until her skin’s squeaking.

She half-assedly smears conditioner through her hair but doesn’t let it sit long. Barb’s too quiet out there.

There’d been a half-assed attempt to keep her bandage dry, but they’re sloughing off her palm by the time she’s done. She wads them into a ball and tosses them into the corner of the tub to be dealt with later. 

She follows Barb’s lead and grabs her towel before opening the shower curtain, more for Barb than for propriety's sake. No need to add more traumas to the day.

Barb’s sitting on the toilet lid, polished glasses back on the bridge of her nose, hair toweled off but still wet and uncombed. The shirt’s slightly loose on her, but Steve’s sweatpants are just a smidge too tight around her ass and thighs.

Her eyes are closed like she’s been dozing, but they’re clear when she opens them at the sound of Carol’s voice.

“You good?” she asks, waiting until Barb nods to make her way out of the bathroom, dripping steadily on her Mother’s precious carpet on her way to her bedroom.

Carol doesn’t close the door, so Barb follows her inside. She pulls out her pajamas – the fuzzy set of shorts and long-sleeved shirt covered in cute little bears – turning her back to Barb to cursorily dry herself and slip them on without undergarments.

When she turns back around, Barb’s sitting on the edge of the bed, hands clasped in front of her, already looking her way. They look at each other in the bright light of Carol’s room. She feels stalled out, overwhelmed to the point of inaction by the few things she needs to do before she can crawl in beside Barb.

Barb clears her throat. It clicks dryly, and Carol’s fingers clench in on themselves. “Where am I sleeping?”

Carol stares down at her from across the room, feeling stupid and slow as she tries to make her brain think. “Right there,” she replies, gesturing half-heartedly at the bed Barb’s already perched on. “Climb in, and I’ll be right back, okay?”

Carol turns without waiting for an answer, each step she takes away from Barb twinging with danger until she’s damn near running to the kitchen.

She gets the bread out of the breadbox by rote, pulling peanut butter from the cupboard and strawberry jam from the fridge and laying it all down near the silverware drawer.

She makes them both the way she likes them—crunchy peanut butter spread thick, jam meticulously pressed all the way to the crust’s edge. They should eat a real meal, but Carol’s repertoire starts and ends with sandwiches, and even cutting a slice of cheese sounds insurmountable right now. So, peanut butter and jelly it is.

It's a struggle to balance the plate stacked with both sandwiches and a couple of waters already, but she still goes back for the bat, bending to squeeze it in the clutch of her armpit, hoping the nails don’t gouge her as she rushes back to Barb.

Barb’s eyebrows raise when she sees the bat, but she doesn’t comment from where she’s already beneath her pink paisley sheets, glasses lined up neatly on her bedside table. Carol loosens her hold and lets it drop harmlessly on the carpet at the foot of her bed, black flaking off where it’s caked onto the nails.

She’ll have to find somewhere else to hide it in case either of her parents poke their heads into her room.

She’d slept with a comfort stuffed animal until she was twelve and Tommy’d made fun of her. Now he’s stuffed beneath her bed, watching over her the only way she’ll allow. The bat’s a new kind of comfort object, but maybe she can put it under her bed with Mr. Rabbit, both watching over her from different kinds of threats.

“You’re not allergic to nuts, are you?” Carol asks, already sliding into the bed beside her and putting the plate in the space between their legs.

Barb reaches out to grab one of the water bottles from Carol’s hands, and chugs it to the dregs. Carol watches her throat work, enraptured. She only answers once she’s wiped the water from her mouth and picked up one of the sandwiches.

“Nope.” She takes a big bite out of the sandwich, and then continues around her mouthful, “thanks.”

Carol follows her lead. There are crumbs everywhere, neither of them bothering to eat over the singular plate. Something ravenous opens within her as she eats, the queasiness of malnutrition fading into a need to be filled.

She’s still hungry when she finishes, but just the thought of walking all the way back to the kitchen feels like an insurmountable journey.

Carol drinks her water and lays down on her back, staring up at the harsh overhead lighting. Clearly sensing the same issue, Barb stumbles out of bed to flip the light switch. Carol watches her stand there, stationary in the darkness of Carol’s room.

Carol reaches her arm out to pull the chord on her bedside lamp, letting its diffuse light filter through the room. Barb’s shoulders slump with the force of her sigh. She closes the bedroom door and crawls back into Carol’s bed.

When Carol reaches back over to turn the light off now that Barb’s ensconced in the safety of her bedding, Barb grabs her forearm, halting the movement. She can feel the warmth of Barb’s body pressed all against her back, over her shoulder, around her arm.

“Leave it on,” Barb asks, breath ghosting over the back of Carol’s neck.

Her breath shudders out of her, and she drops her hand. “Sure.”

The light’s dim enough not to blind them in the night, but when Carol flops back onto her back, she can just make out the popcorn indents of her ceiling. Barb doesn’t move back, so they’re pressed together, shoulder to thigh.

Carol holds her breath, afraid that any movement on her part will break the spell and Barb will scoot back to her side of the bed properly. Instead, Barb trails her hand down, fingers brushing lightly over the skin of Carol’s arm until she reaches her hand. Carol flips her hand over, palm in the air, fingers open just enough for Barb to slide hers in.

Her wrist’s at an awkward angle, so Carol scoots closer until her arm’s got enough give to twist. Barb rubs her thumb against the back of Carol’s hand, and her breath shudders out of her on a sigh as she slumps further into Barb’s side.

She rubs her bare foot against Barb’s calf, toes getting caught in the loose fabric of her sweatpants. It’s like in the forest all over again, she wants to get closer, closer, closer, until she can feel Barb’s heart beating within her ribs.

Proof of life.

She wants to slide her hands beneath Barb’s shirt and feel her soft skin give beneath her fingernails, taste it beneath her tongue. She’s still hungry, and tired, and Barb’s alive beside her.

She feels Barb pull on her hand, a barely perceptible nudge to get her closer, and Carol can’t stand it anymore, all the space and clothing between them. She twists further, thigh over Barb’s lap and levers herself up with the hand not still clasped in Barb’s own.

When she looks down at her, Barb’s lips are parted, and she’s already gasping, eyes half-lidded as she looks up into Carol’s own. She squirms a little on the bed, gaze dropping down to Carol’s lips.

She grasps the invitation with both hands, brushing their mouths together gently. When Barb makes no move to buck her off, she swings her leg more firmly over the other girl’s waist, and deepens the kiss, sucking Barb’s bottom lip into her mouth and biting down until she writhes beneath her.

Her face aches as she opens her mouth wider, but she doesn’t care. Carol loses herself in the paisley pink sheets full of crumbs, a beautiful girl beneath her, bathed in the dim light of her bedside lamp.

 ***

Barb’s damn near suffocating on Carol’s breath. She breathes it in greedily, makes no move to pull away as Carol drags her tongue against her gums. She opens her mouth wider, following the trail Carol’s tongue leaves with her own until they brush against each other.

Her hands are clutching at Carol’s hips hard enough that it must hurt as she tries to drag the other girl’s body even closer. She can feel Carol swivel her hips, grinding against Barb’s waist like she can’t help herself. Barb uses the grip she has on her hips to make her grind against her again, and that’s what makes Carol pull her mouth away with a gasp.

She’s panting like a dog in heat, lightheaded with oxygen deprivation. Barb opens her eyes and immediately groans at the sight of Carol, head thrown back, tangled wet hair partially blocking the look of ecstasy on her face. Her sleep shorts are riding up indecently high on her thighs, bunching at the crotch with the friction of her movements.

The hem of her shirt’s askew just enough to show a thin strip of the pale, unblemished skin of her stomach. Barb trails her hands up without thought, letting them clench at Carol’s waist instead. They look huge against her, almost connecting in the middle when Barb squeezes. She pushes her fingers up further until they disappear beneath her shirt entirely.

Carol’s ribs are bony beneath her grasp, contrasting with the soft give of the flesh of her breasts where her thumbs just barely brush against the bottom of them. Her eyes dart up to Carol’s face, and their gazes lock.

Carol’s lips are swollen from kissing and wet with saliva, and her pupils are blown until her eyes are all black, fathomless in the low light of her bedroom. She doesn’t look away until she’s reaching down with sure fingers to the hem of her shirt and pulling it off in one, quick movement.

She’s not wearing a bra. Barb knew that, but the sight of Carol’s nipples still shocks her into stuttered breathing. They’re a darker pink than Barb’s own, verging on brown. Barb’s fingers twitch against Carol’s ribs, thumbs trailing a line against the underside of her small breasts, transfixed.

She might’ve stalled out there for hours, barely breathing if Carol hadn’t covered both Barb’s hands with her own and slid them up until her nipples were covered by the palms of her hands. Barb’s eyes dart back up to Carol’s face to find her eyes closed, as she bites her lip hard enough to blanche it white.

Her breasts are small enough that Barb’s hands hide them from view entirely. She experimentally squeezes them both. They feel nice in her hands, but Carol doesn’t even twitch. So, she trails the fingers of her left hand down the curve of Carol’s waist until she shivers. She adjusts her right hand until Carol’s dusty nipple peaks through the gap between her pointer and middle finger, then squeezes tight.

Carol shudders as her nipple perks up. Barb switches hands and does it to the other, harder this time until Carol’s hips twitch in an abortive movement to grind against her waist. Encouraged, Barb squeezes Carol’s hip, letting her nails dig into delicate flesh as she guides Carol’s movements into a dirty grind.

She groans, bending forward to lick into Barb’s mouth like she can’t help herself. Barb moves both hands to her hips, trying to pull her impossibly closer as she opens her mouth wide.

Barb’s squirming beneath her, too turned on to stay still as she’s consumed. As if sensing her need, Carol shifts on top of her, until she’s straddling Barb’s thigh. She grinds against it, her knee just barely brushing against where Barb’s wet in her sweatpants. Barb writhes, trying to get any pressure.

Carol grabs Barb’s knee almost harshly as she yanks it up and open. Still straddling her other thigh, Carol grinds forward, dragging her clothed cunt against Barb. She can feel it now, the rough drag of her sweatpants against her swollen labia. She shudders with it, letting her thighs spread wider, giving Carol a bigger space to work within.

Carol shifts her hips, changing the angle of her thrusting until Barb groans as pressure’s finally applied to her clit, closing her eyes in pleasure. Carol’s manicured nails dig into the meat of Barb’s thigh, holding her stationary as she grinds against that same place until Barb’s breathing is ragged.

When Carol starts making these delicious little moaning sounds, Barb opens her eyes, desperate to get a look at her. There’s pink high on both of her cheeks, and she’s looking down at Barb like she wants to eat her alive.

Barb might just let her.

She’s shuddering with every breath. Barb wants to taste the air coming out of her mouth, let it slide onto her tongue and swallow it down. Her breasts are shaking with the pressure of her thrusting, the erratic expanding of her lungs. The blush is traveling down her neck, splattering her chest with red. She wants to run her tongue along the edges of it, see if she can feel the heat of her pooling blood.

She wants to taste and touch everything, carve it all into her sense memory to get off to during lonely nights to come.

Carol grinds against her just so and her head tips back, eyes closed against a moan of her own.

She wants to stay here in this moment, feeling the steeped pleasure of a beautiful girl taking what she needs from her. She’ll take what she’s given and be happy with it, no better than a pillow to be rubbed off against.

But then Carol’s nails rake hard against her inner thigh and Barb cries out, the feeling of it zinging straight to her core, back arching up off the bed with the heady feeling of it.

“Look at me,” Carol demands, voice raspy with exertion.

Barb’s eyelids flutter open. There are red nail marks along her thigh, Carol’s fingers pressed into the end of them hard enough that her flesh flexes and gives beneath the pressure.

She digs her nails in again, blanching Barb’s pink skin white as she hisses, “at me.”

Barb’s eyes dart to her without conscious thought, following her command, like Carol’s holding a string, puppeting her around with her every fleeting whim. There’s no other choice when Carol’s telling her what to do in that tone of voice.

Her pupils are huge and black, irises not visible with her lids at half-mast. They close almost entirely once Barb meets them, and like that was all she was waiting for, Carol throws her head back and grinds against her once, twice, thrice, before shuddering on a long, drawn-out moan as her orgasm wracks through her.

Barb gasps as she watches Carol shiver, collapsing against Barb’s raised thigh like it’s the only thing keeping her upright, hair covering what must be a spectacular look on her face. Her breasts are rubbing against Barb’s inner thigh with every shuddering attempt to breathe.

She’s never been this turned on in her life.  

Barb slides her hand beneath the too-tight hem of her sweatpants, threading her fingers through her pubic hair, and pressing her middle finger into the edge of her clit. It’s a dry slide, but she rubs it again, and again, and again, too revved up to do anything else.

She’s too lost in sensation to notice what Carol’s doing until her hand’s wrapped around Barb’s wrist and she yanks it out of her pants. A horrible whine bursts out of her throat as she tries to buck up into fingers that are now pinned to the pillow beside her head as Carol looms over her looking fucked out and rabid.

Carol looks into her eyes, and Barb has a second to wonder if this is just a thing for her before she feels Carol’s small hand slide into her sweatpants and press directly into her clit with unerring accuracy. She throws her head back into the pillow, back arching until Carol uses her weight to push her into to the mattress.

She presses against it for a few more seconds before sliding her fingers down through Barb’s folds. She whines at the loss until Carol presses one of her fingers into her, and she loses all her breath entirely.

She’s fingered herself before, but her hand always cramps before anything ever comes of it, and the angle’s just off enough that she gives up before anything starts to feel good.

Carol has no such compunctions. She presses her finger in, deeper than Barb’s ever managed. She fucks it in and out a few times, slow and concentrated, before she pushes another finger in along with the first.

It doesn’t feel like much more than pressure until she thrusts back in and her fingers curl.

Barb gasps, arching up against Carol as she continues to thrust into her, unerringly hitting that spot inside that makes her toes curl. The sounds her cunt’s making in the quiet room are loud, a wet schlicking sound with each press of Carol’s fingers that might embarrass Barb if she could focus past the heat building within her.  

It's deeper than anything she’s ever felt before, a pressure building in her abdomen and creeping into the rest of her until she’s a live wire. It’s too much. She tries to close her thighs against the feeling, but Carol’s between them. Barb clutches onto the sheets beneath her as Carol squeezes her wrist, pushing into her more firmly as Barb writhes against the feeling of being consumed. 

She’s on the edge of something, an abyss she’s not sure she wants to fall into. She’s thrumming, electrified as Carol takes what she wants from her.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

But then Carol twists her arm, fingers still thrusting within her as she presses the heel of her hand down, rubbing harshly against her clit, and Barb seizes, entire body locking up with the power of her orgasm as she comes all over Carol Perkins’ fingers.

Sparks fly beneath her closed lids as the feeling goes on, and on, Carol’s hand working her through it between her locked thighs. She’s lost in it, gone to the sensation for a timeless moment.

Carol continues fucking into her until Barb feels her body go lax, thighs splaying without anyone holding them in place. Aftershocks twitch through her limbs as neurons misfire, sending her muscles spasming.

The sound Carol’s fingers make as she pulls them out is embarrassing, made more so as Barb feels her wipe off the excessive wetness onto her pubic hair. She cracks open her eyes just in time to watch Carol stick her tacky fingers into her mouth and suck.

Barb throws her arm over her eyes and groans with breath she doesn’t have to spare as Carol laughs, pressing the warmth of her body into Barb’s side. 

***

“This never happened,” Barb says, shuddering in the aftershocks, neck red with exertion.

Carol tucks her face into Barb, sinking into her until her blooming smile is hidden in the armpit of her shirt. Her whole body’s tingling, from her thighs all the way up to the roots of her teeth. She bites down on the buttery soft material beneath her, grinding her molars into it until Barb shoves her off.

Her arm’s still covering her face, hair a riot of red curls atop her head. Carol wants to smooth them back, tuck them behind her ears even if they spring back up. But, Barb’s pulling away, still flushed from sex, so she asks, “can it never happen again a few more times?” in the hopes of making her laugh.

She just groans, but her forearm lowers enough for her to glare at Carol, and that’s progress in and of itself. Carol grabs the softening with both hands, walking her fingers up the underside of Barb’s arm until the offending hand is slapped away. 

“Aren’t you still dating Tommy?”

Carol’s dangling fingers curl into a fist, eyes dropping to her stupid fucking duvet cover, no longer able to meet Barb’s fierce glare. The truth is, it hadn’t been like this with Tommy since they’d lost Steve. The truth is, she’d forgotten Tommy even existed while she’d been lost in Barb’s eyes, and had been happier for it. The truth is, there’s a vacant spot on her back where Barb’s is supposed to be pressed, and her hands feel empty now if she’s not clutching a bat full of nails, and it’s been two fucking days. 

The truth is, Carol’s not sure she can unravel truth from fiction anymore.

She’d followed a kid to a junk yard to fight fucking monsters, poured boiling water on her best friend to de-possess him, and fucked a girl who’s name she hadn’t even known last year. 

Reality was stretched to the point of breaking. 

But, it’d all started to coalesce back together between Barb’s thighs. She’s not ready to let it fall apart again.

Carol rolls onto her back and stares at her stupid popcorn ceiling, fingers fisted around the empty space where Barb’s hand should be. As Barb regains her breathing, the silence settles between them like a third, stilted lover in her bed. 

She’s not ready to share.

“Tommy and I haven’t really worked since Steve left,” she tells the ceiling. Part of her, a stagnant, wounded part, will always want that time back, when it was just the three of them being unrepentant assholes together. But those times have been gone longer than she’s been willing to admit. It’s time for something new. “It was only a matter of time.”

Barb makes a little humming noise, like she’s listening but doesn’t know what to say, so Carol does what she’s always done best: talks. “You know, it’s weird. We barely know each other, and I think if you left right now, I’d spend the rest of the night clutching the baseball bat to my chest and hiding in my closet.”

Barb clears her throat, says, “it was like that last time.” When Carol looks at her from the corner of her eyes, she’s lowered her arm, and she’s staring at the ceiling, too, shoulder to shoulder. “With Nance and Jonathan.”

Carol snorts, already knowing the answer as she asks, “what, you fucked them, too?”

The blush on Barb’s cheeks that had finally been receding, returns with vengeance, painting her face and neck a splotchy red. Carol still wants to lick it, so she swivels her head away and stares back at the ceiling, hand still clenching on empty air. 

“No,” Barb whispers, soft and private just before she feels her fingers ghost over Carol’s fist. 

She loosens it just enough that Barb can pry it open. Carol shudders as Barb’s fingers thread through her own, caressing the delicate flesh between them until they’re linked– Barb’s hand dwarfing her own in its hold. 

Carol squeezes, and Barb squeezes back as they stare up at the ceiling in silence and think of their sins. She’s coming up empty, though. She’d do it all again to feel Barb’s hand in hers.

“You’ll break up with your boyfriend?” Barb asks. 

Carol smiles, letting go of Barb’s hand just long enough to flop back against her chest, this time turned toward Barb like a flower to the sun. 

“This your way of asking me to go steady?” she asks, flicking her eyebrows up suggestively.

“Fuck off,” Barb says, but it sounds tender, and she wraps her arm around Carol’s naked back and pulls her closer. 

She’s still laughing as she reaches up to press her mouth to Barb’s, soft and lingering, all heat sucked out of the moment. Barb’s lips move against hers, gently enough that Carol inexplicably feels as if she might cry. 

When the kiss breaks, she stays close, breathing in the air that Barb expels. People look weird from this angle, proportions skewed with perspective, but she can see all the freckles on Barb’s nose, each of her pale eyelashes, the ruddy complexion of her cheeks.

She leans down to lick a stripe up Barb’s cheek, mapping out the warmth of her blush as Barb laughs and tries to push her head down and away while keeping her arms clutched around Carol’s waist. 

“Stop that!” Barb cries, but she’s laughing. 

So, Carol bites Barb’s cheek, just once, face aching with the width she has to open her mouth. Barb’s skin tastes clean on her tongue, fragile beneath her teeth. When Barb pushes her again, Carol lets her jaw relax. 

She tucks her face into Barb’s neck, teeth tingling once more. Carol brushes her nose back and forth against Barb’s soft skin, eyelids heavy tucked into the darkness of her body.

“We should go to sleep,” Carol says, wondering what time it is, but unwilling to turn around and take a look at the glowing red numbers of her alarm. 

This has been the longest day of her life, and she’s a little afraid to let it end.

“You’re the one fooling around.”

Carol smiles, pressing a gentle kiss to the delicate skin of Barb’s neck before replying, “I think that was both of us, dear.”

Barb wacks her in the back in response, but immediately starts rubbing up and down her bare skin after. Carol melts, boneless at the feeling of Barb’s warm hands, like a spooked horse being soothed. 

She can hear Barb’s heartbeat beneath her head, feel the expanding of her lungs with every even breath. There’s no room for silence to settle between them. This moment is too loud. 

“Will you go with me?” Carol whispers, lips brushing against Barb’s skin with every word.

“Of course,”

Carol smiles again. Her mouth’s going to start aching against the strain, unused to utilizing those particular muscles this frequently. “I didn’t even say where.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Barb replies. Her fingers trail up Carol’s back to play with her hair. It’s tangled enough that Barb’s fingers immediately get stuck, so she begins delicately unpicking the knots. “I’ll go anywhere, as long as it’s with you,”

Carol’s still fucking smiling. It feels wrong, somehow, to let this warmth in. Steve’s in the hospital, burns on his back that she put there. She doesn’t know what’s going to happen when he wakes up, doesn’t know, not really, if he’ll wake up at all.

But those are worries for tomorrow. She can’t bring them into this moment. Won’t. It’s too fragile already. 

So she says, “let’s go to bed,” and presses one last kiss to Barb’s neck. 

They squirm futilely, attempting to get Carol’s comforter up and over their bodies without getting off of it. It would’ve been easier to stand, but they’re safe, and warm, and Carol’s reluctant to create even the smallest space between them. 

They don’t turn out the light. 

Thank you @queenie-ofthe-void for the beta editing! As always, you make everything I write so much better <3

[additiva]

Frechheit Ch 15 Snippy

The first little section of Frechheit Chapter 15... under the cut for those who celebrate.

After Miami, there’s two weeks until Baku, which means Max gets a week to relax in Monaco, and he gets Charles. He gets Charles making a mess of his kitchen, showing Max the playlist he thinks he’ll like, wandering around with Jimmy draped around his neck, and of course, sleeping in Max’s bed. At night, and after lunch if he can swing it. 

In the mornings he leaves for his workouts, then comes back. Most afternoons, he spends flitting between sponsor commitments: photoshoots, meetings, appearances. Then he comes back.

He speaks regularly on the phone with his manager, in rapid Italian. Max knows what it’s about. He doesn’t ask, and Charles doesn’t offer.

Generally though, he’s more open than ever.

They never run out of things to talk about. Even before, when they were barely friends, it had never been an issue. Now though, it feels like a whole other category of conversation has opened up.  

Charles tells him about his family; about his mother: Pascale (a hair-dresser, very kind but worries a lot about Charles). Arthur (older brother whom Max has met, worries a lot about Charles). Lorenzo (oldest brother whom Max hasn’t met, worries a lot about Charles).

Max thinks he’ll probably fit right in, if he ever does meet them.

Charles doesn’t mention his dad, and Max doesn’t bring him up. He’d found out last year about Herve, who’d died when Charles was in F2.

Charles tells him about some of his friends, and about how he’d met Seb. He’d been in his first year of F3, before joining Ferrari, and it hadn’t been an accident. It was at an event in Italy on sustainability in motorsport. He’d gone there specifically to meet Seb, and researched all about the topic beforehand, to impress him when they met.

He’d admired Seb, and thought he might be a good mentor. He’d been right. Seb was even better than he’d expected. He’d taken Charles out for sushi, laughed at him and taught him to use chopsticks, then taken Charles under his wing.

Piece by tiny piece, Max is starting to puzzle out an image of Charles’ life; of the world that Charles lives in beyond Max’s apartment. It’s frustrating, trying to keep things so compartmentalised, but at every moment, the threat of discovery hangs over them. It’s something Max fights to ignore.

He has another appointment with Dr Martin (“You can call me Elizabeth, or Liz, if you’d like.”). They discuss the exercises she’d given him, and she notes his good progress. They talk again, at length. Max tells her about F1, about the good things and the bad things. About his team, and how he’d almost ruined things last year. About the press, and social media. About how he’d been avoiding it completely until recently, because he doesn’t care what people think.

At that, she gives a very neutral hum, and encourages him to continue.

She never takes notes during the session. Just listens.

She doesn’t give him a diagnosis, or anything like that. But she gives him more homework, and he leaves feeling content, like he’s got direction.

When he gets home, Charles is waiting for him with encouraging words and a warm smile.

So, it’s a good week.

Great in some ways, because Charles is obviously feeling more confident in this thing between them. He’s been pushing things further, emotionally.  And physically. Which is.. Well. It’s a problem for Max, to be honest.

It’s just going to be embarrassing if he has a heart attack at 29 because Charles is both sexy and unhinged, and has decided to start being both at once.

Charles’ existence alone is pretty much enough to get him going, so they're really getting into dangerous territory now.

Late on Tuesday night, they get restless and go for a long drive; along the coast, out into the countryside around Nice. They stop for a while on a deserted beach outside of Eze, to kick around a football they’d brought with them.

By kick around, he means they each hoard the ball for as long as possible, before the game devolves into the two of them trying to slide-tackle each other into the sand.

Charles tries to tempt him into more right there by the water, but Max is really trying very hard to make rational decisions where possible, so he corrals him back into the car and takes them home instead. 

[tropes-and-tales]

Nothing is Certain

CW:  Heavy angst (character death); unrequited love; idiots in love; drunken confessions

Word Count:  3664

Other Pieces: ��The final installment.  The first part is here, the second part is here.

A year passes.  Marcus doesn’t see you, doesn’t hear from you, and he tries to be okay with that.  He tries to accept that he was never a real friend to you and that you’ve made your choice to move forward in your life without him.

He tries to be okay with it.  He often fails, and he is tempted all the time to reach out, to find where you live, to accidentally run into you.  He knows that’s stalking territory, creepy behavior territory, so he doesn’t.  When the FBI needs an art expert and when they reach out to you, he always passes the communication off to another agent.  He refuses to cross that boundary.

He goes to therapy.  He gets a rescue dog he names Rothko.  He dates casually, but he finds the desperate drive to not be alone has died down a little.  He can be alone and be okay.  He doesn’t need to fall into one bad relationship after another.

He hopes you’re not alone.  He hopes you’ve found someone who recognized your worth the minute they saw you, and he hopes they cherish you every single day.

He considers that growth:  to pray fervently every night for your happiness instead of his own.  For the first time in his life, he’s considering someone other than himself.

-----

A year passes, and Marcus calls home every Sunday night to talk to his parents, but mostly his mother.

When his mother calls in the middle of the day on a random Tuesday, he knows it can’t be good news.  He answers, hears his mother say your name.

“Her dad died,” she says, and Marcus can hear the tears in her voice over the line.  “Just this morning.”

He sits down at his desk, hard.  He listens to the rest of it—how it was sudden, unexpected, a likely heart attack.  How there’s no arrangements yet, obviously, but how you’re already on your way home to Texas to be with your family.

“Mom, what should I do?” he asks, bereft.  He has no idea what to do.  Should he go home to Texas too?  Or should he leave you alone as he has been?

“Oh, honey,” she says.  “You know her best, but I can tell you:  moments like these make all the petty stuff fall away.”

Breaking your heart and mistreating your love for him hardly seems petty, but Marcus books the ticket home the moment he hangs up with his mother.  

-----

He knows he’s made the right decision the minute he finally sees you.

He goes with his mom over to your childhood home, his mom bearing a tray of tamales and him carrying a small flower arrangement.  Despite being friends as kids, Marcus rarely ever went to your house—you always went to his.  Your family was a step lower on the socio-economic ladder, and you had seemed embarrassed as a kid by how much smaller your home was, how much shabbier.  How your mom worked while his was able to stay home and keep their house clean and make homemade meals each night.

Your older sister answers the door, hugs his mom.  Takes the tray and the flowers with a murmured thanks, then calls your name.

He knows he’s made the right decision to come to Texas to be with you:  the moment you catch sight of him, you run straight to him.  Straight to his arms.

And for the first time in his life, he’s there to catch you.

-----

Marcus doesn’t have much experience with funerals.  Two of his grandparents are still alive; the other two died before he was born.  His parents are still alive.  He’s never lost a coworker in the field.

The closest he has is the death of his childhood dog, and that hardly qualifies.

When he sees you that moment at your house, he only holds you.  He murmurs against you that it’s okay, but then he stops because of course it’s not okay.

He says he’s there, that he’s got you, that whatever you need he’s there for you, and that seems better.

He leads you through the house and takes you outside into the backyard, and he urges you to sit on the steps of the back porch beside him.  He puts a tentative arm around your shoulders and you sag against him, grateful.

“No one saw this coming,” you tell him, your voice hoarse with tears.  “He just had a checkup.  Clean bill of health.”  You pause.  “They think it was a heart attack.”

“I’m so sorry.”

You start to cry again, quiet, as though you are exhausted.  You must be, Marcus figures.  Your world’s been upended, you probably threw together hasty travel plans, and now you’re in your childhood home, surrounded by your siblings and their young, noisy children.  Now you have to say goodbye and bury your father.

He sits with you like that for a long while.  He keeps his arm around you, takes your hand in his.  He keeps you tucked against him, safe, and he lets you cry until you can’t anymore.

-----

If Marcus has learned anything in therapy, it’s this:  he’s not always the main character of a moment.  Sometimes he has to step back, content himself with the role of a supporting character.

Which is what he does now.

Old Marcus would have forced himself into your family’s inner circle, pushed his well-intentioned kindness onto you and everyone else.  Which is why it was a tough thing to learn in therapy—because his intentions are always so well-meaning.  

New and Improved Marcus thinks of himself as being on standby.  Of waiting in the wings for his cue.

At the wake, for example:  he stays off to the side with his parents, but he keeps an eye on you.  When you seem to reach a point of…something, he pulls you out of the receiving line, takes you to the private room for family, and presses a glass of water onto you.

“You doing okay?” he asks, and you nod.  You drink your water and hand him the empty cup, then fix him with a grateful look.

“Thank you, Marcus.”

At the luncheon, for example:  he doesn’t get in the middle of it when you and your sister start to bicker.  There’s old resentments there; she stayed in your hometown while you went away for college.  There’s accusations of snobbery, of thinking you’re better than your family from her.  From you, there’s accusations of martyrdom, of thinking your sister is the heir to the family matriarchy.

Old Marcus would have stepped in.  New Marcus only goes to you when you and your sister part, exasperated with each other.  He only waits for you to make the first move, and when you turn to him with a look of despair on your face, he hugs you, tells you that everyone is just spread thin and grieving, emotions roiling near the surface.

And at the graveside service:  Marcus notices that your family is paired off.  Your mother sits with your older brother, your sister is with her husband.  Your other sister is paired off with her fiancée.  Only you sit alone, your hands clasped in your lap, your head bowed.

Marcus doesn’t sit beside you.  He hasn’t earned that right, but his heart breaks to see you alone, sealed off from any comfort.  

He sits behind you, his chair right behind yours.  He leans forward, puts his hand on your shoulder, and you startle, turn and see him.

“I’m here,” he says, his voice low, and you nod.  

Then you unclasp your hands and reach one out to him.  You reach back and he reaches forward, and he holds your hand tight while your father is laid to rest.

-----

Afterwards, the two of you go for a walk.  You’re restless—relieved for the ceremony of burying someone to be over, but exhausted from the grieving…and dreading the grief to come.

“What can I do to help?” Marcus asks, and you shake your head.

“Just being here…it means more than you know.”

“It was the least I could do.”

You start to say something, then shake your head.  You walk another few blocks in silence before you finally offer, “I’m sorry about how I left it with you.  At the coffee shop.  After the Jerzy painting.”

“Hey, no, don’t even—”

“I was mean about it,” you interrupt.  “You were trying to tell me about Theresa—”

“And you didn’t need to hear it,” he cuts in.  “You weren’t mean at all.  You were standing up for yourself.”

“No, I—”

“Stop.”  Marcus stills, and when you do too, he puts his hands on your shoulders and turns you to face him.  “You gave me the kick in the ass that I needed.  I stopped feeling sorry for myself.  I started therapy.”  He pauses, then adds, “I finally realized how badly I’ve treated you.”

“Marcus—”

“No.”  He shakes his head, squeezes your upper arms.  “You did a good thing that day.”

You look skeptical.  “It doesn’t feel like it was good.”

He smooths his hands down your arms, then takes your hands in his.  It makes his stomach flip:  all the times he touched you in the past—the hugs and incidental touches—and it was never like this.

“I needed to hear it.  I took you for granted for so long.  You are…were my best friend, and I treated you terribly.”  He pauses, sighs.  “I’m sorry for never being there for you.  For all the things you’ve done, amazing things, and I wasn’t there to celebrate you.”

You squeeze his hands and offer him a soft smile.  “You’re here now.  That counts for something.”

-----

Your father’s death and its aftermath…it’s the beginning of your reconciliation.  

You return to your friendship, each of you different than you were before.  You’re sadder, still grieving—but more willing to speak up, to not blindly follow him.  He’s more self-aware, more deferential to your needs.

Back in D.C., you rekindle your friendship.  You text each other; you get lunch together.  You ease into it, but before long, the two of you are going to galleries together.  Going for walks with his dog.  Exploring the touristy stuff in D.C. that you both had missed before.

It’s the most miserable Marcus has ever been.

You loved him as a teenager and carried that love well into adulthood.  It had been a precious gift he squandered as he chose women like Chloe, like Theresa.  You had loved him, then mourned him, then moved onto a true friendship with him.

It’s a tragedy, then, to Marcus—how he falls in love with you far too late.  How he only falls for you long after that bright light you carried for him has been extinguished and replaced by a chaste camaraderie.

And worse than being miserable, he’s trapped—because now that you’re friends again, he can’t go anywhere.  He can’t ghost you, he can’t fade away.  Every lunch, every text is the same:  the same fluttery feeling in his stomach, his chest…then the sinking feeling, the sick-to-his-stomach feeling.

Now he finally knows what you had gone through, all those years before.  Karma can be cruel in her neat simplicity, Marcus finds.

-----

Six months pass.  A year.  You return to Texas for the one year anniversary of your father’s death, and Marcus stays in D.C.  He stops by your townhouse every day to feed your cat, bring in your mail.

Alone in your space, he allows himself to wallow a bit.  Your home is so perfectly you:  warm and cozy, neat.  You have, unsurprisingly, an excellent eye for color, for lines, for the art you hang on your wall.

Marcus goes from room to room, checks the place out.  The bedroom smells like you, the light coconut scent of the lotion you wear.  The giant, ragged sweatshirt you wear around the house hangs over a chair, and he scoops it up, takes in the cozy scent of you.

It’s easy to pretend that this is his home too, that you’re only at work and will walk through the door at any moment.  That you’ll make dinner together, eat together, swap stories about work.  That maybe you’ll crash on the couch, put the T.V. on and he will rub your feet or you’ll pull his head into your lap, finger-comb through his curls.

He doesn’t even allow the fantasy to extend to the bedroom.  He never lets it get that far.  It’s difficult enough to even imagine the mundane, day-to-day intimacies.  To imagine loving you like that, taking you to bed and being joined to you…then surfacing to his sad reality…it’d be too much.  It’d break his heart entirely.

-----

Marcus knows you go on dates.  You mention them obliquely sometimes; you pass on plans with him because you have “a thing” or are “meeting up” with someone.  You never say the word “date,” and he wonders if you can guess his feelings for you and are trying to spare him the pain of knowing you’re going out with other men.

He goes a single date.  It’s a friend of a coworker, and she’s lovely and funny…but the date goes miserably.  Marcus can’t summon up his usual charm.  He can’t stop thinking of you, in your townhouse with your cat, curled up on your couch.  Probably reading, in your pajamas and your ragged, oversized sweatshirt, bare feet tucked underneath you—

Marcus is as miserable as he’s ever been.

-----

He’s trapped.  He has no idea what to do other than suffer as he has been.

It’s a sweetly torturous suffering, because he has you back in his life.  His oldest, dearest, best friend.  The girl who sat beside him in art class, who grew up to be a woman who makes him laugh, who bolsters his flagging spirits.  Who gives him a soft place to rest when he’s tired or heart-sore.  Who cooks her signature buffalo chicken mac and cheese when he needs a comfort meal.  Who sketches ridiculous little caricatures of him and tucks them into his coat pockets, the glove compartment of his car to find days or weeks later.

-----

He resigns himself to a lifetime of this:  of being your friend, of never having you completely.

Isn’t friendship better than nothing?  Isn’t a half-life better than none?  Aren’t washed-out watercolors better than no color at all?

He settles into the sweet pain of this life, and he succeeds for months.  The pain becomes familiar and loses its sting.  He learns to live with it.

But ultimately, he fails.  Of course he does.  The heart wants what it wants, and Marcus wants nothing so much as he wants you.

-----

It happens that you both spend the holidays in D.C.  It is unplanned, but his unit is shorthanded and he can’t spare the time to go home to Texas.  You have a project you’re working on and can’t leave either and besides—the coolness between your sister and you remains, and you don’t feel especially welcome in her home for the holidays.

“We should do our own thing,” you suggest, and of course he agrees.  There’s no plausible reason why you shouldn’t—hell, even his dog and your cat get along, curling up together after chasing each other when he brings Rothko over.

You plan a sleepover on Christmas Eve.  Marcus packs an overnight bag, brings Rothko.  It’s so similar to those nights when he was getting over his divorce and you were working through your thesis.  He slept over a lot back then, slept on your couch and woke up to you making him breakfast.

For Christmas Eve, the two of you keep it simple, homey.  You make a big pot of spaghetti, split a bottle of red wine for dinner.  After dinner, Marcus does the dishes and you mix a pitcher of tequila sunrises.  Then the two of you retire to the living room to watch old movies together by the light of your Christmas tree.

Marcus can blame any number of things.  There’s the atmosphere—dark except for the colorful lights of your tree and the light of the television.  The room is warm, and he’s in comfortable clothes.  You’re in your pajamas (and old sweatshirt), curled up on the opposite end of the couch from him.

There’s the movies themselves.  You both love old movies, the old black and white screwball comedies and romances and thrillers.  Hitchcock mysteries.  Cary Grant, Katherine Hepburn, Bette Davis, Jimmy Stewart.

There’s also your pitcher of drinks.  You always pour with a heavy hand, and when added to the wine from dinner, Marcus finds himself well on his way to being drunk without even meaning to.

But the evening is a perfect representation of his deal with you now:  close, but so far.  You’re within arm’s reach, and yet you may as well be miles away.

He gets through most of “Sabrina.”  He watches Audrey Hepburn fall for William Holden, then Humphrey Bogart, watches Bogart fall for Hepburn and think himself too old, unworthy.  Getting more and more drunk, Marcus makes it all the way to near the end, when Bogart tells Hepburn to suppose he was younger, suppose he was his brother, suppose he had the courage to ask her to join him in Paris—

He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until you look over at him in alarm.

“Marcus, what—”  You untuck your legs from under you and shift to kneel by him, your hand on his shoulder.  “What’s wrong?”

He can’t look at you.  He’s ashamed and depressed, and a year’s worth of misery and desire come spilling out in equal measure.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he says, and he tries to keep his voice level but he knows he sounds hysterical, a man standing at the edge.  He knows he sounds drunk too, slurring his words just enough to be noticeable.

“Can’t do what?”

“This.  Us.  I l-love you, and I fucked it all up, and I thought…thought I could just go back to being friends again, but I f-fucked it up so bad and if I hadn’t been so fucking s-stupid, we’d already be m-married.  I would have married you, not Chloe, not wasted time with Theresa, and now I’m miserable all the fucking time—”

“Jesus,” you breathe out, but you put your hands on his face, cup his cheeks and steer his face to look at you.

“Marcus, you’ve been miserable?” you ask, and your voice sounds so sorrowful, your eyes look so sad that his own eyes fill with tears again.

“You’re my dearest friend,” he tells you.  He hooks his hands on your wrists, and he can just feel your pulse under his thumb, fast and solid.  “You…you mean more to me than anyone.  I’m just…I’m just sad.  That I messed it up and can’t f-fix it.”

“Oh.”  You gaze at him; you brush your thumbs softly against his cheekbones.  “Marcus, I never went anywhere.”

“Huh?”

“I’m right here.”  You sigh, then shift one hand to stroke through his hair, finger combing through his curls just as he imagined.  “You’re pretty drunk, aren’t you?”

He grumbles, “you use too much tequila.”

He’s too drunk to understand the look on your face.  He’s too deep in his feelings, too far gone in his fear of losing you.  You sigh again, then take your hands from him.

“How about I get you a glass of water, and then we can start a new movie, okay?  And maybe we can pick up this conversation once you’re feeling more like yourself.”

-----

You switch off “Sabrina” and put on “Blazing Saddles,” and as Marcus rapidly sobers up, he works out how he’s going to escape this horrifying, mortifying evening.

He’s FBI.  He could, say, throw himself out of your living room window to escape.  Do a neat roll on your front lawn, then spring to his feet, take off running for shelter.  He’d have to leave Rothko behind but after his humiliating admission, it’s every man and dog for themselves.  

The reality is more mundane.  He sits forward on the couch, his hands on his knees, and he mutters that he should get going.

“You aren’t staying?”  You sound surprised, and a little hurt too.

He can’t even look you in the eye.  He stares forward, off to the side, at your tree.  “I don’t think I can stay.”

“If you…if you only said those things because you were drunk, we can just forget it, okay?  Nothing has to change.”  Your voice wobbles on the last word, and he glances back at you to see your eyes wide, shiny with tears.

Well, shit.  Now he’s made you cry.  Again.  Who knows how many times you’ve cried over him in the course of your life, and here he is again…making you cry on Christmas Eve.

“I meant those things,” he say solemnly.  “Of course I meant them.”

“And you think I don’t feel the same way?”

He raises his hand, drops it in a gesture of helplessness.  “Why would you?”

“Oh, Marcus.”  You reach out, take his hand in yours.  “Do you really think I just stopped loving you after that day in the coffee shop?  Really?”

He snorts, shakes his head.  Bitter.  “I would have.”  

“Well, I’m not you, then.”  A long pause, and he chances to look at you—you’re gazing back at him with the same big doe eyes, shiny with tears.

“I never stopped, Marcus Pike.  I don’t think I could if I wanted to.  Even when I hated you, even when I very much disliked you, I still loved you.  Still love you.”

What other choice does he have?  He leans forward and kisses you:  the girl who sat beside him in art class who became his dearest, oldest friend who became the love of his life.

[grim40]

{Next Gen}~ Monster?- Part 1

Ben sighed as he sat down in his seat. It was morning, and school hadn't started yet. He could hear the kids outside in the playground but didn't bother to turn around and look. He felt lonely. His only friend, Bitter Bite, was scheduled for Tuesday class and could only see him until Thursday. Even if class hadn't started yet, he wished he could go home now. 

As fillies, foals, and other creatures started filling the classroom, he sat up straight. Ever since the School of Friendship had been inaugurated, many families had come to live on Ponyville. Yaks, griffons, hippogriffs, even some zebras, had now filled the homes of the town. And with it, the school with many children. Mom had been adamant he could stay at home and learn from his father, but giving school a chance, they had enrolled him in Missus Cheerilees school. They told him school would be fun with activities, a playground, and he could make friends. He had done all those things, except the last one. 

Ben listened to Cheerilee's lecture, the four seasons, their types of weather, how each creature is affected by them. All of a sudden he felt something hit his temple. A small piece of balled up paper landed on his desk. He heard quiet giggles behind him by his right side. He knew it were those kids again. Ever since school began, they had been pestering him all the time. Never too harsh, but just things like this. Little balls of paper, a playground ball "accidentaly" going his way, things he thought were normal. At least that's what his mom told him. He took a small glance, and there she was. Agatha, the supposed leader of the group. She raised her arms in a shug motion, motioning as a silly mistake and giggling. He gave a small but weary smile, trying not to think too much about it. He couldn't concentrate on the lecture anymore, so he just stared ahead and hoped lunch would start soon. 

~

Lunch break had started, and Ben unpacked his small lunch box Dad had packed for him. A couple of apple slices, some oat meal biscuits and a box of apple juice. As he snacked away his lunch, he stared at the playground where the kids ran around, played in the swing-sets and jump ropes. He looked away, again feeling lonely. He wasn't really sure why the other kids didn't like him. From day one, he struggled to make a friend. He wasn't mean, he hadn't done anything weird that he was aware of. When pair projects came up in class, the kids would ignore him. He would otherwise be paired with another foal or filly, they were decent to him throughout the class time, but after it was done he was back to being alone. His ears drooped down, and he laid in the grass for a bit.

He could entertain himself. His father had teached him a magic spell recently, to invoke his own chaos magic. He told Ben that when Draconquui were still around, everyone had their own different magic. Channeling it was a difficult task, so they would need to start young and practice with it. Ben concentrated on the pads of his paws, a spark, then a flare of magic started to form. It was already fairly easy for him, he had practiced so many times. The hard part, was keeping the magic stable. But it was coming along well. 

WACK

"Hahahaha sorry, we did not totally see you the- AHHHH!" Agatha screached.

"AHH-" Ben, literally, had been knocked out of his concentration. The magic he had been so carefully holding, burst. 

The kids backed up screaming. The magic had blown some of them back and had temporarily blinded those nearest. Ben breathed rapidly while he held his head. He hadn't meant for that to happen, so he quickly stood up and approached the kids.

"I-I'm so sorry! I just got scared, are you alright?" As he extended a paw towards Agatha, she swatted it away.

"Get back you weirdo! You were trying to eat us! I knew you were evil! That's why no one wants to hang out with you, you monster!"

Ben looked shocked. "I-, I wasn't..."

Hearing the commotion and kids coming to her telling her what happened, Miss Cheerilee came running to their aid. 

"What happened?! Are you guys alright?!"

"Miss he tried to hurt us! We didn't do anything! He just tried to eat and blow us all up Miss! Please get rid of the monster!" Children surrounded Cheerilee, and while she tried to hear everyone out, she saw Ben stiff as a statue. 

She made her way over to where Ben was standing.  "What happened Ben? Did you use magic during school hours? Do you know how dangerous that is?"

"Miss I'm sorry I didn't mean to hurt anybody. I just got scared and-"

"You just tried to hurt us, don't lie you weirdo!" Agatha screamed in his face, pointing one of her fingers at him. "Yeah, Agatha just walked over to him and he turned around with a magic ball and shoot it straight towards us!" "Were scared, please take him away!"

The children again started rambling on, not allowing Cheerilee or Ben get a word in. Ben wasn't confrontational, so he just stayed quiet. 

"Nu-uh, that's not what happened!"

Ben recognized the voice. It was Bitter Bites twin sister.

"Sugary Bite what are you doing here? You're not supposed to be in school." Cheerilee addressed Sugary. 

"I saw what happened, they are lying! I came here with mommy for Bitter Bite's homework because he forgot it. They threw a ball at Ben, I saw it!" 

"I didn't throw it!" Agatha exclaimed.

"I didn't say it was you!" Sugary retorted back. 

With that Agatha closed her beak and stayed quiet. 

"All right all right, we will talk about this after school. Please Sugary go back to your mom. Kids it's time to go inside, c'mon."

Kids started to head insde the school, and as Ben started to walk Cheerilee stopped him. 

"We will talk about what happened when your dad comes over, alright? And please, no magic use today, okay?"

She didn't sound angry, though her soothing voice masked a tinge of worry. Ben just shook his head slowly up and down, agreeing. 

As he sat in his desk, the whispering children went quiet. Cheerilee began her lecture, but this time Ben didn't bother to pay attention. 

~

The school bell rang, and kids gathered outside to meet their parents to go home, with the exception of two. They were still seated in their desks, no words exchanged. Ben felt panicked, like a knot in his stomach had formed and it was just gurgling around. What would his dad say if he knew he was doing magic in school? Would be be mad? He would probably be grounded for ever and be banned from doing magic again. Ben didn't bother looking in Agatha's direction, though he felt eyes on the back of his head. 

"Hello Mrs. Helen, hello Mr Discord, would you please come inside? There was an incident today regarding Agatha and Ben during lunch time."

"Did something happen to Agatha?!"

"What happened to my boy?! Is he okay?!"

At the mention of an incident, both parents asked Cheerilee in a panic. 

"No they aren't hurt, just if you please could come in."

Discord and Helen, Agatha's mother, came in. Agatha quickly ran towards her mother and began pleading with her.

"I didn't do it mom! It was an accident!"

Discord approached Ben who was still sitting and his desk and picking him up to his eye level.

"Are you alright? Did anyone hurt you?"

Ben shook his head at his dad's question, but still didn't speak. 

"Miss Cheerilee, you were looking for us?" Pinkie Pie came in the door, along with Sugary Bite and Bitter Bite. 

"Thank you all for coming. I know its a hassle to be here after school but I know that you guys want to know what happened today. From what I was told, Ben was caught doing magic during school hours without supervision of an adult or unicorn teacher."

"Is that true?" Discord let Ben down gently, and Ben looking down, saying a small audible yes.

"As we have discussed previously during the days prior of school, magic practice is forbidden during school hours without supervision, correct Discord?"

"Ah-, y-yes I know."

"I know you might be teaching Ben magic, but also teaching him the where and when he should be practicing it is a lesson every teacher has to put in place. Right?"

"R-right. I'm very sorry for the incident, whatever it was. I did fail Benny in teaching him to refrain from using magic here at school."

At this, Ben felt guilty, like he was at fault his dad was being scolded for his mistake.

"Although, I was told something else before the incident happened. And, I know Sugary Bite was a witness to all this."

"But how is my daughter related to this?"

"Go on Sugary." Cheerilee told her.

"I saw Ben by the bushes of the playground, but I also saw Agatha and her friends playing ball. But then I saw them throw the ball at Ben. Then his magic went BOOM!"

"Sugary is certain Agatha was the one who threw the ball."

"Did you Agatha?" Helen asked her daughter.

Agatha stayed quiet, and her eyes averting her mother's gaze.

"She is lying. Ben just wanted to hurt us for playing, and when I went to go say sorry he tried to hurt me." Agatha still averting her gaze.

"No you weren't, you were laughing with every pony." Sugary added.

"He also annoys me during class. He just stares at us without saying anything."

"Well you must have done something to him." 

"I do not!"

Sugary and Agatha bickered back and forth, while Ben just looked at them.

"Did she do anything else to you today?" Discord whipered to Ben. 

Then, Ben remembered, the piece of paper that tapped his head. It was Agatha who threw the piece of paper, and the ball. 

"She-" Everyone went quiet when they heard him talk. "She threw a piece of paper at me today. During class."

"HAH! What did I tell you, you DID do something!" Sugary mocked Agatha. "Sugary c'mere." Pinkie said while grabbing and dragging her towards her by her tail.

"Well Agatha, did you?" Cheerilee asked, sternly this time.

Agatha stayed quiet, swallowing saliva and lowering her head. 

"He's a monster."

"Agatha!" Helen yelled angrily at her daughter. 

"He doesn't belong here. He scares all of us!"

"All right all right, quiet down. *Sigh* Discord, Ben, you guys can leave for today. I'll talk with Miss Helen about Agatha's detention."

"Thank you Miss Cheerilee, c'mon kiddo. Let's go home." Discord picked Ben up and carried him on his back. 

"You can also leave Pinkie, and before I forget. Here is your homework Bitter."

"..." "He says thank you!" Sugary answered for her brother, while Bitter only nodded. 

Pinkie, Discord, and along with the kids, they left the school. 

~

Pinkie and the kids had parted ways, not before telling Ben they would see him later that week at school.  Ben only held tightly to his dad's neck, holding onto him like a koala. 

"You okay there kiddo, you are holding on a little roughly?"

There was a pause, and then heard a sniffle. 

"Benny, what's wrong?" As he grabbed his son and turned him around, Ben had tears running down his cheeks. Discord stopped walking and just held Ben in the air.

"Dad, am I a monster?" As he said it, Ben started to bawl. More tears came, and his sobbing got louder. 

His heart broke when he heard it. He only hugged his son, rubbing his hair. Discord carried on walking holding him in his arms. 

-

First time I post my Next Gen story here.

To give out context on characters-

-Ben (Benjamin Shy), son of Discord and Flutter Shy

-Sugary Bite and Bitter Bite, Pinkie's and Sky Star's kids

-Agatha, new character of mine, daughter of Helen

I'll later post their refs here~

[onboardsorasora]

❄️Enchanted AU: Christmas Part 23❄️

Welcome welcome welcome back!

A little housekeeping before we move on to the chapter: So, the next chapter falls on Christmas Day (its also a Christmas day chapter 🎉). Because it’s Christmas day, should I post the next chapter instead on Sunday/Christmas Eve, Monday/Christmas Day (as normal) or Tuesday/Boxing Day/Day After Christmas?

Please let me know! I can even do a poll if that would make things easier?

Part 1 | Christmas Part 1 | Last Chapter

Part 23/Christmas Part 10

“Uncle Daniel uncle Daniel! Look what mommy got me!” Issac yelled through his screen, the biggest brightest grin on his face as he showed his newest toy. Daniel grinned back at him, curled up on the floor against the far side of his bed underneath the lamp. It was past midnight and he was trying to be as quiet as possible while he video chatted with his family. It was Christmas morning for them and Issac always woke them early to open presents. Isabella was sleepy in her little chair, nomming on the ear of her new plushie.

Grace was already in the kitchen getting started on breakfast, Daniel felt like he could smell the familiar warm scent from all the way in Monaco.

“That's amazing Izzy!” Daniel’s voice cracked and he cleared his throat. He missed his family, dearly. This was his first Christmas away from them. Even when he and Michael were dating, he had been able to visit for the holidays. 

Sophie and Vic have been amazing in trying to keep him busy and distracted. Asking him a lot about the stuff they did at home for Christmas. Today they tried to make a pavlova together and it went as awfully as everyone thought it would– but it was fun. And it soothed over a piece of Daniel’s heart that was fraying. He missed his mama and his sister, but Sophie and Vic were a good substitute for now.  

The boys also kept him from going stir crazy, Lio was attached to his hip and Luka trailed behind him with Sassy in tow. They made quite a bunch when they went to lay out on the patio. They’re also helping him to learn Dutch. Between the boys and the cats, Daniel felt like he could be babbling in Dutch in no time! He’d also been teaching the boys Italian, they were eager to learn and show off what they were saying to their parents.

Daniel knew when he went back home he would teach Isaac Dutch. 

That was another thing, he wanted to go back home– so badly. But he didn’t think he wanted to stay there. Not anymore. Not when– only if Max would want it.

He knew Max had a busy job, and wouldn’t be home a lot of the time. But Daniel figured he could maybe stay with the cats. So they weren’t always alone. He wanted to stay with Max, he wanted Max. But if Max didn’t want him, he was ok with staying for Jimmy and Sassy too.

He shook his head and refocused on the screen, Isaac was doing a count of all his gifts and talking to Grandpa Joe in the background. Daniel let their voices wash over him as he got lost in thought. He could already hear Michelle telling him to stop living his life for a man. 

That’s what got him into the mess with Micheal. He was too head over heels to take a step back and think. He'd wanted to be around Mike all the time and thought he wanted that too. Until too late when he realized he was afraid to go home because he didn’t want Mike to get mad at him. Afraid that Mike would know if he sang, because the animals would linger– so he stopped. Afraid of disappointing, being diasppointing.

He’s not head over heels for Max, he knows he’s not. But he wants to spend time with him here, in Monaco. Spend time with Charles and Lando and Alex and Lily. He has friends he made who aren’t his immediate family now, people who know what he is and like him for him! People who haven’t tried to use him for anything. They just want to spend time with him.

He wants to go home because his family is there, but he doesn’t want to stay because he’s growing a family here. 

He wanted Max and he wanted his Mama and Chelle. He can’t have everything, not in the way he truly wanted.

He thought of Max, his smile and how his face squishes when he laughs and his tongue sticks out a little bit. How his voice is raspier in the mornings and his lisp makes his words sound more Dutch than English. He thought of how sweet and caring Max is, how that tea blend he picked out tasted divine. How he’s been taking care of Daniel from the start even though he really didn’t have to. 

Daniel couldn’t imagine being stuck in Monaco having never met Max. 

Max was wonderful, the cats never lied once about him. He was fantastic and sweet and great and Daniel was in love with him. 

He let the thought roll around in his head as Isaac showed him all the decorations; where they hung the mistletoe this year now that Daniel wasn’t there to decide. Isaac told him how many times Nonna got caught under it and how many times she smacked Nonno away from her when he tried to kiss her.

Michelle took the phone shortly thereafter, she smiled at the distant look on her brother’s face.

“What are you thinking about so hard? Any more not-date dates with Max?” she teased, sipping from her teacup. Daniel scoffed.

“It wasn’t a date, Chellie!” he whisper-shouted, before switching languages. At least, if his sister was going to tease him, she could do it without anyone overhearing. He glanced over the bed quickly to make sure his door was closed, normally he left it open so the cats could roam, but he hadn’t wanted to accidentally wake anyone up with this call. He’d already told Sassy and Jimmy about it and they promised they weren’t upset.

“Sure sure!” she waved him off, “but you’re overthinking something, you have that look on your face.”

“I miss you guys.” Daniel mumbled, picking at the area rug below him.

“We miss you too lovebug.” Michelle said simply, and Daniel felt the first tear that rolled down his cheek.

“I miss you so much. And I want to be home so bad.” He scrubbed at his eyes while his voice wobbled, Michelle cooed at him from the other side of the phone and then Grace’s face slipped on screen.

“We miss you too baby, we miss you so much.” Grace gushed and Daniel shuddered a breath. “You’re thinking about a lot of things aren't you, my heart? What's on your mind?” Grace knew her baby, knew when he was overwhelmed. Knew when he was overthinking.

And it was like the dam burst, all the feelings Daniel had been bottling since he first came to Monaco came rushing out. He sobbed quietly into his elbow and his mother and sister looked on helplessly. Then everything came out as word vomit.

“I miss home, I miss everyone. I feel like I’m– I’m betraying you guys. I can’t– I shouldn’t. I’m so sorry. And he’ll never love me back! But I can stay here, and take care of the cats– it's the least I could do. He’s been taking care of me since I came, I’ve like done nothing to deserve–”

“Daniel, you don’t need to do anything to deserve love. You don’t need to be anything but yourself and I think he likes you for you.” Grace cut in swiftly before Daniel could venture down the path they took so long to take him from.

“Yeah, because I’m special.” Daniel pointed out with a pout.

“Special or not, he likes you for you.” Michelle used her mom voice and Daniel felt very mollified.

The phone was passed again and an older woman’s face filled the screen, Daniel choked back a gasp.

“My little Daniel. If he loves you, then he will show it. If he is showing it then it is simple. Now don’t cry my little love.”

“Nonna…” Daniel swallowed the lump in his throat as his grandmother continued to soothe him in her native tongue. 

“It's ok if you love him. You don’t have to tell him–” Grace started.

“You should!” Michelle butt in.

“Michelle stop.”

“But he loves Daniel too! They went on dates!” Michelle argued her case and Grace’s curious eyes found Daniel’s. He felt his face flame.

“He’s courting you, little love?” Nonna asked. Daniel shook his head, it wasn’t like that. Michelle was having none of it.

“They went to lunch when they were running errands the other day! They danced in the living room by the fireplace! And Max flew back and took care of him when he got sick–twice!” Michelle counted off on her hands, Daniel whined softly– she was such a snitch!

“Chelle it's not like that!” Daniel tried to plead his case, but the smug look on his mother’s face plus the soft look on his grandmother’s face told him he already lost.

“You don’t need to worry that he doesn’t love you my dear.” Grace said in the way she normally does when she’s decided she won an argument. Normally it's followed up with a pat on the shoulder or leg.

Grace and Nonna left the phone shortly after and then it was just Michelle and Daniel again. He could see the day getting brighter and hotter in her background, just like how he knew if he looked outside the mountains would be dark while the city would be gleaming with lights.

“Just because Micheal was shit, doesn’t mean they’ll all be shit.” Michelle said softly after a while, “Max is a good one. Didn’t Sassy say so?”

“She did.” Daniel confirmed, ducking his head again. He felt tired, exhausted. He’d gone through a gamut of emotions in a short space of time. But he felt better, his brain felt more settled and the warmth in his chest didn’t turn cold. 

He let the feeling settle in his chest and flow through his limbs. He felt more sure of himself, at least a little. He wanted to sing but knew it wasn’t the right time. He could sing tomorrow. 

He and Michelle hung up not too long after and Daniel settled into bed, pulling the duvet up under his chin. He stared at the wall in the dark, curled on his side.

He loved Max.

It was obvious now that he allowed himself to feel it. But that was as far as this would go, he didn’t want to chance… anything. Nothing needed to change. He’d tell Sassy and Jimmy maybe. But he wouldn’t tell Max. 

Max didn’t need to know.

He slipped off to sleep, curled into his empty sheets that smelled like Jimmy and Sassy. He woke late that morning to the cats curled around his shoulders.

Next Chapter

~*~

Decided to do a poll, please sound off!

[notsolocalsimp]

Rotten Ribbons

CHAPTER ONE

Next chapter

It was a normal Tuesday for Y/N, they woke up, styled their (H/C) hair and looked at themselves in the mirror with their (E/C) eyes, admiring the work they did before making coffee and heading to work.

Y/N worked in an office building, it was small but respectable and she had many friends there who helped her around the place, and made sure she didn’t overwork herself. The office workers knew she was a writer because she would always have a notebook on hand, even when she didn’t have work to do.

When asked where they got their stories she would say,

“I write down all I know about life.”

They knew not to bother them with their silly questions because Y/N was never really bothered. They just wrote, and if they knew what to look for, they could see some pages on the inside covered with notes of what the girl was saying, like scripts for conversations.

You walked out of the lobby of your apartment, which was only about 3 kilometers away from your workplace, and headed out of the street towards the metro station. As soon as your feet hit the floor tiles below, you felt the tingling of your ribbon as the magic that bound the two you together began to strengthen, they were getting closer to you. You had never put any effort into finding your soulmate, you would meet them when fate decided, and it seemed that fate had decided that you will meet them soon.

Your train arrived after you had boarded and sat in your seat, watching how other people dressed, smiled and laughed while they enjoyed being alive on this day. They were living their lives as you should be. You watched how the man next to you got off his stop, his blue coat was slightly worn, and he carried a messenger bag in his left hand.

your stop was next and your train started moving. Your body was tense due to anticipation and anxiety, you hoped that the person who will make you happier wasn’t someone that would cause you problems later... You kept your head low in hopes to avoid eye contact with anyone else as you exited the subway station, and went to work.

You would need to keep your mind blank for today so you could focus on your work without having too much trouble. the day passed by in a blur and it was late by the time your boss gave you permission to leave early, you packed up your things quickly, and went to get coffee at your favorite Café

You lived in Japan, and earthquakes were very common there, so when the ground shook you didn't think about it, that was, until you saw debris from a nearby building begin to fall while you were drinking your coffee. You set the glass mug down, and the building collapsed, the impact had to have killed someone, and that's when you saw… your ribbon was rotting

Hero students had came to rescue the surviving civilians, since all heroes were currently busy, except for one, who was their teacher Shouta Aizawa, better known as Eraserhead. He had gotten a call from the police department and had taken up his role as the hero who saves people, despite being exhausted from a grueling week of teaching, even though it was only Tuesday.

Tears had pricked your eyes despite never meeting your soulmate, you were still upset, because they were so close, and you still didn't get to meet them. you took a deep breath to compose yourself, and exited the coffee shop after paying to see two hero students (Katsuki Bakugo and Tenya Iida) arguing instead of helping people out of the rubble. you sighed with disdain, and tore the sleeve of your (F/C) sweater to cover the wounds of some of the injured to help out at least a bit, lets just hope the medical college courses you took in high school were accurate.

As you went to check on another civilian that had fallen unconscious, you heard a loud explosion behind you. you turned around, and saw a blonde boy in a flashy hero costume holding onto a massive piece of concrete with one hand and using his quirk on the remaining rubble in front of him. you frowned in disgust, does he not realize how dangerous that is!

you had pushed away more rubble before you froze, someone was killed on impact, and it was your soul mate... a rebar had impaled him through the lungs, and his legs were pinned due to the rubble, and you saw the shining red ribbon... that meant... your heart stopped beating for a moment as you stared down at your mangled soul mate, and your ribbon was already decayed, he was gone...

As a single tear fell from your eyes, you couldn't help but feel a deep sense of loss. The sight before you was devastating, your soulmate lying lifeless beneath the rubble. The red ribbon, once vibrant and full of life, now slowly dissipated into thin air. It was a cruel reminder that he was gone, that fate had dealt you a heartbreaking blow.

Despite the obviousness of his death, you couldn't bring yourself to let go. You clung onto his lifeless body, desperate for something to anchor you, to keep you from collapsing under the weight of your grief. The scene was hauntingly vivid, his life extinguished so swiftly and violently. It was a moment you wished you had never witnessed, yet it was also a moment that allowed you to meet him in his final breath.

Every detail etched itself into your memory—the pain etched on his face, the blood staining his clothes, the rebar that had pierced his lungs. It was a sight that would forever haunt your nightmares, a tragic ending to a love story that never had the chance to begin.

But even in the midst of your sorrow, you knew you had to let go. Reluctantly, you released your grip on his lifeless body, allowing him to rest in peace. Your soul ribbon, now faded and frail, fluttered gently in the breeze before finally vanishing into nothingness. It was a bittersweet moment, knowing that you had at least met him in his final moments, yet also realizing that the love you had yearned for was now lost forever.

As you stood there, surrounded by the remnants of destruction, you couldn't help but feel the weight of the world crashing down on you. The tears continued to flow, your grief consuming you like a tidal wave. The room felt suffocating, the walls closing in on you, mirroring the void that now existed in your heart. Life had lost its vibrancy, its color, and all that remained was an abyss of sorrow.

Days turned into nights, and nights turned into days, but the pain persisted. You retreated into your bedroom, seeking solace in solitude. Each moment was filled with memories that you clung onto desperately, the laughter that would never be, the love that would never bloom.

Time seemed to stand still as you mourned the loss of your soulmate. It felt as if the world had forgotten its purpose, its joy. But deep within you, a glimmer of resilience flickered. You knew you couldn't let grief consume you forever. Life had to go on, even in the absence of the one who was supposed to complete you.

Slowly, you mustered the strength to face reality. The tears may still sting your eyes, but you knew you couldn't dwell on the pain forever. Your boss, understanding the weight of your loss, granted you time off work to cope with the overwhelming grief.

In the confines of your room, you battled the sorrow that threatened to consume you. It took all your might to push through each day, to ignore the ache in your chest, a constant reminder of the void that now existed in your life. Your soulmate was gone, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't fix it. They wouldn't be coming back.

The world outside continued to move, oblivious to your pain. People went about their lives, laughing and smiling, as if nothing had changed. It felt like a cruel mockery, a reminder of what you had lost. But amidst the darkness, a small glimmer of hope remained.

Though your soulmate was gone, you still carried a part of them within you. Their essence, their spirit, their love—it would forever be etched into your heart. And as you slowly began to pick up the shattered pieces of your life, you knew that you had to keep going, to honor their memory by living a life filled with love and resilience.

The transitional plot had woven its way through the tapestry of your life, connecting the devastating end of a love story with the arduous journey that lay ahead. It was a chapter that would forever shape you, that would mold your understanding of love and loss. And as you stood at the precipice of the unknown, you vowed to keep moving forward, even as the scars of your grief continued to mark your soul.

[txt-ruby]

⌗ finally, serenity !!

ᝰ era: pre-debut (2016)

ᝰ characters: ruby, her parents, her siblings

ᝰ word count: 0.7k

ᝰ warning: mentions of physical abuse bruises, divorce, depression, orphanage, feeling unwanted, etc. . . (pl lmk if i missed anything)

ᝰ notes: ruby is mentioned using her first name bella. This touches heavily on her past and childhood. In no way shape or form i am mocking or romanticising abuse! Please get help or reach out to anybody you know will help you. My dms and inbox are always open! Please educate me if i got any details wrong or if you find it offensive.

Bella knew the second she heard that door slam shut, it was time to get her siblings to bed and get downstairs. Hurrying her younger siblings into their respective beds and making sure to reassure them that she'd be alright, she slowly closed the door to not let her parents realize that her siblings were still awake.

Going downstairs she wonders if she'll ever escape this household. Looking at the fading bruises on her arm she wonders if they'll ever stop showing up one day. Even if the thought of escaping gives her euphoria, one part of her is terrified that if she's gone, then her siblings would take her place. She doesn't want that. She wants the pain and the trauma to stop with her. She doesn't want her siblings to go through the same things she went through. They're just children she thinks. There's another part in her brain that screams at her that she's a child too but she ignores it when she gets to the bottom of the staircase.

She knows that in the morning, she would have to yet again cover up her bruises with concealer and a full hand t-shirt and go to school with a fake smile to hide the pain. Making her way to the living room she sees her parents seated on the couch with a piece of paper on the coffee table. Her mom calls out to her as soon as she feels Bella's presence "come here girl, George and i have something to tell you" She halts her steps at the sound of that. Her mother only calls her father by his name in either of two scenarios.

One, something good is gonna happen. Two, something terrible is gonna happen. She makes her way towards them hoping it's not the latter. "Sit" her father pushes a chair towards her. That was new. She was never offered to take a seat in front of them before. Sighing and rubbing his temple with his hands, her father says something that makes Bella gasp internally "Ivana and i are getting a divorce" she felt like her air circulation got cut off for a second.

She had a million thoughts running inside her head and before she could get to one, her mother spoke out. "We have three options for the custody of you and your good for nothing brother and sister. One, all three of you go with George. Two, all of you come with me or three, all three of you get placed in an orphanage. The choice is yours" Bella felt like the world was ending. It felt like it really was. Looking up at her mother for the first time since she entered the room, she hoped to see some form of affection behind those eyes but that hope threw itself out the window when she saw her mother looking down at her with nothing but hatred in them. It wasn't her fault that they were getting a divorce. She tried to reassure herself as she shushed the voices in her head that said otherwise.

Quietly mumbling to her parents that she wants to be placed in the orphanage with her siblings, she fell silent and closed her eyes as she anticipated a sting to her cheek that meant she made the wrong choice but it never came this time. She heard both of her parents mumble to themselves something along the lines of that they were glad she chose it because now they wouldn't have a burden called children.

"You all will be leaving by next Tuesday then. Now get out of my sight" her mom said as Bella rose to her feet quickly making her way out of the living room and upstairs, to her room. Quickly stopping by her siblings room, she opened the door to see both of them fast asleep hugging their stuffed animals.

Quietly closing the door she sighed for what felt the millionth time today but this time, it was a sigh of relief. She felt happy for the first time in a few years. They were getting out of here. Her siblings could finally have a nice childhood. And that made Bella happy.

[esta-elavaris]

Never Let Me Go - Kazuo Ishiguro

Spoiler-y rant ahead because I loved this book and I never want to read it again.

So, for those who don't know, the premise of this book is that there are people who are clones (presumably of whose "originals" were in a difficult financial position, who sell their genetics/permission for this to happen), who are created and raised from infancy for the sole purpose of becoming organ donors when they reach adulthood. They survive three or four donations, one after the other, with just enough time to recover between them, and then they die - or "complete", as the book puts it. It's also hinted that as they're dying following the fourth, the doctors basically harvest whatever else they can - y'know, the really vital ones that wouldn't allow for recovery between if they did it earlier.

The book begins by describing the childhood of these clones, but you don't know they're clones. At first (if you haven't seen the movie, like I had), you think they're just kids in an orphanage or boarding school. Then it's all drip-fed to you, very matter of factly, as you follow them growing up and coming to grips with what's going to happen, and when it eventually does happen

And I have this habit, right, of when I love a book (and this was a five star read for me) where I go onto goodreads and read the one star reviews - just from a writing standpoint, to remind myself of how subjective it all is. But god, these reviews got to me. There was so much complaining about how the organ donation thing wasn't some big plot twist moment, or how there wasn't enough emphasis on the horror of it - there wasn't a Stephen King moment where a character pokes at their wounds and contemplates that their kidney was just taken or anything like that.

And to me, that just makes it so much more real?

In the book, the narrator - Kathy - mentions a theory that another "clone" at her school had, that they were given little bits and pieces of information about who they were and what their purpose was when they were just too young to understand it, so when they DID grow old enough to make sense of each new piece of information a year or so later, there's no rebellion. There's no outcry. Because by that point, the concept has become normal to them before they're even properly old enough to understand what it means. How can you not see the meaning in that? It can apply to so much. Admittedly, Kathy doesn't agree with that theory, but I did when I read the book.

It's presented as so normal and matter-of-fact because that's what it is to those characters, and that's what makes it feel so real! How many of us deal with horrible things in our day to day lives, or see them play out on the news, and just...get on with it? And if we were told in an abstract sense "tomorrow you'll see a child get blown up in a video" we'd be horrified, but then so many people turn on the news and see that very thing reported and the context and the way it's presented means it's just another Tuesday. Further still, how many completely normal things in our daily lives would seem horrific if we stopped and framed them another way?

There are moments where the horror seeps in, they're not robots, they don't feel nothing over the fate that they know is looming, and where they try to tentatively find ways to get out of it. So much of the book revolves around different theories they have, different rumours that if they do X, Y, and Z, they'll get postponements for their donations, but it's not done in an insanely melodramatic way - where the clock's ticking down and they're sweating trying to diffuse a bomb. They're numb and they're even weirdly reluctant to try because they're reluctant to hope, and it just feels so true to life.

There's so much more that goes on in the book - the donations themselves and people being raised solely to be organ donors, and the way the world treats them, there are so many different readings of that alone, nevermind what happens as the book develops, I could write a dissertation on it, but it's just wild to me that anybody could read it and give it one star for the very thing that makes it good.

God, I need to read more by this author.

[thephantomcasebook]

is such a weird contrast between Got cast and House of the dragon cast. Like even though they are not as much talent as Hotd, most of them cared about those characters and understand them. While hotd cast (mostly) have so little hope for their nerd show to gain a award them not even attended and another who went didn't even have the slightest preparation and composure.

I wonder that now the show is a successful piece of work how the discourse will change when they get close to the second season premiere.

The reason for that is fairly simple.

"Game of Thrones" at its core was held together by veteran and seasoned actors that were professionals at the heart of it . David and Dan were pretty amateurish but the production was surrounded by experienced people that maintained a professional work environment.

"House of the Dragon" and its cast are not veteran nor seasoned actors. Matt Smith, Paddy Constantine, and Rhys Ifans, are about it in terms of core veteran actors in the cast - Corlys and Rhaenys are not core cast members. The younger actors are very talented but are very, VERY, far from being professionals.

In particular the actresses - Olivia Cooke, Emma D'arcy, and even Phia Saban, are flat out immature both on and off set while representing the show - I don't care about their personal lives, they can do what they want on their own time.

A good example of this is the Press Tour.

A Press Tour is not just for promotion of a show, but to set the tone for your character and shape a narrative around them. They're very important moments to set talking point about your character and the plot of the show - to give you as an actor and the character armor. Instead, Olivia Cooke and Emma D'arcy used it to fuck around for weeks, not caring about promoting the show, not caring to protect their characters, nor to have dialogue about the characters. They basically sat there with each other's thumbs up their asses and acted like teenage school girls and not professionals.

Thus, there was a deluge - DELUGE - of hate for Alicent that was near psychosis, and there was nowhere for anyone to fall back to, because, Olivia Cooke never once went out and defended her character or point of view - LIKE YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO IN A PRESS TOUR! So, instead, she moped and cried like a immature child that people were being mean to her, when she had a golden and offered opportunity to get ahead of it, but instead, chose to laugh it up for a week with D'arcy.

The one thing you could say about Lena Headey was that, yes, she was also a woman-child, who was incredibly immature for someone in their 40's. But she always used press to defend Cersei and never sided against her. In the press tours she always had valid points about where Cersei was coming from and really understood her character as the character - a real living and breathing separate person - not as an extension of herself.

Olivia Cooke couldn't be bothered to understand Alicent. Instead, to make her more palatable to her rich white leftist luxury politics, she made up a bunch of things that have nothing to do with Alicent Hightower so that Cooke could be more 'comfortable' playing her.

That's the difference between a talented amateur and a seasoned professional.

Of course, Lena Headey didn't like or agree with Cersei as a person, but she put aside her ego and embodied the character to a stellar performance, cause that is what great actors do.

Olivia Cooke is not capable of putting aside her scruples nor her ego to understand and embody Alicent to the fullest extent. Neither can D'arcy as Rhaenyra. They both try to put themselves and their personal wants into the character, rather than disappearing into the role. Not only is it the sign of immaturity, but it shows a deep lack of commitment to their craft and the show as a whole. Cause they don't give a fuck ... they pick up the check on Tuesday and bother their agent about the Emmy campaign ... cause why else would they be doing this "Nerd Shit" if they didn't have too?

"Game of Thrones", for a good portion of the show - till the end anyway -, was trying to tell a human story with human characters in a fantasy world realized by hard working and good hearted production staff.

"House of the Dragon" is in danger of being a vehicle for simply a bunch of ambitious and narcissistic people. From Sapochnik and his wife, who tried to change the source material cause they didn't like it. To Sara Hess who wants to put her own personal bullshit agenda into the lifeblood of the narrative - ruining characters like Aegon and Criston. And Cooke and D'arcy, who are simply signed up for awards and couldn't give a shit about anything or anyone else.

But time will tell, Nonny, time will tell.

[malaysianpeanut]

That Afternoon - A Hazbin Hotel fanfic

Summary: A one-shot story of Alastor when he was still alive when he knew of a young girl who has an attachment to him due to her trying to escape her own harsh life. In this story, he is burying his last body at the current town he lived in as he says his goodbyes to the girl, while he reminisced about his first meeting with her.

Note:

I've been into Hazbin Hotel recently thanks to my friend, and Alastor is my favorite character from the show. I was going through many videos and sites exploring his lore so I thought it'd be interesting to have my character interact with him in his human life, and I just thought to make it more interesting with crossing over of his "criminal" life. If this gets hits, I will expand on my character more, because I have some stories about her too. :)

I'm not sure if this is meant to be a romance. At the very least, I think Alastor would have some fondness over my character, but not romantically or sexually. Just maybe caring and protective for her like a special friend or family.

The story

It was a time during the late 1920s, somewhere in the state of Louisiana, at a small town. It's another one of those hot, late afternoons, where the sun was starting reach the horizon to set. In a swamp nearby, there was a man, all alone. Well, he was alone now, but earlier, there was another man, who used to be alive. Now, there was only one. And this person in question, who was alive and well, was a man named Alastor. He was a tall man, his age somewhere in his late twenties. He had a tan skin and dark brown hair, a pair of glasses framing his eyes, and wearing a rather smart outfit, consisting of a crisp white shirt, with the sleeves folded, a tweed vest, brown slacks and black loafers. However, his hygiene could have been better, as he was covered in some splotches of blood and some dirt, whilst he was digging up the ground in front of him. It was a rather large hole too, fit for a body. Specifically, the body of the other man, who Alastor eyed from the side as he kept on digging the ground with his shovel. It was a rather... tiring day today.

He stopped after deciding that the hole was big enough and tossed the shovel at the side. The man who was now dead was cut up into multiple pieces. His legs and arms were missing, only leaving his head and his torso lying on a piece of cloth on the ground next to the hole. The sight was quite gruesome for anyone who might stumble into it, but to Alastor, this was just another Tuesday. As he took a moment to breathe, he noticed a presence nearby. He could tell just by seeing a figure peeking out from the corner of the trees, as well as hearing some faint sounds of footsteps behind him. He had a feeling he knew who it was, but just in case, he grabbed the knife from his back pocket and slowly approached one of the trees behind him, taking slow steps with the intention to intimidate, as well as to harm. As soon as he reached the tree, he skulked around the corner and saw a young girl, nearing her twenties, with a rather fair but dirty skin and messy long black hair tied loosely behind her. She was wearing a white shirt, torn and patched in come places with a dusty old skirt reaching below her knees. She stared back at Alastor, with wide eyes, seemingly terrified. But a moment later, she glanced at the body on the ground next to the hole and pointed to it.

"Who's that?" She asked with a soft, almost whispery voice. Her expression changed to one with more curiousity and wonder, rather than horror.

Alastor glared at this girl in front of him for a moment, and then backed off, rolling his eyes in the process. He had no energy to even react to her presence right now, and walked back to what he was doing.

"Marcella... How many times I've got to tell you? I don't want you around when I'm 'working'. Go home," he exhaustingly greeted her as he covered the body with the cloth. The girl, named Marcella, walked over to him nonchalantly, as if this sight was something of a norm to her.

"I'm bored, Mr. L," she replied, with a hint of Cajun accent. "I don't really want to be in my house right now."

"Your father around?" He asked as he tossed the body into the hole. He knew that Marcella's father wasn't a kind man, and would always pick on her when they were both home. 

"He's at work. I just wanna take a walk while waiting for my shift at the club later," she answered with a bright tone, and a smile on her face. Alastor glanced at her, wondering how she could always be this happy, when he knew how much she was going through at home. Nevertheless, he looked at the body in the hole and turned to her.

"Fine. If you're going to be here, at least make yourself useful and help me cover this up," he handed her the shovel while he retrieved another one from another spot. She gladly grabbed it and started shoveling the dirt back into the hole as the dirt covered the remains bit by bit. Alastor joined her shortly and shoveled some dirt into the hole as well. Marcella stopped for a moment and looked at Alastor, with a quizzical expression.

"Who is this again?" She asked, trying to probe the answer out from Alastor. He momentarily looked at her, wondering what he should say. But he eventually decided he was just going to tell the truth. Albeit, maybe a shortened version. 

"Just some nobody," he replied. Marcella raised her eyebrow, having some doubts. For all she knew, he had always went after those who had some sketchy activities, though he himself was a suspicious person as well. 

"What'd he do?" She continued. Alastor was starting to get annoyed, feeling as if he was being interrogated. But nonetheless, he humoured her and gave a short, ambiguous answer in return.

"Oh nothing much. Just... looked at someone in a funny way," he answered her again, this time with a smile.

He knew the full story. He was in a club downtown when the man was present. He saw what the man had done. He eyed some girls in a grotesque manner, tried touching some waitresses and other patrons without their consent and even pinned a girl against the wall whilst trying to assault her. Alastor felt that he did what was necessary. Marcella was not one to miss any hidden meanings, and knew there was more than just "looking at someone funny", but she decided to drop the subject and continued helping him bury the body. Alastor shifted his gaze at her while he covered the hole with dirt, as he remembered back to the first time that they had met, both him and Marcella.

...........

It was dark, late at night, nearing 12AM. The perfect time for hunting in the bayou. And for Alastor, there was a prey right ahead of him, just awaiting his death. The man was a scrawny thin man, who often scammed people out of their money on the streets and living off of what little wealth they had. Alastor had been keeping a close eye on him when he was out and about at night and he did not like what he was seeing. Then on this night, he decided that it was enough. This man was going to stop his scams, whatever means that Alastor was going to find necessary. He had been chasing him down to the wood intentionally with a knife in his hand, while the man was fleeing in fear. Although Alastor himself wasn't a man made of muscles, he was a rather tall man, and that was enough to instill any kind of fear in anyone.

In another part of the wood, was Marcella, who was spending some time being away from her house, which wasn't very far from where she was. She was crying in pain, from her body and her heart. Her father had once again, hit her hard for a mistake she couldn't even remember doing while she was the house. So many times in her mind, she was thinking of running away, never returning, but where would she even go? And often times, when she was in this situation, she would take about an hour to be by herself, crying and thinking on her next course of actions, and eventually come to the conclusion that she should just go home and sleep it off, like she often would. But just as she got up and was about to walk away, she heard some noises coming closer to where she was. She remained cautious and hid behind a tree, as she saw a man, the same scrawny one that Alastor was pursuing, coming out from a bush on her left and going off up ahead.

S he walked backwards slowly, and was about to leave the scene due to her paranoia of what was going on, but suddenly stumbled into someone behind her. She jumped to the front, creating a distance between her and whatever was behind her. She looked up and saw Alastor, who had a serious, menacing look on his face. She felt scared looking at him, and she should be, for Alastor was holding a knife behind his back. He on the other hand, was wondering whether he should put an end to this girl's life in front of him, but decided moments later that it was not worth the energy and he had to deal with his initial target first. He suddenly plastered on a huge smile and tried his best to emit a pleasant vibe through his expression. But Marcella still felt threatened by his demeanour.

"I'm sorry, did you happen to see a man coming through here? Skinny, wearing a cheap suit, looking scared for his life?" He asked her in an upbeat tone in his voice. She was puzzled for a moment, and then pointed to the direction where she last saw the man went off to. Alastor looked over to where she pointed and turned his head back to her, never taking his smile off from his face. 

"Thank you, my dear," he thanked her shortly and walked away towards the direction of where the man was headed, leaving Marcella, who was baffled at what was happening.

A few minutes later, the man was cornered at the corner of the forest, with thick trees and shrubs in front of him. The man turned and saw Alastor approaching him, with his tall thin silhouette almost seemingly appearing like a shadow creature. Alastor thought he had the upper hand as he slowly walked over to him with the knife in his hand, but suddenly, the man smiled and took out something from inside his jacket. It turned out to be a handgun. Alastor was not prepared for this and felt shocked at the sight but what came next was even out of the ordinary for him. Just as the man was pointing his gun to Alastor and wanting to pull the trigger, he was knocked on the head from behind and he fell to the ground, unconscious. Alastor stared at the man on the ground momentarily and then looked up to see who was the culprit. It turned out the be the girl from earlier, Marcella. She was holding a thick branch, shaking a little bit as she saw what her actions had done and she looked at Alastor, wide-eyed and confused. He was just as puzzled and didn't know what he should be doing next.

...........

Alastor was now covered in the man's blood, as he was bent down on the ground, cutting up the man's arms and legs off from his body. He had hidden some tools all over the forest and managed to find some near where the man was knocked out. He intended to use those body parts for some... "other reason", of course. And as for the rest of the man's body, they were at his disposal and not needed. This was a routine whenever he would do this particular activity. However, today was different. Today, he had a witness right in front of him, and he didn't know what to do with her. She didn't seem scared to see him doing this horrific thing, rather, she had on a curious expression on her face and was just staring at him the whole time. Alastor narrowed his eyes at her, seemingly trying to warn her.

"You may go now, girl. I'll let you live as thanks for your actions earlier," he told her, trying to sound as pleasant as possible. But she didn't budge and leaned in with her elbows on the log in front of her.

"It's fine. I don't really wanna go home right now," she stared even harder at Alastor and moments after, at the body he was cutting up. Alastor felt weirded out more and more by her actions, but nonetheless, because of the time constraint, he just went on with what he was doing. After he finished cutting the man's arms and legs and wrapping them up in some thick pieces of cloth and putting them in a bag, he got up, slapping some dirt off of his body and turned to the girl with a glare in his eyes, but a plastered on grin. 

"Now then," Alastor opened up a conversation between him and the Marcella. "I am grateful for your assistance earlier, but let's just try to keep this between us, shall we?"

"Sure," Marcella surprisingly had a nonchalant, simple answer, despite everything that had happened. It wasn't as if what she had seen wasn't horrific to her, it was just that, it was at least something exciting that had happened to distract her from what happened at her house a few hours earlier. Alastor grabbed the man's other body parts that he didn't need and wrapped them hastily in the other cloths. He walked over to the edge of the water and tossed them over, presumably feeding them to the gators. He turned to the girl, who looked as if she was waiting for his instructions, like a lost child, despite her looking like she was old enough to get married.

"This has been fun. Like I mentioned before, all that has happened tonight shall remain in silence. You understand that now, dear?" Now, Alastor was speaking with a different tone, a voice that sounded more threatening than earlier. However the girl was fazed and simply nodded in agreement.

"Of course. I ain't no idiot," her reply startled Alastor a bit. From assuming she was simply an airhead who happened upon his murder scene, he now thought the girl must at least have some sense of what's going on. He pondered for a moment, wondering whether he should get rid of this witness as well, but his gaze fell on her clothes. They were tattered, torn a little here and there and looked old and worn out in general. He was under the impression that she was of a poor background and a lower class in society, and probably had no influence whatsoever if she were to tell about tonight's incidents. He let out a small sigh, shaking away the thought and returned back to his smiling facade.

"Wonderful," he exclaimed. "Well, I supposed we should be on our separate ways," he told her, wanting her to leave.

Marcella got the hint, and shrugged, turning around to walk back to her house. This was a strange and gruesome night indeed, but at least it took her attention away from the earlier incident that caused her to flee to this forest in the first place. Now she had to go back, but at least she could go back to sleep immediately and linger on what had happened tonight. The chase, the murder... The man who committed it. She stopped in her tracks and turned back to Alastor, who was strangely still standing there, as if waiting for her to get out of sight before he himself would leave. She smiled at him, in a way, grateful for taking her mind off of things.

"What's your name, sir?" She asked. Alastor didn't know whether he should respond. If he didn't, it would probably prompt her to ask again and he was already annoyed enough. He decided to give her an ambiguous answer that she would surely be satisfied with. 

"You can just call me, Al. No more, no less," he answered with good humour.

"L? Like the letter?" She questioned again, to which Alastor almost had to laugh at. Perhaps he gave her too much credit for having a bit of intelligence before, but at least she was entertaining.

"Sure. Let's go with that," he replied and waved her goodbye. She gave out a small giggle and waved back at him as she turned to walk away. Alastor thought to himself, this poor girl, almost having no clue what was going on despite seeing it as clear as day. He was so piqued by her, that he instinctually asked her back.

"What about you? To what name do I refer you with?" It wasn't common for him to be interested in someone, but this girl somehow amused and fascinated him all at once with her simple demeanour, especially when facing something as terrible as what he was doing. The girl paused for a moment, wondering if she should answer, but she assumed he would find out anyway even if she lied or didn't answer, so she decided to be honest with him.

"Marcella."

...........

Ever since that day, Marcella and Alastor have both stumbled upon more times in the same bayou, while he was doing the same thing: chasing his prey, killing them, and covering his tracks, while Marcella just watched him and sometimes even assisted him with burying the body or cleaning up, but never with the murder itself. Well, except maybe for the time when they first met, but even then, she had no idea what he was doing at first. Which made him wonder more and more about her life, and he asked her to share. She was reluctant the first time he had asked her, but eventually, she found it relieving to let out her woes. She told him about her living situation several times as they met. She had lived with only her father after her mother was gone when she was only ten years old. It was her job to take care of her father's needs. Food, cleanliness and... other things she was reluctant to talk about. And if her father was unhappy and drunk when he came home, he would berate her, beat her and even kick her out of the house, telling her he was sick of looking at her until the next day where he would be fine once again with her presence in the house. Marcella found comfort only in one thing, and that was her job and her love for playing music on the piano at the club in her town. 

Upon listening to this, Alastor couldn't help but have some pity for her and even, to his dismay, grew an attachment to her. There were times when she wasn't around when he was doing his business in the bayou, and he would wonder where she was or whether she was alright. But the very next day, he would see her in the town where she lived when he dropped by and he knew at least, she was still surviving another day. There was more and more desire inside him to help her with her situation, but he himself was occupied with other things. Not just the murders, but his own personal life and career in the new entertainment medium, radio, which he was finding more and more passion to pursue. He started out in the town next to Marcella's, but he had heard of more opportunities in the bigger city, New Orleans, which he had expressed more desire to go to. He shared all this with Marcella as well, as he found it invigorating to talk about his dreams. Marcella would listen intently, feeling happy that he was talking to her more and more. Mostly, she was just happy to have a company she could talk to.

Back in the present, Alastor had finished with his business and both of them were resting on a log staring at the bayou water right in front of them, surrounded by tall trees giving some shade. Not that it mattered, it was almost dark as the sun was setting in the horizon. They could see a glimpse of fireflies coming out from the tall grass floating on top of the water. It was almost a beautiful view to take in, had it not been for the fact that the memory of what had happened earlier was lingering around. Still, both of them felt at peace looking at the sight. Alastor shared the meal he had brought with her: some sandwiches he had made earlier that day. He also figured that Marcella would probably bump into him that day, and at the very least, wanted to feed her some good food, to which he assumed, she was deprived of at home due to her lack of wealth. They were both sitting in silence as they ate their food and looked at the water. 

Feeling slightly uncomfortable with the ongoing quiet that was harboring the atmosphere, Alastor turned to look at Marcella, wanting to strike up a conversation. But he noticed something on her wrist that was exposed because of her folded sleeves. It was some scars and bruises that seemed fresh and new. They looked as if something were tied to her wrist, like a rope. His eyes glanced momentarily at her face, and he spotted a cut scar on her cheek, as well as a faint bruise on her head. He frowned, growing concerned. It wasn't as if he hadn't seen it before, but today of all days, his worry was heightened over the fact that he was going to leave the town he was living in soon, and there was less chance for him to look out for her if he could. He put down his sandwich and rummaged in his bag. Marcella stopped as well and looked at him, wondering what he was doing. He took out some pieces of cloths and waved at her.

"Come closer," he ordered her in a gentle manner, to which she complied. She scooched closer to him on the log as he poured some water from his bottle onto the pieces of cloth and grabbed her wrist and held it out towards him, as he pressed the cloth on the bruises on her her wrist. She grimaced in pain, but endured it as she understood his intention to help her. Alastor shifted his eyes to hers, with a serious expression on his face.

"What happened this time?" He asked in a straightforward manner. She hesitated to answer, but sighed a moment later. There was no point in hiding anything from him. She rolled her eyes, and even managed a smile on her face. Her usual attempt at covering up her true feelings, but despite that, the smiles never could ease the pain away, no matter how many times she tried.

"The usual. He came back drunk in the morning and thought the breakfast I made was terrible. It was enough for him to do... this," she answered casually. But no matter how much ignorance she could try to conjure up from within her, she still cared and was hurt by her father's actions, and could never get used to them, even if it was a routine for her. Alastor lifted the wet cloth onto her face on her forehead where the bruise was. He lowered it down and looked in her eyes with a frown, but there was a small smile forming from the corner of his mouth. Unbeknownst to Marcella, there was a silent rage boiling inside of him as well.

"Say, where do you live, Cella?" Alastor asked out of the blue, which puzzled Marcella for a bit. "I might pay your father a little visit." Marcella was surprised at his request, and she caught him glancing at his knife at the side. She knew what he had meant then and felt panicked, jerking away from him.

"You don't have to worry," she tried to reassure him, with a nervous laughter and a shake to her head. "I can handle it."

"To what extent?" He asked her, this time with a serious tone and an expression to match. "How much more could you handle?" Marcella stared at his face, trying to analyze what exactly was Alastor feeling. He had certainly looked more worried than he had ever before. It wasn't as if he hadn't heard of the stories of her abuse from her, but this time, there was a different air to Alastor. Almost a certain kind of desperation. She looked away, and let down her shoulders in a heavy exhale.

"I know, I should leave. But... it's not like I have anywhere else to go, Mr. L," she muttered. But she shook her head, as if trying to get ahold of herself and not fall too deep into sadness and turned to Alastor with a smile. "I'll make a new life for myself some day. You'll see."

Alastor was constantly puzzled at her optimism, despite having to endure such harsh treatment from her only family member that she had to live with under the same roof. He put away the cloth into his bag and went over to his knife, putting it away into his bag as well. He turned over to Marcella, who was just looking at him the whole time and never keeping her eyes off of him. In a way, she had her own unsettling habits, but who was he to judge? And besides, the only look he would see from her eyes was a warm, adoring look. It was obvious to him that Marcella had developed some sort of fondness for him. And as much as he would not want to admit it, he too had developed similar feelings towards her, feeling the need to care for her, and even wanting to protect her. But he needed to remind himself that the life he chose for himself now was not a life he would like to share with anyone else. Trying to think of another subject to talk about, he noticed her tangled hair, despite being tied up with a hairband. 

"You're going to the club later, right? Look at how messy you are with that hair," he gave a light comment, wanting to divert the attention away from what he was asking about before. Marcella stroked her hair, looking up to some strands over her forehead. 

"I wanted to braid it, but I don't know how," she answered with a pout.

Alastor knew that Marcella had lost her mother since she was young, and she probably had little opportunities to learn more about how to be a proper lady, at least in the society's eyes. He walked over to behind her, combing her hair gently with his fingers and taking off the hairband. She allowed him to do whatever he wanted with her, having some sense what he was trying to do. Alastor braided her hair as neatly as he could, trying to neaten up some stray hairs into the braid. As he reached the end, he used the hairband to tie it up altogether. He walked over in front of Marcella, as he touched the braid and laid it on the right side of her shoulder all the way down below her chest, where her hair ends. 

"There. I think it's better now," he commented with his usual, toothy grin. Marcella walked over to the water and looked at her reflection, with what little light she could see from the fireflies. She looked at herself, thinking that her hair looked so nice, and felt touched and happy all at once.

"I look real pretty," she quietly remarked about herself. Alastor heard what she had said though, and he could find himself genuinely smiling for once, as his gaze was kept on her the entire time. Marcella got up and wanted to thank him, but there was something on Alastor's mind that he immediately wanted to say to her, as he grabbed her hands and held it firmly in his.

"Cella, why don't you come with me to New Orleans? I'm gonna be working at this new company for their radio show, and they'd probably be looking for someone who has some talent in playing music. I don't really know anyone else who could be as good of a fit as you would be," Alastor proposed to her, and he had meant what he had said, as he had seen her play in the club one or two times and was enthralled by her musicality and her passion overall as she played. Marcella was speechless for a moment, as this was probably the moment she was looking for. The escape she had wanted. But somehow, deep in her heart, she knew that she was the one who had to make her path, and currently, her position was not exactly aligned with the situation she imagined herself would be in when she would finally leave the town forever. She returned Alastor's proposal with a smile, but lowered down her hands along with his.

"Mr. L, that sounds lovely... But..." Marcella trailed off, which made Alastor felt some disappointment. "Maybe next time." Alastor could only accept her decision with a heavy heart. After all, he was simply just a stranger that happened to know her. Who was he to interfere with her family and personal life? But despite the shady circumstances that they had known each other from, somehow they both had formed some kind of fondness towards one another. He decided to drop the news.

"This will be the last time we'll see each other. I'm going off to New Orleans tomorrow," he told her with a colder tone to his voice. Marcella felt her own heart dropped, but she knew her time with Alastor wouldn't last that long. If not for this reason, then possibly the authorities catching on to what he was doing in the bayou would have cut their time together short too. Thankfully, it was the former, as Marcella didn't want to see her friend behind bars. Despite her sadness starting to accumulate inside, she mustered up her usual smile and gave him a warm expression.

"Good luck with your radio show then!" She exclaimed in the happiest voice she could project. Alastor looked at her, slowly having his expression melt into a warmer one. 

"You sure you won't come along?" He asked her again once more, with a shred of hope that perhaps, his insistence could persuade her. Unfortunately for him, she was shaking her head in rejection.

"Nah, not now. But I'll come over once I'm ready. I promise," she once again replied him with a bright tone to her voice. Alastor could manage a small smile as he grabbed his bag, turning to her.

"Whatever you want," he uttered as a reply. "I'll see you around, Cella."

He walked off, leaving her behind. After a few steps, he turned his head around, wanting to take one last look at her. She had on her usual smile, but there was a hint of sadness in her eyes. She was waving her hand as rapidly, saying farewell to the next time she would see him again. And she looked forward to that day.

However, that day never came. And the meeting they had this time, was the last time Alastor would ever see her alive.

[starlightsmoon]

[Read at Ao3]

List of poor souls he’s gonna suck some money out of? Check. Excuses of being from some relative of the Toghrul that hit it off with their bird rearing business? Check, he’ll be able to recite the lines in his sleep. Clothes? Simple black shirt that took half of his savings - Oh how he sacrificed for the minimalistic rich aesthetic - He looks like those guys who’d get those mova globes as a toy when he was five. (He had sticks, pieces of glass he called crystal and a pet rock.)

He didn't have it in him to feel bitter about that anymore though. He slurped on way too many pumpkin spice lattes for that.

The birdbrain he’s gonna be swiping from might never have had it before. Gotta pity them for never having a sugar bomb corporate cash grab.

Oh he almost forgot, hair? Looks fancy enough to him. Giving the bristles another swipe in front of the hand mirror dangling from his apartment door and swiping the keys from his beloved plant soldier, Nuggets. 

-

His mark looks as tired and anxious as always, swirling - well, trying to. Obi still can’t believe the guy has a gold bar as a door stopper - the vodka in his hand and though it kinda turns into more of a disturbance to the liquid relief in the cup.

“Hey there.” What was his name again? Oh well, it’ll slide off his tongue eventually. 

The man had been a loser who was probably a bit more into feet than he should be, and had been dabbling in drugs that Obi doubts the guy can actually live after intaking. He’s drank quite a couple of drinks with him for the past months. Hell, the man has made Tuesday be labeled as ‘drinking for the money’ day in his calendar - He kinda admits, even with his totally admirable work ethics, that he loathes Tuesdays now - to his dismay, Torou said she’d love to take it over from him if he didn’t want it. And though he really doesn’t wanna hear any more mommy issues and glorification of drug addiction, he’ll get through it.

“Oh hello Nanaki.” 

He was surprised when Mr. Foot Stuff actually was sober enough to remember his name, but today was special so he’ll give him some props, he normally dialed him when he was down to half a brain and third of manners and a non-existent filter about how much chipped toenails have a charm.

Obi gets seated in the stool next to him - lets the man order fucking champagne for him without his input - and puts his honey filter on. He normally gets lazy with this guy but he’ll have to be on high alert, can’t let him get any second thoughts after all.

“So regarding what we talked about-”

-

-God he’s got the sweetest deal of the century, he’s gonna be ordering those fancy ass kaleidoscopes just you wait.

-

If he survives this, he’s gonna buy Torou a ticket that shitty boy band concert and he’ll make it so that she cries for it. Hell, he’ll even buy Haruka one of those tacky you’re the best dad mugs too. Of course unless he gives him a lecture and attitude then that is gonna be replaced with a your the best dad mug instead.

Not that he doesn’t deserve the attitude though.

But can you blame him? The guy seemed like the best catch he was gonna get there, and cherry on top being that he was gonna get it by just sipping booze. He wasn’t wrong either, just that conning his dad’s company while he was at it didn’t seem like a bad idea.

Who knew that old fuck was running a human trafficking business. 

He didn’t at the least. But now Obi finally got the biggest con of his life, with a boatload of money that he’s shipping to Wistal for it to be Haruka’s problem and taking the railways to wherever his heart takes him cause he has no fucking clue what he paid for at the ticket stand.

But the redhead that’s his roommate seems nice, though it’d be nicer if he could stop looking at her,

-

She’s got a lotta luggage, and she’s so careful with it.

It makes his one duffle bag packed with some clothes and a toothbrush look quite sad in comparison. He regrets selling off the suitcase. It’d make a statement and he would be able to disguise himself as a rich conglomerate, even if he doesn’t have his extra shiny shoes and rocking a plain button-up and jeans, he’d be able to make it work- he’s done it in worse before. Wait, did he pack any shoes at all? 

“Hello.” a meek voice breaks his thoughts, and he can worry about being shoeless later.

“Uhm, is there any issue if I put some of these,” she gestures to her four suitcases and plus one tote bag he can see peeking out from the one plastered with stickers of flowers and beach umbrellas ”On your space?” She points to the tray above him that’s a bit too close to his head for comfort, he’s nearly smacked his head on the damn thing four times already. Thankfully his lightning quick reflexes and prowess triumphs the future bump on his head he’s definitely gonna be dealing with.

She’s already attacking her bottom lip and clutching at her sweater. He’d be a monster if he said no.

“Sure but you gotta tell me one thing,�� he really doesn’t need the space, his luggage was acting as his foot rest just until she arrived. It really didn’t need his permission anyways.

Unluckily for her, he may not have been a monster but he sure is something close to it.

“Do you think a hotdog is a sandwich?”

And judging by the way she tilts her head, furrows her brows and stops her abuse on her lips; He’s gonna be having a fun time.

-

He has confirmed she’s not a psychopath, and surprisingly seems to not want to murder him and throw him out the window for more room to put her suitcases in. Yet. 

And it seems like his ticket and the place she’s headed to have the same spelling, which means he can actually thank himself for once, a pretty lady on his trip to become a nobody doesn’t seem so bad.

 “So, my name is Shirayuki, I’m a botanist, and I really appreciated the help.” he’s sure that lugging around some suitcases was not worth the smile bestowed upon him, - It’s way too trustful for somebody like him - but he’ll have a cute face smile at him anyday.

“Well Miss, you can call me Obi, I’m a guy with many secrets,” Obi earns a giggle that he’s sure that’ll haunt his dreams. 

“And no problem, though I admit I mourn the sight of you struggling to hop around with suitcases.” and before he knows it, his hand reaches out for a shake. He should probably get rid of that-

She clasps his hand, “Nice to meet you Obi.” and suddenly, all words die in his throat.

Her hands are soft.

He struggles not to whimper as the words leave with his tongue without permission, “Nice to meet you too, Miss.”

And her laugh is way too pretty.

[maccreadysbaby]

Finn needs to go homeeeeeeeee doesn’t he see how badly it messed logan up being in the military 🥺

I agree 🥺🥺

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DEAFENING SILENCE™︎

for the first time in the few weeks Sadie had been living with them, the house was silent the day Finn left and the day after

Elliot didn’t bother to bicker with his sister, Sadie didn’t instigate, Diego didn’t crack a single joke trying to ease the tension, McKade didn’t utter a single rude word under his breath, Logan didn’t start the morning with a soft “I love you” and Y/n didn’t start it with a quick “I love you too, babe”

it was just silent. Absolute, sheer, silence. They were all sitting in the living room, the six of them divided between their two couches, Jade cooing lightly in a small bouncy chair in the floor. Lucky was laying lazily across Y/n’s lap, whimpering at the lack of smiles in the room. And even though they were all within arms reach of each other, they were silent

Y/n had never seen Logan more wrecked than he was the night Finn told them. Of course, he was an adult, and undermining his authority and telling him no would be selfish. They could voice their opinions, yeah, but what use was it when his mind was already made up?

Logan spent hours making calls, trying to figure out exactly what Finn had talked about with everyone and exactly what his plans were. He didn’t get very far. The most information he got was out of Merrick, who told him he was driving Finn to base on Tuesday, and that he’d be trained by a top notch international spec ops team

after he’d exhausted every military contact in his phone, and wracked his brain for answers to the point of pure emotional exhaustion, he just held Y/n and sobbed like a man shattered. Anyone that saw him would’ve thought someone had died. But, little did the bystander know, someone had. Or rather… was going to. Because that’s what the military did. It killed whoever you were before you joined it and resurrected another person in their place, like a Phoenix. Except this person was hard. Cold. Distant. Emotionless. Dead

it took having Elliot to finally jar Logan out of that state. And even still, part of him was gone. He wasn’t who he used to be no matter how badly he wanted it. Because that’s just what war did to people— completely stripped them of everything that makes them human and replaces it with something unrecognizable

and his son was about to go through that. His son

and now, Wednesday morning, when everyone was supposed to be at school and college, the family sat in silence in the living room. What was there to say? Finn was gone and was gonna come back different, and there was absolutely nothing they could do about it

the first voice that Y/n heard all morning wasn’t that of her husband, not even her own, but McKade’s. Because, while everyone was sitting in silence, he piped up and said:

”It was our fault, wasn’t it?”

Y/n scanned her sons face for any sign of intense emotion, but it was blank. And as much as she wanted to reassure him, she couldn’t shake the little voice in the back of her head that kept screaming: yes, it is!

no one responded to him. They just sat. The military had wrecked Logan’s life before, then wrecked it again when it was just McKade, Elliot, and Y/n, and now it was back for round three, wrecking not just one life, not just four, but eight. Diego, Sadie, McKade, Elliot, Logan, Jade, Y/n, and Finn, sweet, sweet Finn, were all going down. Thanks to the military

and this time, Y/n couldn’t bring herself to sweep up the pieces and put them back together like she had when Logan was gone. If she didn’t do it, who would?

of all the people she expected to stand up and talk some sense into their family, the one person she never expected it to be was… Sadie? But there she was, in the middle of the living room next to Jade’s bouncy chair with a serious expression on her face

“you guys, we can’t live like this. Finn’s decisions can’t be allowed to affect us this badly. I had to learn early on, with my mom, that we can’t invest our emotions so heavily in the actions of others because they’re always, always gonna disappoint you. Every single person in your life is going to disappoint you at one time or another” She explained, lightly crossing her arms over her chest before she continued: “If we all put ourselves on someone else’s foundation, whose gonna be there to pick us up when it caves in? You gotta trust that he’s doing what he thinks is right, and that he knows what he’s getting into. It’s not your job to change somebody’s mind, because the harder you pull, the deeper they dig their heels in. Now we just need to focus on being a foundation that’s stable enough for him when he gets back”

And that was what did it for Y/n. The same philosophy she lived by when Logan was gone, coming from the mouth of a seventeen year old girl that had only been living there for two weeks

It was tough. It really was. But slowly, they started to heal

the silence in the house started drifting back into quiet murmurs, the constant fighting had dwindled to nothing, the anger between siblings had dissipated almost as fast as it had appeared

as the days went on, smiled got bigger, voices grew louder until they were almost back to normal. There might’ve always been an open chair at dinner, and an unused car in the driveway, but it didn’t cripple them anymore

and one, foggy Sunday night, Y/n’s phone rang with the caller ID: Finn

Everyone gathered on the couch as she answered, squeezing as close into the camera as they could. His face appeared on the other side for the first time in months

“Hi, everybody” Y/n saw his eyes light up and his expression change the moment he saw his siblings smiling faces, and she knew, then, that them being his foundation was more important than their self pity. Because, even in the midst of military training, his family brought light to his eyes

the phone call was short, because he had training to get to, but he shared a bunch in the short time

like how he made friends with a couple of cool guys named Soap and Gaz, and that they reminded him of Hesh, but that Gaz was kinda a nerd and Soap was funnier than hesh could ever dream of being

he talked about his captain, Price, who didn’t like him at first but quickly took him under his wing

he talked about König, a massive hooded Austrian that didn’t talk hardly speak outside of training, but he was good at what he did, and they didn’t mind each other

the single person he couldn’t seem to like was one named Ghost

“König knows he’s terrifying and tries to compensate even if it doesn’t really work. Ghost knows he’s terrifying and embraces it, uses it for training, like beating a dog when it does wrong instead of rewarding when it does right. It gets the job done, of course, but he doesn’t give me anything to work with” Finn explained. But Logan reassured him there was always someone in your unit you couldn’t seem to like

which spiraled into a funny conversation about how, if Logan had to pick one from the Ghosts, it’d be Hesh

And the call ended with laughter on both sides as Finn’s friend Soap interrupted to take him to training, shouting ecstatic greetings to them across the room as soon as he realized Finn was on the phone

And Y/n was content, because the eight of them were happy

And that’s all that mattered

[pepaldi]

HI AGAIN ✨

Thousand apologies for the wait. Kept forgetting. Blah. Then the bloody heat showed up and, oh boy. This past Monday and Tuesday I was totally out of it. Slept and spent most time in the bedroom. Felt drugged.

Oh it’s okay, I completely understand, I hate the heat, summer is a nightmare for me and I feel just like that when it’s too hot, drugged, overwhelmed, weak and very angry 🥲

OK, enough of that. Oooh, I really like your url name.

Ohh thanks! It’s a thing from my favorite video game (Klonoa 2, if you’re interested)

I have TV on in the background and one of the characters just said the word overthinking as I read the above part. I dunno why I am telling you this. Might still be the heat. And yes, he would. Yeah, pretty sure he would.

What a moment, hahah, love when this happens (just yesterday I was eating a meat sandwich and the characters on TV were discussing exactly that, meat sandwiches 😁)

Think though, even though he was flawed it still feels like he was a really special guy. Really one of a kind. Just now thought, if any of this other kids would write a book about him what would that look like? The experience Julian and Daniel had was a bit different than Violet's. And of course Mollie's was incredible different.

I would love to read their stories, I think they would show a very responsible and “straight” side of Harold (he changed a lot after he married Erica, he literally sobered up, but his sweet nature was still present). I never really thought too much about Julian’s and Daniel’s childhood, because even though they were raised by Erica instead of Anne, Harold was still their father. Mollie, however, is the one I think about the most, because she lived her most important developmental years without Harold, she was already fully raised and formed when she met him. And I don’t know if I should, but I relate to her a lot, because I see Harold as a father figure sometimes, and it hurts me immensely that I wasn’t raised by such a warm, open-minded, compassionate, and patient person. Harold was a flawed man, like you said, but still one of a kind, and his qualities far outweighed his flaws.

I just need to get of my lazy ass and write and finish what I started. Also start new ones. Hmm, I probably will post something but the real hmm, weird ones, I dunno. Though mind you I have seen fan fics that made me go .. "what the hell am I reading?" (Not in the GB fandom though.) So weird ideas are out there. Not that I do not mind weird ideas (I love weirdness) but there are a few that .. were .. ehm, just beyond that.

I relate to that, I also have ideas and unfinished fics that I really want to get through to post (if it’s any encouragement to you, I’d love to read your stories, even the ones you consider weird. Weirdness is good, indeed 😌). Oh yeah, the “what the hell am I reading” experience, I’ve been on the internet enough years to understand this feeling too~

Haha, addicted is good. Well, to a certain degree. That GB logo is such a classic. Comfort pieces are good. Oh, that is so nice. What photos do you have? If you do not mind me asking? What does the locket look like? Personal Q's there.

(I quite like personal questions, so here they are: 😄)

I had, well still have a locket (just not on me these days) with photos of another man I admire. I found a locket that had words from one of his favorite poems and so had to get it. I do not wear jewelry much but I wrote that one a great deal. My tattoos are my jewelry.

I love how we do this, I think it's a fundamentally human thing, to seek and get attached to objects that remind us of someone or something we love, as a way to feel closer and connected to it. Tattoos or jewelry, it's all from and for love.

I understand. It is one thing to agree to be with other people but the fact that he fathered a child could be seen a kind of betrayal. I am glad they got to know each other though. Violet's and Mollie's friendship and sisterhood is adorable. None of my business but I would also like to know more about Harold and Mollie's relationship. I understand if Mollie might not want to share it but well, you know what I mean.

What “comforts” me is that he was willing to be part of her life if she wanted to, he understood he messed up and apologized (not that Mollie herself is a mistake, of course not, but you know what I mean). And yes! Their friendship is the loveliest thing, I wish nothing but happiness and success to both of them. Violet talks about Mollie’s and Harold’s “relationship” very briefly in her book, I also wanted to know more (I think Mollie is as fun and witty as Violet, and she also writes, I would love to read anything Mollie decides to share, hopefully she will)

Totally understand. I am interested in the good times in those years like Mollie and Violet singing to Harold in the hospital. I can not help it. Possible cause we know so little of those years. Hmm, maybe I have already said that. When I wrote what you said bout his last words I got some images in my mind of either him having told his love one that he loved them. If he couldn't talk maybe he put his hand on his heart or held hands and looked at them with that sweet smile of his.

Oof that almost made me tear up, this is both so painful and so sweet… I can imagine that too, especially because he really couldn’t speak at some point, just stare, that hurts to think about… Such an intelligent, funny guy, unable to speak, feels so awfully unfair, and he had the most beautiful laugh too… (see, this is why I avoid thinking about his last years, I get sad so easily)

Took a look at your list of songs that remind you of Harold and am not familiar with them but you better believe I am going to listen to them. Thank You for sharing that. Listening to them soon. Promise.

Ohh, thanks for listening then! Hope you like them too! Music is very personal to me, so whenever I get a chance to share my playlists it’s like I’m sharing a piece of my own self ☺️

I would also like to meet Harold in the 2000's. Sure, young Harold might be fun but prefer older Harold. Not sure what I would talk about cause I'd probably talk so much he would have to ask me to slow down and take a breath so he would understand me. Or I get so nervous I would go quiet and he would talk but might try and get me to talk back. Maybe. Hmm, perhaps.

That’s adorable actually, shows that you would trust him enough to pour out your thoughts with no restraint, or that you love him so much that you’d become speechless (either way, something tells me he would be honored to get those reactions from a fan). I would cry. A lot. I would (try to) tell him how much I admire him, how amazing he is, but I wouldn’t stop crying, not for one minute.

I do not know how many actually. Some I saw years ago and hardly remember. I have not watched all and not sure I will. I have a strange relationship with movies. I know it might be lame but Ghostbusters is my favorite cause it introduced me to Dan and Harold who I both adore so much. Wait, might have seen Dan in SNL but I do not remember if I did before ,,, If nothing else it cemented my love for them and I do have a fascination for Ghosts.

I see, well, some movies are worth watching (like GB), some others I just disliked a lot, so I understand. And I don’t think it’s lame, he really did a fantastic job in Ghostbusters, there’s a reason why it’s so popular and loved. I’ve been planning to watch some of Dan’s movies too, he was just great (and he also had a fascination for ghosts, didn’t he? 😙)

That .. is .. beautiful. Such a lovely thing to do. That must have been nerve wrecking. Way to go!! We know how much Harold loved to sing so I bet he was beaming right down at you. Ok, reading that got me teary eyed. That .. was .. an incredible sweet thing of you to do. Beautiful!

Wow, thank you! You really made me smile with that, to think he’d be proud of me makes me emotional again 🥲 Thanks a lot ❤️

And usually I re read over to make sure I got it all but I am so warm I need to step away from the computer.

I checked the weather forecast and it still seems to be really warm over there, but I hope you feel better now!

Oh, oh. The profile photo. Love that photo. Then again very few photos of the man I do not love.

Oh thanks, it’s one of my favorite photos of him (and I say that about all of them, every photo is my favorite photo, every decade was his best decade, you know how it is haha)

Also, because I’m already used to asking you questions, here goes another: other than GB, do you have other favorite things you’d recommend? (movies, tv shows, music, even food recipes, anything~)

As always, lovely talking to you! Have a wonderful day/night! ❤️

Hello, hello.

Ugh, been lazy .. again.

And this might not be as long answer as before. I am having some kind of mind block and I really did not want you to have to wait even longer for my reply.

And I don’t know if I should, but I relate to her a lot, because I see Harold as a father figure sometimes, and it hurts me immensely that I wasn’t raised by such a warm, open-minded, compassionate, and patient person. Harold was a flawed man, like you said, but still one of a kind, and his qualities far outweighed his flaws.

I get what you mean and I am sorry you were not. My own experience with my dad is totally different but I am ok with that. I mean, He has always been there for me when I needed and though we do not have that that closeness (my dad is incredible social and I am an incredible introvert) I am good. I do feel for you though.

Also, Harold and his flaws. Was recently reading a bit of the script for Look Who's Talking and some of the things said by Albert aka Harold bugged the hell out of me. But yeah, we all have thrm. Some more than others.

I relate to that, I also have ideas and unfinished fics that I really want to get through to post (if it’s any encouragement to you, I’d love to read your stories, even the ones you consider weird. Weirdness is good, indeed 😌). Oh yeah, the “what the hell am I reading” experience, I’ve been on the internet enough years to understand this feeling too~

Careful what you wish for. Hehe, no but that is sweet of you to say. Ah yes, the internet can be such a cesspool. Not just in fanfiction. Or rather there are far, far worse things on the net that ff's.

Your locket is lovely! I love how you have choosen side profiles to match the locket. Very nice. And from different decades. It might be the photo but I actually love the blue hue on his hair in the second photo.

Maybe Mollie will share her story one day. I find it sad how people cut her out of their life cause of the paternity. She is the innocent one in it all. I find it a bit heartbreaking how Harold asked Violet about Mollie when he was sick and Mollie wanted to be there but thought it might be a sad reminder. Something like that. Can not have been easy.

Such an intelligent, funny guy, unable to speak, feels so awfully unfair, and he had the most beautiful laugh too… (see, this is why I avoid thinking about his last years, I get sad so easily)

Always sad when a brilliant mind has such a fate. Gene Wilder got Alzhemeirs. Terry Jones got dementia. So tragic.

Ah, the songs. Darn it. Have not listened much I'm afraid but I will. I keep forgetting. Happens .. to .. me .. a .. lot.

Two films with Dan I really loved and liked is My Stepmother Is An Alien and Dragnet. The first one I have seen multiple times.

Favorite things, oh boy. Ehm ..... So bad at this.

I do like documentaries.

Wild Wild Country on Netflix is a truly wild ride. Really good. About a cult. So many twists. Netflix has several good True Crime stuff if you like those. I need to catch up on some myself.

Another one is House of Secrets: The Burari Deaths. You should know this one is disturbing to watch and what they talk about. Good though. You can see some of the comments I got on a post of it here.

Some Tv - Shows ... I like animated series so American Dad, Family Guy, South Park, Futurama and Simpsons. British TV like Granada's Sherlock Holmes, Inspector Morse, Doctor Who and Monthy Python to name a few. NCIS, Doom Patrol (so weird), Married with Children (cult tv), The West Wing and well, depends on mood but those are good shows.

One of my favorite music albums is by George Michael. Listen Without Prejudice, Vol. 1. It is brilliant.

Oh, I recommend watching Randy Feltface. So funny. Foul laungage some but so darn good.

I feel like I gave forgotten half of what I was gonna say. Bleh!

The weather has changed a bit. It was raining and then some sun and now raining again. Suppose to be raining a lot now. We will see.

Sorry to make it so short this time.

Hope you are well.

And it is always great to talk to you too. 😊

Bless. ❤️