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malk1ns · 2 years ago

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december twenty-six: rosy cheeks

Every year, Sidney rounds up everyone who’s stayed in town for the Christmas pause and heads out to a few of the retirement and assisted living communities around Pittsburgh to help shovel out snow on the walkways.

It’s not something the team is officially involved in; there are no cameras, no features on Twitter or Instagram to document the time spent, and Sidney likes it that way. He appreciates having some of their charitable endeavors highlighted, because it draws more attention and can lead to more donations and money from the community at large, but there’s a part of him that feels a little like it sounds like he’s begging for attention and praise for being a decent person.

By the amount of guys who willingly come along with him, it’s not an uncommon feeling.

They usually divide up into teams, with each group heading to a different facility. Sidney considered manipulating the lists to put Geno with his group, but they’ve always had one of the captains act as unofficial team leader, and it would be selfish to change that just because Sidney thinks Geno’s very cute when he’s all bundled up and pushing a shovel around.

Everyone parks at the practice rink to gather up shovels and pet-safe ice melt before they pile into vans Sid’s rented and scatter off to their assignments. Sometimes they all head to a bar after as a team, but this year the snow had been bad enough that most of the guys are eager to head straight home, and soon it’s only Sidney, Geno, and Kris left, putting away the equipment and chatting about their plans for the rest of their time off.

“No,” Kris says firmly, tossing his last shovel to the back of the equipment shed. Sidney sighs and follows it to hang it up properly. “If you do not come for dinner this break, Catherine will be very unhappy. She will come to practice and yell at you again. You both will come to my house tomorrow. Bring wine.”

“Bossy,” Geno mutters from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor of the shed, carefully combining half-empty containers of ice melt into one. “Yes, fine, we’re come.”

Sidney swears as one of the shovels he’d thought was leaning securely against the wall tilts over and knocks another three down with it. “Yeah, okay,” he relents. “If you’re sure it’s not too much work.”

“Good,” Kris says severely. “I will see you tomorrow. Don’t be late, Geno.”

“Hey, what the fuck—where are you going!” Sidney calls, but it’s too late—Kris is already gone, and by the time Sidney gets to the door of the shed, he’s practically sprinting to his car.

Behind him, Geno laughs. “He’s never help clean,” he says fondly, screwing the cap on the now-full container of ice melt and getting to his feet with a groan as his knees crack. “Come on, let’s do shovels and then we go home. It’s too fucking cold out today.”

“I guess it’s pretty windy out, yeah,” Sidney allows, following Geno back. “This shouldn’t take long, I just need to get them hung up on these hooks.”

“Too short, no wonder they’re all fall,” Geno says, grabbing the shovel from Sidney’s hands and easily hooking it into place.

“Fuck off,” Sidney says cheerfully, watching as Geno methodically moves down the row of leaning shovels. The shed is still bitterly cold even though it’s protected from the wind, and Geno’s cheeks and nose are pink. With his hair curling out from under the edges of his beanie, he looks like he did at their first Winter Classic, the fun one, before he’d started encasing himself in every layer available for outdoor games. “You should have worn a scarf or something.”

“Forgot,” Geno grunts, carefully rotating the last shovel and finally getting it to catch. “There, done. Maybe next year I’m go somewhere with beach for break. You come with—we’re leave Kris to do all cleaning and planning for this.”

He’s making a joke, of course, but Sidney thinks about it—a long weekend somewhere warm, Geno in those little swim trunks that give him tan lines way up his thighs. “That sounds nice,” he says, and Geno swivels to look at him, eyebrows shooting up.

“You’re never want to go to beach,” he says accusingly, crossing his arms. “You always say, oh no, it’s so nice in snow and cold, must have all seasons, I’m never go for break.”

Sidney shrugs. “It might be fun,” he says. “I mean, you have that condo in Miami, and I’ve never seen it��it might be nice to get away and stay there for a little.”

“You’re be serious?” Geno says hesitantly. “Next year I invite, you’re really come?”

“Yeah,” Sidney says. His face feels warm under the weight of Geno’s skeptical attention—their cheeks must be equally red by now. “Yeah, why not? The snow will always be here when we get back. My parents can go visit Taylor instead or something.”

Geno purses his lips. “Maybe my second bedroom isn’t done,” he says, a hint of challenge in his voice. “Like, I’m redoing over summer but it’s not finished by next Christmas.”

“Maybe we won’t need a second bedroom,” Sidney says, winking and slipping out of the shed before Geno can reply.

a series of ficlets based on the prompts in this post—with a few added and modified to suit my purposes :)

december one: A lends mittens to B even though they are way too big but B is blissfully happy and doesn’t plan on giving them back

Sid’s insistence on being the most Canadian Canadian to ever live is gonna kill him one day, Zhenya thinks, watching idly from the bus as Sid subtly flexes his bare fingers after pocketing his sharpie, shifting back and forth on his feet and gamely making conversation with the fans who’d found where their bus was parked at the arena and asked for autographs.

They’d hit the jackpot—everyone was in a good mood after the win, so Jason had the group of three stand near the bus door, and as the team filed in they all paused to sign something, endure a little small talk, and maybe take a picture or two. Even Zhenya had ducked down and done his best to smile naturally for a selfie, trying not to grimace even though his knee was aching at having to crouch so low to get in the frame.

Sid, though. Sid had been last in line as always, darting outside with his curls still wet against his jacket collar, and of course he’d been stuck with the brunt of the fan adoration—and he didn’t have on gloves.

Finally, Sully leans out of the bus door with a smile Zhenya knows is as fake as Sid’s jawline, saying something Zhenya can’t quite make out; whatever it is, the fans disperse, and Sid finally gets on the bus, scowling at the sarcastic round of applause Zhenya leads.

“Fuck you all, sorry for being nice,” he snaps, which is weak even for Sid.

He makes his way unsteadily down the bus aisle, holding onto the seat backs as the bus rumbles into motion; a particularly strong jolt as they go over a speed bump almost sends him toppling into Zhenya’s lap.

Zhenya steadies him, but instead of leveraging him back into the aisle, tugs him down further, scooting over to the window and pushing Sid down into the aisle seat.

“Hey,” Sid protests, but it’s perfunctory, and as soon as Zhenya pulls his hands back Sid relaxes into the seat, curling up a little into himself.

Zhenya opens his mouth, a chirp about how Sid being too bottom-heavy to be so clumsy at the tip of his tongue, but he stops, eyeing Sid’s trembling hands with disapproval.

“Sid,” he scolds, hooking his foot around the strap of his bag and tugging it out from under the seat in front of him, “where gloves? Hair all wet, no hat, no gloves—you gonna freeze. Not smart.” He bends down, splaying his knees out and knocking into Sid’s, pawing through his bag until he finds his own gloves. “Here, put. Stupid, Sid.” He shakes the gloves in front of Sid’s face.

Sid wrinkles his nose and snatches them away from Zhenya, dropping one in his lap and examining the other. “I was fine, G, stop fussing, you’re turning into your mom. It’s warm in here anyway.”

“Put,” Zhenya insists, staring down his nose at Sid until Sid slips the glove on with an aggrieved sigh, tugging it as far down his wrist as he can.

He wiggles his fingers at Zhenya, then jabs his hand into the seat back in front of him. The material collapses until his fingertips hit the seat. “Jesus, your hands are big,” Sid observes.

Zhenya’s glad the bus is warm and he’s still got his coat on—an easy way to explain the sudden rush of heat to his face. Because that’s—Sid doesn’t mean it that way, Zhenya knows that, but when he says it like that, with his voice all low and raspy from yelling during the game, looking at Zhenya from the corner of his eyes, it sounds like a come-on. Zhenya’s heard less blatant lines in the gay bars he sneaks away to sometimes.

Sid’s still looking at him. His cheeks are still pink and chapped from the chill outside, and his hair is curling as it dries. Zhenya swallows, forces himself to poke his tongue through his teeth. “No, is normal, you’re just smallest,” he says, jostling Sid with a sharp elbow.

Sid rocks away, then back into Zhenya’s side. “You can think that,” he says casually, working his bare hand into the other glove. “Thanks, G. I’ll give them back to you later.”

“Okay,” Zhenya says, looking out the window and trying to ignore Sid’s thigh pressed along his like a brand. Sid isn’t cold at all.

#you can plan on me

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five-rivers · 3 years ago

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Beltane

Written for Ectober 2021 Day 1: Trick vs Treat. This is part of the Exhumed series.

Danny Fenton walked into the precinct. As often happened when he did this, all attention slowly turned to him. “Hi, Detective Patterson. Have you ever heard of Beltane?”

Patterson took a long swig of coffee through the plastic stir straw, because she felt the need to be at least a little drugged before dealing with whatever this was, and then said, “Is this the kind of thing the whole precinct needs to know about, or is it more specific to me?”

“Mm, not specific to you, but I’m not sure if everyone needs to know about it, yet.”

Despite only select members of the Amity Park police force knowing Danny Fenton had another identity, he’d become a sort of ‘ghost liaison’ for the precinct. Better him than the adult Fentons, who tended to break things even (especially) when they were being careful.

“Actually,” continued Danny, “you might have already noticed some things about it. I mean, it’s seasonal, and Mom and Dad were detecting ectoenergy and ghost activity spikes for events like this before they got the portal up and running. Although, the portal was supposed to stabilize and reduce those spikes… I guess reducing one isn’t bad?”

“Okay,” said Patterson. “I don’t really know what you’re talking about. Do you want me to go find Collins?”

“Oh, that might be a good idea.”

“Great,” said Patterson. She turned her head to shout across the room. “McGee. Go find Collins.”

“Still the new guy?” asked Danny, sympathetically.

“It isn’t like we’re a popular posting,” said Patterson, “and, thanks to the ghosts, we don’t really need new people.”

Danny nodded placidly. “I know. But it must be hard for him, don’t you think?”

McGee had done his job. He’d discovered the corruption in the Amity Park Police Department and plumbed its depths. The problem was that he could never, ever, report it. Even if they didn’t have a perfectly good cause for it all, what they were ‘hiding’ (and they were only barely doing that) was so ridiculous that McGee had thought he’d gone crazy at first.

Ghosts.

The whole of Amity Park was haunted. Just like it said in those touristy brochures at the front of the local diners.

He stuck his head into the break room. “Collins, Patterson and Fenton want you,” he said.

“In the normal room?” Collins asked, shoving a sugary monstrosity of a donut into his mouth.

“I have no idea. She didn’t say.”

“Normal room then. Great job, McGee.”

McGee rolled his eyes. Great job, he said. As if he’d done anything.

God. What would Halloween be like?

“So, it’s like, reverse Halloween?” asked Patterson.

“Well, not exactly,” said Danny. He patted Daisy, the department mascot slash corpse sniffing dog who had followed them into the small interview room, gently on the head. “Actually, there are more similarities than differences. Basically, like Halloween, we’re going to get a spike in ectoenergy. Maybe even some ectoplasmic storms. More portals. That kind of thing.” He shrugged. “Most holidays and seasonal divisions have them, you know.”

“So… we’re getting Halloween round two?” asked Collins.

“What do you bet that this is what gets McGee to snap?”

“He’s been here since December,” said Collins. “I think he’s too stubborn to leave.”

“Is he still spying?” asked Danny.

“No,” said Patterson, waving a hand. “He gave up on that, after a while. But there’s a new office bet about whether or not he’ll stay stay, or if he’ll decide to quit. We’re not allowed to join in because we know him too well.”

“Mm,” said Danny.

“I don’t actually know if I feel like I know him that well,” said Collins.

“Well,” said Danny, “it shouldn’t be as extreme as Halloween. Since, I mean, there aren’t as many religious holidays directly associated with death and stuff happening on or around May first. So. Yeah. But the thing is, there are some traditional, er, activities. Spirited activities.”

Collins suppressed a groan, and was glad that Captain Jones wasn’t available today. He and Danny could sling puns at each other for obscenely long periods of time.

“I’ve never noticed ghosts doing anything on May Day,” said Patterson.

“This is only the third year anyone’s even acknowledged that ghosts exist,” said Danny, “so I’m not really all that surprised. But the reason that I came to talk to you guys is that some of the ghosts want to do Beltane stuff. Like the fire blessings. Also, I’ve been told that some of the trees in town are secretly ghost trees, and if we don’t want to deal with another tree army, we need to do some stuff to appease them.”

“Secret ghost trees.”

“My source is very reliable,” said Danny. “Also, while I say ‘we don’t want to deal with it,’ I think we all know who’d be dealing with most of it.”

“You would,” said Patterson.

“Got it in one. Like, I can convince most of the ghosts to either do their Beltane stuff in the Ghost Zone, or somewhere out of the way. They’ll be disappointed, but I can do it. The ghost tree thing, though…”

“Can’t we just, I don’t know,” said Collins, “get rid of the ghost trees?”

“Well, they aren’t really evil ghost trees. Or even really ghost trees. They’re more… ghosts that live in trees?”

“What, like dryads?” asked Collins, raising his eyebrows.

“That’s what I said, but they’re different species, apparently.”

“Okay,” said Patterson, “so. Appeasing the trees. How many trees are we talking about here, and how are we going to appease them?”

“Okay, so, this is definitely a whole precinct kind of thing,” said Patterson.

“And possibly an ‘all civil servants’ type of thing,” added Collins. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Where are we going to get the funding for this?”

“Oh, don’t worry about money,” said Danny. “I’ll just blackmail Vlad, and if that doesn’t work, I can get Mom and Dad to pay for it.”

“What,” said Collins.

“I think this might be a bit beyond your parents’ budget,” said Patterson, “but knock yourself out as far as Masters goes.”

“Well, I guess if it is,” he allowed, dubiously, “I could get the cults to pitch in?”

“This is nice,” said Danny. The sky was a bit overcast, which was a shame, but the hundreds of bright flowers and cheerful music more than made up for that.

The May Day celebration was, in Danny’s opinion, a success. At least, this half of it was turning out to be. He’d have to wait and see how the Spirit Bonfires went tonight before he could really make a judgement.

He’d only had to blackmail Vlad a little, too. It turned out that the ‘ruthless businessman’ in Vlad was ludicrously easy to manipulate, and once Danny brought up how a celebration like this one could revitalize local businesses and bring in tourism, he’d caved.

Although, that might have been the threat of an angry tree army. Vlad had definitely come off worse for wear in the last one, on all fronts.

Then, publically putting the Phantom Stamp of Approval (and Necessity Given The Potential Angry Tree Army) on the event had gotten buy-in from his fans and (sigh) the cults. The cults were, in fact, very enthusiastic about their new Holy Day. Danny had made a map of all the places they’d set up booths, and was studiously avoiding them.

Sam and Tucker were doing a walkthrough of that area, now, to check for problems and unadorned thorn trees. They’d arranged to meet up soon.

So, Amity Park was decked out in ribbons and flowers. All of the schools had gotten Maypoles and the day off of classes. Several bands, both human and ghostly, were playing in different parts of town.

It was chaotic, but great.

Danny briefly cut into the street to dodge a pair of college-age men play-fighting with tree branches (a genuinely important tradition symbolizing the battle between winter and summer), then walked through a wall to avoid two ghosts doing the same thing.

Finally, he reached Madame Babazita’s table.

“Hi,” he said, “three readings, please.”

“Three?” she asked. “Just for you?”

“My friends should get here before mine’s done,” said Danny. Was he channeling some predictive powers? Maybe. Holidays did make his powers weird.

“I have no idea what your reading is saying,” said Madame Babazita, after fifteen full minutes. “The cards simply aren’t speaking to me today. Also,” she held up an Uno card, “I’m not sure how this even got here.”

“That’s okay,” said Danny, “I just wanted to make sure it was the same as last time.”

“Hey! Phantom!” called Ember across the crowd of ghosts that had gathered in the cemetery. Most of them were fire or nature themed. “You’re in for a treat!”

Danny, who had been examining the flowers left on his grave, looked up. “I am?”

Ember draped her arm around Danny’s shoulder. She’d been a lot more friendly with him since the corpse incident. “Sure are.” She stepped up onto the surface of his memorial, pulling him up behind her. Danny shook off a brief chill and looked around.

Ghosts were streaming into the cemetery from various directions, bringing armfuls of flowers with them. Danny could see two, huge bonfire piles of flowers growing near the cemetery gates.

“Are there going to be cows?” asked Danny, who was still fuzzy on the details of the ghostly side of the celebrations.

“I don’t know,” said Ember. “When I’ve seen this done in the GZ there are. Here? Who knows. Maybe we’ll just walk through.”

Danny nodded, unworried. Beltane sure was an interesting holiday.

The last armful of flowers was placed, and every flower in the cemetery caught on fire at once. Including the ones on Danny’s grave. Danny yelped, jumping into flight. As an ice core ghost, he vastly preferred cold to heat.

This went without saying, but fire was very hot.

Ember grabbed his foot, and he almost kicked her. “You knew that was going to happen,” he accused.

“Sure did, babypop,” said Ember, grinning. “Come on, don’t you want to pass through the bonfires?”

Danny eyed the very large bonfires on either side of the cemetery gates. They were lit up with sparks like fireworks, shifting like flowers blooming and withering and blooming again. They were beautiful and impressive, and Danny felt like melting just by looking at them.

“I don’t know…” He wanted to, but… melting…

“Well, if you want to go out the other way and be horribly unlucky for the next year…”

Danny narrowed his eyes. “Is that another trick?” he asked.

Ember’s grin grew wider, and she took off towards the gates. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Danny sighed and followed her.

“Unbelievable,” said McGee. “Absolutely unbelievable.” He gave the elderly cultist a boost into the wagon.

“I know, right?” said Patterson. “All this property damage and a low-key kidnapping,” she gestured to the hapless late night partier who had called the police when the cult got too insistent about their message, “and they didn’t even have the good drugs?” She shook her head. “Not that we ever arrest anyone just for drugs in this town.”

“I did not just hear you say that,” muttered McGee.

“We’ll make an Amity Parker out of you yet,” said Collins, heartily, slamming the back door of the wagon. He thumbed the button on his radio. “Any other disturbances?” he asked.

“No, you’re good to come back,” said the dispatcher.

“What I don’t get,” said McGee, leaning against a nearby wall in a moment of weakness, “is why we aren’t breaking up whatever cult thing is happening in the cemetery.” They’d seen it quite clearly on their way here.

“Because those are ghosts,” said Patterson.

McGee took a deep breath. “The ghosts are having some kind of ritual in the cemetery, and you aren’t worried.”

“Not really, no.”

“I hate it here,” said McGee.

“Do you, though?” asked Collins, sounding genuinely interested in the answer.

McGee opened his mouth to snap back that, yes, he did. But…

Hm. Huh.

Collins patted him on the back.

#danny phantom #ectober #ectober 2021 #ectoberhaunt 2021 #ectoberhaunt trick #ectoberhaunt treat #ectoberhaunt day 1: trick vs treat #fic #fanfic #exhumed

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sunnyville36 · 3 years ago

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First star I see tonight

Requested from anon

Pairing: Bang Chan x reader

Themes/warnings: **allusions to trouble sleeping, insomnia**, late night/early morning dates, Chan being a soft and tender boy™️, so much fluff like a LOT of fluffiness

Word count: 1.4k

A/N: This is not meant to be used as a model of behavior to support all those who have trouble sleeping or sleep disorders. Reader in this scenario knows what Chan's character deals with, knows he has treatment and support systems available if/when he needs or wants them, and behaves the way they do at the request of his character

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There’s something special about that time of night, where one day turns into another. You read somewhere once that people like you found comfort in it because it was the one time where everyone else was asleep, where you were free from the demands of others. The part of the day you had control over. And you suppose that theory was right in your case.

So you never have a problem waiting up for Chan. You know he loses himself in his work; comes home sometimes too restless to fall asleep right away. While you care deeply about him getting the proper rest, you never want to make him feel pressured by you. So the two of you venture out, him in his hoodie and you in your woolen cardigan, usually to walk the paths along the Han river.

That’s exactly where you are tonight, following the path lit up by the light of the lamp posts. When it’s this late (or should you say early) you never feel rushed, meandering arm in arm slowly down the sidewalk, taking in the city and each other’s presence. His busy schedule means you don’t get a ton of time together, so you appreciate every moment you do, whether it’s listening to him gush about his latest project or simply holding hands in peaceful silence.

You come upon a fork in the path, and the grassy spot between the two diverging trails is covered in tiny bunches of white and yellow flowers. Some might call them weeds, but you’ve always thought they were a sign of nature’s beauty, especially now, when the light from the lamp post is giving them a delicate glow. Your companion follows your gaze, catching sight of the little buds, and plucks a couple from the ground, holding them out to you. “Just like you,” he says, dramatically bringing the other hand to his heart, eyes glinting with mirth, “the light in my darkest of nights.”

“Channn,” you fake whine, blushing at his cheesiness and hiding your head in his shoulder. He takes the opportunity to put the little flowers behind your ear, placing a kiss on your temple and whispering a simple “Thank you for being with me.”

---

It’s 1 AM and you’re heading over to Chan, planning to surprise him with some homemade food at the JYP building where he’s been holed up all day. Making your way past the front desk and up to his studio, you knock lightly on the door, his head turning to see you raise your loosely packed bag of food.

“Up for a late-night snack?”

Down in the courtyard, you set out what you brought on one of the round patio tables, Chan sliding into the chair next to you with a blanket draped around him.

“Jjapaguri?!” he exclaims, eyes lighting up at the sight of your huge container of noodles.

“And mochi for dessert,” you answer, incapable of stopping the smile that takes over your face from his little fist shakes of excitement.

He scarfs up the noodles like you knew he would, raving about how good you’ve gotten at making them. You tell him about the class you’ve been working on all day, about how you’re excited for the date the two of you have been planning for the weekend. When it’s time for dessert, you each take your little mochi and hold them up, bringing them together to “toast” like you would champagne glasses. In his other hand, Chan records your tradition on his phone like he always does, saving the short looping video before taking a huge bite into his ice cream.

His mouth is still full when you whisper, “You know what Bin would say about this?” And after a moment of silence for him to swallow…

“You’ll get a stomach ulcer!” you declare in unison, both cackling at your rather poor impressions of Stray Kids’ resident wisdom-giver.

“I’d say these are worth it,” he says, extending the blanket to wrap around you as well.

You smile back, scooching closer to rest your head on his shoulder. “I would too.”

---

It’s especially late for Chan to be out, but the boys have the next few days off, so you’re not too worried. A few minutes later, you hear the sound of the door opening and his voice calling your name.

“In here!” you reply, and wait for your boyfriend to find you in the living room.

He comes around the corner of the hallway, and you’re immediately struck by how nice he looks, his loose white button up giving his skin a pretty glow.

“What’s the special occasion?” you ask.

“Oh nothing,” he replies nonchalantly. “Come on, I want to show you something.”

He leads you out into the hallway and to the elevator, punching in the button for the top floor of the dorm. You keep quiet, not wanting to ruin whatever surprise it is he has in store for you. At the top level, he takes you to another tiny staircase that you assume leads to the roof, his hands coming up behind you to cover your eyes as you reach the door at the top.

“Okay, no peeking!”

He guides you out the door into the warm night air and across the roof a little before removing his hands with a “Surprise!”

You open your eyes to see a tiny two-person table adorned with candles and a thin-stemmed vase with flowers. Two plates of food and a bottle of wine are set out, and soft music is playing from somewhere in the background.

“Chris…” you breathe out, almost lost for words.

“I got special permission to bring you up here,” he says, arms snaking around your waist. “So we could have a real late-night date.”

This is the most extravagant, thoughtful, and romantic gesture anyone has ever done for you. “It’s beautiful,” you manage to whisper as he walks you to the table, pulling your chair out for you.

“After you, my love.”

The two of you spend the next few hours on your special date, catching up on everything you’ve been doing and enjoying the serene quiet of the city at this hour. The food is delicious, and you can’t bring yourself to take your eyes off your boyfriend for any longer than a few seconds, absolutely wonderstruck by how lucky you are to be with him.

You’re preparing to head back downstairs when Chan moves his chair closer to you, holding out his phone. “I have a little something for you, Y/n.” He places the phone in your hands and taps the screen, your heart beating in anticipation.

What appears is a video, a montage of photos and videos of the two of you from all of your early morning adventures over the last year. The images are set to a soft instrumental, one that sounds very similar to one he played for you the other night that you mentioned was one of your favorites. And overlaid with the music is Chan’s melodic voice, quietly reciting...

Star light, star bright

First star I see tonight

I wish I may, I wish I might

Have this wish I wish tonight

Some of the pictures you recognize; the obligatory thumbs up selfie you’d taken with the similarly-formed sculpture in Olympic Park just as the sun was peeking over the horizon, the mochi “toast” from your impromptu meal a few weeks ago. But many are ones you’ve never seen before; ones of you. One of you looking out at the sunrise from a grassy spot you stargazed in one night; one of you walking along the river, your form framed against the backdrop of the city lights. You never noticed him taking these photos of you, and there’s something so intimate about having your partner catch glimpses of you no one else has seen, capturing you as a living memory.

As the video comes to a close, you hear Chan’s voice whisper one last line.

You are my wish forever Y/n

Near tears, you wrap him in the tightest embrace you possibly can, his arms circling around you to reciprocate. You’re overwhelmed by the emotion of what it feels like to love a man like him and be loved in return, so you let him hold you for a long while, cherishing every second. When you finally pull back, you take his face in your hands, wanting to make sure he hears what you’re about to say.

“Thank you, Chris. You are my forever wish.”

---

Is there really a thumb sculpture in Seoul's Olympic Park? Yes!

As always, happy to hear your thoughts, and thank you for reading!

#stray kids #stray kids fanfiction #bang chan #bang chan fanfiction #bang chan fanfic #bang chan fic #bang chan x reader #bang chan imagines #bang chan fluff #stray kids fic #stray kids x reader #stray kids imagines #skz #skz x reader #skz fanfic #skz fic #skz imagines #skz fluff

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mctherofdragons · 3 years ago

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A Sanctuary Heart | 3 | SR

summary / after her abusive husband lands her in the intensive care unit, y/n changes her identity and moves as far away as possible. upon starting her new life, she meets dr.spencer reid and his son, maddox, when she begins her job as a teacher. but can she keep herself safe and keep up the facade with spencer? can she be safe at all?

pairing / spencer reid x fem!reader

warnings / slowburn romance, fluff, angst, marriage, trauma, domestic violence/abuse, dad!spencer, wheelchair use, paralysis, injury, ptsd flashbacks, car accident/serious injury, bullying, mention of ableism, a singular mention of god.

important links / series masterlist + domestic violence resources

authors note / i absolutely adored writing this chapter, omg. we get more of spencer and maddox's backstory. and things start to get a little more exciting as the rest of the team makes their first appearance! thank you all for the great feedback so far, i'm so glad you're enjoying the series. also my tags are not working, so reblogs on this chapter would be insanely appreciated. Flashbacks are in italics!

Seeing the blood on your hand, Spencer instinctively reached out to grab your wrist gently. You snatched your hand back, bringing yourself up to your feet, wobbling. You grabbed your bag, wrapping your hand in your scarf that you had managed to take off in the cool October night.“Ivy,” he said the moniker one more time and you felt your insides reel once more.

‘I’m a liar, Dr. Reid, I wish you knew,’ you thought to yourself, stumbling to search for your keys under the warm glow of the moon.

“I have to go. Thank you for dinner,” you contended, making your way out of the side gate. Spencer watched in confusion as you made your way out quickly. He figured he ought to chose his battles, not wanting to startle you by following after you.

Once you were safe inside your car, you sat in the driver’s seat, hands gripping onto the steering wheel for dear life. You felt a sharp combination of embarrassment and frustration. You wanted the flit of light that came from the possibility of new love. But instead, the one before had taken everything from you. Even now, all these miles and a new name away, he was pulling you away from those little flickers of brilliance and back into the darkness of yourself.

_____________________________

2 years earlier.

“Maddox,” Spencer whispered, feeling his heavy eyelids open just slightly. He was disoriented, noticing that the once right-side-up roadway was now upside down instead. The loud blaring of the horn was constant. It sent a piercing sound into Spencer’s ears and head, which caused him to wince. “Maddox.”

Spencer tried to turn, but he couldn’t move. Something had him pinned in the driver’s seat. He looked into the review mirror, which by grace alone wasn’t entirely broken. Maddox was slumped in his car seat, blood trickling down onto his Toy Story tee shirt. Spencer let out a weak gasp, trying again with no avail to move.

Spencer noticed how cold it was. It had been snowing all night, and Spencer wasn’t sure how long they had been where they are now. The snow had fallen through the shattered glass, tiny flakes gathering anywhere they could.

Using all of his strength, he turned his head to his wife. Her eyes were half shut, a trickle of crimson come from her mouth.

“Baby,” Spencer whispered. “Are you alright?”

She began to speak, but began to sputter, her lungs sounding flooded. Her hand curled and uncurled, and Spencer could barely reach it. He was able to hold onto her fingertips with his. They felt ice-cold like she was already three steps into Eternity. Spencer knew that type of frigid touch. He had come in content with it a million times, and the person on the other end was never living.

“D-don’t talk, baby. Okay? The ambulance is coming. Do you hear them? We’re going to be okay.”

Spencer could hear the medics somewhere far off in the distance. The repeated echo of the sirens sounded like a band of angels to him. Spencer Reid admittedly didn’t believe in the Judeo-Christian God. He wasn’t sure what he gave credence to, in fact. But at that moment, inverted in the shattered glass, surrounded by the labored breathing of his dying wife...he prayed.

________________________________

Spencer walked into the Bureau, adjusting the brown satchel on his shoulder. His brow looked furrowed as he sipped from his paper coffee cup. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way you left, trying to profile what exactly had gone wrong between the Merlot and you rushing out of his backyard.

“Penny for your thoughts?,” Emily piqued as Spencer sat down, tossing his bag onto his desk. Spencer let out an exasperating sigh, taking another drink of his coffee.

“Just trying to figure someone out.”

“Oh, oh, oh. Is this a lady someone?,” Derek queried, wiggling his eyebrows. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning onto Spencer’s desk with a sparkling grin.

“Maybe.”

Spencer felt himself smiling despite his best efforts. Emily opened her mouth in surprise, giving Derek a playful shove.

“I told you he would get back out there, Morgan!”

Spencer smiled. “Yeah, she’s sweet. I just...don’t know if I’m ready yet.”

That morning, Spencer had put on his wedding band. He still did it when he was scared, or nervous, or needing to feel close to her. He would feel the cool metal atop his finger and feel less alone. For a brief moment when the metallic touched his skin, he could pretend she was still here.

Derek gave Spencer’s shoulder a supportive squeeze.

“I hope you know me and Prentiss are just messing with you. We care about you, kid. We know these past two years have been hell for you. Just want you to be happy.”

“Yeah…I appreciate that. I just…,” Spencer paused, bringing his hands up as he spoke, as was so akin to him. His lip curled into the smallest smile. “Seeing this girl interact with Maddox. She...loves him for him..already?”

“Maddox is a great kid, Reid.”

“I know. I just don’t want her to find out---”

Spencer’s sentence was cut off by Hotch appeared, letting everyone know they had a case and to meet for Round Table. Spencer quickly shot a text to Maddox’s home health nurse, letting her know he’d need coverage for a few days.

________________________________

You sat in the front of your classroom, your eyes scanning from the test in front of you to the answer key. The students were working on a Social Studies project in small groups. Their task was to read a short story about colonial times and fill out a short worksheet. If they finished early they were permitted to color, which most of the children thoroughly enjoyed.

“Maddox can’t use crayons,” you heard a small voice snicker. You raised your eyebrow, hoping it wasn’t harmful, and rather just an observation.

You heard another child sling a slur at Maddox, who was sitting quietly with his aide, trying to ignore them. But as you looked up, you saw Maddox’s tiny bottom lip begin to wobble. One of the children picked up a crayon and threw it at Maddox, hitting him in the shoulder.

“He can’t even feel that! My dad said that’s why he’s in a wheelchair,” the bully jeered again, high-fiving his friend.

You stood up with a loud squeak of your chair against the linoleum floor.

“You two. Principals office. Now.”

The rest of the class erupted in a chorus of childish ‘ooo’s. You clapped your hands together - your universal signal to quiet down.

“I did not ask for comments from the audience,” you scolded. The children settled down, going back to their work, whispering amongst one another.

“Maddox, come talk to me in the hallway,” you offered. Tears were rolling down Maddox’s cheeks. His aide reached over with a tissue to wipe them, but he turned his face away, one of the only ways he could physically set a boundary.

Maddox’s aide helped him into the hallway and then left the two of you alone. You sat down on one of the small, metal benches in the hallway. At this angle, you were about Maddox’s height. He was blubbering, trying to take deep breaths as more tears came. You pulled a small, clean, cloth handkerchief from your pocket. He let you dab his cheeks, giving him a gentle click of the tongue.

“Buddy, do you want to talk about it?”

“T-they’re so m..m..mean to me,” he whimpered, closing his eyes as more tears fell. “And, and, and I can’t play with them even, that’s why. I can’t do anything!”

You nodded empathetically, gently catching more of Maddox’s tears.

“I hate school! My daddy wants me to like school. It’s all he talks about. I hate him!”

“Maddox,” you softly redirected. “That’s not very nice. You don’t hate your dad.”

Maddox looked a deep breath. You smiled, knowing Spencer must have taught him to do that when he was upset.

“You’re right. But I’m sad, and I wanna go home.”

You sighed, reaching up to blot the little bit of redness still present on Maddox’s cheeks. You adjusted his glasses, moving some of his curly brown hair from underneath the metal.

“Just a few more hours, okay? We have library at the end of the day.”

Maddox’s face lit up, his apple cheeks glowing beneath the rims of his glasses. “Library!”

“Yes, and just for this week, you can take home two books.”

______________________________

Spencer felt distracted the entire flight to Vermont. He knew he was going to be far away for a while, and that Maddox wouldn’t know until he got out of school for the day. The agent detested when he had to leave without Maddox knowing in advance, but it was usually impossible given the nature of things. Thankfully, Reid had a good setup of support through healthcare and respite so Maddox never went without someone to care for him.

Then, there was you. He couldn’t stop thinking about your reaction. He had seen it before in abuse victims. The way you flinched when he moved too fast, the apologizing like your life depended on it, even the way you looked at him with pleading eyes, desperate to avoid a blow. He bridged his fingers together, thinking to himself for a moment.

With that, he stood up, making his way to the back of the plane. He unlocked his phone while he chewed his fingernail with his free hand. Before he knew it, he was calling Garcia.

“Penelope. Hey, I need a favor. A personal one. If you could keep it between us, that would be great.”

“Anything for you, my precious string bean.”

Spencer laughed. “I need you to get all the information you can on someone. Ivy Porter.”

“Ivy Porter. That’s like a movie star name. What did she do?”

“Um..nothing, I don’t think. Just call me when you’ve got something, and email me everything you find.”

“You got it. Every in and out of Ms. Ivy Porter coming to you soon. Be safe. Talk soon.”

With that, Penelope clicked off of the call. Spencer sat back down, anxiously waiting for whatever information Penelope could find about you.

___________

series/criminal minds taglist: @hufflepuffhaze @omghufflepuff @txtdreamss @rainbows-dreams @bvttercupbby @k-k0129 @rexit-mo @britishspidey @graciehams @manuosorioh @shemarmooresfedora @big-galaxy-chaos @thatoneszesty13 @ssavanessa22 @awritingtree @sweetandsunny @rainsong01 @kuolonsyoja @taralewiz @bluelittleblackgirl @asexual-booknerd @the-wolfie

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid angst #spencer reid series

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felix21im · 3 years ago

Text

"Ice Cold", a Leon Kennedy x reader fanfiction

As an Art and Design student all you want to do is just knuckle down and finish that one goddamn piece you've been working on for months. Too bad your time is constantly stolen by your Waiter job with minimal pay, but hey, at least the tips are good if you unbutton your shirt that one more time.

Masterlist

Chapter 8: Alone

You woke up early the next morning. The sun shone through the big window next to your bed and warmed your skin. You slowly opened your eyes and looked over to Leon. His breathing was calm so you figured he was still sleeping. You made sure to get up quietly, making sure not to wake Leon up.

You went to the bathroom to have a quick shower and change into something nice to wear. Since the weather was good you chose a white polo shirt and some shorts. After brushing your teeth and styling your hair you went back to the bedroom and sat down on Leon‘s side. You brushed some hair out of his face and placed a kiss on his forehead. You felt him move and he slowly opened his eyes. “Good morning, Sleepy. I hope you don't mind me waking you up.” Leon covered his eyes with his arms to prevent the sun from shining in his face. He didn't answer you but instead grabbed your wrist and pulled you into his arms. You chuckled lightly as he hid his head in your chest, reminding you of a little kid. You two lay there for a few more minutes before you sat up again next to him. “Come on now, Leon. You wanted to go out to eat breakfast, right? So get up!” You turned around to see him lying on his stomach and hiding under the blanket. You shook your head and laughed as you began pushing him out of the bed until the thud of him falling on the floor was heard, followed by subtle laughter. Moments later Leon lay on the ground beside the bed looking as tired as ever. You were laughing too hard so you didn't even hear him standing up and grabbing a pillow from the bed. The next thing you felt was the soft cushion hitting your face, stopping your laughing. You looked at Leon surprised and opened your mouth to say something but before you had the chance to, another pillow was thrown into your direction. You stood up from the bed and grabbed the two pillows Leon threw at you before. Instead of throwing them at him though, you ran around the bed and started hitting Leon with them. Leon was able to take one of the pillows out of your hand and tried defending himself. At some point you two were laughing too hard and didn't have the strength to continue fighting anymore. You lay on the bed together, legs hanging from the side. You turned and looked at Leon who was now also looking at you. “I love you, Leon.” You said with a smile on your face without even thinking twice about it. Leon looked at you surprised before saying it back after a short moment. He kissed you on the cheek before finally standing up and going to the bathroom. You let out a deep sigh as he closed the door behind him and closed your eyes for a second. You then decided to clean up the mess the two of you created and put the pillows and blanket into the bed again. After you were done you grabbed your phone and fixed your hair again. You didn't have to wait long before Leon came out of the bathroom. He was wearing some dark jeans and a light blue button up. His hair was also looking as perfect as ever, no signs of the pillow fight from before. You grinned at him as you stood up.

“Ready to leave, Buttercup?” He asked as he grabbed his wallet and his fancy sunglasses. You nodded as you put on some sneakers and put your phone in your pocket.

You realized you didn't bring sunglasses so you looked at Leon and pointed at his pair. “You don't have another pair of sunglasses by any chance, do you?”

Leon let out a small laugh and shook his head. “You didn't bring your own? Give me a second, I think I actually have another pair.” He turned around and went over to his suitcase to look for them. A few minutes later he came back to you and handed you some fancy looking round sunglasses. You thanked him as you put them on and opened the door. You two left the room together and walked the long hallway to the front door.

As you left the building the morning sun was already hot and warmed your skin. You took a deep breath as you looked around the front yard.

Your face went back to Leon as you heard him unwrapping a piece of paper. As it turns out it was a map of the city, which made you laugh. “A map? Really Leon? You know we both have working phones, right? If you wanna go somewhere I can just look it up online.”

You went to grab your phone out of your pocket but Leon stopped you. “I want this day to be phone free. I just want to enjoy the time with you. And also using this map feels more like a vacation, don't you think?”

You let out a small laugh again as you nodded and put your phone back. “Alright, whatever you say, Mr. Kennedy.” Leon also smiled now and soon after began walking into one direction. You quickly followed and put your hand in his to keep up.

Leon led you through the streets and as the day started more and more people filled the streets around you. He ended up leading you to a small bakery and brought you to a small table outside. It felt like you had been walking for days when realistically it was only a few hours. “Perhaps some breakfast will help you walk a bit faster?” Leon chuckled as he poked at your slow walking pace.

You rolled your eyes as you sat down at one of the tables outside of the bakery. “Not all of us are superstar athletes, Leon.” He still continued his laugh as he sat down too. “Oooo! Pastries!” You got excited at the selection of foods available, back home it would always be quickly bought junk food as neither you nor your roommate had time to cook.

“You like pastry?” Leon looked up from the menu. “You could have just asked Angel if that's what you ever wanted, we would have bought it specifically for you.”

Your face went hot from the embarrassment. “Oh please no, I’m honestly so grateful when Angel cooks for me, I don't want her to think I’m taking advantage by ordering something specific…”

“How about I ask then?” He smirked as he then looked back down at the menu. “I think I'm going to go for the brioche and some coffee.” He announced as he then tucked his menu back to where he found it.

You smiled at him as you began to read out what you were struggling to pick from. "I’m not sure if I want to go with the pain au chocolat or the cornetto…”

“Well the first one is actually French so that depends on if you want to stick to italian foods or not, but personally…” He scratched the back of his head. “I think both.”

“Both?” You flurried your eyebrows. “I’m not that hungry Leon, a-and these are expensive! Twelve euros for a coffee?!” You whisper-shouted for the last part, sure they were extortionate prices but maybe it was worth it?

“Really, Buttercup? You do realise that money isn’t an issue, right?” He smirked.

“I just feel guilty spending your money, that’s all..”

“Trust me, Buttercup. I like seeing yo-”

“Buongiorno!” A small woman exited the front of the bakery with a notepad and a pen in her hand. “What can I get for the two of you?” She asked as she looked at Leon so he went first.

“Would I be able to get the brioche and a shot of espresso?” He asked politely as he gave her his million dollar smile.

“And for the compagno?” She asked as she wrote down Leon’s order.

Just as you were about to state your order Leon did it for you. “They’ll have both the pain au chocolat and the cornetto, with a moka coffee please.” Leon then turned his head to smile at you as you chuckled and smiled back. The waitress nodded her head and then went back into the bakery, preparing your food. “Now you get to try them both.”

“I have had them both before, you know…” You shook your head at him.

“Oh… Well now you get to try them… Italian style!” He smiled again as he dramatically waved his hands, emphasising the ‘Italian style.’ You simply rolled your eyes at him and smiled. The two of you waited quite a while for your food but it didn't annoy either of you as it simply meant that it was being made fresh for you, besides it also gave you time to look at the view of both the ocean and Leon. Considering you never left the US and you stayed landlocked you've never actually seen the ocean before, sure you saw big lakes and stuff but this was so much more intense. Not only was it humongous it was almost crystal clear. “How about we go snorkeling or something once I'm back?” Leon suggested.

“I would love that.” You nodded your head and just as you answered your waitress came over with your dishes and drinks. You simply squealed to yourself as your senses engulfed the food that sat before you, not even stopping to talk to Leon once. Eventually you looked up at him and you noticed he was simply smiling at you, lost in his thoughts as he watched you eat. “Leon?” You lightly waved at him and you raised your eyebrow.

He then snapped back to reality. “Sorry, just thinking about how at first you said you weren't very hungry.” He chuckled as he took a bite out of his own food.

“I guess pastries just do something to me?” You replied to him as you went back to eating your food. Leon simply took his time, he slowly drank his coffee and ate his bread as he looked at both you and the view on his left.

“Much different than the view at home. Here we get flowers, the ocean and beautiful trees, whereas at home we get a jungle… a concrete jungle..”

“How about in twenty years time when you retire, just move to Italy?” You joked at him in response to his little monologue about the different landscapes. “You can get a beautiful little villa on the mountain side that looks over the ocean, all you would need is three kids and a beautiful wife so that you can have the american, nuclear-family, dream.” You copied his hand gesture from earlier and chuckled.

“How would that be the american dream if i'm living in Italy?” He questioned as he placed his empty cup on the metal table.

“That was what stuck out to you about that entire bit?” You raised your eyebrow at him as you wiped your hands with your napkin. “Are you not going to eat your food?” You asked him as you looked down at his plate, him only being about halfway through.

“Sorry, sorry.” He picked up a piece. “I just wanted to take my time so we could be together longer. Just before we got here I got a text from Chris saying I had to meet him after we ate, thought I could drag it out as much as possible.” As he spoke he held out his free hand on the table, wanting you to place your hand in his. Obviously you accepted and he lightly squeezed it. You let him continue eating his food as the two of you sat in comfortable silence until the waitress came and collected the dirty dishes, replacing them with two new coffees for the two of you.

You took another sip from your mug as you noticed how Leon's eyes scanned the area and he seemed to be deep in his thoughts again. You put your mug on the table again and searched his eyes. He didn't notice you staring and only reacted when you mentioned his name. "Leon? You still there?" You snapped your fingers in front of him, making sure he was listening.

Leon turned his head and faced you. "Oh, sorry Buttercup. Did you say anything?"

You shook your head in response before talking again. "I'm worried about you, Leon. Even though we're here together, you seem so far away. Are you really okay?" You looked at him with puppy eyes and reached out to his hand. He just shook his head and looked away again. You sighed and felt hopeless. It was the first time Leon took you with him on a big mission, so of course you were worried. You always were when he was away, even though it wasn't the first time for him to do this stuff. Whatever it really was that he was doing now.

"Leon, please don't do this now. Tell me what's going on, maybe I can help you, distract you or whatever. Anything to help you, okay?" It took Leon a minute before finally giving it. He sighed as he rubbed his forehead.

"It's just.. this mission is different. I didn't get much information beforehand and I don't know. Something feels odd. And now that you're here, too, I'm just.. worried about you. Maybe it was the wrong idea to bring you with me." He said the last sentence more to himself than you, but you still understood every word of it. Even though he probably didn't mean it like that, you felt hurt. Did he think you were a helpless child who would only cause trouble? You didn't really know what to say but you had to do something about his mood.

"Leon. Listen to me. I don't know what you do all the time when you're gone, but you always manage. I'm sure everything will turn out fine, alright? And you don't have to worry about me. I'll stay inside the hotel or around your big bodyguards, I'm sure they could take care of tons of bad guys." You gave Leon an optimistic smile, hoping he would lighten up a bit.

"Yea, you're right. I guess. I just never.. had someone close to me in this kind of situation."

"Everything that matters now is that you're concentrated, Leon. If it helps you can tell me the information you already have, maybe we can work on this together. And who knows, maybe I'll end up being a better agent than you." You jokingly said and finally Leon let out a laugh as well. As you waited for his response you saw a pen on the table behind Leon so you ran to grab it, getting ready to write your notes on a clean napkin.

"Yea sure, whatever you say, Buttercup." You two continued joking for a while longer before ordering something else to drink. As the drinks were delivered to your table, you noticed someone sitting at a table close to you. You didn't know why exactly he caught your eye so you shrugged it off and continued talking to Leon. Soon he began talking about his mission and all the information he had. Which was, as he said before, really not much. All he knew was that someone in this city intended to initiate a virus-breakout similar to ones Leon had to fight before. You wrote down what he said but it wasn't really the equivalent to much. You sighed as you tried your best to help him out. Sure, he was a professional, but it was worth a shot. Especially if you could make him smile with your stupid ideas. In the end that's all that mattered to you, anyways.

You two continued chatting a while longer before Leon's phone suddenly rang. He excused himself, showing you who called. Chris. Leon stood up and left the table to talk to him in a more quiet place. You watched him walk away as you noticed the man from before staring at you again. He seemed to have seen you noticing since he suddenly looked away. You raised an eyebrow, a bad feeling growing in your stomach. Even though you were worried slightly, you didn't want to tell Leon. Maybe you were just starting to imagine things and you didn't want to make Leon worry any more. Speaking of him, he finally returned to the table. He didn't seem too happy though, so you knew what was coming next.

"Chris is already waiting for me. I guess I really tested his patience today. I'm sorry that it has to end so abruptly, Buttercup, but I really have to go now. We have new information and it seems like quite a big deal." Leon grabbed his wallet and handed it to you. "Get yourself something nice with it if you want. And don't forget to pay for our breakfast. I really need to go now, please be careful on your way home." He gave you a kiss on the forehead but you stopped him before he went to leave. "I love you, Leon. Don't worry about me and please come back soon.." He nodded lightly and gave you another kiss, this time on the mouth. You didn't want this moment to end but you knew there was no other option. You watched him leave and suddenly felt so alone and lost. Sitting down again you waited for someone to bring you the bill.

A few minutes passed until someone came over to your table, grabbing the last dirty cups. You asked them for the bill and after paying a ridiculous high amount of money for breakfast you left the table and went back to the main street. You sighed as you thought about what to do for the rest of the day since it was still not that late. With no destination in mind you just started following the street and seeing where it would take you.

Leon carefully closed the door behind him as he was escorted into the home. “Couldn’t have picked a basic home?” He shrugged as he looked over at Chris who was sitting at a table in the kitchen. “This mansion is fucking huge.”

“The fuck you mean?” He snarled at Leon as he pushed back the chair adjacent to him for Leon to sit in. “We’re in an upper class neighbourhood, it blends in.”

“Where’s Angel and Daisy?” Leon asked as he sat down in the chair and gestured at the two empty ones opposite him.

“Miss Badawi and Miss Chu are doing some recon.” He passed over a singular folder and Leon opened it to the first page.

“You call me by my first name, why not those two?” He always thought it was weird but now that it was just those two alone he actually was able to ask.

“Neither of them have passed the required rank for me to call them my equal, meaning they haven’t deserved the right yet."

“They’ve both saved your life countless times-”

“-Oh please! You think we care about validation from some old white man?” Angel laughed as both her and Daisy entered the room and sat down at the table.

Now that all three of them were sitting opposite Chris he could begin his briefing.

“We’re going to be heading to a small provenance called Valtorta, there’s no such thing as tourists there which means this is a stealth operation. Miss Chu, your favourite.” Daisy smiled and lightly clapped her hands together as she heard about the standards of the operation.

Angel raised her hand. “Miss Badawi?” Chris accepted.

“Where is Valtora?” She asked.

“Near the border of Italy and Switzerland.” He replied as he flicked Angel’s folder to the map page. “Around a two hour drive from Milan which is where we’re going to be starting after a three hour helicopter ride. Which means a five hour trip so that you kids can catch up on your podcasts or whatever it is that you guys do nowadays.”

“I’ve been listening to this really interesting podcast about a woman who kills her boss because he didn't give her a payrise… Pretty inspiring if you ask me.” Angel smirked as she looked towards her boss, Leon.

“Depends on how good you do after this operation, and if you can get some pastries for us to bring back home.” He replied as he looked up from the folder and at Angel.

“I think that’s a very fair trade, croissants for an extra one hundred percent markup on your pay?” Daisy smirked at her girlfriend.

“How about we focus on our jobs rather than the pay?” Chris interrupted them. “So the woman we’re looking for is Leona Capulet.” He placed a photo of the woman holding a small child onto the wooden table. “Forty five, six foot tall and batshit crazy.” He then placed another photo on the table. “For the last four years she’s been attempting to recreate another virus, called the LC-020-Virus. Ever since we found out about it we’ve been calling it the ‘Loco-virus’.”

“Let me guess…” Angel interrupted. “Rather than it turning you into a zombie it just makes you go crazy?”

“Bingo.” Chris nodded as he placed another picture on the table. “Blueprints of the town, and the suspected laboratory Capulet has been working in.”

“How have you got so much information?” Leon asked.

“Inside man.” Chris replied. “Capulet’s son, Valentino, has been helping us. Once his mother tried to use him for a human trial experiment he had enough and tried to shut her down. After failing he turned himself in and he’s been helping us for around four months now.”

“And you trust him?” Daisy asked as she looked at the picture of Leona. “How do we know it isn’t a trap?”

“The boy is a millionaire and he gets nothing out of betraying his family, it's personal to him.” Chris picked up his pictures from the table and placed them back into his folder. “But that doesn’t mean we can fully trust him, we all need to stay vigilant.” Chris stood out of his chair and tucked it under the table. “Our mission is to capture the target Leona Capulet, destroy any trace she has of the virus and figure out where her funding comes from. Any questions?” All three of them nodded their heads as they looked at Chris. “Great. We’re heading out at nine A.M. tomorrow morning, I expect everyone to be ready with a maximum of two standard issue duffle bags with the essentials needed for the maximum of two weeks.”

“A fortnight?” Leon asked. “I was told only three days.”

“A maximum Leon, just in case. If we all work well enough we can be back here within two days so let's all get some sleep so we can make that happen.” Chris left the three of them at the table. Angel and Daisy just began chatting amongst themselves about what they were going to do once they were back and could enjoy their time together in the countryside, whereas Leon was thinking about you. He pulled out his phone and called your number but to his surprise you didn’t answer, he looked at the time and saw that it was around seven at night so he thought that maybe you were in the shower, at home you usually showered at that time. So rather than calling you again he simply sent you a text message.

‘Done with work for the night so give me a call when you can. Leon <3’

The sun began setting as you felt your stomach growl. You've been walking around for so many hours, you didn't even think about stopping somewhere to eat or drink anything. Thankfully, you weren't somewhere in the woods but rather close to the city. Your phone battery died a while ago, so you didn't have a chance to just google where to go now or call a taxi. "I should have taken the map from Leon earlier." You muttered to yourself as you scratched the back of your head. Instead of giving up though you tried to follow the signs all around the streets. Most of them were in Italian but you still managed to find your way back.

Even though it wasn't that late, or so you assumed since it was not dark yet, there weren't many people outside. You hoped to find a store to get something to eat and drink and maybe ask for the time or your current location but it felt like you were going in circles and as the time passed you felt really tired. Suddenly everything felt like too much and you had to sit down. You almost fell to the ground, feeling the effects of not eating or drinking for a few hours in the heat. Your head was spinning and your vision blurred and you just barely saw a silhouette walking in your direction. You rubbed your eyes in hope of seeing clearly again. A young man stood before you, reaching a hand out. He soon seemed to notice that you didn't understand what he was saying, so he repeated himself in English. "Are you okay? You look really pale and I'm assuming you're not from here, right?" You slowly nodded your head and tried forming words in your mouth.

"Water.. Do you have water?", was all that came out in the end. The man let out a small laugh and nodded. He pointed towards a house just on the opposite side of the street before helping you get up.

"That's where I live. There aren't any stores open around here so that's all I can get offer now. If you feel comfortable with it you can rest a while before continuing your way."

You looked at the man and thanked him as he supported you walking. The two of you slowly walked towards his house and you waited in silence as he opened the door for you. You walked inside the small house and looked around. It was something completely different from the hotel you slept in last night, but it seemed very friendly. The man led you into the living room and you sat down on the old couch. He left the room to get you something to drink and shortly after returned with a coke, a bottle of water and some cold lasagna.

"This was my dinner today. I'm guessing you are hungry, the way you look. Please eat as much as you like." He went over to a cabinet and got a plate, a fork and a knife. He placed it on the small table in front of the couch as you gulped down the coke. You already felt better as the sugar spread through your body.

"Thank you so much. Where I come from most people wouldn't care for strangers, like you're doing right now. I don't know how I can repay you." You said as you put down the can and took a piece of the lasagna. The man put up his hands and shook his head. "Oh please, don't worry about it. This is nothing, I'm just glad to be helping." You smiled at him in return and enjoyed the rest of the lasagna in silence as your body finally regained strength. After you were done you leaned back on the sofa and sighed. "Now that was a really good lasagna. I definitely need the recipe!" You said jokingly and the two of you laughed.

You two talked for a while longer before you noticed the time on a clock hanging on the wall. It was almost 11pm. You opened your eyes in shock and stood up abruptly. "It's so late already?! I'm so sorry, but I think I really need to go. Please, if there is any way to thank you, tell me." The man now also stood up and walked you to the front door. "Like I said before, I don't want anything in return. I'm just grateful to be of help." You smiled at him and went for a hug. It just felt right at that moment. He returned the gesture but you soon parted again. You unlocked your now almost fully loaded phone and checked the route to the hotel.

"Thanks for letting my phone charge as well, I don't think I would ever find my way back without it." You laughed as you stepped outside. By now the moon was shining high in the sky, making the night light up.

"If I'm not mistaken your way back shouldn't be too long. Please text me when you're back so I don't have to worry." The man said as handed you a piece of paper with his number. You smiled as you added him to your contacts.

"Oh, I don't think I've gotten your name, did I?" Now it was his time to laugh. "That's right, I believe. My name's Leonardo." You couldn't believe what you were hearing and let out a laugh. "No way. That's kind of a funny coincidence, my boyfriend is actually called Leon."

"Oh, well.. That really is a funny coincidence." Leonardo scratched his head as you two laughed again.

"Well, it was nice meeting you Leonardo, but I really have to go now. Maybe our paths will cross again." You waved him goodbye as you put in your earphones and followed the route that was presented on your display.

As you followed the instructions you felt like you were being watched. You looked around, not seeing anyone. Shaking your head you began walking faster, the feeling of being watched never vanishing. Just when you thought the feeling of being watched had gone you heard some footsteps behind you. You slowly pulled out your earphones and looked back. Nobody. "Jesus.. What is wrong with me?" You could already see the tall building you left earlier this day and felt relieved. Only a few more minutes and you were safe. From whatever it was that you felt afraid of. Not realizing you started walking faster again you suddenly tripped and fell to the ground, your phone sliding away. "Fuck.." You rubbed your knee and felt blood on your fingertips in return. You stood up with a pain filled groan and slowly went over to your phone. Just before you were able to reach it something hard hit the back of your head, sending you in a realm of darkness...

----

Taglist: @trinswhimsys @dixanadu @oppsie--channie

#resident evil #re2 #re4 #re6 #resident evil vendetta #leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon x reader #leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x reader #resident evil x reader #x reader #x male reader #x female reader #x gn reader #x gender neutral reader

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waywardwrestlewritingwaif · 3 years ago

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Raise the Stakes, part 14

Aaaaaaannnnnnd we're done! I literally decided on this ending today and I'm posting it before I start to get THE DOUBTS. I hope you enjoy it and thank you so, so, so much to everyone who's liked/ commented/ messaged along the way.

There's mention in here of an interview that did actually happen a couple of days ago and what's included is pretty much what I've read online. That said, I've embellished some for the purpose of the story, so I'm not claiming to know anything.

Previous sections are on the Master List.

Pairing: David Finlay x OFC x Jay White

Word count: 2,767

Content advisory: other than the usual language, nothing really. Should I be cautioning people about angstiness? Because there's angst.

Thought you should see this.

The toneless message with its link is ruining your day. You can’t stop looking at it, but you don’t want to open the link again because you don’t want David to see it. Not that you have any reason to feel guilty. If anything, he’s the one who has some explaining to do but he also has the biggest match of his life tonight, the one where he can finally put the years of tension and rivalry with Jay behind him. You want to be supportive but you also want some answers.

It can wait, you tell yourself for the hundredth time. You’ll talk about it tomorrow. Or next week. All the time in the world. At least, that’s what you hope.

The whole day, the two of you are together but you have to keep a little bit of distance. Don’t want to get distracted and he has to conserve all the energy he can. Doesn’t stop you from touching each other, of course, but even when you do, it feels like you’re still at a distance. He’s trying not to think about anything except tonight. Or maybe it just looks that way. Maybe he’s thinking about his future beyond tonight, when he moves on. It would be nice to know if he wanted you to move on with him but he’s not letting you in on his plans. Hell, if it were up to him, you wouldn’t even know that there were plans.

You’d expected Jay to have some sort of mocking comments. How come the boyfriend you’re so in love with is giving interviews talking about signing with another company, moving to another state, changing everything about his life, and you don’t know anything about it? How Jay had looked at that interview and immediately known that you weren’t aware of it is beyond you. It’s unnerving sometimes, his ability to figure things out when it comes to you. You suppose it’s one of the reasons he’s always been able to get under your skin and make you do what he wants.

But aside from the initial message, he doesn’t say anything. You think that maybe it was a ploy to see if you’d confront David and start a fight before their match, because that’s exactly the kind of ugly trick Jay loves. When you arrive at the venue, though, you see him getting out of a car at the same time. He doesn’t look scornful, doesn’t shout something insulting, doesn’t strut like a damn peacock in mating season, nothing that you would normally expect from him. He looks straight at you and doesn’t smirk or sneer. On anyone other than Jay White, the look might be interpreted as concern.

Technically, you’re supposed to be there for all the performers but at this point, there’s very little left for you to do. It’s all on them now and if everything turns out to be a garbage fire, it won’t be because of any failings on your part. So you do your rounds to make sure everyone has what they need, knows their cues, gets any questions answered. But you always circle back to where David is and stay for as long as you can before your nerves get the better of you.

And then there’s the one person you should check on, but don’t. You aren’t completely derelict. You check with the people he has around him, you even lower yourself to telling Chris Bey that he can text you if his majesty needs anything. Strangely, you don’t hear anything. You text Jay once to say that you’re available to help. You keep it professional and don’t mention anything about the link he sent earlier, so you’re expecting him to needle you about it, or at least act like you’re useless because you aren’t spending your entire day catering to him. Nothing. You’re almost tempted to go check to make sure he’s not sick because one thing Jay White has never been is one to stay quiet when something is bothering him. Maybe he feels sorry for you, in which case you’d rather he yelled.

You enjoy as much of the show as you can but you spend the last minutes before his match with David, largely quiet, just holding each other’s hands. You walk as far as you can with him and, as his music hits, squeeze his hand extra tight. He turns and gives you a soft, quick kiss before leaning back and doing it again, deeper.

“I love you,” he says, cupping your face in his hand.

“I love you too.”

He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself of something. You sound like you’re calling after a train that’s already left the station.

Against your better judgment, you stay where you are. Jay arrives, already acting his part, hands tapping idly on the belt that, in theory, is the reason they’re fighting. You stare at him waiting for him to acknowledge you but there’s nothing. His music swells and he heads out like you’re not even there.

“Just like old times,” you mutter to yourself.

And still.

You watch from backstage as Jay holds his belt up, grinning and preening like he never had a moment’s doubt. You know him well enough to know that’s not true. He keeps cutting looks back at David as if he’s expecting to have to defend himself again, as if he doesn’t believe that he’s truly vanquished him.

The audience doesn’t share his insecurity, cheering him on like he was the hero and David the villain. He’s obnoxious and self-centred but they love him anyway. It makes you feel a little less stupid for the years you’d spent doing the same.

A couple of assistants help David backstage, holding ice to his neck and making sure he doesn’t collapse on the way to the locker room. He looks angry, sullen, and bitter, but not injured, which is a relief. You turn away from the scene in the ring and follow him back to his dressing room, taking over from the dojo students on ice duty when you get there. You don’t speak. You figure it’s better to let him decide when he’s ready.

You’d love to, of course, because despite the fact that you don’t want to make his night worse, it’s becoming unbearable to keep everything inside.

“Where does it hurt?” you ask quietly, picking up a new cold pack.

“Everywhere,” he mumbles.

You hold the ice against his lower back, remembering the awful hit he’d taken on the ring apron.

“You looked great out there.”

“Didn’t feel so great.” He gives you a little smile. “Onward and upward, right?”

“Or southward?” You don’t even mean to say it out loud because this is absolutely not the time to bring it up and certainly not in this passive aggressive way.

“Southward?” He raises his eyebrows like he doesn’t know what you’re talking about but you can see immediately that he does.

“Nothing, it’s ok.”

He sighs. “What’s southward?”

“Do you need another ice pack?”

“Uh oh, sounds like someone’s been reading the dirt sheets.”

“Just making a joke.” You wish you hadn’t brought this up because now you have to try to cram it back into its hiding space in your brain. And you have to suppress the fact that you’re actually kind of angry.

He watches you, trying to gage your state of mind. “Shouldn’t listen to idle gossip.”

That hits like a slap across the face.

“It’s not gossip, David. You did an interview with Wrestling Observer. If people are speculating or have questions, it’s because of what you said yourself.”

“It’s just talking. I didn’t confirm anything.”

He seems a little proud of this, like he’s very clever for getting people talking about what they don’t know. He doesn’t seem to have an issue with the fact that you’re one of those people.

“It’s all there, though,” you murmur. “Talking about how much you want to work in the States, that you want to try somewhere new, that you’re moving to Florida. You’re going to NXT, right?”

He shrugs and avoids your eyes.

“Were you ever going to tell me about any of this or did you figure I’d be able to piece together where you’d gone from news clippings and Reddit posts?”

“Of course I was going to talk to you. Nothing’s final yet.”

“So you were waiting until you bought a house in Florida and signed a contract with another company? Then what? You’d wake me up one morning and just say ‘bye babe, I’ll be living in another state from now on?’”

“The opportunity came up. This,” he gestures to the two of you, “is still really new. I didn’t want to introduce all these complications.”

“David, I’m not some girl you picked up in a bar. We’ve known each other for years. You’ve talked to me before about your contract renewals. Seems like you could have told me something.”

“I was going to tell you something. When I had a better idea of what I wanted to do.”

“You told a journalist, a ‘dirt sheet’ in your own words, that you’re in the process of moving to Florida. That seems like you have a pretty clear idea.”

“Ok, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for you to find out. You don’t even read that stuff normally.”

“You’re aware people are talking about this on social media, right?”

He grunts but doesn’t say anything more. It’s infuriating. He looks resentful that he has to explain himself, like he didn’t think this was going to be an issue for you. Finally, he meets your eyes, guilt very clearly evident now.

“I don’t know why I didn’t say anything. I’m an idiot, I could have figured out that you’d see something, or that someone would tell you.”

“It is my job to know stuff like this, all other considerations aside.”

“Believe me, I did not want you getting this from some random dweeb on Twitter.”

“I wish it had been a random dweeb on Twitter.”

He looks surprised and then it’s like part of him collapses when he realizes what you mean.

“Got up this morning to a one line text and a link to the article from our old pal. You know, making sure I’m not out of the loop.”

“Asshole.”

“In this case no. Somehow, you managed to cede the high moral ground to a man whose morals are generally nonexistent.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Well, this is hardly the ideal moment to have this conversation, but I want to know if and how you see me fitting into this new life you’re going to have.”

He shrugs a little. “How do you want to fit in?”

The realization hits you hard. “You don’t think this is going to last, do you? You didn’t think I was serious.”

“Wanting is a lot easier than having.”

“Maybe for you.”

“No, that’s not what I meant, it’s just that I… You’re right. I didn’t think I needed to consider you. It wasn’t part of my decision-making process.”

“You’ve been setting this up for weeks. All this has come together at the same time you’ve been with me almost every day. If I wasn’t part of your process, that was the decision right there.”

The two of you stare each other down but there seems to be nothing left to say.

Eventually, you rise to your feet and stammer, “I’m just going to… I need to take a walk or something.”

You wander around the place, watching the crew rushing to pack up. Eventually, you find yourself outside, where the ring still stands, bathed in the glow of the safety lights. It seems forlorn in front of the empty seats but there is still a kind of magic about it. That’s what draws people to this business, you suppose, the feeling of magic.

Since no one else is around, you climb up and through the ropes, kicking off your shoes. You’ve been in one before, but always just to set it up or break it down. You’ve never had an in-ring moment. And there’s a reason for that, which is that you can barely wrestle your way out of your winter coat. But as long as you’re here and you need to do something to take your mind off the sensation that your chest is about to rip.

You run, or jog, from one side to the other, bouncing off the ropes as you do, the way you’ve watched dozens of men doing for years. Although you know the “ropes” are actually steel cables with a plastic coating and you’ve handled them before, it surprises you how much it hurts when you hit them too hard. It’s not the worst pain you have right now.

You pick up speed a little and then practice letting yourself “bump”, a fancy way of saying fall flat on your back. Each time, you knock the wind out of yourself a little but you get right back up and continue your running. Finally, you have enough momentum that you’re able to just roll yourself into a somersault, and sure, it’s not the most perfectly executed thing, but you keep your body straight and you pop right back up. Just like a pro.

“Ta-da!” you say to yourself.

That’s when the tears come. It’s not falling to pieces, but the stew of emotions inside you just starts to leak out. What the hell do you do now?

There are some footsteps behind you, echoing a little in the empty arena, and you see a man’s approaching shadow loom behind you, pushing his long hair back from his face as he crouches down. So you’re not startled when a thick pair of arms wraps around you and you feel his face pressed against your neck.

“Come home.”

You give an unhappy laugh. “Home is kind of a weird concept right now, Jay.”

“You’re always home for me. I guess I was hoping you felt the same way.”

You snap your head to look at him, pulling back enough so that you can focus on his eyes. In all the time you’ve known him, you don’t think he’s ever looked as calm as he does in this moment.

“Congratulations on your win.”

“Yeah, I get to be a target for a while longer.”

“Stop pretending you don’t love it.”

“Sure, I love it. It’s nice. There are other things I love more.” He runs his fingers over your cheeks, cleaning away the remains of your tears. “I’m sorry about sending you that story earlier.”

“All the shit you’ve pulled over the years and that’s the thing you apologize for?”

“Oh I meant I’m sorry that I had to be the one to send it. I don’t want you to shoot the messenger or anything.”

“If I haven’t shot you by now, I think you’re safe.”

He laughs and pulls you back against his chest, kissing down your cheek and neck. Then he stands, pulling you right up with him and letting his lips trail over the crown of your head.

“Come on.” he whispers, taking your hand.

“Wait, I need my shoes.”

You dart over to pick them up and he’s right there to help you into them and to lead you through the ropes and down the stairs. That’s when he plants his lips on yours, firmly, so that you can feel it in your knees.

“I need to go get my suitcase inside.”

“Do you always carry everything with you wherever you go?”

“I’m headed straight to the airport from here. Catching a red eye back.”

“Skip it. Leave tomorrow.”

“Just like that?”

“Sure. I have a really nice room.”

“I know you do, I booked it.”

“Always taking care of me, aren’t you?”

“Oh wow, he noticed.”

He kisses you again, a little longer, digging his fingers into your back, and your body melts against him of its own volition.

“I’m not coming back if everything is just going to go back to the way it was, Jay.”

“I didn’t come running after you because you’re good at managing my schedule.”

You give him a sceptical look but you can't entirely keep from smiling.

“Look at me,” he grins, “I’m a god. Any woman would want me and you have me. You should feel like you won the lottery.”

“Yeah,” you drawl, letting him wrap an arm around you as you walk away together, “I won.”

#jay white fanfic #jay white imagine #david finlay fanfic #david finlay imagine #njpw fanfic #njpw imagine #wrestling imagine #wayward wrestle writing

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platypanthewriter · 4 years ago

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The Tanning Rock

Harringrove April prompt 28, Tanning--Creatures!AU (This one grew to nearly 6k and I’m so sorry) @wasting-time-again HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY, HAVE A MERMAN! XD

The lawyer who summoned Billy—about an inheritance, he said—was...weird. Straight out of a movie, with long incisors and a cravat, and he steepled his fingers as he talked.

Max said he was probably actually a vampire, and Billy agreed—which was weird, because as far as Billy knew, his mom’s family wasn’t exactly old money, and it was hard to imagine a vampire getting on a plane to fly clear to California and summoning him to a crypt full of file cabinets, all just to read a will about his mom’s collection of surfing stickers and pile of old National Geographics.

Billy knew his father had disowned him, so he bit his lips together, waiting to hear that his mother had died.

“I am here about the estate of your grandmother,” said the vampire lawyer, and Billy drew a shaky breath of relief. “Your mother was disowned—” he said, and Billy almost snorted a laugh—like mother, like son, he thought, “—and so her domicile has passed to you.”

“Wait, what,” Billy breathed, wide-eyed.

“It is an unusual case,” said the lawyer—Fangun and Stayk, est. 986, read his card, but Billy wasn’t sure whether he was speaking to Fangun or Stayk, or whether the whole thing was a joke yet, so he kept his mouth shut. “You will take ownership of the house and land, however, you may not live there—that is, not year-round, not unless you are given an invitation by a resident. It is a closed community.”

“...can I sell it?” Billy asked, and the deepset eyes of the lawyer stared back at him, bloodshot and dry.

“At well below market value,” he said, steepling his fingers again. They made a dryish noise. “As I said, they dislike outsiders. And a stranger will be even more of an outsider than you, in whom runs...the blood of the place.”

Billy wondered, dully, whether he’d inherited a haunted graveyard, or a den of werewolves, and groaned into his hands. Maybe he was part zombie somehow. Just his luck. “Where is it,” he sighed.

“It is not on commonly available maps,” said the vampire, and Billy nodded. It figured, he thought, though his ears perked up considerably when his grandmother’s lawyer laid out a map of Hawaii.

They got a ride from the shore on a fishing boat at four o’clock in the morning. “It’s barely tourist season yet,” said the fisherwoman, showing Max how to steer. “There will be a ferry, in a week or two, but I can give you two a ride out the day your visa’s up if the ferry quits sooner.”

“We want enough time to look around,” Max said, glancing at Billy. They’d let their lease run out, and sold most of their things, because a few orange crates of records were a small price to pay for never running into Neil Hargrove around town. “You could get a job on one of the normal islands,” Max had suggested, quietly, over and over. “If they don’t like us enough.”

Billy’d never suggested moving Max so far away, but she’d assumed they were going, and after a while he went along with it. It wouldn’t be so bad, he thought, getting a job in a hotel somewhere after the islanders threw him out. Max would probably love it, in Hawaii.

A fresh start, she had said, and it sounded good.

He and Max were greeted by a woman in a wheelchair, who stamped their passports. “Technically, we’re a different country,” she said, smiling. She had very brown skin, and looked contentedly half-asleep in the sun. “You’re the only visitors on the island, for a week or two,” she said, cocking her head. “We’re not always in a big hurry to scrub up the ferry for the summer. We love the money, but the tourists...” she laughed, shaking her head. “Three-month pleasure trip visa. Have a nice summer,” she said, waving them away.

Her benign lack of interest lessened Billy’s initial fears that he’d inherited membership in some rich, yoga-pants-wearing, white Human Superiority cult.

The house was traditional-ish, with a grass roof and walls, big open windows with no glass, only shutters, and a wide shaded veranda all the way around. It looked over a beach with rolling waves, and Billy couldn’t wait to get his board out there.

“I’m gonna look around the house,” Max said. “See if I can find any neighbors. Maybe I can bring them cookies.” She set her jaw, frowning around at their luggage, and the scattered pillows. “Maybe we can buy some furniture somewhere.”

“...we can always just come here for summers,” Billy told her, breathing it in.

“Yeah, you’re gonna have a great time getting a tourism job where you don’t work summers,” Max said, raising a sarcastic eyebrow, and Billy realized with a sinking feeling in his stomach that she expected him to figure it out. Find someone who wanted him to stay, here, on the island, at his grandmother’s house.

“I’m no good at making friends, Max,” he reminded her, and she snorted.

“Better get out of my hair, then.” She folded her arms, taking another deep breath of the smell of grass in the sun. After a long moment, she looked back at him again. “...we’ve got a little over three months, Billy.”

He suspected it sounded longer to her.

When he wandered down to the beach, Billy could see someone’s tanned shoulders lying across a jutting rock about fifty feet out, and he paddled a ways towards it on his surfboard, getting the lay of the ocean. There was a rip tide, dark and eerily quiet, to his right, but the rest of the beach had shallow, warm, clear waves over white sand and coral until a dark dropoff about fifty feet out where the rolling waves began.

As he paddled closer to the rock, he could see the man on it—asleep, Billy thought, just lying in the sun as the waves lapped at his skin. As Billy drifted closer, paddling with his hands, he could see a long-fingered hand hanging in the water, and he paddled faster, suddenly wondering whether the man wanted to be out on a rock, or whether he was a Dude In Distress, his leg cramped, needing a ride to the beach on Billy’s surfboard and a trip around the boardwalk, and maybe some shaved ice.

As Billy approached, the guy opened his eyes, frowning over at Billy with wide, half-awake brown eyes. He pushed himself up on the rock with his arms like the goddamn Little Mermaid, Billy thought, amused. His throat went dry watching the flex of muscle, and the water droplets where the dude had lifted himself out of the bay.

Billy paddled at random, a little, unable to tear his eyes away. He cleared his throat. “Just, uh, making sure you didn’t need any help,” he said, staring at the tanned arms and swimmer’s chest in front of him, nearly triangular, like a superhero. “I, um. Guess you’re fine.”

The guy raised his eyebrows, starting to smirk, and then his eyes widened, and Billy realized in a flash of blue and foam that he’d drifted right into the fucking rip tide. Right in front of the gorgeous dude on the rock, Billy thought in the back of his mind, trying to hold onto his surfboard and let the rip tide take him wherever it would. Just his luck, he thought, dying because he was so damn gay he saw nice shoulders and his brain switched off. He hadn’t even gotten a chance to breathe before he got sucked down, and his lungs and sinuses were starting to ache worse than the rest of him, even as he was buffeted around against his board, when an arm slid around his waist.

He wanted to yell at the guy—and he did, in an explosion of bubbles—because what the hell good was it gonna do, swimming into a rip tide, but the muscles against his back and butt flexed, and they were moving sideways out of the rip tide, and then Billy’s head was above water. He gasped and choked, coughing up half the sea. The ocean moved soothingly around them, as this dude had no trouble holding Billy up, and Billy tried to clear his throat and eyes.

“Have you seriously never seen a tail before,” the guy groaned, hauling Billy along like he was no more effort to lift than a little kid at the pool. Billy felt rock against his thigh, suddenly, and scrambled onto it, coughing and wiping his eyes to see he was on the jutting rock the dude must have jumped off of, to save him.

“How-how fucking humiliating,” he gasped out loud. “Can’t believe. C-can’t believe I fucking p-paddled into a rip tide.”

“You drifted back into the...yeah,” his hot rescuer said, still in the water, with one hand on the rock to hold him steady as he frowned at Billy. His voice sounded a little odd—Billy was reminded of the Chinese grocery by his house, where their English was perfect, but they had a lilt as they tried to speak an atonal language with a tonal ear. Up close, he was even prettier, with moles Billy wanted to track down his neck and shoulders, and a doubtful, scrunched-up mouth Billy wanted to kiss.

“Sorry,” Billy wheezed, still coughing. “Sorry, I’m such a moron, sorry.” He tried to keep his eyes above the water level, but some part of his brain kept looking for tanned legs kicking under the surface, and he suddenly registered that the moving colors weren’t just fish and anemones. “Holy shit,” he coughed out. “You have a tail.”

His rescuer frowned harder, probably worried Billy had brain damage. “I figured that’s why you swam into the rip tide,” he said slowly, and Billy shook his head, groaning.

“No—fuck, I’m sorry, you—you’re just hot as fuck, I’m just a moron, I’m—damn it,” he sighed. “Sorry, jesus, I’m so fucking rude, sorry, I just didn’t notice, I was like ‘How the hell did he get me out of there? OH!’, sorry,” he muttered, sighing. “...drown me.”

“I am though, right,” the merman said, grinning, “—hotter than you,” and Billy realized he’d found the only person on the island more annoying than he was.

“Yeah, yeah, just laugh at the poor gay moron who nearly drowned staring at you, that’s nice,” he huffed, lying back against the warm rock to catch his breath.

“Was it love at first sight?” asked his rescuer, and Billy opened his eyes to glare.

“Shut up, asshole,” he grunted.

“Just asking,” his tormenter asked. “Are you gonna pine away, sighing over me? Hey, d’you think you’ll always do that? If I swim over in town, you think you’ll fall off the boardwalk?”

“Fuck you,” Billy told him, leaning his face in his arms and laughing. “Yeah, probably, you shithead. Are you gonna...follow me around? So I can look like more of an idiot?”

“Mmm, can you though…” the gorgeous merman asked thoughtfully, and Billy growled into his arms, feeling his whole body warm. He blamed it on the sun. “Why,” his rescuer asked, pulling himself up to laugh against Billy’s ear. “—you want me to follow you someplace?”

“Oh my god,” Billy groaned, laughing harder. “Are you afraid to leave me alone now? What if I try and eat my surfboard?”

“...are you gonna?”

“Maybe?!” Billy told him, then pushed himself up, frowning around to look for it.

“I’ve got it, it’s right here,” the smug asshole told him, waggling the surfboard in the water. “Want me to take you back to shore?”

“No!” Billy laughed, sighing. “I’m going surfing, just because I nearly died making an ass of myself doesn’t mean—”

“Hrm, maybe I should keep an eye on you.”

“Why,” Billy asked, then pitched his voice just a little lower. “You like what you see?”

“I could get used to it,” the merman said, and Billy started to preen, but the dickhead finished with “—kind of a comedy special, kind of thing,” and Billy reached over and smacked a big splash of water at him.

He laughed, his throat arching back, the gills along it thin dark lines that Billy fantasized kissing around.

Just as Billy was considering grabbing the surfboard and using it as a weapon of blunt force trauma, the merman leaned in close, his smirk widening around pointed teeth, and his cool, salty lips pressed firmly against Billy’s. Billy made a weird gulping noise in his throat, and the asshole started to pull away, but Billy leaned in, and fell clean off the rock. His weight dunked them both, and they rose sputtering and laughing, Billy held securely in his merman’s arms as his surfboard floated away. He couldn’t really bring himself to care.

“...my name’s Billy,” he panted.

“...Steve,” the mer-dickhead said, raising his eyebrows, like it was weird to want to know his name.

“...I inherited a house here,” Billy told him in a rush, drunk on kisses. “I’m from California. My mom used to talk about this place when I was a kid. Surfing here. With her mom.”

“...is she here?” Steve asked, steadying them with one hand on the rock, and glancing back at the beach.

Billy laughed, shaking his head. “Fuck, sorry, you don’t need to know my shit. We can make out. You’re short-circuiting my brain.”

“...I should probably get your surfboard,” Steve told him, grinning, but he leaned his head in again, gentle with his sharp teeth, and Billy inhaled shakily as the points grazed his lips and tongue.

“Jesus,” he whispered, once he could talk, and then he licked his lips and wrenched himself away to swim after his surfboard, just so his smug rescuer wouldn’t have to fetch it for him. The waves got bigger as he got out to where the trees weren’t acting as a windbreak, and he clambered up on his board, glaring back as Steve wolf-whistled.

When he let the tides pull him back towards the gorgeous merman on the rock, he lost his mind again, telling him his tail looked like a peacock butt, and Steve cracked up, grinning at him.

“...so, neighbor, you have to win someone over enough to invite you to stay,” he said, cocking his head.

“Yup,” Billy told him, pointing up at the house he’d inherited, built into the hill, the old grass vacation cottage blending in with the trees.

“And your method is to tell me I look like bird ass,” Steve continued, and Billy grimaced, waving his hands.

“No! No, I don’t—I know people have to get to know you. Here. I’ll…” he sighed. “I’ll try for a few months and see what happens. If nothing...clicks, maybe I’ll try again next summer,” he said, grimacing, and wondering what Max would do, if they weren’t allowed to stay. Leave, maybe, he thought—she was seventeen, and she could get a job herself.

He ended up teaching Steve to surf, after showing off his best efforts. When he swam back, panting, Steve looked properly impressed, and even more tanned. “Teach me,” he said, and Billy leaned in to kiss him again, nodding.

“That gonna get you to like me enough to let me stay?” Billy asked, and Steve frowned at him, but Billy laughed, and leaned in for another kiss.

“Tomorrow?” Steve had whispered against his lips, and Billy got no sleep at all that night, he just rolled over every couple hours to check the clock, and see that another two minutes had passed.

Steve was fascinating to watch on the board, his tail trailing as he controlled it with his hands around either side, his abs flexing as he held himself in a kind of plank pose with the support of his tail. Billy watched, and realized he was drooling.

“You like me enough to keep me?” he asked that night, teasing, and Steve laughed.

“Ask me again tomorrow.”

Merpeople—or at least, Steve, Billy corrected mentally, realizing he was dealing with a sample size of one—loved bread. Like a cat, Billy thought, watching Steve eye his croissant, or bagel. He started just bringing one every morning for Steve, and some coffee, and it was hilarious watching the fluffy flesh of a croissant dangling between Steve’s shark-like teeth. He waited every morning, and even though Billy wasn’t sure whether Steve was waiting for Billy or the bread he was carrying, he got heart palpitations every time he came down the ramp to the dock, and he could see the little lump of Steve’s head on his folded arms, the rest of him hanging off into the water.

“A few bagels aren’t enough to win me over,” Steve told him, and Billy’s stomach twisted, a little. He wished he hadn’t brought it up, kind of—the knowledge that he might have to leave hurt, like a sore tooth he couldn’t stop worrying at in his mouth. “Maybe more croissants,” Steve said, smiling, and Billy brought him more croissants.

When they’d arrived, they’d discovered the town was filled with mermaid stuff, and at first, Max and Billy had snickered at it, because surely even if there’d been a merperson or two living near a human town once, they’d died decades ago, or they just traded with fishing boats, far out at sea. They hadn’t considered the amount of people in wheelchairs, or the spray bottles close to hand.

When Billy suggested he bring lunch down from town, Steve swam over to haul himself up—his tail flashing in the light—through the bottom of one of the little sheds on the dock. Moments later, he banged the door open, wheeling out in an old rusty wheelchair. He spun it in a circle, waiting for Billy to climb out of the water, and then zipped ahead up the ramp to the path.

“Wait up, jesus,” Billy yelled after him, and Steve laughed, the muscles in his arms mesmerizing as they spun the wheels. He slowed down eventually, panting, enough for Billy to jog and catch up. “...lemme know if you want me to push,” Billy told him, and Steve snorted.

“Touch my chair and die,” he said.

“Fair enough,” Billy said, holding his hands up, and Steve laughed.

“It makes me…” he squinted, thinking. “...seasick…?” he offered, and Billy nodded, trotting along next to him.

“Motion-sick, probably,” he suggested, and Steve mouthed it as he rolled along.

The lady at the shaved ice stand leaned out and folded her arms on the edge of the little window, laughing at Steve. “You know they make those that work!” she called, and he flipped her off. “They don’t have to be electric! They make ‘em that just move smoothly.”

“It’ll just rust in my shed,” Steve told her, shrugging. “It’s fine.” As they waited for their tacos, Steve pulled up to a table, and his rusty, janky wheels kept rolling backwards, until Steve sighed and bent down to stuff some rocks under there.

“My friend Robin and I went in together on a nicer one,” he said, “—but I can’t park it in the shed. This one’s not so bad,” and Billy’s perception of it shifted a bit—maybe it was more like getting stuck with an old beater car occasionally, instead of something Steve needed help with. “...want to wander around, after?” Billy asked. “I haven’t got any souvenirs yet.”

Steve paused, then licked his lips. “Planning your trip home already?”

“...dunno yet,” Billy said, the invitation unspoken between them. It seemed ridiculous to want to stay so badly just because he’d met a pair of gorgeously tanned shoulders and a teasing smile, but it also wasn’t...hard to imagine, lingering on the island to go snorkeling with Steve, and learning about the reefs—he’d absorbed enough for a few semesters of marine biology, he was fairly sure, but told as stories, just off-handed things Steve had seen—and Billy was already wanting a drysuit, so he could go in the fall. Maybe Billy could get a job on a fishing boat, he thought vaguely, or help out in one of the shops.

If Steve would invite him.

Steve had slid his hands under Billy’s swimsuit a few times, pressing him back on their rock, or on the docks, rocking into him as Billy panted and gasped and fell apart under his hands—but he never said anything, after, and Billy hesitated to ask whether it was...anything, to Steve. Maybe he picks an idiot every summer, he thought, watching Steve smile at the depictions of mermaids on every surface of every shop on the main street.

“You all spend so much time keeping everything dry and dead,” he said, grinning over at Billy, who’d been anticipating a comment on the mermaid’s hourglass-like proportions, not her lack of water damage.

“...oh,” he said.

“I have a figurehead like that, but covered in anemones,” Steve said, cocking his head. “It’s beautiful.”

“I mean...you could...plant a vine on it, maybe?”

Steve nodded. “Put it outside in the rain, let it grow.” The lady behind the counter sighed, rolling her eyes, and Steve laughed.

“There’s a whole movement to ‘preserve’ our art,” he whispered to Billy. “Which mostly means they don’t let it become our art.”

“Huh,” Billy said, wondering whether human houses looked like museums, or mausoleums, to merpeople.

“Not to say that I’d pour water on your television set, or drop your mattress in the bay,” Steve said, grimacing a little, and watching Billy’s face. “I get that much.” He looked kind of uncomfortable with the lady behind the counter glaring at him, ducking his head.

Billy leaned to kiss him. He nearly steadied himself on the chair, and then remembering it would roll, and just held his hands away. Steve grinned up at him, particularly at his outstretched hands, and yanked Billy down on his not very much of a lap, hurriedly curling his tail up and around Billy’s waist as Billy threatened to slide down the smooth scales to the ground. Billy threw his arms around Steve’s neck, wide-eyed, as Steve held the wheels firmly, keeping the chair from rolling backwards under the weight of two grown men.

“Let’s go,” Steve whispered, and Billy nodded, breathing Steve’s sun-and-salt smell, and wondering whether it was okay to ask whether Steve would consider inviting him to stay—just until the next season, Billy thought, as the chair and Steve’s tail moved under him. Until the next summer, when he could ask whether Steve wanted him to stay again, or whether he wanted Billy gone.

After staying a whole year, Billy thought he might not have it in him to ask whether Steve was tired of him yet, but the thought of waking every morning to run down to the docks with coffee and banana bread was addictive, and he tried not to think about the end.

Billy ran into the lady who’d stamped his passport, and caught himself staring at her tanned legs propped up on the railing. “Oh, I’m human,” she said, laughing. “But I love it here. I can even shop in the little bookstore, imagine,” she said, and now that Billy thought about it, he realized it had an elevator in the back, and little lifts for the walkways along the higher shelves. “I’ve never had someone offer to lift me into their cafe, here,” she said, her nose wrinkled, and Billy nodded slowly.

“Shoot that thing!” she yelled, when she saw Steve’s awful old wheelchair, and he flipped her off.

“We can only invite a few people,” Steve told him, as they ate noodle bowls. “It’s for somebody you marry, you know, their family, maybe. Or if you leave the island, and have a kid.”

“Yeah,” Billy said softly, hearing the message clearly—invitations were not to be wasted, and Billy wasn’t special enough to keep. He finished his lunch, trying not to feel all butthurt about it. Max would probably understand.

Steve kissed him again, on the docks, and Billy leaned into it, feeling the familiar pressure of tears in his sinuses, and behind his eyes. He had three weeks left, he told himself. Three more weeks. Steve slid a hand up the back of Billy’s head, humming against his mouth, and Billy let himself go soft in his arms.

When they returned to the docks, Steve dug a big beach blanket out, and they spread it out on the sand, and Billy stayed out that night, losing himself in Steve’s warm hands and mouth, under stars like he’d never seen before.

Steve was watching his face the next morning, with a little frown, and Billy pulled away, sitting up.

“Better than croissants?” Billy asked, smirking a little, and Steve sighed.

“Was that what this was? Fucking me won’t make me give you an invitation,” he said. He didn’t look amused, the way he had over the bagels, and Billy wondered whether it had worked, a little. Billy’d always had a talented mouth.

“I won’t know if I don’t try, will I,” he said, laughing. “Maybe another round will help?”

“...I have to go,” Steve said, and he didn’t even fold up the blanket, just pushed himself off the edge and slid over the wet sand into the water, gone in a flip of tail. Billy watched for long minutes to see whether he’d come back—they’d been spending every day together, but probably Steve had stuff he needed to do, all the things he’d done before Billy had shown up at the island, easy with his body and his affections.

Billy folded up the blanket, and sat it in the shed, looking around. There really wasn’t much in there—it was the size of a small bathroom, with some knives for fishing, and a frayed net, and the beat-up wheelchair.

It smelled like Steve, and Billy stood and breathed, his eyes blurring with tears.

Steve didn’t come back, and after an hour or so Billy walked home, and ran into Max returning. “Billy!” she said, with a wide grin. “Nice night? I was out getting breakfast.” She told him about somebody named El, and somebody else named Lucas, and a Dustin.

Max was making friends too, he realized, which kind of made everything worse—she was doing her best, and Billy was just mooning over some guy who thought he was barely good enough for a fuck on the beach. She’d even met their families, he realized, listening, and registered that he hadn’t met any of Steve’s friends. He groaned into the pillows tossed around on the mat floor, and sighed.

“Should I stop seeing him?” he asked, mostly at the ceiling.

“I dunno why now,” Max said. “You’re not gonna find somebody else in a couple weeks.”

“Shit,” Billy groaned again.

“We can try again next summer,” Max said. “I like it here.”

The idea of returning the next summer, once Steve was bored, was enough to make Billy clench his jaw tight against the pillow he was hugging, squeezing his eyes shut against tears. “...yeah,” he said softly.

“God, you sound tragic,” she sighed, wandering over and dropping to sit on his butt. He grunted. “It’s fine, jesus. Worst case scenario we have a, like, vacation home. The vampire dude said we didn’t have to pay taxes on it.”

“Yeah, just pay for plane fare,” Billy sighed.

“He’s out there, y’know,” she said, “—tanning,” and Billy scrambled up so fast he dumped her with a drum noise on the taut mats.

When he swam out, Steve just stared out to sea, and Billy clung to the edge of the rock, biting his lips.

“I’m not giving you one of my invitations,” Steve said. “So stop trying to manipulate me into it.”

“Yeah,” Billy said, kind of wishing they’d never met. “Yeah, okay. Do—is that all, or are you sticking around?”

“I’ll stay,” Steve said, frowning at him, “—if you still wanna waste your time on somebody who’s not—how do you say it? Putting out?”

“...it’s not a waste of time,” Billy told him, swallowing hard. “I just wanted it to last longer, is all—” and Steve’s eyes narrowed intently. He grabbed Billy around the back of the neck, and yanked him into a kiss.

The remaining weeks, he took Billy snorkeling, and they had sex every night under the stars, Billy panting Steve’s name, and Steve holding him so tightly it almost hurt. Billy took him to meet Max, and she eyed him warily, but Billy fought and succeeded at securing Steve a plate of brownies, and he was vocally appreciative. She softened a little, at that.

Two days before they had to leave, Steve was lying next to Billy on the wet sand, the waves lapping up nearly to their waists. His shoulder was warm under Billy’s head, and smelled like the high ocean waves.

“...d’you think you’ll come back next summer,” Steve asked, and Billy snorted.

“Depends on whether I can afford airfare,” he said, sighing. “Depends on whether I can get a job somewhere that doesn’t need me in the summer.”

“...so I might just never see you again?” Steve asked flatly, and Billy laughed, shrugging.

“I don’t know,” he said, “—do you want to?”

“...fuck you,” Steve sighed, and Billy pushed himself up to frown at Steve’s face.

“I don’t know what you want,” he said, glaring back at Steve’s narrowed brown eyes. “You wanted me to shut up about staying. What am I supposed to say?”

Steve bit his lips together, and looked away. “...you know I’m gonna give you an invitation. You can just tell me.”

“What,” Billy whispered, scrambling to sit up, his heart pounding as Steve flopped over to scrabble around under his wheelchair, his tail flapping around a little in concentration, like a cat’s. He held an envelope out to Billy without even looking over.

“There,” he said. “All yours.”

“What,” Billy breathed, and then he half-crumpled it, opening it clumsily. “You—you’re giving me one?”

“Two,” Steve said, flatly, frowning down at the sand under his hands. “You and Max, right?”

“Holy shit,” Billy whispered, scrambling over to kiss him, once, then twice, relishing the little noise Steve made in the back of his throat when his lip slid between Billy’s teeth. “I have to go tell her,” he said, half laughing, his vision blurring with tears.

“Okay,” Steve said, quietly, and Billy hugged him before scrambling up and running back to the house.

Max stared at the two calligraphed invitations on the odd plasticky “paper” the merfolk used, written in Sharpie, and shook her head slowly. “You did it,” she said, and Billy laughed, nodding.

“He wanted me to stay enough,” he said, wiping his eyes, and desperately wanting Max to offer to handle the paperwork, so he could run back and kiss Steve.

There was a knock on the door. Max ran and opened it, and a short-haired woman wheeled in in a rainbow overall dress, and a small, fancy electric wheelchair, her tail the reds and oranges of a sunset. Billy never quite stopped being envious of how pretty the merpeople were.

“Steve gave you his invites, didn’t he,” she said, and Max slid them around her back, her eyes narrowing.

“...yeah,” Billy said, warily.

“Give them back to him,” she ordered, glaring between them. “He’s been saving those a long-ass time. He’s got plans for those, and he doesn’t need guilt-tripping by a pair of manipulative orphans, jesus.”

“I didn’t guilt-trip him,” Billy said, feeling guilty, suddenly, and remembering Steve’s stiffness as he handed them over. “I didn’t,” he said, less certainly. “...he...he just likes me, he wants me to stay—”

“He’s known you three months, and you told him you fucked him to get someplace nice for your sister to live,” she said crisply. “Give them back.”

“He’s not giving them back,” Max hissed, but she was staring at Billy in horror.

“I didn’t say that,” Billy said, waving his hands. “I didn’t! Not...exactly.”

“Fuck you,” the woman said, glaring. “You pressured him.”

“Fuck,” Billy agreed, his eyes tearing up again. “Lemme—lemme go talk to him. Max, give—give ‘em here.”

“No,” she said, sounding choked, but he walked over and grabbed them, and hugged her.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said under his breath, for her ears only, and ran back out.

Steve was perched up on his rock again, and Billy grabbed his surfboard and sat on it to glide out, paddling with his hands. The water was clear under him, his shadow passing over the anemones on the reef, and he watched the fish darting around, swallowing repeatedly.

“Hey,” he said, when he got close enough, and Steve’s head jerked around, glowering warily.

“...you came back,” he said.

“...you want me to stay, right,” Billy said, cutting straight to the chase. “You gave me these because you want me to stay.” Steve frowned back at him, and Billy’s heart sank. “Answer,” he said, his throat closing around the word.

“It’s what you wanted, isn’t it,” Steve said, reaching out, but he just grabbed Billy’s board before he could drift into the rip tide again. “You wanted to stay.” He was tense, and he wouldn’t meet Billy’s eyes.

“What do you want,” Billy asked again. “...because I think your friend Robin’s in my house, and she says I guilted you into it, talking about Max. Do you...if I didn’t need an invite. Would you want me to stay?”

“...I guess,” Steve sighed, and Billy swung his leg over the board, dumping himself straight down in the water, because he was definitely about to make some kind of awful noise, and the sea felt good on his hot, wet cheeks. Steve couldn’t see him crying underwater, he thought, grabbing a jut of rock to keep himself from floating back up.

He wished he could take a few slow breaths, he thought, closing his eyes, and then something brushed his arm. He opened his eyes on Steve’s wide-eyed face, his hair swirling in the water. Billy bit his lips together harder, his hands clenching on the rock, and Steve shook his head, pointing up.

“Up,” he mouthed. “Come on.”

Billy let himself be hauled upwards, and pushed up on the rock again, like when they’d first met.

“What are you doing,” Steve asked, hanging on to Billy’s surfboard.

“Nothing,” Billy said, keeping his voice level. “I thought you wanted me to stay. For me. You can have your invites back. I didn’t—” he took a deep breath, hearing Steve’s voice say stop trying to manipulate me, and Robin’s guilt-tripping. “I fucking know I’m pathetic, okay, you don’t have to pity me. Sorry I—sorry I fucking tried, jesus, I just—” he shut his eyes tightly again, laughing as he imagined Robin’s disgusted look knowing Billy’d gone out and cried.

“Wait, fuck,” Steve whispered, clambering up next to him, where Billy barely fit by himself, since it was high tide. He was warm from the sun, his tanned skin gleaming with water droplets, and Billy salivated, because his dick obviously hadn’t gotten the message it wasn’t wanted. “Wait,” Steve said, half on top of him, his weight grating Billy’s shoulder blades against the rock. Billy didn’t really mind. “You only want to stay if—if I want you, what—what does that mean—” His brown eyes were huge.

“...don’t really know how to be clearer,” Billy told him, unable to pull his eyes from Steve’s mouth.

“You don’t want to stay unless I’m happy about it,” Steve said, grabbing Billy’s hands.

“Yeah, that’s kinda how it gets, when you fall for somebody,” Billy told him, raising his eyebrows, and Steve took a shuddery breath and kissed him again. He didn’t stop, though, he just kissed Billy and kissed him, laughing shakily, his eyes welling up with tears.

“Don’t go,” he whispered, as Billy clung to him and the rock, trying to keep them from tumbling off. “I want you here, I want you. Stay with me.”

“I’m what you want?” Billy asked, startled, his brain hazy from warm kisses, and the scrape of pointed teeth. “‘M yours then,” he whispered. “All—all of me. S’yours.”

They laid there so long, whispering and giggling, that Billy had tan lines of Steve’s fingers on his shoulder for months.

Here are the other Harringrove April prompts I’ve done!

#Harringrove April #Mermay #Almost #Harringrove #Steve's got a tail #Billy's got a surfboard

51 notes · View notes

imomomi · 4 years ago

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Summary: Y/N isn't too sure what it is about Kozume Kenma that makes her nervous, but avoiding him doesn’t seem to be working especially since Kuroo keeps bothering her...

Word Count: 1,607

Warnings: None :)

A/N: Just a cute little story that I had drafted. Part two will be up soon!

Y/N had been startled when Kuroo first asked her to come to their game. The second time, she grew increasingly wary that her classmate had a crush on her. The third time, Y/N declined much to his shock and her growing annoyance. It wasn’t that Kuroo was a bad person---he was nice when he wanted to be and smart enough to occasionally catch the mistakes she missed in her chemistry homework. But it was Kuroo Tetsurou. He was captain of the volleyball club, loud and boyishly charming in a way that had girls whispering about him in the locker rooms. To put it simply, he wasn’t Y/N’s type.

“Why not?” he pestered, poking her back with his pen in between math problems.

“It’s volleyball,” said Y/N dully.

“Yeah, duh,” he leaned forward, hair flopping in his face, “that’s kind of the point, Y/N.”

“I’d rather be at home,” she admitted.

“Doing what?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Come one, it’s just one game,” said Kuroo pushing his lips out in a pout. She scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest in disgust.

“You’re very nice, Kuroo-san, but I’m not interested,” said Y/N bluntly. A twinge of regret filled her. Hopefully, no one around them had heard their conversation and started a rumor. She didn’t want to deal with gossip, especially Tokyo gossip that would spread to the neighboring schools like a wildfire and reach her brother’s ears at Tokyo University.

“Wh…what?” he sputtered, earning a look from their teacher. He winced, leaned down, and whispered, “I don’t like you.”

“Well…is it that Yamamoto kid?” she asked in horror, remembering the shy, stuttering first year who’d yelled some gibberish at her, “Or worse Yaku? He’s too short.”

“Say that to his face, I dare you,” Kuroo laughed, throwing his head back, “You’re the same height.”

“Whoever it is, the answer is no.”

“Oh, come on,” he begged.

“No. You have this meddling look and it makes me think of a bakeneko coming for my soul.”

“I don’t see it,” mused Kuroo, leaning forward and staring at her intently. Her brow wrinkled.

“What?”

“What makes you attractive? You’re like the witch of the waste before she got ugly,” he said, dodging her hand as she swiped at him.

The following Monday, Kuroo slams a Nintendo switch on her desk. Their game had ended in a win and Y/N was glad because it meant Kuroo wouldn’t be depressed and annoying, but now he was happy and annoying.

“Thank you?” said Y/N, turning the device over in her hands. She switched it on, the familiar logo lighting the screen.

“It’s not for you. Just hold on to it.”

“Isn’t this Kozume-san’s?” asked Y/N. Kuroo snorted, resting his head in the palm of his hand. His gaze sharped as she spoke his friend’s name.

“Kozume-san? He’s younger than you.”

“He’s mature,” Y/N murmured, “Though, Fukunaga is as well sometimes.”

“You’ve spoken to Kenma?”

“No. Of course not,” she scoffed, loading Animal Crossing as she spoke, “He comes by the café sometimes.”

“And you notice him?” Kuroo’s gaze sharpened, voice coming out in sly as a snake. She found she liked this side of him the least.

“He doesn’t shout and never loses. It’s hard not to notice.”

“You watch him long enough to know he never loses?”

“Is this Kozume-san’s? He’ll be upset that you took it,” she looked up, giving Kuroo a light glare and handed him the Switch, “Give it back.”

“And you protect his stuff? No wonder.”

“Give me five minutes of peace Kuroo. I don’t have the mental energy to handle you right now,” she said, falling silent. He attempted to pester her for a moment longer, before giving up. She wondered what it was that had made him take Kenma’s switch away. Usually when Kenma stopped by her grandfather’s internet café, he took a seat in a corner and spent all day tapping away at the keys. She hadn’t lied when she said she’d never seen him lose. Y/N was good at video games from constant exposure, but she played them the way a child practiced piano---out of boredom and familial expectation. Kenma breathed video games as if he were enjoying his last meal. Often, she worried that he’d pass out from exhaustion from not eating and would leave him snacks, but she doubted he even knew about it.

Clearing her thoughts from head, she pulled out her notebook and slumped forward.

“Here, neko-chan,” Y/N called out softly. She scattered two dried anchovies on the floor, looking for the familiar orange stray that was frequently caught on campus. A soft meow sound from the corner and Y/N pressed against the side of the school, careful to stay under the awnings and out of the rain as she coaxed the cat forward. A smile blossomed on her face as she took in the rounded belly of the cat. In a week or two, there would be kittens hiding somewhere on the school grounds.

“Y/N, come here,” Kuroo shouted, holding an umbrella up. Y/N looked at the onslaught of rain and considered her options: One, she could take Kuroo’s offer and walk home with him and Kenma. Two, she could brave the weather, catch a cold, and miss the next two days of school. Three, she could simply wait at the school until her grandfather or one of her brothers were available to pick her up.

“You’re seriously that against walking home with us,” Kuroo asked, leaning over her. His body cast a large shadow on the ground, dark hair and sharp eyes lending to the villainous atmosphere that surrounded him. Kenma offered a brief, silent nod looking as uncomfortable as she felt. The stray cat nudged her hand as if scolding her for not leaving yet. Y/N stood, pulled down the hem of her skirt, and straightened her blazer.

“I don’t mind walking home with Kozume-san,” she said, taking cover under Kuroo’s umbrella, “You, on the other hand, are far too loud.”

“I miss when he was quiet,” muttered Kenma’s, lips twitching at the affronted look on Kuroo’s face. His gaze disappeared from her line of view as he slumped forward, hair shielding him from view. Y/N frowned lightly, looking up to meet Kuroo’s thoughtful gaze. The soft pitter patter of rain filled the silence as they walked, but her worry grew. Was she making Kenma uncomfortable with her presence? On normal days, Y/N would sometimes spot them coming off the morning train, Kuroo animatedly talking about whatever nonsense he’d thought up while Kenma softly answered back. They’d always seemed close like brothers, teasing and irritating each other at every chance. But they both had fallen silent now, having an awkward conversation behind her with their eyes.

“You can drop me off at the bus stop,” said Y/N. “I don’t want you to have to go out of your way.”

“Oka-“

“It’s not out of our way,” Kenma said. His voice cut across Kuroo’s and broke the silence. Cat like eyes, gold and bright and sharp, met her own briefly before looking on ahead. Y/N nodded and bowed in the same motion, offering her thanks. His shoulders hunched up even more and she was suddenly grateful that Kuroo was here and stood between them.

Kuroo nudged her and tilted his head in Kenma’s direction. She scowled back and pulled the umbrella closer leaving one of his arms out in the rain.

“Kenma, tell Y/N she can call you Kenma.”

“Hmmm…oh…you can call me Kenma if you want,” his hands fiddled with the button on his umbrella, “T…there’s no need for honorifics.”

“Oh. I hadn’t meant to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t. But, Kozume-san makes you sound like Hashimoto-sensei,” said Kenma. His eyes abruptly cut to hers again, the gold cutting through her like ice. She frowned, pressing a hand to her face and then narrowed her own eyes.

“She’s so old,” said Y/N, voice high-pitched in indignation. “I’m only a year older than you!”

“When were you born?” asked Kenma.

“March 1st.”

“Only seven months than,” he said, voice steadier, “Kozume-san makes me sound like an old man.”

“I was being polite,” said Y/N, huffing in anger.

“That’s our youth these days,” said Kuroo, grinning widely, “Rude and always on their devices.”

“Shut up,” both her and Kenma said at once. They turned to each other in surprise, a light blush blossomed across both of their faces. A tight itch of anxiety built in her chest, but Kenma, for the first time ever, didn’t look away and held her gaze. It seemed so small and insignificant, but Y/N felt as if a hand had tightened its hold on her chest.

Kuroo took over the conversation, pulling tiny strings that push and pull her and Kenma in different directions. She learned that he was an only child and Kuroo’s first friend in Tokyo. Y/N found herself telling them how she had two older brothers and lived with her grandfather who worked for an animation studio. Before she realized it, they’ve stopped in front of her house. Both boys gazed at the traditional awnings and bonsai tree with curiosity. She felt as if she should say something to cement their newly sprung friendship. Y/N lingered, a slight smile pulling at her lips.

“Your island was really pretty,” she offered quietly. Kenma coughed sharply.

“You…send me your switch code…I’ll let you visit it,” he turned around and walked down the street. Y/N frowned, looking at Kuroo.

“Uhh, just text me, I’ll give you his number,” he said over his shoulder as he jogged to catch up with Kenma.

#kenma x reader #haikyuu x reader #kozume kenma #kozume x reader #kenma #haikyuu #kenma reader #kenma x y/n

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atlanticcanada · 3 years ago

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Despite housing crisis, one in five N.L. government units vacant in northern Labrador

Despite homelessness and overcrowding described as a crisis in Labrador, one in five provincial government-run housing units in the region's Inuit communities are sitting empty and awaiting repairs.

Some units have been vacant for nearly three years, according to numbers provided by the Newfoundland and Labrador Housing Corporation.

The provincial government says it's working to get the homes fixed, but people on the ground say the wait is causing harm.

"It means young families, victims of violence, people experiencing homelessness aren't given the chance to thrive and to move forward with their life," said Nicole Dicker, the executive director of the transition house in Nain, where eight of 34 units are vacant.

Meanwhile, a long-standing housing shortage in the community has forced many families to cram several generations into homes built for four or five people, she said, while those without a place to live sleep on couches and floors.

In the community of about 1,125 people, those eight units would provide a lot of relief, Dicker said in an interview Thursday. "We all know someone who could use an apartment," she added.

The Newfoundland and Labrador Housing Corporation operates 56 housing units in the communities of Nain, Hopedale and Makkovik, spokeswoman Jenny Bowring said in a recent email.

Twelve are empty and in need of repairs, she said. Eleven need major repairs and one needs minor work and will be fixed "in the near term." Eight empty units are in Nain and the other four are in Hopedale, a town of about 575 people.

All but one have been vacant for more than a year, she said, and four have been empty for nearly three years.

Money is available to fix them all, but the agency is having trouble finding contractors to do the work, Bowring said. Contractors are being hired now to fix two units needing major work, she said, but a recent call for tenders for the other nine units was "unsuccessful."

That doesn't surprise Joe Dicker, the AngajukKak, or mayor, of Nain's local Inuit government.

North coast towns like Nain and Hopedale are accessible by plane or ferry, and the ferry only runs for about half the year when there isn't much sea ice, he said. The ferry is cheaper, which means there's a short window to ship in the lumber and complete the work, he said in a recent interview. The government should have a maintenance person in town and somewhere to store supplies, he said.

The mayor said the housing shortage in Nain reached a crisis point years ago. The overcrowding puts people at a higher risk of diseases like tuberculosis, he said, which killed a 14-year-old boy in the community in 2018.

Lela Evans, the NDP's elected member for the region, is also calling on the government to ensure the units are regularly repaired and don't sit empty. She tabled a petition from local residents in the provincial legislature April 13 asking for a plan.

"It's quite unacceptable to have one-fifth of the units be vacant," Evans said in a recent interview. "They've got to have some way to have the repairs done year-round."

John Abbott, the minister responsible for the province's housing corporation, agrees the homes have been sitting empty for too long, but he said because of the relatively small number of units it's not feasible to have someone on staff in the communities to perform the repairs.

The government will put out another call for contractors in the coming weeks, Abbott said in an interview. If it's not successful, officials will try again, maybe adjusting the pay to make the bid more appealing, he said, adding that the COVID-19 pandemic has exacerbated delays.

"We have a plan and the budgets and everything in place to make sure they're done this year," Abbott said. "I'm certainly committed to having it done this year."

This report by The Canadian Press was first published April 24, 2022.

from CTV News - Atlantic https://ift.tt/fOvhx2T

#new brunswick #prince edward island #nova scotia #news #politics #canada #CTVAtlantic

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the-river-person · 3 years ago

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Monster History in the Librarby

Niven was getting ready to close the Library for the night. All the usual patrons had gone home already. Both of the editors for the Snowdin Newspaper, as well as the Loox that often hung around by the tables and played word games like crosswords, junior jumble, or soduku. Speaking of which, Lady Garf, one of the editors of the newspaper who specialized in making games for it, had left a few of the ones she’d been working on. With a sigh he collected the pages and stored them behind the main desk, he’d have to remember to give it to her tomorrow. The bell on the door tinkled and Niven looked up to say that they were actually just about to close. But the words died on his lips and he stared at the person who had come in. Face hidden by a dark cloak, they were somewhat tall, nearly reaching the height of Sir Papyrus, captain of the Royal Guard. Though he couldn’t see their face, he caught a glimpse of white fur. Was it Ice Wolf? Just a little over a year ago he’d started coming in every few months to check out books to read during his work breaks. No, Ice Wolf was much bigger. “Is this the Librarby?” Asked the figure, a male voice, deep yet not unpleasant, almost musical really. Niven grimaced at the question. He’d once harbored hopes of getting the sign repainted. But there really wasn’t any point now, was there? Not only had everybody just gotten used to it, but even if he did repaint it, the sign would just reset along with everything else in a few short weeks. It wasn’t worth the effort, but it still irritated him. Forcing himself to smile he quickly decided just to see what this Monster wanted before closing up. “Yes, it is. We don’t usually see too many non-locals in here. Most just pass by on their way to the ruins or the Greater Snowdin Caverns. Are you from the Capital?” “You could say that,” said the figure, sounding mildly amused. They offered no further explanation, and Niven decided not to push his luck further that way. “What can I do for you?” For a moment the Monster was silent, looking round the small library as if gauging its potential somehow. Not for the first time, Niven wished for the resources to make a much grander library, something akin to the great libraries he’d read of in human books: Ashurbanipal, Alexandria, Pergamum, Villa of the Papyri, Trajan’s Dual Library, Celsus, the Imperial Library of Constantinople, House of Wisdom in Baghdad, "Dharmaganja" ("Treasury of Truth") and Dharma Ghunj ("Mountain of Truth") in India’s Nalanda University. There were so many, and all he had was a few shelves. A couple histories, fiction, somone’s book report left here years ago and never retrieved (it was gleefully shelved as something new and at least 3 people had checked it out since for the sheer novelty), poetry, only a single science book about astronomy, and an entire shelf devoted to joke books and word games. But if someone was really coming out here, far from the Capital, to look for something specific. Well... They had to be desperate. New Home’s public library was much bigger, and if you couldn’t find something, you might humbly petition the King and Queen for access to the castle archives in the chance it might be there. Nobody came to a tiny town at the edge of civilization. Well... they did come. Sometimes they even bought things at the general store or stayed a the inn. But that was really just people on their way to the Ruins after Reset Day, the crowds and the general traffic as Monsters carried out their plans for the next three weeks. Getting puzzles ready for the famous DT and Royal Guardsman Monster Kid, who lived right here in said small town. So some people came through, a lot of people. But not for books. Never for the librarby that hadn’t even spell its name right when the sign was painted. “I’m hoping,” said the Monster. “That you might have texts on Monster History from before the war. History, perhaps theology? Mythology and folklore? I’ll take anything you’ve got.” Oh, so that’s what he wanted. Niven gulped. Okay so maybe it wasn’t accurate that nobody had been coming to their tiny library from out of town. There was that person from the capital he’d only seen once, a shifty fellow who was supposed to be a castle servant. White hair, pale purplish skin, and a terrifying grin with sharp yellow teeth. Niven had been freaked out by the Monster’s weird face markings and the J like tail that had lashed back and forth in agitation. Jevil, or so he had said his name was, had been after books on Monster Religion. It was a surprising subject, one few cared about. But Niven had a couple of rare tomes on it, possibly texts even the Royal Archives didn’t have. And that, it turned out, was the entire point. Jevil was a scribe in the Royal Archives and kept the smaller of the castle’s two libraries in good order for the King and Queen’s more general use. Thankfully he hadn’t come again after the first time, having taken a stack of books with him. He sent them back a month later, along with a few coins for the late fees, and asked for more books, naming each specifically. So Niven had shipped them off to the Capital, and sure enough they returned the next month with a request for more books. Sans the skeleton had become a familiar face as he came by so often to pick up or deliver boxes of books headed for the weird little Monster. And Jevil wasn’t the only one. Ice Wolf had been checking out the weirdest things. Niven would have expected a joke book, or even an interesting novel, but no. Ice Wolf wanted to read about physics and geology and historical documents and traditions. Niven hadn’t had much cause to write to the Capital Public Library in... well ever really. But to get some of the texts Ice Wolf wanted he pulled up his sleeves and penned message after message requesting various books until someone came down about nine weeks in to ask why on earth there was suddenly more book traffic going to Snowdin. “Oh, heh heh.” He laughed nervously. “I believe we do have some things. If you’ll come this way please.” The Monster followed him into the lower levels of the library, a section which held most of the least circulated books and materials available only by request. He really needed to dust down here, now where was the light? Ah yes. A dim bulb flickered to life, bathing the shelves in a warming and distinctly yellow light. From the shelves he pulled book after book, most dusty, a few with a little water damage, and many quite old. These he stacked before the Monster, who shifted in surprise as he looked over the growing pile. As Niven set another book on the pile he caught a better glimpse of the face beneath the hood. A white furred goat-like face with black markings on his lower cheeks and eyes of a dark muted red. Niven almost dropped the books in surprise but hid his reaction by faking a sneeze, though maybe with all the dust in here it really wasn’t that fake. This was a Boss Monster! But not Asgore, not nearly tall enough and certainly much thinner. But not the motherly Toriel either. It didn’t make sense, all the other Boss Monsters had been killed in the war, only the King and Queen had made it Underground with the others. And the only other Boss Monster living since then had been... Hadn’t Asriel Dreemurr become a flower? How had he regained his body? Or... something similar. It wasn’t quite a child anymore, though not yet an adult. Somewhere in between if appearance was anything to go by. A teenager maybe. That didn’t make sense either as his age should have been tied to Asgore and Toriel’s, and none of them could age anyway with the Resets, but maybe being a flower did odd things to you. Niven watched out of the corner of his eye as the prince began flipping through some of the books. “Monsters and Humans have always dwelt together in the world, though the nature of this coexistence had been woven together with myth, legend, and superstition for thousands of years.” Asriel read the passage from a “Brief History of Monsters and Humans”, it was volume nine of the collection, which was anything but brief. The author had been criticized for his long winded and needlessly flowery language. Still it made for good reading, if you had the time for it. “Owing to the nature of Monster’s Souls and the intrinsic connection their magical bodies have to the state of their soul, Humans were often under the mistaken impression that the Monster Clans were more numerous than they really were. As new generations of Monsters were born, they sometimes took on new and often unique forms different from their elders, forms that matched the state of their very soul.” The Prince broke off reading and looked up at Niven, who suddenly realized he’d stopped taking books off the shelves and had been staring as he listened. Flushing, the Lizard started to turn back to the shelf. “Is that why some of the Monsters around are things like Aeroplanes or shaped like bathtubs and obsessed with washing? Because they were born with new forms?” Niven turned back around. It was a good question, and not really covered that well in schools. Sure they touched on the subject, but no one really focused on the implications of how Monster Souls behaved. “Well, more or less. You have to understand that Monsters such as the Tsundereplane couldn’t have been born until Monsters learned of the existence of human airplanes. And anime of course. Then when this new Monster was born, their soul manifested a body that fit who they were at their foundations, the most basic structure of all the things they could become. We Monsters don’t have much control over this, we can’t shift our own forms at will, but our appearance is far more closely tied to who we are than you would think. Creatures like Woshua were born of groups of water dwelling Monsters. Humans often characterized us with names like Fay or Fairy, Spirits, Daemons, and lots of other things. And human folklore has a lot of tales about faeries who insist upon cleanliness and washing, often enacting terrible punishment if specified arrangements weren’t kept, like leaving washing water out at night for them to bathe in, or having a strict routine of personal hygiene while living in an area where said fairy has to deal with you often. Sound familiar? At some point the bathtub must have been an image they focused on, and at some point a Monster child was born with that form as part of who they were.” Asriel nodded, forgetting that he was trying to hide his face and letting the hood slip down a bit as he listened with wide eyes. Just barely visible in the upper shadows of the hood were his horns, not terribly big, just poking up from the white tufts of fur. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll take this one. And these.” He plucked another four books from the pile. “Can you hold the rest for me?” Niven found himself agreeing to do just that as he followed Asriel back up the stairs and let him out. As he locked up and turned out the lights, he wondered why nobody had heard anything about the prince yet if he was back to his true self?

#jevil #snowdin town #librarby #undertale #undertale au #aeontale #asriel dreemurr #tsundererplane #woshua #toriel dreemurr #asgore dreemurr #monster souls #library #snowdin librarby #flowey the flower #ice wolf undertale

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lettersnorth · 4 years ago

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FFXIVWrite 2020 Prompt #10: Avail

Some nights Aislinn just didn’t go home. Probably a selfish thing for her to do. But at nineteen, everyone thinks the world revolves around them. She’s not thinking about how her da might be out of his mind with worry. All she’s thinking about is the arguments she doesn't want to have. The tiny, one room home that can barely be called such. Two personalities so vastly different that the friction is a vacuum, sucking all the air out of the room. The cramped and crumbling four walls closing in just a little bit further every sun until she’s sure that one day they’re going to bury her.

Those nights, she stays at the warehouse. She wasn’t the only one. In many ways it was safer than traversing the streets in order to get home. In a city like Ul’dah, there was always safety in numbers. She wandered along the darkened aisles of shipping crates -- legitimate goods meant for legitimate merchants -- the warm glow of lantern light from the back of the building drawing her like a moth to flame. From what she heard in snatches of passing conversations, the front pulled in a respectable sum. Enough to pass suspicion. But the real business, the real gil maker, would always be the machines churning away somewhere below them and the refining lab.

Near the back offices a lounge area had been cobbled together from whatever any of their number had come across (or pilfered) in their day to day. A few worn carpets, a trio of worn round tables with mismatched chairs of varying heights, a string of mining lights. It was an eclectic collection, to say the least. Several cartel members sat gathered around one of the tables, the rattle of dice in a cup signifying there was a bit of gambling going on. A few others relaxed in comfortable, if ratty, chairs drinking and swapping stories. Altogether a low-key gathering. Anyone of their ranks were welcomed in the back lounge. Theirs was a patchwork family and U'Rahna the mother hen and iron fist by turns. She had one rule. No fighting in the warehouse. Damage the merchandise and it was on your head. There were plenty of taverns and brothels in Ul'dah if a person wanted to get rowdy.

Sterling sat alone at one of the battered tables, passing the idle hours playing some sort of triple triad solitaire. Aislinn couldn't recall a night she had spent at the warehouse when he hadn't been there as well. She wasn't sure he had any place else to go, to be honest. He saw her coming, sharp eyes the color of ice flicking up from under black brows, and kicked out a chair for her.

She appreciated the wordless invitation but clambered up on one of the wide crates that formed a makeshift wall near his table instead.

"Staying here again. What's that...three nights now?" He drawled around the cigarette hanging from his mouth.

"Don't want to get into it." She said, leaning forward on the crate to stare down at the toes of her worn boots.

His shoulders rolled in a lazy sort of shrug. Aislinn might have been quieter than most. She might have been the type to keep to herself. But even at his age he had enough experience with women to know saying she didn't want to get into it was a surefire sign she was about to do just that. Especially her. Otherwise she wouldn't have bothered to say anything at all. He waited her out, scrutinizing the cards on the table before laying another down.

It didn't take long. It seemed the words were murmuring, insistent, rattling around and just waiting to break free from her. This wouldn't be the only time she poured a truth out at his feet.

"To this day he thinks I don't know the reason we left Ala Mhigo. He expects me to believe he's a coward and that he ran to save himself. I'm not a fool. My da isn't afraid of a fight. And he'd sooner chew his own arm off than let people think him a coward. He did it to 'save' me."

Sterling felt like he'd entered in the middle of a conversation. In a way, he had. One she had been having with herself for years. He'd let her go until she ran out of steam.

"The irony is, it turns out I can run for the cartel like nobody's business. I'm good at it. I would have made a good smuggler of information. A runner for the Resistance. I would have succeeded if he had given me a chance. Instead...we're here."

The way she said it, as if 'here' was a diseased sewer rat she'd almost tripped over, told him all he needed to know.

"And he fights for the entertainment of people who have never touched a blade a sun in their lives and they call it 'sport'. And me?" She waved her arm in a wide arc around the warehouse as if it all spoke for itself. "A runner. Because U'Rahna was the only one who'd look twice at a refugee. All of this because he couldn't trust me. I am so sick and tired of being questioned at every turn."

He regarded her a moment, not sure if she was finished or if there was more coming, the cigarette firm between his lips, left to burn in the silence. Honestly, it was the most words he'd ever heard her string together. And after he was certain she was, indeed, finished, he inhaled, the ashed embers at the end of his cigarette glowing red in the subdued lantern light before he pulled it from his mouth.

"You already know what I'm gonna say, North." Sterling said, the smoke pouring from his mouth as he spoke.

"It's all shite." She sighed, letting herself fall back against the wide surface of the crate to stare up at the dark warehouse rafters.

"We're just the ones stuck shoveling it." He finished. The words would come back to haunt him another time. But that particular night was still further down the line.

It was a constant reminder of his. A misanthropic view that this was simply their lot in life. They'd pulled the short straw so here they were. Gil-less crabs at the bottom of the barrel, unlikely to ever reach the top.

'Don't you want more? Don’t you want to live with a little room to breathe?' She could ask, but she already knew his answer; 'What is living anyway but dying slow?' Ever the fatalist.

And yet, Aislinn had to believe there was more to it. More to life than this endless cycle of running and trying to scrape by, of constantly watching her back. Where a good day was something other than one in which she had dodged the violence that erupted around her just to win the chance to do it all over again the next.

Three turns since she and her da had come to this snake pit where a person’s words could coil a noose just as well as any rope and yet it already felt like a lifetime, her nerves and instincts constantly pushed to the point of fraying. If she reached back not all that long ago she could remember a time when she didn't worry about her next meal or where she was going to sleep. Simple survival hadn't been an all consuming endeavor of daily life. There had to be a way to get back to that place again. Sans Empire, of course.

She was too tired to think about it anymore. Pulling her legs up onto the crate, she curled up and fell asleep to the sound of dice rattling in a cup, the rumble of conversation punctuated now and again by laughter. This patchwork family was not at all the one she would have chosen, but the one in which she’d shrewdly thrown her lot. At some point during the night someone draped a thin and scratchy blanket over her.

#ffxiv writing #FFxivWrite2020 #Prompt 10 #Aislinn North #Sterling Bekker

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a-day-in-the-life-of-a-brotha · 4 years ago

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5-1-21 Bills and retro thoughts.

4:00 a.m.- I hit the snooze button up until 4:45...then I straight up turned it off and went back to sleep.

5:18 a.m.- “Shit, I’m late”...well at this point I might as well take my time. On this morning I don’t have to stop to get cigarettes, nor do I HAVE to stop to get two egg and cheese biscuits...but I will. My Dani love sent me a message to get up at 4:10, but it’s her day off and I expect her to be sleep...to no avail.

5:30 a.m.-out of the shower taking my sweet ass time. Dani calls “Hey babe” she says “Yo” is what I say. She can sense a sense of urgency with me so she asked “Are you still in the house?” “Yep I reply.” Short quick answers and a YO is not how I normally engage her. She was going to give me space to get ready, but I denied that.

5:45 a.m.- At McDonald’s, on the phone with Dani, and a car in front me in line (it’s never usually a car there because I’m usually in line before 5:30 a.m.. “Two biscuits, with round eggs and cheese...a larger sleight iced sweet tea, and a Big Breakfast.” Now that Big Breakfast is for Mr.D, my 87 year old shop supervisor. He’s a good man, and he literally built the place that drains the lifeblood out of us, makes millions via government contracts, and probably doesn’t pay Mr.D the wealth that he is due. I called Mr.D, with my Dani still in my ear, to let him know that I was going to be late. I pushed like shit to work...I have the strong ethic, moral, work code and I don’t like to be late. Although it’s a straight plantation I’m rushing to, and it’s a slave mind that drives me not to be late that I’m coherent to...I still don’t like to be late.

6:05 a.m. I’m 5 mins late. “Aww right now” says Mr. D (His signature greeting in the Morning, Afternoon, Night, when ya walk by him, when ya need something, when ya don’t need nothing etc). I hand him his food, complain about the night crew not doing anything, then I scurry off to smoke a jack and eat. That get me to thinking about a narcissistic experience I had last Thursday...

Frustration #1 -Level 1000. This is just one example of how my co-parenting has been with my children’s mother for almost 15 years. Bbbbrrriinnngg (phone ringing) “Hello” I said “Hello what’s up” she said. “Look, when are you being the children back, they have a dentist appointment tomorrow at 5” she spews. “Uhh tomorrow, I can bring them back tomorrow” says I. “Well, that will be pushing it”, she’s referring to how long it will take me to get to her home and the dentist office because I work Friday-Tuesday and I get off at 2:30p.m.. Now, it takes about 45-1 hr to get to her place...I could act make it up there and get them to the dentist on time, shit, before 5...bringing them back on Friday is viable for me. “Well bring them back Monday, I can schedule the appointment for 3p.m.” “I’m not going to make by 3pm”...Now if SHE truly thinks that making it up to her by 5pm is “pushing it” why in the fuck would think i could make it by 3?? Ahhh...here it comes, the narcissism...I see it plain as day now. Just to fuck with me she’s starting something. I also know now that this behavior is rooted in a perverted insecurity to control EVERYTHING!! “Why can’t you make it on Monday? You know I don’t have a car!! Uggh...I’ll just do it myself like I always do, bring them back Sunday!” “Umm ok”. Her not having a car is not my responsibility, why blame me for that? She doesn’t always do things on her own, hell I’ve been there since before day one helping raise our children!! I’m not a deadbeat, she’s not a single mother with no help, she’s a mother whose single!! I have ALWAYS went all out for my children, financially, emotionally, physically, spiritually...you know...the things o deserve no accolade for...just regular Dad duties. This used to get me upset. Now I know where this behavior comes from. She’s a narcissist with me in particular. Men come and go, and I assume she wonders why. She needs healing, so do/did I. The latter part of this conversation was unnecessary...

10:44 a.m.- I’m at work...it’s the moment of now...tbc...

2:30 p.m.-I leave the plantation, full of energy and angst to get to this bbq spot that my online Call of Duty playing, homies own. I’ve known them for about 14 years now. We’ve hung out several times, we know each other’s families, they respect me...even though...well...even though. I’m just not from their hood is all.

2:50 p.m.- I’m on the phone with my Dani, per normal...I miss her being physically next to me, but for now our myriad of conversations will do. She’s different, I felt it when I virtually met her...she’ll be here for the rest of my life and I to hers...I know it. Nonetheless I’m about to purchase a plate of food I don’t eat, I’m a vegetarian. “Babe, why are you about to buy something you don’t eat?” “Because I want do some a review on them” I say. “ I know, but you should go somewhere, where you can eat” she says. It does make perfect sense to me...but I’m stubborn and my big headedness is dead set on patronizing this black owned business, plus, I’m an official food reviewer. I go in and order, o already scoped out the menu and I knew what I wanted...to pretty much give away. A crab cake, seafood Mac, lamb chops, and collards is what I order...$55 bucks. “Damn” I say in my head...shit I might have said it aloud. Dani is ever so quite in the background, still attached to my ear (I got a dated Bluetooth in my ear, but it serves its purpose...those Bluetooth’s that only niggas that wear pink or lime colored gators have...Them Uncle Father ass niggas). As I’m ordering...I see the youngin that was a baby at one point in life, whose the child of a brother I use to game with. “Young Kage!!” I exclaimed. “Is that Stryker?” “Yep, it’s me, what’s good...is anybody else back there?” Now when I said anybody else, I meant the brothers that I gamed with for 14 years...but he said “Nah, ain’t nobody here, and B just left.” It still was good to see the establishment and how these cats made some from nothing. I get my expensive ass meal that I’m not going to eat and head home...I made a stop a Chipotle for me and then excitedly proceeded to my sisters spot, who lives in the same complex as I. Dani, my love, went to dinner herself with Ari her daughter...she already was hip to send me a review on whatever they got...she pays me attention...one aspect of why I love her so. Tam, Somaia, and Jahi...LOVE the meal. I look at them eating it and I truly wanted to indulge. But nah...let me stay disciplined with my vegetarian regiment.

8:00 p.m.-I’m home...chillin...waiting for Dani to call. I fall asleep with her on the phone. This day was less frustrating via my interaction with less people. I still am always aware of my surroundings, who I am, and how I’m looked at. The worlds course outlook on is, never fades or goes away.

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alkhale · 5 years ago

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Nascent A/B/O AU (Ko-fi request)

hi i’d love an a/b/o au for nascent i’m absolutely in love with these characters and would love to see them in this universe pls pls pls

Once, Damian Wayne had cared about the topic of second genders.

Back when he did not just consider himself simply a son of his father. Back when being heir apparent and young emperor of the League of Shadows was his title, his life, and his purpose. Back when Damian was proud to have the blood of al Ghul running through his veins, when he was groomed from birth to grave to be the greatest assassin, the greatest leader, and eventual conqueror of this world and the next over. Back when the scent of blood was comfort and the easy grip of metal between his fingertips was the same as holding a fork, raising a gun to someone’s temple or slicing through bone and flesh like cutting weeds.

The idea of second genders was just a small addition to that grand scheme.

His mother was an alpha. His father was an alpha. His grandfather as well. Strong blood ran through their veins, dominant blood that was groomed and inherently bred to conquer and control. Alphas stood at the top of the hierarchy and living up to inherit this gene seemed only second nature on his quest toward the top. His mother had taught it to him, simple.

“Omegas are at the bottom,” Talia said. “They are weak and must be protected by nature. They are of little threat to you aside from the power their own instincts may have over you. You will train to combat this. To be above your natural instincts so as not to fall prey to an omega’s whims. Their best purpose is for breeding, but you must not cast them aside. Any threat is available in any shadow, no matter how weak.”

Betas were the general population. The normal. Insignificant. Betas could try and fight but odds were they would never hold a candle to danger in his life. Other alphas, however, were his greatest concern. People genetically on level with his own status, but not level with his skill, his grit, his everything. He would make sure of that.

Damian attended his lessons, understood the properties, trained to hone in his own pheromones and senses, remained rigorous against the omegas his mother would bring into the temple to train him how to combat their own advances, remain calm and lucid even under the most powerful scents.

Damian presented young—at nine compared to the usual ten to twelve. His mother did not praise him, simply nodded, satisfied. Being born an alpha was the least he should be able to do. She’d kill him otherwise.

Second genders were simply a small addition to his life, they were nothing in the bigger picture, just as always.

And then his life changed.

“Justice, not vengeance.”

His life with his father changed him. His life with them changed him. These long, age-old beliefs of second genders were not...erased, but Damian learned to adapt and tweak the small bits his mother had instilled into him with an iron grip. Betas were still subpar, he still stood at the top of the food chain, and omegas were minute concerns.

Grayson was the only exception. Drake lived up perfectly to the beta ideal of not enough compared to his own skills. Grayson, however, had come across to him as nothing but pure alpha material and had still revealed himself to be nothing more than a humble beta. He was the anomaly, and he made Damian rethink his own earlier thoughts on what it meant to be a beta, to be anything in this world.

“Why weren’t you born an alpha?”

Grayson smiled, bright blue eyes shining.

“Does it matter?”

Todd was the only one of his predecessors to have presented as an alpha, but he was a dark, complicated stain and unwinding thread in the history of Robins that still brought a quiet look to his father’s face, and Damian usually preferred not to have much to do with him. Given the nature of that half-dead idiot, Alfred had said he was never one to care much about being an alpha or otherwise.

En route to becoming a hero, not quite washing the blood from his hands, never anything as easy as that, but on his way to trying to never have blood on his hands again—Damian was confronted with a force far more dangerous than anything he had ever faced before.

“Hiya! You’ve got pretty eyes—wanna play the piano with me?”

Pandora Jayes, stupid, strange, bright-eyed and horribly… cheerful, ten-years old, sweet smelling (he figured it was the nature of her home, a bakery) always… smiling, that strange, strange girl, and currently unpresented.

Pandora Jayes, after trial and error, after time, time, and time, after being with him, slipping her tiny fingers into cracks no one else should have fit into, politely leaving her shoes outside his chest before slipping into his heart—Pandora Jayes, his precious, precious friend.

In all their time together, she never asked what his second gender was.

Soft blue eyes, like frost, thin slabs of rounded ice that always looked so warm. They blinked at him, curious. A warm sweater hugged her shoulders, mottled brown hair pulled away from her face into a small braid that curled over her neck. Her beaming smile, even when he wasn’t doing a damn thing.

“Well, that stuff’s not even important,” Pandora sniffed the air experimentally. “You’re a big strong alpha, sure. But who cares about that?”

Her stupid grin.

“You’re Dam.”

Not Damian, conqueror of worlds. Not Wayne. Not Robin. Not alpha. Not anyone else.

Just him.

Throughout their years together, Pandora’s unpresented state worked as a strange sort of time bomb for his nerves. Yes, with Pandora, Damian had begun to wrap his head around a different notion of second genders, one he’d never quite considered before—a lack of thinking about them. And yes, he did not care about what Pandora would present as, he would find… favorable thoughts of her regardless. He was Dam, she was Pandora.

Mine. A quiet, rippling growl in the far, far, abyss of his chest. It pressed against his throat sometimes, threatening to intoxicate the air. My Pandora. My beloved.

Damian Wayne had been trained in his youth to be able to press and control his pheromones better than anything else. He knew how to use his scent, heavy and powerful to his advantage and he knew when to tamper it down onto a tight lid.

...sure, on the occasion, the rare occasion, when sweet-smelling, soft, warm Pandora beside him… happened to spur a scenting or two, then by all means. Pandora did not mind, so there was no problem if he was rolling his fingers against the barely noticeable scent glands on her wrists. Pandora didn’t seem to mind or notice otherwise unless that stupid Mary happened to complain about how Pandora reeked of him. That was perfectly fine, in his opinion. Pandora was his. She should smell like him.

Pandora’s scent didn’t stick long. He could barely catch it on his clothes or against his skin, sniffing in vain and ignoring a faintly bemused Alfred. Because she hadn’t presented, it had little power or effect.

Damian would often find himself pressing his face into the crook of her neck, waiting there, wondering as Pandora babbled on and on beside him.

At fifteen years old, Pandora had yet to present.

It wasn’t particularly uncommon, but it wasn’t normal either. Most presented by twelve, but the latest account of presenting occurred somewhere at eighteen. He could not quite imagine what it would be like to wait three more years to know the turn Pandora’s scent would take, the way her body might shift, the small turn of those eyes and the way—

Lucy Jayes was a beta. He did not know what Pandora’s father was but she said she thought alpha. Odds were Pandora herself would present as a beta. It only made sense.

And yet…

There was something to Pandora’s scent that always tugged at his senses, pressed hard at his throat and flooded his chest. A promise in her scent. A promise he wanted to see fulfilled. Damian Wayne was a man with many secrets and while he bared many openly to Pandora the same way she bared her heart so kindly to him—so good, so good, just the way it should be, that’s it—there were some… occasional musings Damian found himself considering.

Yes, he would love Pandora no matter what. Yes, no matter how she presented, she would remain by his side, that would never ever change. Never. Never. Never. A fiercer voice growled, snarling and fangs bared to the world.

But there were moments. Slim, small moment where Damian allowed himself to wonder, eyes drifting to the smooth skin of Pandora’s neck. About a Pandora with a certain scent. A Pandora with the ability to meet his own a way only two bodies could. A Pandora whose neck would allow his fangs to sink in, to forge and uphold the promise he wanted to exist. A Pandora who—

Was an omega.

Damian Wayne no longer believed omegas were to be protected. They were not spineless, crawling beings. They were people, one in the same, he was wrong to have ever thought otherwise. And while he knew better than to live into stereotypes and prejudice, he couldn’t help but imagine, that soft Pandora, a Pandora as an omega would fit so… so right.

“I’ll just be a beta,” Pandora said, licking her lips as they shared another cone of ice cream. He watched the action in slow fascination. “No biggie. Presenting as an omega isn’t bad, but it’s too much work.”

No. A quiet, low growl in his chest. You’ll be perfect.

“Whatever you are,” Damian said, raising his voice above the growl. “You will be perfect.”

Pandora flushed, looking stupidly pleased with herself as she mumbled incoherencies at him. Damian took the moment to scent her again. She spoiled him and he refused to let her stop.

He meant it, he really did. No matter what, nothing would change the way he felt. He just… could dream, couldn’t he?

Pandora suddenly stiffened beside him. Damian paused, catching the shift in her language in a second. He raised his head from her neck, watching her face, pulling away to guage her expression. What had happened? Did she see something? “Pandora?”

“I just,” Pandora stopped. She touched her forehead, touched her neck. Sweat was beginning to gather along her brow and something was starting to stir, slow and heavy in the pit of Damian’s stomach. He gripped the bench tighter, inhaled the air, something sharp and sweet. His eyes went wide. “Yikes. I don’t feel so hot, Dam. I think—”

“Presenting?” Damian said, cutting quick.

Pandora froze, looking at him with wide eyes. “Is… you think so?”

I know so. His heart thrummed to life, steady against his chest. Damian quickly stood, dumping the cone into the trash and grabbing his coat. Pandora’s scent was growing thicker, heavier, sweeter. That low voice in his chest was beginning to growl, harder, louder.

Pandora’s eyes were round with disbelief. She was panting now, soft, quick little breaths. She kept smelling the air, rubbing her wrists, looking uncertainly at him. She rubbed her jaw. She’s not comfortable. It’s happening too fast.

I don’t want anyone else to see.

The park was practically empty. A couple sat a few benches away. Damian’s inner voice barked out a rough order.

No one else but me.

“Quickly,” Damian swallowed, hard. Calm yourself. Calm. She needs you more than anyone else right now. Get her home. Move from there. Think later, plan later. Now is just for her. Damian reached for Pandora’s wrist. “You shouldn’t be out and about—”

Slap!

For a brief second, Damian’s world came to a screeching, abrupt halt.

Pandora’s hand trembled in the air for a second, fingers shaking before they curled quickly into a tight fist. Her eyes were wide, staring at him in disbelief, one of her hands now cupped over her mouth, over her nose. Her eyes watered and—

Damian blinked, unable to process his hand hovering in the air, slapped aside and—

The scent hit him, heavy and—

Damian slapped a hand over his own nose on reflex. It came, raw and sharp, like fresh cut ginger and pure vanilla extract. But it cut into the air, sweet and forceful. There was power to it, pulsing and stinging his nose in a way he was only familiar with—

“Oh,” Pandora gasped, both her hands over her mouth, hiding what must be her now prominent fangs. “Oh. Oh, my… damn.”

It was uncharacteristic of Pandora to curse in such a manner.

What on earth?

Tentatively, unable to mistake the smell, Damian sniffed the air. He looked at Pandora as though she’d decked him across the face and told him she was running off to the League of Shadows.

Two raw, wild balls of energy pressed hard into each other. Their scents battled in a way only two similar scents could do. The low, threatening growl in his chest and the way Pandora had nearly lashed out at him.

Pandora gaped, jaw dropping and Damian almost, almost did the same.

Pandora Jayes, fifteen, his beloved, precious friend—

Had presented as an alpha.

“Scheisse,” Damian said.

- scheisse means shit in german, damian just defaulted to any random language because he’s .-. rn and pandora is :0

(I HAD A LOT OF FUN WITH THIS, THIS WAS THE TWIST I ALWAYS WANTED TO TAKE I HOPE THAT’S OKAY)

#nascent #ko-fi requests #pandora jayes #damian wayne #dampan #damian wayne x oc #alpha!damian #alpha!pandora #a/b/o dynamics

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cherryyharryy · 5 years ago

Text

Burning Words

Chapter Two: Lunch, Library, and Lady Liberty

WC: 7,400

Previous part

Songs for this chapter

The prickling scratch of my highlighter dragging across a strip of text reminds me of how naïve I really am. I hate the sound, hate how uneven the lime green line sits, jagged over the inked words, with a pool of color where the pen sat at the beginning of the sentence.

It’s raining outside, and rain in New York is not like rain anywhere else. It’s purposeful, like a painting, like it belongs here. The only difference is that nothing changes—not like back home. In Georgia, people would come out afterwards, drive ten miles to the nearest pit and screw their trucks through the mud. Kids would run outside and look for worms and slugs, puddles to jump in. Dogs would dig holes in the softened earth. But here, no one stops. No one bats an eye, not even the people who forget their umbrellas. I wish rain was still life changing.

I sigh, close my notes, and cap my highlighters. “Any ideas for lunch?”

Jessie dips her head back in thought. I see her lashes flutter and her lips pinch, but then she shrugs. “We could order pizza?” She’s sat cross-legged on a patchwork armchair, laptop balanced across her thighs with a pen teetering between her teeth. I have to tip my head over the back of my chair to see her, upside down. “I’ve got a coupon for that place down the street.”

“We always order pizza.”

“We could learn how to cook.”

I click my tongue. “Bingo.”

The far wall of the apartment has a generous sized window. The floor creaks like we’re torturing it every time we move across a room, the bathtub faucet leaks when it’s hot out, and I know more about my neighbors’ lives than I really need to. But the window....it’s like a movie. My chair sits beside it. I try to count raindrops but there are too many.

“Chinese?” I offer.

“You and your egg rolls.”

“They’re the only thing I want when I don’t really wanna eat. I didn’t eat breakfast. And I only had a handful of popcorn for dinner last night.”

I can see a park from here, and in the winter when the trees are bare, a neighboring tennis court. Flowers hang limply from their stems along the sidewalk. A cat scrambles across the road, sporadic, and suddenly I envy the lack of knowledge animals have, lack of responsibilities, sense of time, unspoken contracts. At times I wish I were a depressed cat soaked to the bone, thinking if I move quick enough I’ll escape the rain.

“What?” I miss half of what Jessie asks.

“How’s your class been?”

“Which one?”

Jessie pauses her movements to assert me with a knowing glare. “You know what class. How’s the British babe?”

“Ugh, Harry.”

“Harry,” she tests his name before I continue. A few students have called him by his name, but he’s quick to correct them, surely enjoying his authority.

“He’s most definitely not a babe. A jackass. And he’s been as jackass-y as ever.” I join Jessie when she starts to laugh. “He calls on me every chance he gets. And I swear it’s just to humiliate me.”

“Well at least he’s nice to look at.”

“That means nothing when he’s a jerk.”

“True.” Jessie shrugs. “What about Truman’s...it’s near campus?”

I loll my head back and narrow my gaze. They don’t have egg rolls. “Yeah that’s fine.”

“My treat.”

***

In Hungarian, there are two words for the color red. Piros and vörös, with different times to use them, and should be used accordingly. When I was a kid I got them wrong; called my mom’s hat vörös, and got a slap on the wrist by my grandmother.

I spent that evening hiding in my closet, using the sleeve of my Winnie the Pooh pajamas to soak up the cascade of tears. When my cousin found me, I begged him to explain what I’d done wrong.

“Piros is blood inside the body. Vörös is when it comes out.”

That’s all I was left with. And I never did understand the difference. For years now that night resurfaces in my brain, and I think, I’m older now, I’ll be able to get it.

But now, as I stand on the sidewalk, peering through the window of Jessie’s lunch choice, I’m swarmed with the overbearing realization that age has nothing to do with it.

Harry’s in a striped button down, a sea foam green that reminds me of how different candy felt when I was younger, and high-waisted navy blue pants that couldn’t decide between flaring out or forming to the shape of his legs. I watch him balance plates and glasses, stacking forks and knives, spoons and mugs, soiled napkins and empty Splenda packets. He shovels his tip into his pocket and then disappears out of view while someone else wipes down the table.

“We can go somewhere else.”

“No.” I drag in the humid air, freshly washed, and hold it in my lungs until my head starts to spin. “This is fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. We’ll sit in the back. At Brigette’s table.”

I’m not sure if you can call Truman’s a restaurant. It isn’t fast food, fine dining, or even a bistro. It’s always dark. The chairs are pink and the tablecloths are green. There are flowers everywhere, I thought it was a flower shop and was sadly mistaken when I came in for the first time to buy Jessie a bundle of roses for her birthday. Strumming violins fill any silence between tables. It’s old but new, rooted woods, lamps from the 90’s, curtains from the 80’s, cooks from the 60’s and 70’s.

“Brigette’s not on today, but that table is available if you want it.”

Me and Jessie both blink at the hostess, unintelligible utterances coming out until we give up, give in, and sit ourselves down at the small tea table under the back window.

“I hope the rain doesn’t start again. I didn’t bring an umbrella.”

I hum, more preoccupied with trying to find a better distraction than my ripped cuticles.

“He’s up front,” Jessie assures, “I think I saw that guy I dated the summer after freshman year...Mack something or other...busing these tables. I’m sure he’ll wait on us.”

“Whitaker.”

“What?”

“His name was Mack Whitaker.”

“Yeah, him. It’ll be fine.” She shrugs like it’s nothing. I can’t imagine being her.

The place is busy, rightfully so on a bleak Saturday afternoon. The sun pokes through the clouds occasionally, carving streams of golden light across our table, Jessie’s face, and I assume mine as well. She compliments my eyes and I thank her, then proceed to detail a hundred abstract thoughts as to why she must pity me enough to lie. Someone—who isn’t Mack Whitaker—brings us each water and apologizes for the wait. They’re swamped, understaffed, and had barreled through a visit from the health department early this morning.

“Anthony’s pissed again,” Jessie mumbles, pursing her lips when I look up at her. I raise my brows so she’ll continue. “I missed his call the other night. But I was busy, so…” she shakes her head and scoffs a laugh.

“It’s sweet though, that he wants to talk to you everyday.”

“Yeah, I know,” she sighs.

“He’ll get over it,” I assure her. “He did the last time.”

“I just hope he’s over it before he comes up here.”

“Good afternoon, have you had a chance to look at the menu?” A girl from my class ends our conversation. She wears the same outfit as Harry. When she smiles I have to blink, her teeth whiter than heat, slightly crooked, and I imagine she overdoes the stinging gel against her gums to make up for it. It works. Her lips and cheeks look as if she’d became too friendly with strawberries; a character face, full and round, structured like magazine models with skin to match. I remember her from the previous year: pretty, even at eight in the morning. Boys like her, professors like her. Head of the Spanish club but I bet she can’t count past diez.

“Two turkey on ciabatta with tomato soup. No mayo on one. Diet Coke aaand…” Jessie raises her brows at me.

“My water is fine, thanks.”

“No mayo,” our server draws out the syllables while jotting down our order. ”Well my name’s Danielle, if you need anything just—” She points her pencil at me and squints, as if that clears my image and her memory. “You look familiar…” She hums to herself, taps the end of the pencil against her lips before her eyes light up. I gulp. “Oh! You’re in my class aren’t you? The early one on Monday and Wednesday!”

I nod. “Yeah, World Lit.”

“Yeah! How are you doing on your book report?”

“Um, good I guess. Haven’t gotten too far into it yet.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty stupid right? I heard it was the TA’s idea. I mean, I haven’t done a book report since high school.” She laughs and rolls her eyes. “So—oh! Speak of the devil.”

My face feels as though I’m being stung by a thousand bees. Harry sidles up beside Danielle and nods to each of us.

“Afternoon, ladies.” He’s holding a pitcher of ice water and flicks his gaze down to my glass.

I regret how much I drank when he fills it back up to the rim. I scrape my teeth against my tongue before I’m able to say anything. “Thank you.”

He nods, opens his mouth, but Danielle beats him to it.

“We were just discussing our class.”

My veins are filled with wax, dripping at a pace so unoriginal, hardening, crystallizing. I grab my cutlery wrapped in a mauve pink napkin to occupy my hands, twisting and prodding and jabbing.

“Yeah,” she continues when all he does is nod. “So what are we doing on Monday?”

“I have a surprise for you all, something I’ve been working on with Dr. Pierce—”

“Oh!” Danielle interrupts. “What is it?”

Harry raises his brows and laughs. “Well I can’t tell you, now can I? Won’t be a surprise.”

“Ohh, yes you can. We won’t say a word.”

Harry denies her once more. His eyes flicker down to me. “I’m sure you won’t. But you’ll have to wait for class to find out.”

“Oh my God! Your hand!”

I follow Jessie’s voice to see a small pool of blood decorating the table, my napkin having soaked up some, my skin a bit more. Red reflects in the sparkling silver of a fork and spoon, glistening on the blade of a knife I have carelessly sawed against the tip of my ring finger. I didn’t feel anything until I saw the cut, and now it stings.

“We have a first aid kit in the back.” I hear Harry say but I look to Jessie. “Here,” he pulls a handful of napkins from his apron and cups them around my finger. “Is this okay?”

I nod without looking at him. He tells me to come with him, and I oblige, weighing my evils as the entire room is now focused on our table and the girl bleeding out right before their eyes. As I walk with him, I selfishly hope I do lose enough to earn a transfusion, amputate my finger, something, anything, so I can leave. If I get to stay in the hospital, I won’t have to go to class Monday.

“Don’t worry!” Danielle whispers as she passes by us. “He’s great with his hands.”

I see vörös everywhere.

***

It burns. Really burns. But I’m thankful. It’s the only thing keeping me aware that I’m alive, that I can’t hide away, that I need to mark my movements as always. He rinses my finger under an ice cold water bottle he pulled from a tiny fridge below the staff’s sign-in computer. Someone yelled at him—Ralph. His name is on the bottle.

“This is cleaner than whatever comes out of the sink.”

He slips his foot around the leg of a metal chair and drags it over by the sink; the closet door it had held open falls shut. With a nod he tells me to sit. I say nothing, just watch him care for the small wound like my life really is dependent on it.

“Can I have your hand—er—can I see it? Your hand?” He rolls his lips in and clears his throat when I extend my arm to him. His touch is almost nonexistent. I barely feel his fingers splaying my hand flat and wide while he rinses the blood off. He uses a towel tucked into his waistband to dry me off, and then pops open the lid of the first aid kit.

“This is just an antiseptic...don’t think it should burn.” He smooths a small bit of opaque gel over the ridiculously tiny split in my skin. “I think the head and the hand...always an extreme amount of blood. When I was a kid, my sister’s cat scratched me, right under my left eyebrow. It felt like someone poured water down my face. Mum thought I was goin’ to die.” He folds a purple band-aid over my finger, frowning when it’s not smooth so he starts again. “There. Are you alright? Did I hurt you?”

“No,” I whisper.

“Good. Okay. Um, well I guess I’d better get back.” His hand lingers on the bandage, running his thumb over it one last time, and then he finally pulls away.

“Yeah.” I’m shaky when I stand, and curse myself when I almost trip over the chair when I turn to leave. I pause to speak over my shoulder. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

The walk back is long, and I have to fight the urge to look and see what he’s doing. I don’t hear the chair scraping against the floor or Ralph complaining about his water. I’m thankful I threw on my good jeans this morning.

Jessie is bouncing in her seat when I return—the table beside ours. “Is it bad? It was a lot of blood! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It was really small. The cut I mean.” I look down at my bandage like it’s a secret. “Where’s my stuff?”

“They’re replacing it all,” she waves off. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, it throbs a little bit—”

“No, not that! I mean him. Did he say anything to you? Was he mean? Because I’ll go back there if you need me to.”

“No—no, sit down, would you.” I hold back a laugh; she doesn’t need the encouragement. “He was nice.”

“Good. I tried to follow you but the manager came out and asked me what happened. We get our meal free, by the way.”

“Well then I guess this was worth it.”

Our food comes quickly, served by the manager herself.

“Why aren’t you eating?”

I stir my soup. I can see the reflection of my eyes in the red pool, and I watch myself blink once before rippling my image away. “M’not that hungry.”

Jessie leans over the table and lowers her voice. “What happened?”

“What?”

“With Harry, in the back.”

“No, nothing.” I sigh and slump back into my chair. “I’m just tired. And I have a lot of work to do. That stupid report. And I have a quiz in another class on Tuesday. I’m fine. And he—”

“How are we doing? Is there anything I can get you guys?” Danielle looks prettier each time I see her. I shake my head while Jessie answers, keeping my focus on my untouched food. “Did Harry take care of you?”

It’s a good thing I wasn’t eating or else I would have choked. “Uh, yeah. He did.”

“I knew he would. He’s a sweet one.”

“Mhm.”

How easy it would be, to tell her my name. Tell her that her teeth are too white and her shirt is too tight. I could tell her that Harry’s sister’s cat scratched him when he was a kid and that’s where that tiny little scar above his eye is from. Did you know that Danielle? Or were you too preoccupied with what his hands were doing?

“Alright, well just holler for me if you need anything!”

I ignore her but she doesn’t seem to notice, waltzing off. Harry’s counting menus when she approaches him at the front. I think I hear her call him an angel, but I know I see him smile. I tell Jessie I want to leave. If I’m going to throw up it’s going to be in my bathroom with my best friend holding my hair back.

***

I've had the Arctic Monkeys stuck in my head all morning. Every clink of the spoon against my bowl of cheerios, every step I took rushing to school because I decided to spend my time in the shower crying, every yawn from everyone stumbling into class.

And I'll be yours until the stars fall from the sky,

Yours, until the rivers all run dry.

It’s five past eight. Dr. Pierce stands towards the corner, pointing at paperwork another professor is showing him. Each time a student cracks the door open they smile and hurry to their desk like they’ve won something. Freshmen. He told us twice that he doesn’t care if we’re late, it’s our grade not his, which I appreciate. My pen taps across my notebook.

And I'll be yours until the sun no longer shines,

Yours, until the poets run out of rhyme

In other words, until the end of time

He is late, however. I try to refuse my need to look up at the door each time it opens. I want to dismiss the anxiety of waiting for him.

I'm gonna stay right here by your side,

Do my best to keep you satisfied

Nothin' in the world could drive me away

'Cause every day, you'll hear me say

“Sorry, sorry,” Harry apologizes, bustling through the door. He did his best to fix the upturned collar of his rose pink button-down, subtly, albeit he fails miserably when a smudge of maroon is revealed. “I uh,” he clears his throat, “had some things to take care of. Got carried away.” He directs his excuse towards our professor, scrambling to pull out today’s materials from his bag.

Dr. Pierce bids the professor goodbye and welcomes Harry, offering him time to gather himself which he does rather quickly. His lips are pressed together until he’s the center of attention, scanning the room as he always does, finalizing on me and I swear his eyes glisten.

“So, uh, today we’ll be—”

“So sorry I’m late.” Danielle hurries through the door and takes her seat at the front.

“Right, um, welcome.” Harry’s gaze is trained on the paper in his hands. His brows furrow and he clears his throat before continuing. “As I was saying, we’re doing something a tad different today. Dr. Pierce and I have been talking, and we decided to break up our usual routine And with your reports due soon, offer you all a little added support. So we’ll be heading to the library where you all can work, ask questions, get mine or Dr. Pierce’s advice—whatever you need to finish the final touches before you hand anything in.”

Most everyone appears pleased with this news, proceeding to sling their bags over their shoulders and get out of their chairs.

“Hold on, hold on,” Dr. Pierce interjects the flow. “You must work on your report and your report only. This isn’t a free-for-all. And I don’t want to hear that you’ve finished it, because I can guarantee that there’s room for improvement from each of you.”

Danielle is the first to make it to the front. She passes Harry on her way to the door and straightens his collar. His face matches the rose colored stain she thumbs over and I think about how if I veer off and go home, no one will notice.

And I'll be yours until two and two is three,

Yours, until the mountains crumble to the sea

In other words, until eternity

Baby, I'm yours

***

Our library is something out of a medieval storybook. Rich, haunted woods and six tier windows where dust sparkles through the light pushing in. You can lose aged pennies against the floor and get lost behind dusty shelves if you want to. There are microfilms, typewriters, and a spirit machine downstairs and two velvet couches on the second floor.

I spent the majority of my first semester here, back when Jessie brought a different boy home every Friday night. I’ve missed the smell, the quiet, the disturbed alteration of reality inside its doors. But when I look around at my class tossing their bags on tables and hollering for Dr. Pierce or Harry’s attention, I’m not sure if I’ll make plans to come back.

Ms. Bortnick, the head librarian, is a stout woman who barely sees over the front desk, but somehow always knows when I’ve come in. When it’s raining, she knows the shake of my umbrella from everyone else’s. And when it’s spring, she knows my sneezes from everyone else’s. She is like a grandmother, only she’d never had kids, so not quite so in that you can’t get away with stuff. She has a bad eye and one good kidney, and sometimes she mixes these two things up, but I gave up on correcting her long ago. That’s how long I’ve been here.

She is Ukrainian and her accent is thick and aged, much like her mind. “Hello nyuszi,” she says before I’m fully inside. It’s bunny in Hungarian. A nickname from my mom, who tells everyone because she thinks it’s cute. Everyone, including the tiny librarian during the campus tour we took forever and a day ago.

“Hi Ms. Bortnick,” I say, lagging, like I’m embarrassed, because I am.

She just waves with a big grandmother-like smile that makes you miss home.

I take a seat at a small table, behind a section of Virginia Woolf. Most of the voices die down, the clicks of keyboards taking their place, and I pull out the research I’ve started for my report. The Tropic of Cancer, slightly tattered and worn, lay open beside my notebook, and my laptop sits adjacent.

“You coming along well?”

Shit. I jump, my ears ringing. “I’m fine.”

Harry nods and paces behind me to look over my shoulder. The air below his body weighs down against my back, so suffocating and harnessing that I’m sure I feel the waves and vibrations his heart emits. I try to swallow but my tongue gets in the way. I should’ve stayed home.

“I actually did an analysis on Henry Miller a couple years ago. If you wanna pick my brain, you’re more than welcome to.”

“Oh uh, thanks.”

His voice is grumbly, like rocks turning over beneath tires. Yet smooth, like washing sand off your body. I’m perplexed for a moment, at how these two things meet together so well, but that’s always the case with people. Like how Ms. Bortnick can’t remember anyone’s actual name, but sews that wound up with a pet name she picks out just for you.

“Yeah, I think I might even have an essay on my laptop. You can look over it if you’d like,” he says.

“Thank you, but I think I’m fine with what I have.”

“Well if you need anything, just let me know.”

I nod. My eyes blink once he steps away, and it takes me a moment to remember where I am and what I am doing. I’m a bit separated from most of the class, at one of the outlying tables apart from the student section where Harry ambles around everyone. Whenever he bends over to look at someone’s work, the muscles beneath his shirt ripple and contract. I can see his shoulder blades from here, and I’m failing to recall a time when the definition of someone’s spine has ever called for my attention.

I shake my head, naïvely expecting that to clear my mind. Google is pulled up on my laptop, but instead of searching for The Tropic of Cancer, I press the keys in Harry’s name.

The first couple links that pop up are social media accounts. I avoid these and move on to the next option, a link going back to our school. It takes me to his name under the directory, nothing more than a profile picture and his credentials.

Harry Styles

Received his Bachelor of Arts in English Literature at New York University in 2016. He completed a one year internship at the Ann Rittenberg Literary Agency Inc. in New York in 2017, and in 2018, spent a year abroad in France and Italy studying classic literature surrounding the 16th, 17th, and 18th centuries. He is currently working on his graduate degree, assisted professional teaching placement, and his thesis on the cultivation of the Renaissance era in regards to English literature.

I read over everything three times. That’s how long it takes me to grasp it all. He’s accomplished more in three years of his life than I have in my entire existence. It’s weird, being in my twenties and already feeding off the desire of wanting to be young again. It’s not fair how some people are prone to achievements and winning, while the rest of us are left to scramble around, years later to piece together a life that offers a sliver of satisfaction.

I close the window and ineptly click on one of his social media accounts, and for some reason my stomach twists. There’s a picture of him on twitter, from this weekend. He’s at Truman’s with his arm around Danielle, a smile on his face, and a caption thanking her for getting him his job. They’re both pretty; perfect for each other really. The only thing I can think of being thankful for in this moment is that I was not included in their picture. No one needs to see that comparison; I provide myself with enough pity to feed an army.

And maybe it’s stupid, but I navigate to Danielle’s account. There’s a weird fraction in the self-loathing lifestyle, like my brain needs a reminder of where I stand in this world. It keeps me in check, I believe. I cannot imagine thinking I look good, only to be reminded that I don’t in fact, look anything close to good. That’s a big fall to take, and I prefer to spend my time at the bottom. I’ve earned my place here.

I zoom in to every picture. Have you ever compared your wrist to someone? Or the space where your neck meets your shoulders? She has a big, red birthmark on her hip, but she makes it look necessary. And I’m sure Harry probably likes it. And I’m sure she’s told him how she’s no longer ashamed of it, and she’s not afraid to wear bikinis because she doesn’t care what people think. And she probably thinks that’s what makes her different and that’s the story she tells, how she overcame insecurity and loves her body now. And she would probably tell me that I just need to learn how to accept my flaws and learn to love them and then I’ll finally be happy like her. But that’s stupid, even stupider then me scrolling through her account to find some awkward picture, maybe one where her nose and lips are less perfect and I can start saving up for surgery too. Because if I looked like her, I’d have no problem being happy. I’d post pictures on the beach, and find a boyfriend, and not feel like a pathetic loser who’s done nothing with her life.

“Are you writing your report on Danielle?”

I lurch with stiff bones, and now I can’t remember if I’ve had this headache all day or if Dr. Pierce’s voice triggered it. Shamefully, I close the browser. “No, I’m sorry.” I hope that’s enough, because it’s all I can afford to give right now. Maybe if he knew I was seconds away from crying he’ll leave me alone.

“Get back to work please.”

Just make it ‘til you get home. You can cry there. Not here. Not here. Not here.

***

I tediously lower my body so that the water pulses right below my chin. My knees are covered, but only if I remain motionless, or the water will break against my skin and then my knee caps will appear suddenly. I inch my feet further across the acrylic until they are hidden once again.

There is a window extending from the floor beside the tub all the way up, over my head so I have a view of the street below as well as the sky, and it’s always quite a contrast. If the street is busy, then the sky is not. But then if the sky has a heavy to-do list, then it’s the road below me that becomes shallow, except when rain is falling in a race to its demise against the concrete.

I suck in a breath that’s full of my shampoo and bodywash and the rose oil I dropped in twenty minutes ago. I can taste it in my lungs, so before it becomes too much, I push against my heels, my knees forming mountains as they break the surface and my head becomes consumed a moment later. The pressure is light, just enough; I’m more aware that I’m living than I did when oxygen was flowing through my lungs. I count to ten and then release the burn as I crash upwards. It’s a bit dramatic and cinema worthy, but there’s no one watching; even the city-goers are too far below me to care that I live here.

“Is my phone in there?”

I drag my eyes open and sure enough, Jessie’s phone sits on the counter. “Come in!”

“Oh thank God, thought I left it at that party.” She picks her clothes from last night off the floor and throws them in the hamper. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“And why’s that?”

I shrug, but she doesn’t see me, now straightening up the mess she made of her toiletries, her back to me while she shoves everything into her drawer.

“Just one of those nights I guess.”

She peaks over her shoulder and hums. “You have a lot of those.” She turns fully, looking at me like she is a mother. I rack my brain for an excuse but I can’t find one. If I did, I would’ve tried it out on myself years ago. “Y’know I’m here to talk. I’m your best friend...that’s part of my job.”

I smile at the water, but turn away when I see my reflection. “I’m fine. Just getting used to the semester.”

She lets the defeat show on her face, and I’m glad I know how to mask mine. “Alright then. Well just text me if you need me. I’m always here for you.” Her voice is soft and patient and I feel guilty for lying to her. “I’m late for cello practice.”

“I’ll be fine. Gonna enjoy my day off.”

“And actually enjoy it! No studying, no flash cards!” She laughs when I roll my eyes. “I mean it. Go to the park, eat a pint of ice cream, masturbate, please, anything outside of those notebooks of yours!”

“I’ll add those to the list,” I laugh. “I’m probably just gonna stay home and relax. Watch Uptown Girls or something. Eat cookie dough.”

“And—”

“And masturbate I know.”

She kisses my head and grabs her phone, heading out the door, her voice fading as she leaves. “You can tell me all about it later.”

The tile is cold beneath my feet, and slick with warning as I pull the plug on the drain and take a moment to scan the world outside. The sun is in attendance today, some of its beams make their way into the bathroom and have crawled across the floor all morning. I decide to stand there, on the beams to warm my toes slightly. It’s probably more in my head, the warmth, but I’ll take it either way. The tiles are black and white, a classic checkerboard, and I gave up on choosing a color to step on not long after we moved in.

The mirror is foggy and I work fast to wash my face and brush my teeth, keeping my towel tight around myself until the last possible second, trading it’s warmth for a sweater and jeans. I slip into my shoes. I haven’t read much for leisure, and pick up my copy of Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl from my bookshelf before I leave. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve read it, but each time never fails to reward me with something I didn’t catch the last time.

***

There’s a park within walking distance from my apartment. I like to go there in the rain sometimes, under my green umbrella, and read literary magazines with a thermos of coffee Jessie made me. I look like the adult that I’m supposed to be. I don’t think anyone ever notices, which isn’t much different then the expectations I lay out for myself the night before.

Today, however, I am not walking to the park. I am taking a train to the park. The park—Central Park. And it’s not raining and I forgot to bring coffee, but I need today. I need to do something for myself. Something outside my comfort zone. That’s how you become a better person, right?

We don’t have subways back home. There isn’t much of anything back home other than high school football games, car washes, and stray cats that everyone feeds. The first time I rode the train I cried. Jessie told me that it was okay, and that’s why I did it the next time, and the time after that. I’m not going to cry today, though. I am not going to get overwhelmed and worry about when to get on and when to get off and who’s looking at me and how I wouldn’t be able to help anyone if they get mugged or how if I trip and fall on the platform, I’ll start praying for death.

Light flashes at a rhythm I’m unfamiliar with, but I manage to keep my focus on my book. It shakes in my hands but I keep reading. I’m not really reading, in its true form, that is. I’ve marked this book up so much I could use it as confetti, and those are the parts I’m reading. The parts that meant something to me at each stage of my life: I used a green pen at age eleven, red sharpie at fifteen, blue highlighter at twenty, and ripped sticky notes at twenty-three. It’s less of a commitment this way, but when the screeching travels up my spine and I can smell something other than people when I’m back on solid ground, I wipe my cheeks and they’re dry.

When I lie in bed at night and think over the many sins and shortcomings attributed to me, I get so confused by it all that I either laugh or cry: it depends on what sort of mood I am in. Then I fall asleep with a stupid feeling of wishing to be different from what I am or from what I want to be; perhaps to behave differently from the way I want to behave.

I have a plan in place. One that I didn’t feel comfortable telling Jessie even though I know she’d be supportive. That’s the conundrum; having a best friend who loves you so much they want to fix you. She would have tagged along today, asked me how I’m feeling a million times and try to rationalize everything. She’d tell me all the ways I can be happy. But she can’t do that. No one should be allowed to, really. Because if you say can then there also has to be the option of can’t. And if people had the choice to pick what state their mind was in every day, I wouldn’t be strolling around parts of New York I’ve never been in, trying to scrounge up some off-handed version of self-love.

I bought a bath bomb and candles, stopped at a stationary store to pick up pens and notebooks that I don’t need, another Beatles t-shirt and chocolate. A farmer’s market was selling fresh fruit and I bought a tomato and ate the whole thing right there. I don’t care that it’s cheap retail therapy. It’s blocking out school and certain people and my age and my lack of success as an adult. And maybe it’s not working, but it’s New York—there’s distractions everywhere. And that’s exactly what I’m doing today.

***

Liberty Island. That’s where the Statue of Liberty is. I am stupid for thinking Staten Island, but in my defense, that’s where everyone outside of New York thinks it is. When I moved here I wanted to see it. It was going to be this defining moment that solidified me in my new home, this incredible rebirth that validated me leaving my parents. I was going to buy cheap postcards and send them to my mom and I’d say See, I’m here and I’m happy. This was the right choice. I fit in. Please stop crying. At least I didn’t think it was Ellis Island.

I’m on the right ferry heading towards the right island. Soon, I really see her and I start crying. She’s green but she’s not green, and she’s copper but also not really. She’s this woman and that’s fucking cool, except I know had she not been a gift, she would have been a man. There is someone with a microphone talking about her but the wind burns my ears so I pull up google on my phone.

The Babylonian Ishtar, Imperial Rome’s goddess Libertas was Papal Rome’s “Mother of the Harlots and abominations of the earth” and the template for America’s Statue of Liberty.

I paid to visit the pedestal but not the crown. I don’t trust my body to climb twenty stories. I don’t wanna know what I’ll think about that high up. I saved up and bought a reservation and now that I’m here, I wish I’d brought Jessie along. I wish I had more people to choose from to bring along because this isn’t Jessie’s thing. But that was the idea, after all, to keep this day to myself, venture out, mark something off a bucket list I haven’t started yet. Distractions, distractions, distractions.

My bags are heavy and it’s hot, but I manage to read a lot of plaques and stroll around intentionally. I do, at certain moments, feel a sort of liberation with myself. Kind of like the first time you go out driving on your own. It’s scary, and a part of you still wishes your mom was behind the wheel, but that kind of being alone is freedom. It’s not the car or the license, it’s the option to be fully by yourself at any time.

And I can’t help but wonder, compare, really, myself to the woman who I’m wandering around below her dress. She does lonely well. She does it right. All by herself she stands, a beacon, a purified symbol. And this is where I’m at, apparently, scrutinizing my abilities at making loneliness look mature and comparing myself to a statue.

Truly, this is my day.

I take pictures of everything around me and it must be the sea air, because I do contemplate asking this dad of four kids to take one of me. I push that out of my head rather quickly. I switch the filter to black and white and angle my phone to get a photo overlooking the harbor once I’m back outside, but stop right in my tracks, when a familiar face is in the frame.

“Oh my God! I can’t believe you’re here! What a small world!”

Dozens of names swim around my head, and my courtesy smile eases into a real one once one of them starts flashing, matching this person’s face before I make a fool of myself.

“Devon, hey, s’been a while.”

“I know, God,” she shakes her head in disbelief, “high school feels like a century ago.”

She looks the same, only like a new version. Not exactly older or more mature, but like she stopped experimenting with makeup and her acne finally calmed down. All of her features sit on top of her face, warm, eyes just as piercing as when we were seventeen. She was always cute and that quality has followed her over the years.

“So what are you doing?” she asks and I squint because of the wind, imagining her words rearranging in the breeze into something easier to answer.

“Um, just sightseeing.”

“Well I figured that,” she laughs. “I mean, your life, what’s up?”

I know my face looks resistant. Everyone pulls the same look when your stuck explaining something that is going to automatically lower the standard in which the other person sees you: nearly closed eyes, barred upper teeth while your top lip pulls up in thought, sucking in a short breath before speaking, stiff neck and chest.

“I uh, well I’m still in school,” I nod along and loosen my volume to sound like I’m happy. “And uh, working.”

“Oh are you working on your masters?”

“No just um, maybe one day, but not right now.”

“Okay.” It is that ‘okay’. The you-are-turning-pathetic-right-before-my-eyes Okay. She smiles anyway. “I’m thinking of going back next year to get my doctorate.” She shrugs. “So do you live here, or…”

“Yeah, yeah, I got a scholarship—”

“Oh well that’s good!”

“Uh huh.”

“We’re just visiting. Trying to hit all the hot spots though.”

“We?”

“Me and my fiancé. She’s—” she cranes her neck and points to somewhere behind her, “on a work call at the moment. Y’know it’s beautiful here, I wonder if we could have the wedding right here,” she laughs.

“Yeah that would be something.”

“So, are you seeing anyone?”

“Not at the moment.”

She gasps like she’s discovered something and points at the air between us. “Wait, weren’t you dating that guy, the uh, really smart one who graduated early? God, what was his name, Mark or Matt?”

“No that uh, that wasn’t me.”

“I could’ve sworn it was,” she laughs.

“Nope.”

“Aw, bless your heart, well you’ll find someone. The city’s big!”

I am done with this conversation. I force a smile and excuse myself, heading off in the opposite direction so if any tears fall she won’t see, and keep to myself until it’s really cloudy and mist pricks my skin. Not soon enough, we’re boarding the ferry again.

I wave to Lady Liberty and imagine her waving back when we leave. If I squint, it kind of does. Whether she’s saying goodbye or good luck, I don’t know.

***

Dinner is one of those meals that either means everything or nothing. Tonight it means nothing. I walk past Truman’s, slowly. Harry isn’t in there and I stop right outside the plated glass window, now decorated with orange and yellow leaves, and try to figure out if I would’ve gone in had he been there. A band is setting up along the back wall and that’s where I see Danielle. She’s got a tray of drinks that each member takes. When she spins around she’s smiling and she smiles as she walks towards the hostess’ podium and she smiles when she squeezes the hand of some guy that comes up and she smiles when she sees me.

I wave because what else am I supposed to do. If I flip her off, she might strangle me with her extensions, or tell Harry that I was a bitch, or spit in my food the next time I come in. I wait till she’s distracted, and then I leave. I stop at a food truck and stuff my face with a taco. Nothing.

Back down the street, back on the train, back to my apartment.

“I didn’t cry this time.”

Jessie glances up from sliding the bow across the strings, the last note stinging the air. She looks so small next to the instrument.

“On the train. I didn’t cry.”

****************************************************************************************

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