#maybe he's doing duty in a mailbox somewhere

[nym-wibbly]

I thought Sir Terry was making the snail thing up for funsies...

[ohyangchon]

Alistair,

It’s Joel again. Th’ Duke’s goons got their hands on ya, and I was movin’ our shit outta our usual spot ta somewhere less infested - by the time I got there, your place had been trashed and I found ya out like a light in our bedroom.

Navezgane’s finally gone ta hell. I’m settin’ ya up with a doctor pal o’ mine, Jen, th’ next town over and she’d be helpin’ ya relearn th’ ropes while ya recover. I’ve still got crap ta settle - maybe start trackin’ down whoever did this ta ya and teach ‘em a lesson they ain’t ‘bout ta forget. When all this is said and done, I’m ridin’ up on my 4x4 and bringin’ ya home like th’ bride ya deserve ta be. No more fightin’ zombies and runnin’ ‘round like a headless chicken doin’ these dangerous jobs.

P.S. I donated all th’ stuff ya said ta donate ta some o’ th’ survivors that were helpin’ me with errands. Only thing I couldn’t bear ta throw out was that black spear ya so loved. That one’s framed up in my office. Whenever this whole crisis with th’ Duke tides over, feel free ta come pick it up again. It’ll always be yours. ---- The new town was about as quiet as I’d expected it to be.

I’d set up shop next to Jen’s place, considering her interest in seeing my recovery. Learning to reuse the spear again was the first on my agenda (everything seemed scrambled in my head, and I’d pieced together crafting some basic tools through the magazines she’d been providing me), and the comfortable if not smaller grocery store beside her stronghold had been my base of choice.

Even so, occasionally tracing the drops of rain from the attic, I couldn’t help but think of the cabin from time to time.

Alistair’s Cabin. Joel had jokingly named it that, merging my name and the cabin’s together. It had been a little out of the way, but it had been our home. This “Moe’s Grocery” was comfortable enough, but there was just a spark of joy in the place that felt woefully missing without Joel sneaking over through the balcony to tease me about future work.

Of course, I was probably just counting my eggs a little before they hatched. Settling in to the place hadn’t taken much effort, with my scavenging across the mall strip a short walk away yielding well in starting myself off. Jen was a fair employer in what she offered me, and I was certainly relieved to avoid any bears in the vicinity for the time being, yet the emptiness remained.

At the very least, the sleepy town was more forgiving that Navezgane had been. Travelling at night for a quick scavenge saw a few loose zombies but nothing particularly threatening. The most harassment I received these days were the occasional vulture, and perhaps some snakes that lived in the area - more meat wasn’t something I complained about, I’d mused over the grill with Jen one night.

“You’re pretty special, I think,” Jen admitted, dropping off the crafting magazines in my mailbox with a grin, “I’ve never seen Joel stick his head out so much for a survivor like he did for you. He’d rather die than part with his money, but he was rushing you to me promising his entire fortune to keep you safe.”

“I wooed him with shepard’s pie,” I’d joked back, trying to keep matters cool, “Once I gather the ingredients for it, I could probably make you some. Only if you want to visit and take a break from treating people. Take it as thanks for saving me.”

Jen shrugged. “Least I could do. You were one of the best runners in Navezgane. Sadly, a doctor’s duty is never done,” she replied, already leaving as she tossed me a backwards glance, “If you really wanted to help, start donating your extra food tins to us instead. You’ve been growing a robust garden in your backyard - surely you could spare some crops.”

I reddened as she returned, glancing out towards the garden. It was true that I’d started developing a green thumb after coming to town, and the sprawling farm plot of various vegetables and hops were a testament to it. Once upon a time, I’d brewed an almost endless supply of beer, and now I’d been struggling to set up the chemistry station I once had to work the same way it did back inside the cabin. Not that I was lacking time, really.

Gardening took away some of the anxiety I had about how alone the nights stretched on, even if the place hardly attracted attention. While sitting at home waiting for night to pass, I’d taken to reading the various crafting magazines in the area and teaching myself the recipes to recreate some of the machinery I’d left behind in the cabin. It was either that or demolishing cars for spare parts (why were springs so scarce here?) or checking the dew collectors for a fresh water supply to brew drinks with.

For a moment, I could forget the place was less forgiving than Navezgane.

[idv-thespians]

Xiao dialed Adelaide, urgently.

”I have news, Adelaide.”

“What is it?”

“It’s the highschool teacher. He turned himself in for Shiloh Monroe’s murder.”

“What the hell?!”

Once the Inspector arrived, he looked at the teacher silently sitting in his seat, hands cuffed. His gaze was blank as always, or fixed on something she couldn’t understand.

“I saw Monroe on the 10th, loitering outside her apartment.” Ratio said flatly, calmly. “I just returned from my school, and saw him putting his hand through her mailbox.”

The two detectives sat inside quietly. Ratio insisted only the two of them being present, saying he wouldn’t be able to tell them what he needed to say if there were a bunch of officers questioning him.

“I wondered what he was doing, so I called out to him. He seemed shocked, and said he had business with Miss Driftwood. Something of being her husband. Of course, I immediately realised who he really was, but went along with his story to not alarm him.”

“Wait, how do you know he was telling the truth?”

“Because I know everything there is to know about Ellie Driftwood. I know she’s divorced, and moved to escape her ex-husband.”

“How? Didn’t you say you hardly spoke to her? You only saw her because you frequent the convenience store she works at?”

“Of course, that’s what we tell people. You see, I am her bodyguard. It is my duty to protect her from people with malicious intent. You obviously came to ask me about Monroe’s murder, so I couldn’t tell you the truth. You would have suspected us already.”

Adelaide raised a brow, but groaned. “So you’ve been close to her this whole time. Even before this?”

“Correct. We had our ways to contact each other, to keep it hidden even from her son.”

“How?”

“Several ways. For one, she’d talk to me.”

“…So, meeting up?”

“No. She would talk in her apartment, and I used a device to listen to her.”

“What kind?”

“I put a sound amplifier on the wall between our apartments, and I could hear her voice.”

“…So you were eavesdropping on her. Did she know?”

“No, she was speaking to me.” Ratio furrowed his brows in surprise, shaking his head in displeasure. “She couldn’t talk directly, since her son was there, but she’d send me messages.”

“…Did she tell you such?”

“No, I know everything there is about her, she didn’t need to tell me. I already knew.”

“Maybe you just assumed so.”

“Nonsense! I knew the trouble she had with her husband because she told me about it. She’d have no need to tell her son. She was telling me to do something about it.”

“…Any other means?”

“Yes. I’d call her mobile phone every evening. I would call her 5 times, and if she needed my help, she would answer. If not, she wouldn’t answer.”

“Both of you decided on this? As in, we could ask her about this?”

“Yes.”

“Then… why did you turn yourself in?”

“Do you really need a reason?” Ratio snorted in surprise. “Should I not have turned myself in?”

“That’s not the point. I’m just curious on… why? And why now?”

“Hmm, ‘wracked with guilt, the murderer turned himself in.’ Would that suffice?”

“You don’t look wracked with guilt at all.”

Ratio sighed, mildly irritated. “Fine… she… betrayed me. If I knew I would be betrayed, I’d never have killed him.”

“Betrayed?”

“Ellie… she… she’s seeing another man. Even though I killed her ex-husband. I fulfilled her desire. She made me do this. In that sense, she was my accomplice, I don’t get why you all haven’t arrested her yet.” Ratio looked more upset, yet still seemed calm.

“Never mind that. How did you kill him?”

“I told him to meet me. Near the bridge. Told him she moved near the river. I even got him a map and wrote an address for him, a water treatment facility. You should’ve seen how happy he was when he held that paper. He told me I saved him lots of trouble.”

“Why give him that address?”

“I wanted to lure him somewhere secluded. I’m somewhat acquainted to the layout of the area there, and knew there wouldn’t be many witnesses.”

“…What after?”

“He asked if I knew where she worked. I told him I didn’t know, but I heard she worked at a restaurant, and that her shift only ended at 11, and that her son would wait for her in the restaurant before they went home together.”

“Why would you make that up?”

“I needed to ensure he would arrive at the time I predicted. Too early and there might still be witnesses. And he wouldn’t go there before 11 if they weren’t home.”

“I gave him my phone number and told him to call me if he had difficulty finding the place. He took everything I gave him and practically skipped away. Then, I went to change into comfortable clothes, and prepared some items. I brought the wire of my heater, a box cutter and a lighter. On the way, I found some blue plastic sheets, so I folded it and took it too.” I took the train, but got off a stop before the one near the bridge, in case I ran into him.”

“My phone started to ring near the riverbank. It was him, and he was lost. So I asked him to tell me where he was, and he gave me some details, not realising I was approaching him. I told him I’d check the address again, and by then, I had him in view. He only noticed me when I started to strangle him.”

“Hold on, but how did you do so so quietly and effortlessly? No ruckus attracting bystanders?”

“I’m an instructor at the school’s judo club. Plus, from behind and with my size, it’s easy to overpower someone and have them completely subdued

Adelaide glanced at Ratio’s ears again, puffy, cauliflower ears. She had seen such on other people in the force.

“Afterwards?”

“I laid his body on the blue plastic, and cut his clothes off with the box cutter, then I smashed his face with a rock I found nearby. I burned his fingerprints off with the lighter, and took his clothes before leaving. I found an old oil drum and stuffed them there and burned them. I got startled by the fire jumping a bit high, so I left. I didn’t want to be spotted. You can find the box cutter, the lighter and the cord in my house.”

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Day 58: Voicemail

Harry's mobile rang, interrupting a perfectly nice (if solitary) dinner at home with a good book.

With a sigh, he put his bookmark in his book, set his fork down in his bowl of pasta, and dug his phone out of his pocket. He looked at the screen and huffed at the unknown number, "Bloody spam call," he grumbled, tossing the phone onto the couch beside him.

He picked up his fork once more and opened his book.

He hadn't read more than two paragraphs when his phone pinged, notifying him that the caller had left a voicemail. Pointedly, he turned away from the phone and went back to reading; he made it a few more pages, his pasta bowl almost empty, when his phone started ringing again.

The same number was calling again. He scowled and ignored it, going back to his book and letting it ring out. He wasn't especially surprised when he got the notification that whoever was calling had left him another voicemail.

After that, his phone was blissfully silent as he continued reading. When he finished his book he set it down on the side table and stretched until there was a satisfying pop in his lower back.

He glanced at his phone, his curiosity winning out, and reached for it to play back the voicemails.

"Potter? Are you there?" a drunken voice slurred, and Harry knew that voice but he couldn't possibly believe that the person it sounded like had a muggle phone and even if he did, it didn't make sense that he'd be calling Harry. "Oh I can never understand these stupid things. Am I supposed to push a button so you can hear me? This is Draco Malfoy, so if you can hear me, you'd better speak up."

To say that Harry was shocked would be an understatement.

(Read more below the cut)

"You know I don't understand how to make this work," he whined at Harry, "Can't you help me? Isn't that what you do?"

Harry huffed.

"Fine. Don't talk to me. You're the one who's missing out. I'm hanging up now, Potter."

He shook his head and hit delete on the voicemail before opening the next one.

"Potter," he greeted again and Harry almost laughed because he didn't know how it was possible to sound so drunk and so posh at the same time. "I've been informed that you were not, in fact, on the other end of the string...wire?... line?..." he trailed off and this time Harry did laugh.

"Whatever. None of those words make any sense. Anyway, I was told I left you a recording of my voice. You're welcome."

Harry laughed again, ridiculous man.

"So, since you weren't being rude before, I thought I would call to present you my offer. I am out at a club dancing and drinking with Pansy, and I couldn't help but wonder what you might be doing. I'm going to guess that you are finishing a terrible detective novel while you sit on your sofa eating dinner by yourself."

He rolled his eyes, "I like my detective novels, thank you."

"And I know you're probably rolling your eyes and extolling the many virtues of your paperback novels, but they're absolute drivel, Potter, you must know that."

It was ridiculous to be fond of this man. Utterly and completely ridiculous, but Harry was nothing if not fond of Draco Malfoy.

"Anyway, I bet that your cat hasn't even joined you on the sofa. Magnus has much better taste in literature than you do."

Magnus was currently resting on his cat tower, but if he'd been asked, Harry wouldn't have admitted it.

"The point I'm trying to make, is that you are living a lonely, miserable life. So you should come out dancing with me. And I know," he carried on, "that you would say that you don't dance but I can teach you."

He smiled at the phone, gripping it a little tighter as he imagined that scenario playing out in his mind.

"And then, you can take me home with you at the end of the night."

Harry promptly choked on his saliva. Draco Malfoy couldn't be implying what he thought he was implying.

"What's your bed like, Potter? Is it soft? Is it red?" he asked aghast. "Maybe we should come back to mine instead. You'd look so lovely on my green sheets." He trailed off with a wistful little sigh. "Or. Just call me back and tell me to leave the club right now. Tell me to floo over and maybe we won't make it past the living room. Maybe on that hideous sofa. Hell maybe we won't make it past that garish rug."

There was a short pause and Harry wondered if Draco was imagining it like he was.

"I'm dying to kiss you." he murmured. "Surely you see it, surely you know. And I'll be anything you want me to be, Harry. Anything. Because you must know that I-"

The voicemail ended abruptly and Harry glared at the phone. What happened? He opened the voicemail box again and a notification popped up. His mailbox was full. Of all the rotten luck.

And he had no idea where the other man was and even if he had known, did it really make sense to go there anyway?

He listened to the voicemail, then he listened to it again.

And again.

He listened and he fell a little bit more in love with Draco Malfoy and he knew that even if he had known where he was, he wouldn't have gone, because he didn't want to be something the other man regretted in the morning.

After retrieving Magnus from the cat tower, he carried him into his bedroom and decided to deal with everything in the morning.

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

Harry slept very poorly that night and when 7:30 rolled around Harry couldn't stand it for one more second. He stuffed his feet into his trainers, pulled a sweatshirt over his head, and apparated to Draco's front door, pounding on it before he could stop himself.

He waited for a long moment and when there was no response, he pounded again.

The door swung open while he was still knocking, revealing a very tired, very grumpy Draco Malfoy in nothing more than a pair of boxers, "What the fuck." He stared at Harry as if he couldn't quite believe his eyes. "What are you doing here at this ungodly hour?"

"What were you going to say?"

"Potter, I am in no mood for your bullshit; I am tired, I am hungover, and it is bloody early. You're going to need to start making sense. Right now."

"You said, 'I'll be anything you want me to be, Harry. Anything. Because you must know that I-' and then my voicemail was full and I couldn't hear anything more."

All of the color drained from Draco's face, "I think I'm going to be sick." He turned around and stumbled back inside, but he left the door open so Harry took that as an invitation to enter.

Draco was serious, apparently, about getting sick because he made a beeline for the bathroom and Harry heard him vomiting before he reached the doorway.

"Oh," he murmured sympathetically, making his way over and gathering Draco's shoulder-length hair in his hand to keep it out of his face. He rubbed soothing circles on his back as he heaved up the contents of his stomach which truthfully smelled like pure vodka.

"Go away," Draco finally groaned when he'd managed to stop dry heaving and flush the toilet. "Just leave me to die. That would be preferable."

"Stop being dramatic," he said as he stood and moved toward his medicine cupboard. "I'm sure that a potions master has a hangover potion lying around here somewhere." He dug through until he found a bottle and handed it over to Draco.

Draco took it, wincing as the pain of the hangover he would have had hit him all at once. He shuddered, "Fucking Pansy," he grumbled. "Thank you for your assistance, you've done you're duty to help those less fortunate than you, you may go."

"Not likely," he replied. "Why don't you shower and get cleaned up? I'll make some breakfast and we can talk."

Draco groaned, "Let me die."

Harry rolled his eyes, "You have ten minutes, then I'm coming in and dragging you out."

He made his way to Draco's kitchen and made some scrambled eggs and toast for both of them, as well as coffee.

Draco appeared after nine minutes and fifty-two seconds. "Please, Potter," he groaned, "Can't you just drop it. I promise never to drunk dial you again," he added as he slid into a chair and took a sip of his coffee.

"Draco what was the end of that sentence?" Harry asked.

The other man picked up his slice of toast and took a bite, "I don't know. I was drunk off my arse."

"Don't lie to me," Harry replied. "I'm not stupid."

Draco's eyes flicked up to meet his, "I know that."

"Please," Harry whispered, "What was the end of that sentence?"

"You aren't going to let it go are you?"

He shook his head.

Draco's shoulders slumped, "I am in love with you," he whispered. "That's the end of that sentence. And usually I have enough of a sense of self preservation and dignity not to just go spouting that sort of nonsense to someone who couldn't possibly feel the same-"

"But I do!" Harry exclaimed. "I do feel the same. I have for absolutely ages."

"You don't have to lie to me-"

"Do you remember that trivia night we went to eight months ago," Harry interrupted, "the one where everyone else bailed?"

"Yes."

"I knew," Harry said, "I knew that night that I was completely besotted with you. We were the worst team there."

Draco rolled his eyes, "Right. Everyone falls in love with someone who's a complete idiot about a subject school children could play better."

"I fell in love with someone who didn't take himself seriously. Who laughed at getting the answers wrong, who was clever and funny, and made up answers a hundred times better than the real ones." He looked down at his hands, steeling himself to say something hard but real, "Things are hard for me sometimes," he confessed. "I get stuck in my head and it's not," he swallowed, "Not always good."

Draco's hand found his across the table.

Harry looked up, "But I don't feel like that when I'm with you. I can't remember the last time I'd laughed like that before that night. And I'm not trying to put pressure on you," he added, "I see a mind healer, I'm not asking you to fix me," he said. "Just, when I'm with you I feel like there's something to look forward to." He swallowed and Draco waited patiently for him to continue, "And I couldn't let myself imagine that you might want someone broken like me, I wanted to be better before I let myself even think about it. But then you left me that messa-"

"You're not broken," Draco murmured, bringing Harry's knuckles to his lips and pressing a chaste kiss to them that left Harry breathless. "The war changed all of us and we all have healing and growing to do from that, but you aren't broken. You're enough as you are right now."

"You don't know what my bad days are like," Harry said.

Draco shrugged, "And you don't know what my bad days are like, but you're not holding them against me."

Harry rubbed the back of his neck.

"I really like you," Draco confessed. "A lot. And I know that things aren't always going to be easy, but if we wait for either of us to be perfect before we try, we'll wait our entire lives." He swallowed and Harry watched his throat bob with the motion, "Could we maybe try healing and growing together?"

"I'd like that," Harry whispered.

"Good," Draco replied before standing up and moving around the table to straddle Harry's lap, "Then I'm going to need you to kiss me."

"I can do that," he replied, cupping Draco's cheek and leading his mouth down to his.

Their breakfast got cold but neither of them could bring themselves to care.

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

Day 57: Text Message | Day 59: Ring

[purrincess-chat]

My Chosen’s Keeper CH1

Here is a silly Lila revenge AU I came up with a while back where Tikki catches Lila in her attempts from the Ladybug episode. This AU is mostly meant to be crack and kwami mischief, so don’t read to much into it. XD

Read on AO3

Summary: When Tikki catches Lila in a scheme against Marinette, she decides to teach her a lesson about messing with her chosen. Lila quickly learns that the k in karma stands for kwami.

Chapter 1

There was a rule for kwamis bound to a Miraculous: follow the orders of your master. On most days, Tikki had no problems with this rule because her master was kind and granted her as much freedom as she wanted. It was why she’d become so fond of her. Out of all the Ladybugs to cross her path, she felt the closest bond with Marinette. She shared her joys and triumphs as well as her failures and sorrow, and when necessary circumstances arose, she fought to protect her.

Normally, she wasn’t one to meddle in the affairs of humans, but when her master’s honor was at stake, she couldn’t sit by and do nothing. Marinette had a lot of friends, but even the kindest of people are bound to have enemies—and boy did Marinette pick good ones.

Lila Rossi was evil. It was a fact Tikki and Marinette knew quite well, but she learned firsthand how dangerous Lila could be one fateful afternoon.

It was an ordinary day. The weather was tepid and clear. She’d taken a nap during Marinette’s exam in Mlle. Bustier’s class, enjoying the quiet while it lasted. No akumas interrupted their morning, and she was just getting to the good part of the book in Marinette’s backpack when her space was abruptly invaded.

She peeked her head through the fabric. Marinette was staring quizzically at her phone while an orange blur slipped up the aisle unnoticed by anyone but Tikki. Her eyes narrowed, and she leaned back as Marinette shut the locker door. A packet of papers had been shoved into the bag, and Tikki recognized Mlle. Bustier’s handwriting and…the test answers!

Why would Lila put them in Marinette’s bag? What was she up to? Was she was scheming to get Marinette in trouble? Sinking down to the floor of the bag, Tikki chewed her lip.

Should she say something and warn Marinette? She didn’t like meddling, but she couldn’t let Lila get away with whatever she was planning. What if Marinette got akumatized for it? Then there would be no Ladybug to save the day, and Hawkmoth would get her earrings. Tikki couldn’t let that happen at any cost!

Marinette had visited the teacher’s lounge once before to deliver some papers to Mlle. Bustier, so Tikki retraced those steps, toting the folded exam papers. Teachers were gathered together around a table, discussing how their students had faired on their recent exams. Sneaking past humans was risky, but the fate of the world was at stake.

Taking a deep breath, she flitted over to Mlle. Bustier’s bag, phasing through the fabric with the answer sheets. She waited a few seconds, listening, but none of the teachers had seen anything suspicious, so she relaxed. Marinette never noticed her absence as Tikki slipped into her purse in the lunchroom, and her chosen was none the wiser to what had transpired as she headed back to class.

“Good afternoon class, I’ve graded your exams from this morning, but before we get into that…Marinette, may I see your schoolbag for a moment?” Mlle. Bustier asked, and Tikki dropped to the floor to watch as Marinette moved to the front of the room. “I received an anonymous tip in my mailbox that someone had taken the test answers.”

“What? But I’d never do something like that! Why would you suspect me?” Marinette said as Mlle. Bustier rifled through her backpack.

“I know you wouldn’t, Marinette, but I have to investigate to be certain because you did receive a perfect score on my exam,” she said, and Marinette’s face lit up.

“I did? Yes!” She cheered then more soberly added, “But not because I cheated. I studied really hard for that test.”

“Yeah, Mlle. Bustier, Marinette always scores really well on your tests,” Alya added.

“And we all know it’s not like her to cheat,” Adrien said, and several other classmates voiced similar sentiments.

“Everyone, please calm down. It seems as though this anonymous tipper was mistaken. I’ve found nothing incriminating in your bag, Marinette, and I apologize for the inconvenience. I’m proud of you for studying so hard,” Mlle. Bustier said, passing her bag back with a smile.

“Thanks, Mlle. Bustier,” Marinette said, returning to her seat.

No one noticed Lila’s face harden in the back row, but Tikki hadn’t taken her eyes off her through the whole ordeal. Confusion, annoyance, anger. That wouldn’t be the last attempt Lila made to frame Marinette, and as much as Tikki hated interfering, she needed to keep Marinette safe.

A few minutes into class, Lila asked to be excused to the restroom, and Tikki followed. Her heart hammered the whole way, but she pressed on, driven by a sense of duty to her owner. As expected, Lila had another trick up her sleeve. She carefully picked the lock on Marinette’s locker then pulled a small box from her pocket and placed it inside before closing the door and returning to class.

Tikki phased through the metal and lifted the lid of the box to find the fake fox pendant Lila bought to fool Adrien on her first day of school. Why would she put it in Marinette’s locker? Tikki didn’t trust it, so for the second time that day, she broke her vow and moved the box to Lila’s locker just to be safe.

The decision wore on her conscience until Marinette was called to the principal’s office an hour later. Lila was there wearing a pout, and although Lila couldn’t see her, Tikki glared from Marinette’s purse.

“What’s going on?” Marinette asked as she took the other chair in front of Mr. Damocles’ desk.

“Well, Marinette, I received an anonymous tip that someone saw you taking something that didn’t belong to you, and now Miss Rossi has reported that a necklace was stolen from her locker during lunch,” Mr. Damocles explained.

“What? But I didn’t take anything!”

“But someone saw you, Marinette. I just don’t understand why you’d do such a thing. I’ve always tried to be your friend, but you’ve been so mean to me ever since I moved here,” Lila said with a fake sob, covering her face.

“I didn’t! Mr. Damocles, you know I’d never steal anything,” she said, and he held up a hand to silence her.

“There’s only one way to prove this. Marinette, please show me your locker,” he said, and Marinette shot Lila a glare.

“Gladly.”

The locker room was packed with students preparing for their next class, and all eyes turned to them as they entered. Lila trailed behind them as they walked, playing the perfect victim. Marinette opened her locker and gestured inside to her various books, and Mr. Damocles scratched his chin.

“See?”

“Well, I don’t see anything out of the ordinary,” he said, and Lila’s façade crumbled.

“But-” She gasped, catching herself and puckering her lips once more. “Well, if Marinette didn’t take it then who did?”

“Why don’t you open your locker, Lila?” Marinette suggested, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I already checked my locker. The necklace wasn’t in there, and someone saw you take it. She must have hidden it somewhere, Mr. Damocles,” she shot back, but Mr. Damocles turned to her with a stern expression.

“Lila, why don’t we open your locker and see if maybe you just misplaced your necklace inside?” He asked, and her lips shriveled into a sour purse.

She stalked to her locker and pulled open the door, and at the sight of the small box situated neatly atop her books, her jaw dropped. “But that’s not possible!”

“Well, it looks like your necklace was in your locker after all,” Mr. Damocles said, squaring his shoulders. “Sorry for the inconvenience, Marinette. You’re free to go, and Miss Rossi, do be more careful in the future when searching for your belongings.”

“Yes, Mr. Damocles,” Lila said through gritted teeth.

“Whoa, talk about a crazy day,” Alya said, draping an arm around Marinette’s shoulders.

“Yeah, first someone accuses you of cheating, now they accuse you of stealing.” Nino shook his head. “Someone’s got it out for you, Marinette.”

“Yeah, someone,” Marinette said, shooting a pointed glare in Lila’s direction.

The bell rang, but as students filed off to class, Tikki hung back in Marinette’s locker. While it was unlikely that Lila would try anything a third time, Tikki wanted to be ready just in case. She’d been right to interfere before. If she hadn’t then who knows how bad things would have gotten?

How could anyone be so evil? Somedays, Lila gave Hawkmoth a run for his money. She even hated Ladybug as much as he did. A girl like her was dangerous, and with her around, people were bound to get hurt—people like Marinette. The thought made her eyes water.

One thing was certain: Lila Rossi needed to be stopped.

Tikki jumped at the squeal of the locker room doors, following angry footsteps to the girls’ bathroom. Phasing through the ground, she peeked into the bathroom where Lila stood in front of the mirror with a dark expression. She grumbled to herself about Marinette getting lucky this time, and without thinking, Tikki entered the faucet.

The pipes screeched, and water shot from the nozzle, drenching the girl in front of it. Lila stepped back with a shriek, scrambling to turn the knob. With a huff, she examined the front of her romper then stalked from the room with a growl.

Tikki popped out into the empty room, hands cupping her mouth. Had she really done that? What was she thinking? Was she thinking? Hearing all of those nasty things about Marinette had made her so angry that she just…

She’d sunken into a pit of revenge, and she needed to dig herself out before it was too late. No one could ever know about what she’d done. She needed to get back to Marinette and-

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?”

[thetirisfaltheatretroupe]

Big Troupe Announcements! Big Troupe Summer!

Hello, everyone! Lord Atos Sunhart here! For those of you who aren’t aware, Fehl had stepped down last year from Troupe related duties due to her own life becoming much more demanding, and so I returned to the director’s seat once again. I’ve been back for about a year, but we’ve kind of laid a little low since my return due to a lot of restructuring and our desire to try a few new ideas out that are coming along slowly but surely!

We have some awesome projects in the works, some of which won’t be ready for some time, and some that we’re excited to bring you much sooner! But we can’t QUITE open the curtains for a peek just yet. Before anything, I’d like to make a series of announcements about some of our projects this Summer, starting with the most important one of all:

The Troupe Is Casting! 

Looking at some of the last posts made on this ye olde tumblr I guess it’s not a surprise that the troupe is indeed casting once more. In the past, it was due to not really having enough active people to pull off a large show with, but now, times have changed a bit, and we’re looking for people to make our shows even better and more frequent than ever!

What we’re looking for;

* Any race/gender/faction! Yes, we hire Alliance as well! In the era of Discord and cross faction RP, there’s no reason we have not to. Though, we are overloaded on elves at the moment and would kinda love a tauren or any Alliance character

* Obviously the character should be a good fit for the group! We’re not really looking for a serial murderer warlock who tries to sacrifice our members to the great Murloc Gods at the first chance they get. We’re not too picky here, but there are some characters that just don’t work terribly well with our concept.

* Available to take part in events during most of our performing days, which tend to be weekends, starting around 6:00 PM server. We base all our event times on server time.

* Someone who, behind the character, is friendly, patient, and above all else, mature. The clear rule of “don’t be an asshole” applies in this guild (and I’ll explain what that means below), and we have a zero drama tolerance policy. We are all adults who pay a monthly subscription to a greedy corporation to play with their toys, I think the last thing we want is to relive middle school in our 20s and 30s.

* Someone with a desire to help make memorable, exciting events for others to enjoy. While we play the part of celebrities, and being in the spotlight is a lot of fun, ultimately we want someone who, behind the character at least, does it for the enjoyment of others and not for personal gain or clout. We’re not clout chasers. We are proud of how long we’ve been performing and how hard we work, but ultimately we do this for our audience’s enjoyment.

* Communication is important! We aren’t a hardcore raiding guild, and thus we won’t be upset if you tell us you have to miss a rehearsal night or have a family emergency.. But if you know ahead of time, we really want someone who will let us know they can’t make it to an event so we can plan around it.

Furthermore, it should be said that while we normally do not require a person leave their guild to join us, this time around we’re looking for more to wear the guild tag above their heads, at least for this recruitment effort. Above all of these, the most important key point is the ‘don’t be an asshole’ policy. In the past I didn’t think it needed to be explained, but things we’ve been through in recent months compels me to explain what I mean by this; no homophobic behavior, racist behavior, transphobic behavior, harassment, pedophilia and other such illegal and morally vile behavior will be tolerated in our guild, period. But I’m sure you’re asking, what’s in it for me? Well, the benefits of working with the Tirisfal Theatre Troupe are, but not limited to;

* Being part of a near decade-old (8 years this October) guild that through thick and thin has stood the test of time!

* Working alongside some extremely talented, fun, humorous, and creative minds!

* Getting to make people smile and be a positive part of the community! 

* Taco Tuesdays. This is a lie, don’t believe me.

* Helping an already fun concept become even better as we grow and adapt to the ever changing nature of this game and its community!

* Adding “Actor/Actress” to your long series of titles in your TRP Profile. Maybe somewhere between “Lord of the Dance” and “Wrecker of your Shit”! Don’t be bashful, we know you have it in there somewhere.

So if you’re interested in being a part of the stage and bringing the uniqueness that is YOU into our ranks, please send an in-game mail to Atos on Wyrmrest Accord server (Hordeside), or show up for the open auditions at the dates, times, and location listed below;

Thursday, June 3rd 6:00 - 8:30 PM Portrait Room - Legion Dalaran

Friday, June 4th 6:00 - 8:30 PM Portrait Room - Legion Dalaran

Saturday, June 5th 6:00 - 8:30 PM Portrait Room - Legion Dalaran

We hope to see you there! And remember, because we’ve had this happen a few times; if you think you aren’t good enough, you’re probably actually amazing and far more talented than you think! 

Anniversary Bash 2021 Officially Planned! With a Twist

Those of you who have followed us for some time are likely aware of our annual celebration we hold on the anniversary of our first major public performance! This has traditionally been held on the third Friday of every October, so that it lines up perfectly with Hallow’s End starting. While we have had on-off years, and even said in the past we would never do it again (Insert I was crazy that time meme here), it’s pretty clear that at least every other year we seem to take to it again with new ideas. Honestly, we LOVE these yearly parties, despite how much stress they put us under, and we’re going to announce it earlier this year just so people know; yes, yes there WILL be a bash this year!

Things are going to be a little different this year, though. This October will actually have 5 Fridays in it due to...well...the calendar! It conspires against us, dammit! Because the third Friday falls in place before the Hallow’s End events are set to start, we will instead be bumping it up one week to the 22nd. So, there you have it! Our Big Bash will be on the 22nd of October! We’ll be making a full announcement about it later this Summer, and honestly, I think folks are going to really like the fun we have planned for it. So if this is something you’re looking forward to early, or you just like making sure your calendar events are always filled out, please make a mark for

October 22nd, 2021! 

Hellsqueal Squeals Again, Plus Winter’s Veil In July?

This Summer we’ll be getting back to our roots and bringing Hellsqueal back for another round. The Trilogy will rise again, and you won’t want to miss it! This time we’ll be performing it for our audiences on both sides of the factional fence and making some revisions to the script, but long time fans needn’t worry! Hellscream is still the same boisterous buffoon he’s always been.

Also, we’re bringing you an interesting new concept no one has EVER thought of before! ...well, okay, that’s a lie, but Greatfather Winter needn’t send me a lump of coal in my in-game mailbox for that one! The TTT will be hosting a Winter’s Veil themed party IN JULY! Don your gaudy sweaters, get ready to meet Greatfather Winter, take part in a sled race, and get ready to watch a completely out of season showing of It’s A Wonderful Unlife! Some lucky attendees may even receive a gift! The date for this and for Hellsqueal’s trilogy are yet to be announced, but they will be unveiled very soon!

Even though we never left, it feels good to be back at full strength again and pushing hard to give everyone the quality entertainment we pride ourselves on! Keep an eye out for our announcements this Summer - we’ll be hitting not only Tumblr when an event is ready to go, but the Blizzard forums and various Discord community servers! So please, have a fantastic day, week, month, even a year! 

[lovedesireelovepaws]

P.S I Still Love You

KITTY’S BEEN A LITTLE COMPLAINER all morning, and I suspect both Margot and Daddy are suffering from New Year’s Eve hangovers. And me? I’ve got hearts in my eyes and a letter that’s burning a hole in my coat pocket.

As we’re putting on our shoes, Kitty’s still trying to weasel her way out of wearing a hanbok to Aunt Carrie and Uncle Victor’s. “Look at the sleeves! They’re three-quarter length on me!”

Unconvincingly Daddy says, “They’re supposed to be that way.”

Kitty points to me and Margot. “Then why do theirs fit?” she demands. Our grandma bought the hanboks for us the last time she was in Korea. Margot’s hanbok has a yellow jacket and apple-green skirt. Mine is hot pink with an ivory-white jacket and a long hot-pink bow with flowers embroidered down the front. The skirt is voluminous, full like a bell, and it falls all the way to the floor. Unlike Kitty’s, which hits right at her ankles.

“It’s not our fault you grow like a weed,” I say, fussing with my bow. The bow is the hardest thing to get right. I had to watch a YouTube video multiple times to figure it out, and it still looks lopsided and sad.

“My skirt’s too short too,” she grumps, lifting the bottom.

The real truth is, Kitty hates wearing a hanbok because you have to walk delicately in it and hold the skirt closed with one hand or the whole thing comes open.

“All of the other cousins will be wearing them, and it will make Grandma happy,” Daddy says, rubbing his temples. “Case closed.”

In the car Kitty keeps saying “I hate New Year’s Day,” and it puts everyone but me in a sour mood. Margot is already in a semi-sour mood because she had to wake up at the crack of dawn to get home from her friend’s cabin in time. There’s also the matter of that maybe hangover. Nothing could sour my mood, though, because I’m not even in this car. I’m somewhere else entirely, thinking about my letter to Peter, wondering if it was heartfelt enough, and how and when I’m going to give it to him, and what he’ll say, and what it will mean. Should I drop it in his mailbox? Leave it in his locker? When I see him again, will he smile at me, make a joke of it to lighten the mood? Or will he pretend he never saw it, to spare us both? I think that would be worse. I have to keep reminding myself that, despite everything, Peter is kind and he is easygoing and he won’t be cruel no matter what. Of that much I can be sure.

“What are you thinking so hard about?” Kitty asks me.

I barely hear her.

“Hello?”

I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep, and all I see is Peter’s face. I don’t know what I want from him exactly, what I’m ready for—if it’s boyfriend-girlfriend heavy-duty serious love, or if it’s what we had before, just fun and some here-and-there kisses, or if it’s something in between, but I do know I can’t get his Handsome Boy face out of my mind. The way he smirks when he says my name, how when he’s near me I forget to breathe sometimes.

Of course, when we get to Aunt Carrie and Uncle Victor’s, none of the other cousins are wearing hanboks, and Kitty practically turns purple with the effort of not yelling at Daddy. Margot and I give him some side-eye too. It’s not particularly comfortable to sit around in a hanbok all day. But then Grandma gives me an approving smile, which makes up for it.

As we take off our shoes and coats at the front door, I whisper to Kitty, “Maybe the adults will give us more money for dressing up.”

“You girls look so cute,” Aunt Carrie said as she hugs us. “Haven refused to wear hers!”

Haven rolls her eyes at her mom. “I love your haircut,” she says to Margot. Haven and I are only a few months apart, but she thinks she’s so much older than me. She’s always trying to get in with Margot.

We get the bowing out of the way first. In Korean culture, you bow to your elders on New Year’s Day and wish them luck in the new year, and in return they give you money. The order goes oldest to youngest, so as the oldest adult, Grandma sits down on the couch first, and Aunt Carrie and Uncle Victor bow first, then Daddy, all the way down the line to Kitty, who is youngest. When it’s Daddy’s turn to sit on the couch and receive his bows, there’s an empty couch cushion next to him as there has been every New Year’s Day since Mommy died. It gives me an achy feeling in my chest to see him sitting there alone, smiling gamely, handing out ten-dollar bills. Grandma catches my eye pointedly and I know she’s thinking the same thing. When it’s my turn to bow, I kneel, hands folded in front of my forehead, and I vow that I will not see Daddy alone on that couch again next year.

We get ten dollars from Aunt Carrie and Uncle Victor, ten from Daddy, ten from Aunt Min and Uncle Sam, who aren’t our real aunt and uncle but second cousins (or is it cousins once removed? They’re Mommy’s cousins, anyway), and twenty from Grandma! We didn’t get more for wearing hanboks, but all in all a good take. Last year the aunts and uncles were only doing five apiece.

Next we do rice cake soup for good luck. Aunt Carrie also made black-eyed pea cakes and insists we try at least one, though no one wants to. The twins, Harry and Leon—our third cousins? Cousins twice removed?—refuse to eat the soup or the black-eyed pea cakes and are eating chicken nuggets in the TV room. There isn’t enough room at the dining table, so Kitty and I eat on stools at the kitchen island. We can hear everyone laughing from over here.

As I begin to eat my soup, I make a wish. Please, please let things work out with me and Peter.

“Why do I get a smaller bowl of soup than everyone else?” Kitty whispers to me.

“Because you’re the littlest.”

“Why don’t we get our own bowl of kimchi?”

“Because Aunt Carrie thinks we don’t like it because we’re not full Korean.”

“Go ask for some,” Kitty whispers.

So I do, but mainly because I want some too.

While the adults drink coffee, Margot, Haven, and I go up to Haven’s room and Kitty tags along. Usually she plays with the twins, but this time she picks up Aunt Carrie’s Yorkie, Smitty, and follows us upstairs like one of the girls.

Haven has indie rock band posters on her walls; most I’ve never heard of. She’s always rotating them out. There’s a new one, a letterpressed Belle and Sebastian. It looks like denim. “This is cool,” I say.

“I was just about to switch that one out,” Haven says. “You can have it if you want.” “That’s all right,” I tell her. I know she’s only offering it to feel above me, as is her way.

“I’ll take it,” Kitty says, and Haven’s face pulls into a frown for a second, but Kitty’s already peeling it off the wall. “Thanks, Haven.”

Margot and I look at each other and try not to smile. Haven’s never had much patience for Kitty, and the feeling is infinitely mutual.

“Margot, have you been to any shows since you’ve been in Scotland?” Haven asks. She plops down on her bed and opens up her laptop.

“Not really,” Margot says. “I’ve been so busy with classes.” Margot’s not much of a live-music person anyway. She’s looking at her phone; the skirt of her hanbok is fanned around her. She’s the only one of us Song girls still fully clothed. I’ve taken off my jacket, so I’m just in the slip and skirt, and Kitty’s taken off both the jacket and the skirt and is just wearing an undershirt and bloomers.

I sit down on the bed next to Haven so she can show me pictures from their vacation to Bermuda on Instagram. As she’s scrolling through her feed, a picture from the ski trip pops up. Haven’s in the Charlottesville Youth Orchestra, so she knows people from a lot of different schools, including mine.

I can’t help but sigh a little when I see it—a picture of a bunch of us on the bus the last morning. Peter has his arm around me, he’s whispering something in my ear. I wish I remembered what.

All surprised, Haven looks up and says, “Oh, hey, that’s you, Lara Jean. What’s this from?”

“The school ski trip.”

“Is that your boyfriend?” Haven asks me, and I can tell she’s impressed and trying not to show it.

I wish I could say yes. But—

Kitty scampers over to us and looks over our shoulders. “Yes, and he’s the hottest guy you’ve ever seen in your life, Haven.” She says it like a challenge. Margot, who was scrolling on her phone, looks up and giggles.

“Well, that’s not exactly true,” I hedge. I mean, he’s the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in my life, but I don’t know what kind of people Haven goes to school with.

“No, Kitty’s right, he’s hot,” Haven admits. “Like, how did you get him? No offense. I just thought you were the non-dating type.”

I frown. The non-dating type? What kind of type is that? A little mushroom who sits at home in a semidark room growing moss?

“Lara Jean dates plenty,” Margot says loyally.

I blush. I date never, Peter barely even counts, but I’m glad for the lie.

“What’s his name?” Haven asks me.

“Peter. Peter Kavinsky.” Even saying his name is a remembered pleasure, something to savor, like a piece of chocolate dissolving on my tongue.

“Ohh,” she says. “I thought he dated that pretty blond girl. What’s her name? Jenna? Weren’t you guys best friends when you were little?”

I feel a pang in my heart. “Her name is Genevieve. We used to be friends, not anymore. And she and Peter have been broken up for a while.”

“So then how long have you and Peter been together?” Haven asks me. She has a dubious look in her eye, like she 90 percent believes me but there’s still that niggling 10 percent that has doubt.

“We started hanging out in September.” At least that much is true. “We’re not together right now; we’re kind of on a break. . . . But I’m . . . optimistic.”

Kitty pokes my cheek, makes a dimple with her pinky. “You’re smiling,” she says, and she’s smiling too. She cuddles closer to me. “Make up with him today, okay? I want Peter back.”

“It’s not that simple,” I say, though maybe it could be?

“Sure it’s that simple. He still likes you a lot—just tell him you still like him, too, and boom. You’re back together and it’ll be like you never kicked him out of our house.”

Haven’s eyes go even wider. “Lara Jean, you broke up with him?”

“Geez, is it so hard to believe?” I narrow my eyes at her, and Haven opens and then wisely closes her mouth.

She takes another look at the picture of Peter. Then she gets up to go to the bathroom, and as she closes the door, she says, “All I can say is, if that boy was my boyfriend, I’d never let him go.”

My whole body tingles when she says those words.

I once had that exact same thought about Josh, and look at me now: It’s like a million years have gone by and he’s just a memory to me. I don’t want it to be like that with Peter. The farawayness of old feelings, like even when you try with all your might, you can barely make out his face when you close your eyes. No matter what, I always want to remember his face.

When it’s time to go, I’m putting on my coat and Peter’s letter falls out of my pocket. Margot picks it up. “Another letter?”

I blush. In a rush I say, “I haven’t figured out when I should give it to him, if I should leave it in his mailbox, or if I should actually mail it? Or face to face? Gogo, what do you think?”

“You should just talk to him,” Margot says. “Go right now. Daddy will drop you off. You go to his house, you give him the letter, and then you see what he says.”

My heart pumps wildly at the thought. Right now? Just go over there, without calling first, without a plan? “I don’t know,” I hedge. “I feel like I should think it over more.”

Margot opens her mouth to respond, but then Kitty comes up behind us and says, “Enough with the letters. Just go get him back.”

“Don’t let it be too late,” Margot says, and I know she’s not just talking about me and Peter.

I’ve been tiptoeing around the subject of Josh because of everything that’s happened with us. I mean, Margot’s forgiven me, but there’s no sense in rocking the boat. So these past couple of days I’ve stayed silently supportive and hoped that was enough. But Margot leaves for Scotland again in less than a week. The thought of her leaving without at least talking to Josh doesn’t feel right to me. We’ve all been friends for so long. I know Josh and I will mend things, because we’re neighbors, and that’s how it goes with people you see a lot. They mend, almost on their own. But not so for Margot and Josh, with her so far away. If they don’t talk now, the scar will only harden over time, it will calcify, and then they’ll be like strangers who never loved each other, which is the saddest thought of all. While Kitty’s putting on her boots, I whisper to Margot, “If I talk to Peter, you should talk to Josh. Don’t go back to Scotland and leave things like this with him.”

“We’ll see,” she says, but I see the hope that flares in her eyes, and it gives me hope too.

[writingjoycebyers]

Twice in her life — or: the last days he saw her smile

(Joyce Byers x Jim Hopper - observations of a friendship — a one shot)

warnings: a bit angsty, mentions sex (not explicit)

Reblogs, comments and feedback make me really happy. Let me know if you like it or what else you'd like to read. No one asked for this. My brain just came up with it. ✨❤️👀 There's a little bonus at the end and I gotta say it's a little off canon maybe. Have fun✨❤️

Enjoy the read...

Joyce Byers had been left twice in her life.

One might think it's a story about Lonnie. But no, it's most definetely not. Lonnie doesn't count. Lonnie is a side character. She left Lonnie, kicked him out all by herself after all those years that would have been wasted if they hadn't been for her boys. Her boys were her gift, and the only thing she'd ever thank Lonnie for, to some degree. He helped create them, but she had been the one to form them. She was the one she should thank for, really.

No, Joyce Byers had been left twice in her life, and it had been much more subtle events than her large fights with Lonnie, making her the main topic of the gossip all those midaged ladies were spreading at the grocery store, the doctor's office, the elementary school. You heard it? someone called the police to Joyce Byers house.

Joyce Byers had been left twice in her life, and nobody had really noticed, but her.

The first time, she had just turned nineteen. It was a rather warm day in September, and life in Hawkins couldn't be easier. High-school was done, the heat of the summer was still lingering in the air, and her dark hair was still damp from swimming in the lake as she rode around Hawkins with her best friend, Jim Hopper. Or... Was he her best friend still? She sometimes couldn't tell, couldn't put a label on it, when he was kissing her senseless in the back of his dad's old truck, parked in the dark at Lover's Lake, parked in the shade of a large oak tree — so that although it was the middle of the night, and no one would come there anyways, they'd have a bit of privacy, a roof of leaves covering their clumsy attempt on passing first base. Friends didn't do that, right?

They rode along the streets of Hawkins, and Joyce had her legs propped up on the dashboard of his car, puffing away on one of Hop‘s cigarettes. They tasted awful, but she did not mind as long as it were his. She felt connected to him through that cig. Tonight was the night. Tonight, she‘d tell him - tell him that she wanted to be more than friends, more than friends who make out occasionally. She wanted to finally look into his eyes and work up the courage to say Jim, I like you a little more than expected.

She looked at him from the side, his hands holding the steering wheel, his gaze fixed on the road as day turned into night with a wonderfully orange sky. Tonight was the night she‘d say it. Jim, you make my fucking heart race.

Jim looked beautiful to her, peaceful and innocent, like he didn‘t know that outside Hawkins there was a whole world — both good and bad — that was waiting for them and looming like a dark shadow at the same time. For him, this dark shadow could mean draft cards, his ticket off to fight a war he himself hadn‘t started, a conflict neither him nor Joyce would ever support or understand. She knew it could be his duty to leave one day, but she could still breathe every day his number didn‘t come up. As long as Hopper didn‘t have to take the trip, she wouldn‘t have to take hers either: Her trip down the road of loneliness, facing the fact that she couldn‘t afford college, being left behind with the mess she had to call her parents. She knew he wasn‘t all that innocent though, stealing booze from his dad‘s wine cellar, sharing the bottle with her shamelessly on a friday night. She knew he wasn‘t all that innocent when he pressed his body into hers, parked under that old oak tree, and she could feel his need and want press against her while he silently accepted her wish to explore second base, but not enter the third one just yet. He kissed her, and told her that it didn‘t matter how far he had gone with other girls - that all that mattered was her needs. That specific night under the oak tree though, Joyce had realised that the tingling feeling in her belly was growing more and more, and that she wouldn‘t be able to hold back for much longer. I‘ve never done it, Jim. Her whispers had been low and husky, and he had caressed her cheek as she had thought of the moment she had once caught him and Chrissy Carpenter in the back of the blonde cheerleader's car. I know, Joycie, don‘t worry about that, one day we‘ll take it slow, just give me a sign. Tonight would be the night she‘d give him said sign, she thought, as he took a turn into the road she lived on.

He pulled up into her driveway, slowing down to park in front of her house. Tonight was the night.Tonight he‘d tell her - tell her that she meant the world to him, but that he‘d have to go, and that he‘d understand if she didn‘t wait. Tell her that he‘d try to write, no matter what. Joyce, I should have told you sooner. He had kept it to himself for weeks, had just not found the words to break the news to her. The letter had been in his mailbox one rainy Monday afternoon, telling him to fight a war he neither could nor wanted to understand. A war that would send him to hell and leave Joyce in the small little bubble of a heaven that was Hawkins, Indiana. He was a coward, he couldn‘t tell her, not when they were riding in his car, or munching on a burger at the diner, not whilst smoking on her windowsill and especially not whilst kissing her in the dark, parked in the shadow of the old oak tree. He just couldn‘t, but tonight was the night. Joycie, I gotta go to Vietnam. My train leaves tomorrow.

Jim pulled the keys, and she looked at him. It was a ritual already: They’d spend their day at the lake, he‘d drive her home long after dark and as her parents were barely ever home anyways, he‘d follow her up to her room under the roof and they‘d sit by the window, smoking and kissing and exchanging little secrets. Jim loved Joyce, and Joyce loved Jim. They both knew it, they just never said a word.

The two friends, him, tall and blonde and her, small and brunette, took their usual spot by her large window. He was just about to light the last smoke from his pack, when Joyce reached for the cigarette, her hand grazing his as she took it, putting it aside. She kissed Jim with such force than that he nearly lost track of time and place. Was this still Hawkins, Indiana?

They kissed, and kissed ... and kissed some more, before she finally pulled away, taking his large hand into her small one. Their fingers were intertwined, her thumb drawing small circles to the side of his hand. Dark doe eyes met blue ones, and she breathed in once more before saying it: “Jim, I think... you‘re my best friend. But I also think... I‘m in love with you.“

Her words came out all in one breath, more a sighed whisper than a real sentence, but she had said them. Her pulse was pounding as she waited for him to respond. She had practiced the worst case already: That‘s okay, Jim, you do not have to love me back. I just hope we can stay friends?

But then his hand found her cheek and he pulled her closer, whispering an I love you, Joycie, right onto her lips as he found hers, grazing them softly. It felt like a gentle hello to Joyce, like this was the start of something new, although she had kissed him a hundred times before. She couldn‘t know it was a goodbye. Quickly, their kisses became more passionate, hungry and loving. Does he love me, she wants to know, how can she know if he loves her so?

That night, Jim Hopper made love to Joyce Horowitz — sweet, gentle and slow love. He touched her in a way he had never touched anyone before, softer, more tender - out of love and out guilt, his conscience forcing him to treat her even better, to worship her body to balance out the fact that he couldn‘t be true to her. His feelings for her were so strong that they held him back from breaking her heart - although it would in the end have to be broken, if he wanted that or not.

They shared that last cigarette afterwards, the one that had been waiting on the window sill. They‘d not share another one until almost twenty years later.

That night, Joyce Horowitz made love to Jim Hopper — sweet, gentle and slow love. She touched him in a way she had never touched anyone before, soft, tender and a bit shy as she explored his body and her own, further discovering the hot, tingling feeling in her lower belly as their clothes sprawled out on the floor and their bodies intertwined under her comforter. It‘s in his kiss.

Joyce fell asleep in Jim‘s arms, breathing softly as she felt safe and secure of the fact that he loved her too, that they were more than friends and that this was just the start.

Jim watched Joyce fall asleep in his arms, pulling her as close as he could once more. He wanted to remember this moment forever, capture every little detail for the nights to come in which he‘d sleep somewhere in the jungle of the war, with so many miles separating him from the girl he loved. He studied her face in the dim light of her room before falling asleep for a few hours himself.

When Joyce woke up the next morning, she already began to smile with her eyes still closed. It was a rainy Monday morning, she could hear the raindrops fall against her window in a steady rythm - It was soothing and she was ready to cuddle up again. She turned around, reaching for Jim, only to find the bed empty. She sat up, confused and still half asleep, stumbling across a note.

- Joy, I should have told you sooner. I won‘t forget our summer. My train leaves today, I‘m gone into training for Nam. Please don‘t come looking for me at the station. I’ll be gone already. I‘ll write. Jim. -

Joyce Horowitz had been left for the first time in her life, broken and flustered, unable to move or cry for hours and hours. She sat in bed, the note in her hands, and she cursed Jim, the world, the war and love - and even herself for falling for him. She didn‘t believe there was a feeling on earth that could be more horrible. Joyce Horowitz had been left for the first time in her life, and she had no clue there would be a second one.

......... 20 years later.........

Joyce looked at Jim one more time as he stood next to the machine, tears in their eyes, both his and hers.

I love you.

I love you.

Leaning to the side, she reached for the keys once more. She stopped breathing as she turned them, held her breath as lights blended her vision, time stopping around her and then... he was gone.

Joyce Byers had been left twice in her life.

_____________________________________

Thanks for reading everyone. I appreciate every kind of constructive feedback. Feel free to send asks or messages if you wanna talk about this little piece here, or if you have any other Joyce asks or prompts!

Bonus: a little mood board I made

Sources: there's a reference to the shoop shoop song. Pics are all from pinterest if anyone Needs the sources. I don't own anything related to ST or Winona Ryder. Credit goes to the respective owners and creates, I just wrote this little fic for fun.

[atruththatyoudeny]

Monthly Reads | June 2020

Another 28th, another fic rec for you. Here are all the fics I read and loved this month. Happy reading!

✸ Caves End | jacaranda_bloom | famous/not famous - slow burn - hurt/comfort - angst - minor injury - miscommunication - fluff - 40k When a recurring injury cuts short Harry’s time as the Captain of the English Football Team, he needs to rethink his career and his future. His best mate and manager, Niall, decides that what Harry really needs is a change of scenery, time to relax, and to get some perspective on his life. What Harry doesn’t expect is for them to end up in Australia, on a farm, with the most gorgeous man he’s ever laid eyes on. OR the one where Harry has lost his future, Louis has lost his past, but maybe together, they can find a way through the dark.

✸ Just for Tonight (I can be yours) | SadaVeniren | a/b/o - royalty - secret identity - secret realtionship - arranged marriage - mpreg - 42k Harry, prince of Cestrescir, has been betrothed to Ludvic, prince of Yorvik, since birth. He'd accepted a loveless marriage as his duty to his country, until an accident threw him in the path of a gentle alpha

✸ Falling in the Wrong Direction | FallingLikeThis | past character death - grief/mourning - homophobia - internalized homophobia - secrets - angst - fluff - hurt/comfort - emotional hurt/comfort - enemies to friends to lovers - 25k When Harry’s fiancé, Liam, passes away just before their wedding, he doesn’t know how to cope. As time goes on, Harry learns to heal, but is left living in the house his fiancé used to share with his best friends and Harry is uncovering a lot of secrets he didn’t know Liam had... while possibly falling for the one person who helped Liam keep them from him. Harry never quite got along with Louis, but maybe he’s the one person who can help Harry bridge the gap between the life he thought he would have and the one he is now living. A Catch and Release au

✸ we can only look behind | hereforlou | growing up together - childhood friends - slow burn - friends to lovers - friends with benefits - pining - internalized homophibia - Coming Out - 66k His mum said there was no getting an idea out of his head once it was stuck in there and Harry thought she was right. It wasn’t like he did it on purpose - his ideas were just really sticky. (Or, the one where Harry fixates through the years.)

✸ somewhere in between lightning | jassy117, nauticalleeds, shiningdistractionwrites | Love Island Au - exes to lovers - angst - pining - miscommunication - fluff - reality show - 99k As Louis took another bite, he thought back to how he had once believed that the hardest thing about being on Love Island would be Liam handling his social media. He had been wrong. It was Harry Styles, peeking over at Louis as he forked a pancake into his mouth, and gauging his reaction. It was having to quench the swelling of his heart, which felt simultaneously like hope and the breaking of a thousand pieces. --- A summer gone wrong (or very right) when, under Liam’s persuasion, Louis finds himself drunkenly applying for Love Island, and getting accepted. Oh, well. A summer spent on an island paradise couldn’t be all that bad, right? Imagine his surprise when Louis arrives in sunny Majorca to find that his first love and ex-boyfriend, Harry, is another contestant, about to capture the hearts of everyone in the villa. Most normal people don’t have to face their ex on an otherwise straight TV show. Most normal people don’t fall for their ex again in front of the whole nation, either. Too bad this whole situation isn’t normal.

✸ Dreams Once Remembered | Chelsea Frew (chelseafrew) | rape/non-con - kidnapping - mpreg - unplanned pregnancy - angst - emotional hurt/comfort therapy - child loss - kid fic - rape recovery - 78k 16-year-old Harry Styles is on the verge of a life-changing moment. He has been put in a band on The X-Factor and he and his new bandmates are about to get ready for a glorious adventure together. In one terrible moment, all of that is stolen from Harry. Kidnapped, Harry spends the next seven-and-a half-years in a twelve-by-twelve shed, suffering repeated assault at the hands of his captor. One of these assaults results in a daughter Harry has raised entirely on his own in the small space they call Room. Now that Darcy is five, Harry is determined that she be allowed to experience the real world, and he devises a plan for them to escape. Should they escape, there are many questions. Can Darcy adjust to the outside world? Can Harry start over? What kind of relationship, if any, can he have with the band that moved on without him? Even with success far from assured, Harry knows he has to take a chance. For him, and for his little girl.

✸ No Friends and An Empty Heart | Maelstrom_Roots | Fleabag AU - mentions of suicide - attempted sexual assault - therapy - sex addicition - angst - grief/mourning - 36k When Louis Tomlinson gets an invitation for dinner with the family he's been estranged from for a year, he has only one goal: to get his sister to talk to him again. But when an unexpected guest in the form of a hot priest is also at the dinner table, Louis may have to accept that the universe has other plans for him. A Fleabag Season 2 AU featuring Fleabag Louis Tomlinson and Hot Priest Harry Styles.

✸ Still the One | dandelionfairies | kid fic - past cheating - post-divorce - 54k Harry was 15 when he met Louis, 17 when they made love for the first time, 19 when they got engaged and married. One would think he has a perfect life, right? It’s what he thought. He was 21 when he learned that Louis had an affair. It was only one time. That’s what Louis had told him. Harry tried to forgive him. He tried to move on from that horrible moment, but he couldn’t. It was his 22nd birthday when he signed the divorce papers, leaving England behind. After finding himself living in a small town in Nebraska, Harry learns to live on his own. He becomes a preschool teacher at the local school and spends his free time continuing his own painting. He’s even been lucky enough to sell a few pieces. He’s 25 when his life is turned upside down once again by the single father who has moved into the house on the property he just happens to park his trailer.

✸ You Left all your Dreams on the Threshing Floor | LadyLondonderry | fashion - journalism - bullying - past sexual assault - 27k Marcel will go home after work and he’ll clean his vest and he’ll bleach his shirt and tomorrow will be a new day. He’s got other things that he can spend his time focusing on. How to fit in a third quote onto the cover of the fall issue of Mod Mag without covering any details in the model’s face, for instance. Maybe he’ll switch to gluten-free banana bread for the meeting on Friday. He knows some co-workers likes to eat gluten free, at least. Someone will have to accept his friendship advances eventually. They’ll have to. Right? - Louis Tomlinson gets a job at Mod Magazine. He’s quickly drawn to the one person in the office who won’t give him (or anyone) the time of day; Marcel Styles, Senior Layout Editor.

✸ Shadows Come With The Pain That You're Running From (Love Was Something You've Never Heard Enough) | Anonymous | a/b/o - emotional hurt/comfort - angst - fluff - pack dynamics - mutual pining - secrets - slow burn - 51k “Thanks, Ni, I guess I needed to hear that,” Harry sighed and wrapped his own arms around Niall and squeezed him tightly not caring if Liam would be mad. He missed Niall so much. “Does it really come as a surprise to you that I’m right? Shaking my head, Haz. You should know me better,” the brunette teased. Harry giggled again. “You know Hazza, you really are so different to all the other alphas out there. You’re soft, caring, cuddly and sweet and those damn dimples. So freaking pretty, it’s almost annoying. I would hate you if you weren’t my best friend. You’d really be a brilliant omega. Nature really did a number here,” Niall mumbled. It was his turn to smash his nose into Harry’s neck and Harry was extremely thankful for that because he wasn’t sure he had his facial expression in check at all. Or a Band AU in which Harry isn't allowed to be who he really is and the North American Tour might bring some unexpected truths into the web of lies and also a bit of heat that has very little to do with the summer in the US.

✸ Confessions of a Fabricated Alpha | Anonymous | a/b/o - non-traditional a/b/o - secret identity - famous/not famous - fake/pretend relationship - rape/non-con - public humiliation - anxiety - depression - sex work - 18k Hearing it now almost made Harry hang up the phone, but he sighed and pressed one to be connected to one of their alpha operators. He’d already committed to this low point in his life and hanging up meant he couldn’t wallow in it and he was in a wallowing mood. “You are being connected to alpha operator number forty-four. Rogue will be with you shortly.” The name was said in a different voice like a voice mailbox someone might have on their office phone. It made him snort out a laugh at how stupid it all was. It felt like a budget sex line. or famous alpha Harry Styles has a secret and paying an alpha to roleplay a relationship with him over the phone is the only way he can be himself.

✸ Iron Hearts, Fire Souls | hopelesswriter | a/b/o - non-traditional a/b/o - alpha/alpha - co-workers - fluff - 26k "Lou..." “I know, Harry! I know what you’ll say, we can’t right? We can’t help each other’s needs? We can’t be what the other needs? But fuck, what about what we want?! And I say we because you’ve been saying yes to all of our dates and you've been flirting back all this time and-“ He took a deep breath. “And there is nothing that I want more right now than to kiss you.” Or the one where Harry and Louis are two single and unmated Lawyer Alphas that have to share an office and even though they shouldn't be that attracted to each other's scents, it sure isn't a big deal, right? I mean, what could go wrong?

✸ last blues for bloody knuckles | creamcoffeelou | a/b/o - strangers to lovers to strangers to lovers - mob au - religious themes - pregnancy - angst - 34k “Hi, love,” A too-familiar voice greeted him from the other side of the door. He had a cigarette dangling from his lips that he brought between two fingers as his eyes raked over Louis. All Louis could do was stare, wide-eyed at the alpha that he’d left behind so many years ago. “Harry?” His voice felt far away, like it wasn’t him that was speaking. On the other side of the door stood the one man he never thought he’d see again, and maybe the only man he never wanted to see again. A few steps behind him stood Liam and someone else he didn’t recognize, with guns tucked into their front pockets. “I need you to come with me.” OR Styles was a name everyone knew. It had evolved into something of a fairy tale, a far away problem that normal people didn’t have to deal with. Louis never thought he’d find himself falling in love with him. When he finds himself pregnant with Harry’s child, he knows he has to leave the life, and Harry, behind. For her sake. He never expected Harry to show back up on his doorstep five years later. A mob au.

✸ It Feels Different When You’re With Me | Rearviewdreamer | sign language - slow burn - 45k Harry fell in love with sign language as a kid. He never imagined the first love of his life would lead him straight to his second.

✸ let me carry your weight | soldouthaz | trainer Harry - insecure Louis - pining - smut [check tags for specific smut tags] - 28k louis is fresh out of a bad relationship with someone who made him feel awful about how he looked. on his journey to better himself, he meets harry - the ridiculously attractive and fit personal trainer.

[restlessmaknae]

still disastrous

Gu Dasom thought that nothing was more disastrous than going on a holiday with her best friend - Namjoon. She was wrong. Living with him - now best friend turned boyfriend - was way more disastrous.

♦ Characters: boyfriend!Namjoon x girlfriend!OC (Gu Dasom)

♦ Genre: comedy, fluff, slice of life, established relationship (it’s all sfw)

♦ Words: 4.5k

♦ Warning: -

♦ A/N: This is a sequel to my story called Disastrous which is about the first holiday Namjoon and Dasom spend together on their own (and it turns out to be disastrous, needless to say), but the two stories can be read separately, so don’t worry if you haven’t read it! 💖💖💖

Gu Dasom learned to appreciate the differences they shared with Namjoon, and actually, if she thought about it, there was some beauty about having so many unexpected events to happen in her life. Beside Namjoon, she could never get bored.

On the other hand, she always needed to be alert because from one moment to another, something could happen and Namjoon ended up breaking a bone or walking into a door frame or such mishaps. He was so (cutely) clumsy, but it resulted in her always worrying about him because she could never know when the next disaster would take place.

Growing up beside each other and spending enough time together as best friends had taught her a lot about him and about the ways one could handle such situations, but after they had officially become a couple, she had learned even more about him. Not to mention when they had moved together after graduating university and finding jobs for themselves because that had been when things had started going even more off track than usual.

The first little bits about living together came when she realized that they had a very different definition about placing things, and if she put something on the glass table in the living room, it would be somewhere on a shelf in their bedroom. Namjoon kept putting things in different places, and she needed to remind him so many times that the objects had certain places if they wanted to find them in a hurry, and even though it took some time, he actually listened to her, and took her words seriously.

Then, the next one was anything regarding grocery shopping and just running out of basic necessities such as toilet paper and not realizing that those were the last ones they were using, ending up in not only just one uncomfortable situation. Not to mention food and leftovers going bad because they didn’t remember when they had left them in the fridge in the first place or who had actually left it there. Or Namjoon not letting her know when he had used up something and didn’t buy another one instead.

So these were the first obvious difficulties they faced in the first few weeks, then came - of course - the things that neither of them could do or figure out on their own or with the help of articles online such as changing light bulbs. Maybe it wasn’t rocket science, but Namjoon almost fell off the chair while trying to reach the light bulb in question, and she couldn’t get it out of its frame either.

As talkative as she was, when a new neighbour moved in next door and they started chattering about life, the light bulb incident came up, and this was how their handsome brand new neighbour - Kim Seokjin - ended up in their living room, helping with the light bulb because he insisted that he would do so in exchange for the warm welcome (basically just the two of them introducing themselves with a box of cookies, nothing more).

However, there was one person who didn’t appreciate his presence as much as Dasom did so.

“I still don’t get why we couldn’t just call someone else,” Namjoon whispered into her ears as they were watching over Jin getting on the chair.

“Should I remind you that you weren’t willing to call someone else?” Dasom raised an eyebrow challengingly, exchanging a glance with her boyfriend who looked as defeated as one could be in such a situation. “Besides, he offered his help. It would have been rude if we declined him,” she pointed out, not getting why her boyfriend was so worked up. She might have been referring to Jin as the cute neighbour with an even cuter dog, but it was true, and he shouldn’t have been too hung up on it.

“Okay. I’ll show you how to do it, just watch!” Jin prompted them to walk closer to him as he carefully twisted the bulb counter clockwise because he explained that it was the safer way since the socket had a screw fitting. It seemed so easy when he did so, so Dasom asked about little tricks, and he was willing to answer her questions patiently and all with a kind smile.

Her whole face lit up when the new bulb was implemented and when they turned it on, the light indeed filled the room.

“Thank god! We’ll remember how to do it next time, thank you, really!” Dasom explained joyfully as she directed a beaming smile at their neighbour who just shrugged his shoulders, insisting that he didn’t do anything much, just what a good neighbour would do. Besides, he had had similar struggles in the past, so it was all good.

“Thanks, man. We really won’t keep you up any longer,” Namjoon added in a friendly manner, yet she could feel the impatient edge to his words, and even if she wanted to hide her disappointment, she merely gave her boyfriend a slight smack in the chest.

“Oh, you aren’t keeping me up.” Jin dismissed such assumptions, smiling from ear to ear which reassured Dasom that he didn’t detect or didn’t want to detect the jealousy behind her boyfriend’s words.

So she offered him a glass from the jug of tropical lemonade she had made beforehand, and the young man took it gladly, complimenting the taste for its balanced combination of sweet and savory.

“He doesn’t know when to go, I see,” Namjoon mumbled under his nose so that only she could hear it, but she heard it nevertheless, so she lightly stepped on his left foot, giving him a glare and turning back to Jin with a brighter version of her smile.

Their neighbour chuckled to himself, drinking the glass of lemonade gulp by gulp while keeping his eyes on the couple much to Namjoon’s dismay who impatiently tapped on his chin, a habit that he always displayed whenever he was nervous. Dasom had no idea what to do about his jealous boyfriend when he shouldn’t have been jealous in the first place, but it seemed like Jin caught on their little act, and excused himself to go back to his flat after drinking down the whole glass.

As soon as he left, she was quick to turn around and face her boyfriend.

“What was that about? Are you really going to keep on acting like this around Jin?” She furrowed her eyebrows, hands on her hips. She didn’t want to look intimidating, but she really didn’t know why Namjoon had made such a fuss over literally nothing.

“Well, he seems like a better boyfriend than I am, and yeah, I got a bit jealous, you know. He even has a dog!” Namjoon stated a bit ashamedly, but he also seemed a bit dramatic that usually didn’t work on her given his clumsy self, but she couldn’t help but pout hearing his words.

“Yah! You should never think that I would choose anyone over you! You are my boyfriend, and you have your own strengths and weaknesses, but you are Kim Namjoon, and that’s exactly why you are the perfect boyfriend to me!” Dasom confessed straightforwardly, a bit of frustration lacing her words.

Yet, at least her boyfriend seemed to realize that she was indeed being honest, and that she didn’t think that Jin was anything more than a cute neighbour.

“O-okay,” Namjoon stuttered a bit, his cheeks tinted burgundy by the nervousness that was going through him. He was clearly ashamed that he had ever thought about something else, but Dasom merely shook her head with a knowing smile and smacked him in the chest when she passed by him.

Gosh, what a way to see Namjoon jealous! Thank god communication worked well between the two of them.

Usually, household chores were divided up between the two of them, so that either of them could have their own responsibilities and duties, and the workload wouldn’t be unbalanced. That meant cooking for Dasom while washing the dishes for Namjoon (because he was usually a disaster in the kitchen, and she didn’t want him to cut his hands either with a knife or the edge of a mere can because he had already done so, and it hadn’t been a nice sight), cleaning the rooms including the bathroom and the toilet for her while taking out the rubbish, checking the mailbox and taking care of the recycling for Namjoon. Once he had been very eager to take on ironing the clothes, but after burning a hole into one of her favourite blouses, she had been quick to tell him to take up another task instead of ironing.

It was also her who did the washing up, and it had seemed to work just fine until she once asked her boyfriend to take care of laundry instead of her while she would be helping out her mother at her workplace.

Needless to say, when she got home and looked at the pile of clothes, she didn’t expect to see her plain white shirt in a stronger shade of pink.

“Oh my god, Namjoon! Have you washed all of the clothes together?” Dasom shrieked with her mouth slightly agape, her eyes widening the more clothes she looked at. Her grey sweatpants now tinted a bit blue, her black and white socks in yellow, her otherwise orange shirt in a burgundy shade… Everything but the black clothes had seemed to be reborn in whole new colours.

“Well…” Namjoon gulped, looking from one shirt to another, scratching the back of his neck. “You didn’t tell me to separate them, so I’ve thought that I could put them into the laundry machine together,” he reasoned, letting out a nervous laughter seeing her disapproving glance.

Dasom needed a moment to gather her patience, counting up to a few seconds before she was ready to ask him another question. He was right about not telling him beforehand, but it was because she had been sure that it was common sense to wash the lighter and darker colours with two different programmes. Not to mention the fact that they were always separated before doing the laundry, so all he had needed to do was to put the content of one basket into the machine, and then the other. One after another.

“Then why do you think we put our clothes into two different laundry baskets in the first place?” Dasom inquired with a raise of her eyebrows, eyeing the boy for his answer. He was usually a very intelligent and sensible guy, so she had assumed that he would be smart enough to figure it out. Or to ask or look things up on the internet if he hadn’t even seen his mother doing the laundry, not even once.

Namjoon looked back at her with a bit of an ‘oops’ leaving his ever so tender lips, then he let out a nervous chuckle.

“Actually, I have never thought about it. I’ve just thought it was a way to tell how many dark and light coloured clothes we wore during the week,” he admitted semi-guilty and hearing that, she felt like all her frustration was replaced by second-hand embarrassment.

“You really thought so?” Dasom asked back, amusement lacing her voice, and when he nodded, she bursted into laughter, giggling to herself for a solid minute while Namjoon tried to tell her that it wasn’t that funny, he really didn’t think that much of it, but she merely threw a now green-turned-pink shirt at him and continued laughing.

Gosh, what a way to make it seem like she had a whole new wardrobe of clothes!

Namjoon was really bad in the kitchen, and both of them knew that perfectly well. It had always been that way, and even his mother had tried to keep him away from the kitchen for obvious reasons.

However, he still made an attempt to cook for Dasom when their fourth anniversary as a couple arrived and the first one they could share in their new home, so he really wanted to try his best. 

He followed the recipes as much as he could, though expressions like a pinch of salt or ‘add pepper to your liking’ and a handful of veggies confused the hell out of him because weren’t recipes supposed to apply to everyone? Then, why did they say such things? A handful was different for everyone, a pinch could be a bigger portion or a smaller one, so it really did confuse him a lot. Not to mention when he tossed the veggies into the pan, and the recipe called for caramelized ones by the end, but he couldn’t tell the difference between caramelized ones and burnt ones, so he ended up with either too raw or too burnt pieces.

The rice was thankfully edible and his mother’s homemade kimchi could save the day because it had been previously prepared, he only needed to put it into a bowl and present it, but even his attempt at a brownie turned into a stone-hard and dry mass of chocolate and flour, not properly mixed well. Though at least his homemade cocktail turned out to be good, or at least she said so.

“I mean, I really appreciate your efforts, you know,” Dasom spoke up after having a taste from the veggie stir fry, trying to keep her laughter to herself.

“I’ve really tried my best. The recipe said it was supposed to be quick and easy, but I already got stuck peeling the carrots,” Namjoon huffed as he looked at the mess on his plate. Even he had to admit that this wasn’t supposed to look like that. He couldn’t even call it a meal, how could she still put it into her mouth, munching on it still?

“I can see your efforts, really. Besides, it’s not that bad. There are parts that aren’t burnt, and raw veggies are just as good as cooked ones. They are actually said to be healthier than cooked ones,” she blurted out matter-of-factly, hoping that she could soothe her boyfriend’s nerves a bit, but he looked as under the weather as one could be after they had failed a big test or they had been told horrible news.

She pouted, her heart breaking at the sight of his expression, reaching out for his hands, holding it tight and squeezing it once and then twice, waiting for him to look her in the eye. When he did so, she gifted him with a soft smile, one that was genuine and bright, a ray of sunshine lightening up the meadow of hopelessness. He slowly - like the sunflower turning to the sun - reciprocated her smile, feeling her sincerity.

“Look, it’s already big enough of a gift to me that you are in my life. Not to mention the fact that you’ve really tried your best to step out of your comfort zone and do something for our anniversary that you normally wouldn’t do. So please, don’t feel bad! I really, really appreciate that you’ve decided to cook for me, and it’s really not as inedible as you think so,” she reasoned gently, pinching his cheeks with her free hand that wasn’t holding onto his much larger hands that still fitted to hers like a missing puzzle piece.

“What did I do to get a girlfriend like you?” he mused out loud with a much more reassured tone and a light chuckle.

“Well, you’ve been there for me ever since we were 6 years old, and technically, you needed to sprain your right wrist for me to get mad at you, so that you can shut me up with a kiss, and so that I would confess to you,” she responded with a playful glint in her eyes, though thinking back to their first holiday together - just the two of them, still as best friends - was pretty funny. Such a disastrous holiday, but they might not have been here today if it hadn’t been for that disastrous holiday.

“We can say so,” Namjoon agreed nostalgically, and placed a soft kiss on her forehead before turning back to his own plate of food. Well, if Dasom could eat it, he had to do so.

What people can do when it comes to love...

Luckily, both of them were quite healthy, so apart from runny noses or a few worse winter days, there weren’t a lot of times they needed to ask for a sick leave or pack up on medication to cure themselves from something. So when it came to Dasom’s first sickness that was more than a runny nose, Namjoon was all over the place as expected.

It started with her having a horrible night, tossing and turning in bed while having a stomach ache that she thought would signal the beginning of her period. However, that stomach ache didn’t go away in the morning either, and it was accompanied by diarrhea, cold shivers frequently going through her body and a very unpleasant fever later on. Needless to say, she didn’t have an appetite either even though she knew she would need the energy, but she didn’t feel like she could force down anything.

Namjoon was all panicky in the morning, checking her symptoms on the internet, his mind spinning with more and more horrible scenarios, the online articles referring to life-threatening diseases and serious conditions, making him wonder if something more could be behind her being sick.

Even when they were waiting outside of the GP’s ward, Namjoon couldn’t stop biting his lower lip, his legs shaking just as restlessly as his eyes were darting between the different parts of the room as if something could jump on them.

“Namjoon, don’t worry that much! It’s probably nothing serious,” Dasom tried to reassure him with a faint smile, hoping that her voice and words could bring him back to reality. He did look at her, breaking into a somewhat ashamed smile, but the seed of uncertainty had been planted in his jet-black orbs and it hadn’t yet left. It didn’t help either that she wasn’t feeling all too well, but she was far from being on her deathbed, that was for sure.

As empathetic as her boyfriend could be, he really looked like he was the one who was suffering, and he wouldn’t have let her go to the doctor alone either. He just felt like he needed to be there with her, no matter what they say, and even though Dasom had tried to talk him out of it, he wouldn’t budge. Him and his persistence… Just another reason she loved him so much.

“It’s because of all those articles online. I shouldn’t have searched for them in the first place,” he blurted out honestly, his regret evident in his slumped shoulders and hesitant expression.

“They always state the worst online,” Dasom pointed out knowing all too well that she had fallen into this trap a few times before. “The doctor will be able to say something more anyway,” she reasoned gently, exchanging a knowing glance with him. He must have known the same, but his worryful personality got the worst out of him.

Thankfully, there was really nothing serious going on with her, she had just come down with something, but Namjoon took it upon himself to watch over her for the rest of the day, making her the kind of soup the doctor had recommended, buying her some herbal tea that was also stated to help with her condition, making sure she took her medication and sitting by her side, looking at her as if she could break down in any minute.

“Don’t stare at me like that! I’m doing better,” Dasom called him out when they were watching a movie together, her sipping on her herbal tea and Namjoon glancing in her direction instead of focusing on the movie.

When her words reached him, he looked away, ashamed. He really felt like he had been caught even though he didn’t even realize what he was doing. It felt like an instinct to watch out for anything that might signal her condition worsening.

“I’m just worried,” he admitted, scratching his nape out of uneasiness.

“I can see that,” Dasom agreed with a knowing smile, taking another sip from her tea before continuing. “I would give you a kiss to reassure you, but that wouldn’t be ideal right now,” she added, letting out a giggle.

Even though she didn’t intend to make him laugh with such a statement, Namjoon’s shoulders immediately easened, and he let out a wholehearted laughter. It seemed like her remark helped him to let go of his anxiety a bit.

“I’ll take your word for it when you get better,” he warned playfully, but it didn’t really feel like a warning. If anything, it was the best kind of warning.

So she merely shrugged her shoulders, a lopsided smile hiding in the corner of her lips. She turned back to the laptop, Namjoon following her example, and finally, it seemed like he believed her. Though it couldn’t stop him from checking on her every 10 minutes once she drifted off to sleep and to ask her every now and then if she was really okay after she had recovered and went back to work. She had never doubted, but she could always see it for herself time and time again that Namjoon really did care for her and loved her despite everything.

Christmas had always been an interesting time together. Not to say that it hadn’t been fun. It had been just that… Interesting. Beside someone like Namjoon, things had sometimes gotten out of control, not to mention when they were spending this time with friends or family.

Namjoon’s friends were characteristic one by one and his family was lovely, but Dasom also had her best friend - Hyerim - who couldn’t shut up around anyone really, and she liked to have the time to herself to be as much of a storyteller as one could be. It usually meant that the time with her turned out to be an hour-long session of her reminiscing about funny and awkward stories about her high school and childhood days. They had already heard most of them, but it was almost impossible to make her stop while she was so enthusiastically talking about something, so they just let her be.

Of course, each one of their friends were amazing and supportive and understanding in their own ways, but when they got to meet all of them during Christmas and New Year, it seemed like some kind of a comedy skit. Not to mention the gifts they had usually received from them ranging from best boyfriend and best girlfriend mugs from Hyerim to handmade candles from Jungkook and pillows printed with each other’s faces from Taehyung. Their parents had usually gifted them with coupons for concerts or some kind of classes - needless to say, the pottery one hadn’t turned out to be very successful in the end and even though the Lotte World tickets had been used, to save themselves from further inconveniences, they had rather not sat on anything too scary or high or fast, so they had stuck with entertainment opportunities for little kids and live fairytale performances -, but at least they had chosen something that would mean that they could spend more time together.

This year, Christmas started with their brand new neighbour - Jin - coming over with the special festive season meals he had made (and he had made a lot even though he was living on his own) much to Namjoon’s dismay, but it was really kind of the young man to do so, and it was free food, so Namjoon didn’t want to protest either. Not to mention that the more he got to know their new neighbour, the less hostile he seemed, thus they actually got out of this time better than they would have expected.

Then, the time to themselves meant decorating the Christmas tree that looked like something out of a child’s drawing yet again, wrapping gifts that yet again resulted in Namjoon cutting his fingers with the scissors and having glue stuck on his hands, trying to wash it off fervently. Dasom made less fancy but still delicious treats for them and she even prepared the cake with colourful candles, but they almost managed to burn down the Christmas tree with its candles, so it was better to just eat them on their own without having to decorate the dessert even further.

“Gosh, it wouldn’t have been us if we hadn’t had such calamities,” Dasom mused out loud while she was digging into the chocolate sponge cake, smiling in a childish way, thinking back to all those Christmases they had spent together. Not only as a couple but also as best friends back in the days. With braces and questionable fashion choices. With wishes for their first very own laptop or a kpop album by a beloved boy band crush of theirs. With stuffing their mouths with food until they had gotten sick of the meals. With carefree laughter, eye smiles and bittersweet nostalgia.

Namjoon displayed the same kind of smile she did so, his eyes telling hundreds of tales of the past and sparkling with hopes for the future. 

“At least, you can’t say that you are getting bored of me. Something always happens when we are together,” he pointed out with a lopsided grin, making her chuckle. Gosh, she really couldn’t disagree with him!

“If I were cheesy, I would say that I wouldn’t be able to get bored of you…”

“But?” Namjoon raised an expectant eyebrow in question, stopping the fork in his hands halfway between his plate and his mouth. Sometimes he was so innocently oblivious. As if she could ever doubt his love or care or regret the time they had spent together.

This time was no different, and Dasom didn’t have the heart to tease him when he looked at her with such wide puppy eyes.

“Even if I weren’t cheesy, I would say the same,” she admitted as she pinched his cheeks, earning a smile from him that was like the sun rising on the horizon; just as beaming, bright and hopeful.

She hoped that them and those precious smiles and exchanged glances would stay the same no matter how many more mishaps they would share and no matter how disastrous life would be beside the love of her life.

[ataraxius]

@16.0300-0010 Life at the Hahnestery

br`16.0300-0010 #820  Life at the Hahnestery  

Dear Marla,

In those days I was really careful to hide all of my rubbering activities. When you live in the same house with someone, the chance of being discovered becomes significant — there is an increased probability that some unexpected incident might let the cat out of the bag.  I seldom put latex on much before 10 or 11pm when I was quite sure that Javin was very much asleep in his bedroom upstairs. (I could sometimes hear him snoring.) I would set two alarm clocks to get me up early to remove it and take my shower long before Javin awoke at around 7am. Not only did I desperately need this job, the longer I stayed at the Hahnastery, the more I began to really like it. I did not want to jeopardize that by having my new employer discover that I was a pervert.

In addition, Javin was turning out to be a decent person to work for.  He expected me to manage the house as if it was my own. When I asked him, for example, if I should clean the downstairs bathroom, his stock answer would always something like, “You’re the housekeeper. If this were your house, what would you do?” and leave it at that. He trusted my judgment and sense of responsibility to take care of whatever I thought needed doing. Mostly, he just wanted meals and laundry, and, even then, he was pretty laid back. (He always seemed to be very complimentary about the food I cooked for him, as well.) About the only specific things he might ask me to do now and then was to help him with some special project, such as making repairs to one of the sheds or clearing junk out of the basement. Once in a while he’d ask me take Woof with me in the truck to Beaverville to get some beer or something.  He’d often tell me that he was very satisfied with my work. He was not demanding at all.

Over the next few weeks I gradually learned how to manage Javin’s household as I became familiar with it’s requirements, rhythms and routines. I began to become increasingly adept at the fine art of shopping and menu planning a week in advance. The nearest super market was 40 miles away — if I didn’t have what I needed, I’d have to wait until the following Thursday when we made our trek into Thorpton. Adding things we needed to the weekly shopping list on the refrigerator became a matter of habit as well as necessity.  

I discovered a small trove of cook books in the library. Some were quite old. Many had words like “really good’ or “too complex’ written in pencil next to various recipes by some past member of the Hahn family. I learned about his favorite foods. As I really like to explore new foods, I suggested that I try 2-3 new recipes he had never had before each week, which he gladly agreed to - he seemed to like just about everything. Occasionally, when I asked him about his preferences on how I should do some housekeeping task, he’d often just shrug his shoulders and reply that I should simply do however I would do in my own house. It became clear that he was fairly relaxed about housekeeping in general and was willing to trust my judgment.  

After lunch I would put the saddle on Sarah and we would walk to the mailbox to fetch the mail. Then I would ride her to the generator grating in the stream above the waterfall to clean. (I’ll tell you more about that later in Cleaning the Grating  (190802-1157.04.br§)). Sarah and I became good friends. Sometimes in the afternoon I would take a book out to her stall or paddock and read for a while, sometimes out loud. I think she appreciated the company. Javin was right; she really was a gentle old soul.

Overall, the demands of the job were very light duty. As he had predicted when he hired me, I seldom worked much past mid-morning except for a brief flurry of activity to get dinner ready.  Javin did not want to be disturbed during the day because it interfered with his writing or the other things he worked on. Interruptions often made him lose his momentum. So, I tried not to bother him then. Our social time together began at dinner when I took my apron off.

Back when I was still with Frank, I had a similar housekeeping routine. Then too, I’d spend my mornings doing the housework and had the afternoons to “play”. I’d often go out and poked about in the shops or, maybe, went to a matinee movie by myself. Some times I would wear that bodysuit with the dildoes under my street clothes.  I have always been a ‘loner”.  I never seemed to have any close friends — most of the relationships I did have were rather superficial.

I had lots of time to myself.

During the day I pretty much had the first floor of the house to myself. Javin would be upstairs in his office most of the day working at his computer. At Noon, he came downstairs and we would have a  quick lunch together. Then he’d go back to work. I tried to avoid interrupting him at his work. Of course, if I encountered some ‘domestic’ problem or needed to know where something was, I’d have to interrupt Mr._Hahn but he never seemed annoyed. Often the problem could be resolved with a quick inquiry over the intercom.

Javin would generally quit work at around 5pm and come down to his library to smoke a joint and have a cocktail while I finished cooking dinner. I could often see that he was often exhausted by then — I think he worked pretty hard. Then, at six o’clock, I would take my apron off and we would sit down to dinner and drop our “professional” identities to become Javin and Carlee again.

I quickly settled into a routine.  I’d put on my apron as I walked out of my apartment into the main house in the morning. I was On Duty now. First on the list was to make breakfast for Javin.  Then he would head upstairs to his office to work and I’d wash the dishes and start in on the myriad other chores. At first there was a lot to do because Javin had not been very diligent in cleaning during the months before I arrived. But, over time, I eventually got all of the rooms picked up, dusted and vacuumed.  

At first I thought the isolation of the place would get to me. However, as the days turned into months, I was finding that, more and more, I really liked being away from the rest of the world. There was such profound peace, quiet and beauty here. It grew into my soul. Perhaps you remember from our days in the dorm together that I had chosen Thoreau as the topic of several of the papers I had written for various classes. I never dreamed that his sentence in Walden, “my own mind is my primary source of entertainment, which never ceases to be novel” would ring so true to my new life at the Hahnastery. You might say that my deep introversion “blossomed” in ways and depth that I never expected. The deeper I went “within”, the more interesting stuff I found there which made me want to go even deeper. It “recharged my batteries”. I was becoming profoundly introverted.

It’s surprising how many people do not understand introversion.  Outgoing, extroverted folks often think of us as “anti-social” if we do not want to be with people all the time. They frequently feel that it is unhealthy to want to be alone. Some confuse it with shyness or even zenophobia. They think that there is something wrong with seeking solitude.  Extroverted people, almost by definition, look outward to other as the main source of their personal energy whereas the more introverted we are, the more we feel drained by social situations and, instead, look inward as a the main source of our vitality. Of course, everyone falls somewhere on a scale between the two. I have found that as I have grown older now, I have swung quite heavily toward  introverted side of that scale.  Neither side is right or wrong. It’s just how we are wired. They are personality traits, not

Javin often commented that the isolation of the Hahnastery continually transformed the people who lived there into “nunks”. That was his non-gender specific term for nun + monk. This also gave increased meaning to the reason why the seemingly ludicrous term “Hahnastery” had stuck and was now part of the everyday vocabulary of the people who lived there.

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #406

“turned on all the lights, the tv, and the radio  /  still, i can’t escape the ghost of you”

Have you ever had an ulcer? No. Do you have any rare medical conditions? I believe AvPD is considered to be a rare mental disorder. Do you have to carry an epi pen? No. What color is your mailbox? I think it's black. I don't pay attention. Would you ever want a job working with animals? I'd love to. The thing is, without a degree in something, my duties working with animals would almost certainly involve cleaning up after them, which I am WAY too squeamish with fecal matter and vomit to do. It's extremely embarrassing, but I've never even been able to clean up after my own pets if they ever had an accident or got sick. I obviously couldn't do it with random animals. Did you have a good high school experience? It's... so odd, retrospecting on high school. In some ways, it was the best time of my life because of my memories with my friends and especially Jason, but at the time, I absolutely loathed it and was horribly depressed. But at least I saw a future for myself. I took better care of myself, all that stuff... That Brittany would be fucking mortified to get a glimpse at who she becomes. Have you ever watched any Monty Python movies? Which one is your favourite? I know I've seen some of at least one. Would you ever get a "below the belt" piercing? Nah. If a couple is married, do you think there should be any legal punishment if one person cheats? No...? Like don't get me wrong at all, I am firmly against cheating under any circumstance, but for there to be legal retribution seems extreme. What is the greatest source of anxiety for you? My future. Are there any hallucinogenic drugs you’d like to try? Nah man. What made you choose your current job? I'm unemployed. Do you feel uncomfortable on the dance floor? Or are you confident with you dancing abilities? Oh hunny, you won't see me on the dance floor. Unless MAYBE if the Cha-Cha Slide comes on, or the Cupid Shuffle. That's as skilled as I get, haha. Is it exciting to you to imagine having an affair with a teacher? ... No??????????? It's fucking creepy. Adultery isn't exciting. Do you like your smile? No. I absolutely look high when I smile. What is something silly that you believed to be true when you were a child? That I could invoke the traits of any animal, which I just referred to as my "animal powers." Like for example, if I "called upon" a kangaroo, I could jump higher. I was a weird fucking kid. Have you ever been in a relationship with someone you completely connected with on a mental/emotional level, but did not find physically attractive in any way? Was physical intimacy a problem? How did it work out? I was never really physically attracted to Girt, but it was never a big deal to me. I cared way more about his personality and how much he cared about me. We were never really "intimate," per se, we just would give each other a simple peck. It didn't work out, but not at all because of physical things. He was just too much of a brother to me. What classic or cult movie have you never seen and have no desire to? Hm. I know there's some, but I'm blanking. Does The Human Centipede count here? Like everyone knows about it, so I would assume it does. I have ZERO desire to see a second of that repulsive movie. Have you ever taken a real liking to a band/singer you never ever....ever thought you'd enjoy? Maybe Melanie Martinez? Her voice is so cutesy, as are some of her songs, but I really enjoy how dark her lyrics can be. People who know me would probably be shocked to hear I thoroughly like her. After seeing the movie Avatar did you suddenly view our Earth as ugly and/or boring? If you have not seen the movie, do you think it’s worth your time? I've seen a little bit of it, but I never finished it because I was very tired and chose to go to sleep. I actually do want to see the full thing, though; it looks very good. How helpful are your parents to you? Would they help you to pay for your first apartment? College? Where does the line end? My parents are truly incredible with helping me the best they are capable of. They helped me pay for school, among other things, but I doubt they'd help with my first home, whenever that is. I wouldn't really want them to, either, because that's my responsibility for sure. Do you like playing video games? If so, what do you usually play? I love video games, and horror is absolutely my favorite genre. I also love fantasy games though with deep stories. I've never been the best at playing super long games, like Final Fantasy games, even if I'm seriously invested in the story, though. I burn out. Have you ever sewn a garment? No. Are there any plants in the room you’re in? No. I don't bother with plants. What’s your highest level of education? Some college. What’s the most important thing in any kind of relationship? Proper communication, probably. If you wear lipstick, what’s your favourite colour to wear? I only really put on lipstick to occasionally take a picture, and it's pretty much always black. Is your style feminine, masculine or somewhere in the middle? Somewhere in the middle, I guess? Are there a lot of dragonflies around your house? I've never seen one around this house, and I doubt I ever will because it's too urban. When we lived in the woods, however, I saw them a lot. Of all the Disney couples, which one would you say is your favorite? Kovu and Kiara came to my mind first. Do you think it is cute/funny or disgraceful when a child swears? It's shocking, more than anything. You don't expect it. I don't believe it should be encouraged, but only because children just don't know when swearing really isn't appropriate. If/when you have a baby, how do you think you would want to decorate its room? I don't want kids, but I'll entertain the question and assume this is before the child is born and develops interests. Whether it's a boy or a girl, I'd probably go with a cutesy animal theme. Would you more likely buy a shirt with a picture of Mickey/Minnie Mouse, a Winnie the Pooh character, Snoopy, Hello Kitty, or Tweety Bird on it? None, honestly. Perhaps like, a gothic Hello Kitty. Of all the states you have been to, which one did you have the best experiences? Putting aside the AWFUL heat and humidity, I probably had the best time in Florida. I loved all the palm trees, seeing so many lizards on my grandma's patio, and going to Disney World was a blast. I liked that swimming pools were always warm, too. Have you ever had a crush on someone “too young” for you? No. Do you regret losing your virginity to who you lost it to? No. I was madly in love with him, so no regrets on that. If your boyfriend ever hit you, would you dump him? HA, BYYYYEEEEEEEEE MOTHERFUCKER. ZERO hesitation. Did the one person who hurt you most in your life apologize? He did, but I honestly don't know if he meant it. Is there anything you want to say to someone? It'll probably go unsaid for the rest of my life. If they were to televise a live execution, would you watch it? Yikes, hard pass. If you could be the president of the USA, would you be willing to do it? Noooo thank you. Did you wake up in the middle of the night? I always do. Does your animal sleep with you? My cat does. Venus obviously sleeps in her terrarium, but she is in my room. Last color you dyed your hair? Red. Will you keep your last name when you get married? Very unlikely. I don't like my last name. What are you looking forward to? Hearing back again from the woman whose wedding I shot literally two years ago. I thought she ghosted me, but she messaged me the other day about seeing the pictures again and going through them to actually buy some. I don't know why the hell it took her two years, but whatever, I guess? I spent two whole hours resizing the files and re-adding the preview watermark (I deleted the OneDrive folder for space forever ago, but I have the files still), so I hate to sound like an ass, but she better buy something. Between sweating my ass off on location when I shot the wedding, editing those 100+ pictures two years ago, and now re-doing the previews, I have invested so much goddamn time into them that yeah, I think I have the right to be pretty damn salty if I don't hear back from her again. If your significant other cut sex out of your relationship for any reason, what would you do? It'd be whatever. I mean sure, that sort of intimacy is a very special part of serious romantic relationships to me, but I can live without it pretty easily. What was the last thing you said out loud? "Thank you for dinner" to my mom. She brought home Hardee's. Who are your godparents? I don't believe I have any. Do you like Gushers? omggggg yes Can you touch​ your nose with your tongue?​​ No. Is there a particular sport you follow on a regular basis? Nope. Are you waiting for something to arrive in the mail? No. Think of the last film you watched. Who was your favourite character? Uhhhh what was it... The Shining, I think? I didn't really develop a favorite. Do you have a friend whose name starts with ‘L’? Describe him/her. Lisa. <3 She's one of my WoW friends. She'll talk your ear off, but I don't really mind. She is SO sweet and caring for other people and loves to cook. She recently had triplets, and seeing as she had a son only months before accidentally getting pregnant with the triplets, she's obviously been MEGA busy so we haven't talked much lately. When you’re being kissed do you like it when they hold your face? Yeah, but not too early on. Doing that has a promise of seriousness and passion in it to me, and it would probably weird me out if that happened too soon. Last thing that made you cry? My health. Would you ever consider getting a piercing in your septum? Nah. I don't think it would look good on me. Do you enjoy being outdoors? If it's cool outside and I have a place to sit when I want to, yeah. Do people tell you that you have an accent? Only sometimes. It's definitely not as bad as your average Southerner, though. Do you enjoy watching fireworks on the 4th of July? Ha, what nice timing. I think they're very pretty, but I believe I went over in a recent survey how I don't encourage their usage in consideration of veterans with PTSD as well as being conscious of animals and the absolute terror it can cause for them. What’re some unspeakable subjects for you? So my sister is a children's social worker, and she shares a LOT of stories with Mom (and me, if I'm present) that I can't listen to. The ones that involve pedophilia and/or rape, especially from the child's very own parent(s), I just cannot listen to. Period. It's so fucking repulsive and just unimaginable to me how even a monster of a human can commit something THAT goddamn vile. What’s your opinion of root beer? I'm not a big fan. I mean I can tolerate drinking some of it, but I don't really *enjoy* it. Have you ever seen The Breakfast Club, and what’s your opinion of it? I have, and I didn't get the appeal at all. Did you have a Furby when you were younger? Oh god, I did. Those things are so creepy. If you had a baby boy, what would you name him? Damien, most likely.

[baekchelor]

𝕕𝕒𝕪𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕕𝕖𝕔𝕖𝕡𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟

pairings: George Mackay x reader genre: romantic comedy rating: pg13  synopsis: on the set of his new film, golden boy George Mackay learns a basic human truth: that the heart is deceitful above all things. warnings: slight smut

❝i  love  the  ground  under  his  feet,  and  the  air  over  his  head,  and everything  he  touches  and  every  word  he  says.  I  love  all  his  looks,  and all  his  actions  and  him  entirely  and  all  together.❝                                                                                                  ― emily  brontë

FOUR | ENDINGS & BEGINNINGS ◄ ᴘʀᴇᴠ

George has six different scripts waiting for him on his red mailbox when he gets back to his apartment building. The tail end of this autumn is a chilly, constant rainfall —one of the coldest London has seen in recent years.

Alma rolls down her window and waves, "Call me if you need anything." She's in the passenger seat of the Range Rover that picked them up from the airport.

"My sister sent over food," George responds. Daisy's text came in shortly after they landed. "I'll survive, Alma."

"That's not what I meant," his manager replies pointedly.

A mob of fans had been queuing in wait at the airport. George knew they were in for the hysterical cries and invasive photography, the obstacle course of thrust-out gifts and feet to trip over. He wished he could have had his last goodbye in peace, a memory in a hushed corner, however brief. But the sheer mass of bodies had been too much to contend with. In the end, he and Y/N were escorted out through separate gates. She took a flight to Los Angeles, he to London.

So again, with only the slightest fluctuation in tone, George says, "I'll survive." Because he and Y/N's friendship remained on good terms, and now that her T.V. Series promotion summoned her to L.A., he will have time to get over his little infatuation. When they see each other again, George's heart won't be able to jeopardize their relationship, and the prize will be to have Y/N in his life forever.

Not even an hour later... his plan goes to shit. George considered himself a man with a strong will. Apparently, when it comes to the girl who stole his heart in Mumbai, his resolution is tossed to the trash. He played London Boy first, then the Heartbreak Prince song, and before he noticed, he had ordered Chinese, simmered his ass on the sofá, and listened to Taylor Swift's entire discography as thoughts of Y/N, Mumbai and the way she makes him feel invaded his mind.

It takes almost a month for George to meet up with Dean, who's finally back from his filming schedule in France.

They kept in touch via texts. Dean asked for advice in certain scenes, described his character and his approach to him, and narrated funny anecdotes on set. In turn, George told him about Mumbai in vague, emotionless terms. He's had no contact with Y/N since they got back to their real life, and instead of making him forget, it filled him with a deep sense of loss. George partially blames Taylor Swift for that, but he doesn't tell Dean. It would be too humiliating, especially since George has never been lovesick before. The feeling is persistent and tactile, and terribly unsettling.

Today, they're at Dean's flat, smack dab in the centre of Soho. Dean has got his head bent over his phone, reading some table nonsense to not lose the habit. George nurses an iced coffee he ordered from UberEats and delves upon the fact he doesn't even like Taylor Swift's music yet his phone automatically play her songs whenever it is connected to Bluetooth.

George still holds out hope that he's going through a phase. A Y/N induced phase. Maybe, sometime soon, it will pass.

"You okay, Geo?" Dean is looking at him with concern.

George blinks, and he realizes belatedly that his friend is no longer at the table. He's standing by the water dispenser in the kitchen.

"I'm just thinking," George says dismissively, eking out a smile. He doesn't want to talk about this.

Dean smiles back, understanding, but he refuses to cave. Once his glass of water is filled, he returns to the table, and with a sigh, he asks: "Have you read the news lately?"

"No, not recently." George drums his fingers over the table. They produce a dull sound. "Why?"

"I'll show you," Dean says, handing the phone with a window open in a gossip article that headlines Henry Cavill and Y/N Y/L/N had ended their long term relationship. This time for good.

George's mouth quirks, "I see."

Pressing his elbows to the table, Dean nestles his face between cupped palms. "What are you gonna do about it?"

"About what?"

Dean's eyebrows slope and George traces the wood grain of the table with his fingertip. "You could be happy, you know? If you tell her," Dean addresses him openly.

There's that all-too-familiar twinge again; a heartstring plucked. "You don't know that," George bites the inside of his cheek. "We never even..." He trails off, and of course, he remembers: Y/N's fingers lacing into his, Y/N's warm body wrapped around his… Y/N's mouth, slick and soft and open for a kiss.

"That doesn't mean nothing happened," Dean mutters. "I know you, George. I know how much you're keeping from me. Your texts were dead giveaways if anything at all. Do you know how sad you look right now?" That word, again. "It's the first thing I noticed when you came in. I've never seen you like this. Like you're lost, or something." He puts his hand on the back of George's chair. "You realize everything's changed, don't you? And it's never going to go back to the way it was, no matter how much you force the issue?"

"What do you want me to do, Dean?" George says, feeling caged and itching with defensiveness. "Throw away our friendship, this special bond we have for an infatuation? For all I know, she can only think of me as a friend. Nothing else." He's embarrassed by the tremor in his voice. "I don't even know what I'm doing, pining over a girl like this, and she and I —we never discussed what this was, between us. And it's like you're asking me to risk it all, our friendship, Daisy, my peace of mind, so I can try for something uncertain with, with..." He hasn't said her name in a while, so his tongue stumbles over it. "Y/N."

"Yes." The word is as solemn as a prayer. "Because, clearly, you don't love Daisy, you never had, that's why things between you were nothing but a fling. You love Y/N. It's not just an infatuation."

George breathes silently, heavily, staring at the table.

The next words that come out of Dean's mouth are gentle, designed to coax, not provoke, "You have to stop torturing yourself, George. It's just making you miserable."

"Dean..."

"Listen," he sighs, clearly exasperated. "You say you don't want to put your friendship with Y/N at risk, but you already did. You're losing her in every fucking way possible. You haven't talked to her in weeks. Right now, you two are as close as strangers. All because you're scared."

"I am not scared. I am rational."

"You are not, Mackay. And you need to realise it."

They would've most likely kept going in circles if friends-with-benefits Daisy hadn't chosen that moment to text George. He replies because he wants a distraction and needs reassurance that what he is doing is the right thing to do, but the words of a dinner date and romantic plans sting nonetheless because it's something George wants with Y/N and can't have.

When George leaves the apartment, promising Dean to meet on Sunday for a match of Call Of Duty, the latter looks over and asks for George's well being.

George pulls up a smile to reassure him, but it's acted, and he knows it. All he can think about is that barely-there brush of lips in a hotel bed, that Thank you for Mumbai, that last look at the crowded airport, that question Y/N never asked him fading away like so many summer days.

It takes another four more months after that, and up until the very end, George vacillates between doing it and not doing it, making up his mind only to change it again at the last minute. But when he finally ends things with Daisy, it's almost like she's prepared for it.

They're sitting in her car, in somewhere's basement parking lot. Daisy doesn't have a speck of makeup on. It makes her look younger, more fragile.

"I wondered who was going to end it first," she says, thumbing at the steering wheel. "I thought it might be better if it was me. Maybe it would hurt less." She shrugs, and a lock of hair falls over her shoulder.

"I'm so sorry," George mumbles. He brushes it back, out of habit, before he realizes he doesn't have the right to do that anymore. His hand recoils. "I never wanted to hurt you."

She shrugs again, but her mouth twists this time. It's a defence mechanism. "I shouldn't be this upset. We weren't dating, you didn't love me, and since day one you made it clear you didn't seek for commitment," George can't stand the look on her face —one of pure defeat. "I told myself so many times that I could win you over. For a while, I was convinced I would actually get you to love me. There used to be this shiny little space in your eyes, reserved just for me... but when I visited you in Mumbai, I'd already been replaced without even knowing why."

"Daisy..."

"Do you really think I believe you want to end this because of your agenda, George?" she murmurs. Her laugh is brittle, like clattering metal. "Don't lie to me. I know it is because of Y/N." Her lip trembles, so she sucks it into her mouth.

She had known, after all. And she's angry, of course, she is. George deceived her. The shame of it makes his stomach roil with acid.

"Daisy," he entreats her, "She never...we never...I didn't..."

"It's worse that way," she hisses back at him. "It's even worse." She doesn't expound, but George understands her perfectly: a betrayal of the heart, not of the body.

When she adds, "I always knew you would fall in love. I just thought it would be with me," the blood rushes straight to George's head.

"I am not —I am. I don't know," George answers helplessly. He's dizzy, and he feels naked. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"I loved you so much," unrelenting, she whispers. A plump tear rolls down her cheek, followed swiftly by another. She draws herself up; proud as the Ophelia she plays in the theatre. "I don't want to see you anymore. Not anywhere. Delete my number. Delete our pictures. Don't bother sending back anything I've left at your place —you can have it all. Throw it out, if you want. I don't care."

George thought he'd been prepared for the consequences. He didn't realize it would feel like he was tied to a whipping post, his back exposed, as Daisy's words lashed him again and again.

The worst part is that she probably feels the same kind of pain, too.

"Why couldn't you love me?" she shakes out. Her cheeks are wet.

And George doesn't care if she hits him, doesn't care if she bruises his chest and his face with her balled-up fists that still smell like the coconut in her lotion. He reaches across the passenger's seat, pushing right past the boundaries he'll have to observe from now on, and he envelops her in a fierce, hopeless embrace.

She cries silently, her tears and sobs suffusing his shirt with damp heat. He holds her through the whole thing, knowing full well it will be another one of those last times until, after a long spell, she calms.

"I did care for you," George says then, tenderly, his voice breaking. "How could I not?"

Her entire face gentles, just a moment, before the softness is gone; the keenness of fresh heartbreak taking its place.

Daisy nods, perfunctory, and looks away.

When the door on his side unlocks with a quiet click, George knows she's telling him to go.

The bitter afternoon turns worse as George settles down on his couch, back at his apartment. His phone rings with a notification from Dean claiming it is better if Georges hears such news from him. A link is attached, and as soon as George opens it, he feels his heart rip apart.

All along, Dean was right. The time spent worrying over Dev Patel and Henry Cavill was a waste. He never saw Luke Hemmings coming, the thought didn't even cross George's mind, and now Luke and Y/N had been spotted together. Several times.

They went to Trader Joe's, left the store with bags of organic food and bottles of pink lemonade. They spent a weekend in San Francisco, Luke's nails painted red, and his fingers resting on the small of Y/N's back. They shared a cigarette at Sunset Strip, outside some old bar 80's rockstars use to hang out at. It annoyed George the most. She smokes with Luke but refused George's cigarettes the many times she came along to watch him poison his lungs with nicotine.

Dean was right.

Taylor Swift is right too, it feels like death by a thousand cuts. There's no use to get drunk, it won't be enough, he knows it. George pretended it was okay for so long when it isn't. The morning will come, and Y/N won't be his baby, won't be his friend. She is Luke Hemmings', and it is all George's fault.

At the pre-screening party for Dharma, two days before the film is slated for release, George finally sees Y/N again.

It's been months since Mumbai, months since Daisy, months since Luke Hemmings and months since they've had any sort of contact.

George's dyed his hair chestnut in preparation for a new role. Tonight, he wears eyeliner under his eyes (it reminds him of those days he filmed Hamlet) and a leather jacket. Greta thought it would be fun to throw a rock-themed party, she hired a band to perform live and required the dress-code to be inspired by the Age of Rock.

Y/N is wearing a black chain embellished mini skirt, a white turtleneck underneath a fucking 5SOS t-shirt, and she's, again, hanging off Luke Hemming's arm. His hair is a blond silk sheet draped over his forehead, and his lips hover close to Y/N's ear, speaking into it confidingly. It gives George a pang, right in the centre of his chest.  

There's no avoiding each other. Not when Y/N is looking at him, all smiles and excitement, and she excuses herself from the conversation with Luke, Timotheé Chalamet and Florence Pugh to run straight towards George. He is tongue-tied, yearning, and all he manages is a lame nod that suits neither him nor the object of his affections. Y/N stops right in her tracks.

"George." Not London Boy, neither Heartbreak Prince. It sounds unnatural.

"Y/N," he replies. Not Gorgeous. "It's been a while."

They shake hands, and George is satisfied with that, but Y/N encircles her arms around his neck, hugging him as tight as George had wanted to hug her all those months they spent apart.

"I missed you," she says, a whisper. If only she knew how much George missed her, and the lengths he went to get her out of his head. He tried to hang out with new people, meet new girls. Hell, he even went out with his ex-girlfriend Doone. Twice.

Before George can be honest, his body tingling from the embrace, Luke greets him. He is polite and keeps things as brief as possible, but George forgets about him immediately after. Y/N is here, right here, within his grasp. She's with a handsome man, and it's been so long, and George is afraid she's forgotten all about their time in Mumbai. But there it is —that blessed, steadfast question flickering behind Y/N's orbs, and George clings to it like a port in a storm.

The moment Luke excuses himself to the stage (he will bless every guest with a song —George want to roll his eyes at it), the atmosphere shifts between them. She attentively waits for Luke to start singing; everybody is cheering and excited, and people let out awe sounds when Luke strums the first chords of Eye In The Sky. Of course, he would sing such a hit. Of course, his voice sounds perfect, and George grows embarrassed over his two songs from the Been So Long soundtrack. Of course, he feels, once more —The first time was when he walked inside and Here I go Again blasted on the speakers—, attacked by a song tonight.

"How've you been?" Y/N murmurs, eyes trained on a point across the room. The stage. "We haven't spoken to each other since we got back." She licks her lips into a cautious smile.

George follows the movement closely. "I ended things with Daisy," he says. Just like that.

"Did you?" The smile falters. "I mean if that is what you wanted... I'm —I'm glad..." If George hadn't spent so much time with Y/N before they stopped spending so much time together, he would have missed the subtle quake in the girl's voice. "How are you holding up?"

"Better." George looks over at her. He doesn't mean he felt terrible because of Daisy, and now he is better. George is better now because she's here, near him. "It was a big mess, but now I feel free." He licks his lips too because they've gone dry. And then he catches it —Y/N's gaze darting quickly to his mouth.

He places his hand on Y/N's thigh. It tenses, just for a second, before giving in. George realizes, at this exact moment, when Luke sings about how he can read someone's mind by just looking at them, that he can read Y/N's mind, and gaze, and body language, and he knows what Y/N has wanted to ask him. He's just been a coward.

"That's good," she exhales. "I'm glad."

Well, he won't be a coward anymore.

"We should talk," George says, voice pitched low. "You should come over to my suite, and we should catch up."

"Tonight?" her limbs tense again, muscles shifting under George's palm.

"If you like." George wants and wants and wants. "But only if you haven't got anything planned with your boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend," Y/N tells him, and George knows there's an unspoken yet in her words. His heart skips a hundred beats. He still got a chance. He can still get the girl. And he can't wait for this party to be over.

"I'll come over tonight," Y/N agrees. "After this, whenever it ends. Wait for me." She passes her hand over the one George's resting on her thigh. Every meeting of skin on skin is a promise. George wants to hear it out loud for once.

"Perfect," the last of George's fingertips traces over her knuckles. Luke is weaving his way back through applauses and clinking champagne flutes.

"All right then, Geo."

George French-exit at ten, because he just can't sit still any longer. Plus, parties ain't something he is kneen of, they are a part of his job, and he has to endure it as much as filming in cold-ass water. He didn't even attend The Oscar's after-party, to begin with. Tonight he decided to come along because he wanted to see her, be near Y/N at least one more time. If everything goes well after midnight, he will lay eyes on the girl of his dreams forever. It gives George hope.

He squeezes his way out of a cluster of guests and quickly pulls Y/N aside.

"I'll see you around midnight," she whispers. George's thumb traces soothing little circles into the underside of her wrist.

"Midnight." He feels the skinship all over his body, like concentric ripples of water. "I'll be waiting."

George is wearing sweats now, showered, changed, and just...ready. His bangs are flopping into his eyes (he grew his hair for the same role he dyed it, and it is long enough for him to tie it in a small bun at the back of his head). With arms exposed to the warmth radiating from the fireplace, George rests on the duvet in front of it, staring at the flames and cursing himself for blowing it out of proportion. The fact he has felt blue since Mumbai is his own doing, and taking such responsibility, is what tells him this love is worth the fight.

The clock on his wrist reads half-past twelve. It's not that he is afraid Y/N won't come —although the thought of it makes him lose his mind. It's that the build-up to this moment has been torturously slow, achingly indefinite and he just hopes this thing, whatever it is, works out the way he wants it to. Which is Y/N, telling him that her heart belongs to him, that they'll be just fine.

It's a quarter to one when the doorbell sounds. On the other side of the door, Y/N's face is exhausted. "I'm sorry. I couldn't get away until now."

"It's fine," he says, stepping aside so she can come in. "You've never been late before."

Y/N slides off her jacket at the entrance. She's still in her party outfit, and even though she's still wearing that damn 5SOS t-shirt, George has never seen anybody look so perfect. Perfect for him, especially.

He doesn't know what his body is telling his brain, but suddenly he's reaching out and curling his fingers into Y/N's hair.

Both freeze on the spot, unsure of their actions. When she looks up, George's ocean eyes are perilously wild.

"I don't wanna lose this with you," he says.

And finally, velvet-toned and whisper-soft, she asks: "How do you feel about me?"

George is standing in the portal of the foyer, a step above her. Barefoot, in a tanktop, shutting the door close. This is it, he intones, brimming with everything he's kept to himself all these months. Finally.

"How do I feel?" he mumbles, more to himself than anyone else. Then he rests his forehead against Y/N's, his hand cupping her face with such love, if they were still filming Dharma, Greta would have gone nuts. He once told Y/N that James and Marina's love seemed out of this world, and now, he understands them. He feels such. "I'm in love with you."

All the resistance seeps out of Y/N's body —a vapour, escaping. Her shoulders sag in relief. Her expression softens, turns bittersweet.

They've wasted so much time.

"That's good to know," she breathes out, shaky "because I am in love with you too."

It's George who steps forward and presses her against the wall. Y/N is ready for him, craning up, so their lips latch together like magnets. At first is gentle, soft, almost fearful, but it slowly morphs into a kiss hot and heavy, deep and merciless. They breathe in through their nostrils, so they don't have to stop kissing. There are no polite introductions, no tentative licks against the seams of their mouths. She opens up for him willingly, without being asked. Their tongues circle in a primal dance and George gets completely drunk off of it, plunging in for more.

The sound it pulls out of her makes George kiss her harder. He takes one hand from where it's tangled in Y/N's hair and trails it down her neck, her shoulder, her chest, and back around to her bum. When he creeps a hand under the skirt to palm her legs all the way up to her smooth back, the girl breaks away for air.

"Do you know," George rasps, "how crazy you make me?"

"Do I?" The question isn't provocative, is innocent. Y/N really is clueless about how she makes him feel.

"You're making me jealous all the time," George mutters. He pushes their hips closer together, and they both let out sibilant gasps.

"I thought you were in love with her. When you brought her over." Y/N is trying to regain control, but George presses in to make her shudder. "Thought it was over between us."

"It was never over." George tugs at Y/N's bottom lip with his teeth then lave over the spot with his tongue. "My body is mine, my lips and skin as well. But I am not. I am yours."

On cue, Y/N slips a hand under his tank. Her fingers meander over the grooves of George's abs, searing the skin. "Your body is yours, your lips are yours, your skin is yours. And I am. Yours," she murmurs, chest heaving.

George shuts his eyes. It feels so good. All of it. He brushes his thumb, feather-light, over her lips. His voice is dangerous, "What parts of you?"

"Everywhere," when she answers, George pulls the girl flush against him, peeling away from the wall so he can walk them both in the direction of his bedroom. Y/N lets him lead the way, as she sucks at the side of his neck. She's going to leave marks at this rate —a row of dark red roses—, and fuck it, he wants her to, so he can see the evidence of their mutual longing tomorrow. Y/N feels George's heat and his strength, there, between her legs, and it's enough to make her shudder. "Everywhere."

They don't say it while they're naked, writhing at every touch to uncharted territory, sweating from their exertions towards climax as they come together as one.

George does say, "I didn't look at anyone else since I saw you," and Y/N whispers, " I didn't think of anyone else since I thought of you."  

They say it in the daylight, over the pot of coffee Y/N brews and the out-of-a-magazine waffles she blushes at when she sheepishly serves it to George, sprinkled by powdered sugar and syrup.

"Hey," George says, pushing around the berries. She's sitting on his lap, wearing his shirt, his scent on her skin, and George feels in heaven. "I love you."

He strokes the side of her face, slowly, sweetly, shyly, until the two of them are blushing. He suspects this is one of those moments he will carry around with him like a photo in a locket —a small and lovely secret.

"And I love you, Geroge Mackay," she says in return. "More than anybody else."

►

A/N: aaaand, that’s it. Hope you enjoy it. Next week I will post the Epilogue and the heartfelt message for all of you who have read this. Lots of love. xx

[punkpoemprose]

December 15th- Pen Pals

Universe: 1940′s AU/ WWII American Homefront AU

Rating: G (General Audiences, this is fluffy)

Length: 4222 Words

A/N: I wanted to write smut for this one, but it just came out fluffy AF. It’s pretty saccharine but I loved writing it <3

She wasn’t quite a Rosie. Other women she knew, those she’d went to school with or knew in town were, but she wasn’t. Her family had always had money and she didn’t need to work. All the local factories were well staffed, and while she was certain she would be capable of factory work if called to it, she’d been raised a debutante. Her parents had taught her about society, dressing well, throwing parties and being well spoken when the occasion called. They’d also raised her and her sister to take over the family business, which now, with their parents passed on, and most men off to war, she was taking to well enough.

Had Anna been a nurse she would have been in Europe already doing her part. Had she been trained as a secretary she would have been on a base somewhere taking notes and making calls and rushing about to ensure that things were moving smoothly. Had she been a pilot she would have been out fighting. But she wasn’t any of those things, and the war had come upon them so quickly that it had left Anna, 18, just out of school, no time to train. So, she worked with what she had.

She put little strawberries on the tops of the cupcakes she’d baked and frosted. They’d go in her car soon with the rest. That her parents had allowed her to learn to drive had been a blessing. Most of the girls didn’t drive, so she spent plenty of time doing all the running. It was an essential part of her duties as a head hostess after all.

She’d found her part of the war effort with the USO. She wasn’t much for a fighter or a builder, but she had a quick wit and she was good at planning things and brining people together. She’d made and served hundreds of meals, planned dances, talked to soldiers to give them a bit of solace, though what she was proudest of was the letter writing campaign she’d organized. No soldier from their hometown was going to go more than a week without a letter from some girl or another down at the USO. Anna herself wrote to three men religiously, week after week. Updates about town, little care packages of cookies and homemade jam and silly photographs she’d take with the girls, whatever she could do to let them know that they were being thought of and watched over.

Two wrote back religiously, both a bit older than her. They had wives that wrote to them too, so while they were always happy to get Anna’s letters, she was grateful that they didn’t flirt back. Anna was happy enough to be their reporter and secret “ace in the hole” on the home front. For Valentine’s day last year she’d picked up and delivered chocolates to their wives in their names, she sometimes would call and pay for a service technician to go over and fix something at home that they normally would. She had the money and she had the time, and it was one less thing they had to worry about, and one more thing she could do.

The third however, he was just a little older than her, and he so rarely wrote back that her heart was eternally skipping a beat. He was on the Eastern Front, where exactly she didn’t know, which meant that every week when she sent him a letter, she had to hope it would find him. Every week when she wrote him a letter, she begged him to write back, because she lived for the days when she saw his handwriting in her mailbox. Private First-Class Kristoff Bjorgman was, by all accounts, what kept her up at night. She knew of him but didn’t really know him. He’d gone to the all boy’s school in town, and someone told her in a whisper that he’d been a ward of the court, that he had no family to speak of and was very quiet. She didn’t even know what he looked like.

She did know how he wrote to her though. She’d saved every letter. The most recent, from over a month ago, she kept in her pocket. Hostesses were supposed to be sweet and happy and helpful. They were supposed to sit at the side of servicemen and women when they were home, whether they were shipping out soon or whether they were back for some time. To write letters, to be a piece of the home front was not necessarily expected, but it was appreciated and endorsed. Having feelings for enlisted men, however. That was something they were warned against in their training.

No one had warned her how mere letters could make her feel.

Dear Anna,

It’s still strange to me to address you as such given that we’ve never met, but I’m starting to feel like I know you and Ms. Arendelle is, as you put it “terribly formal and boring”.

I’m grateful for the sweets you sent along, military chocolate is all fine and good, but your cookies are better. I never had much for baked goods growing up, you’re spoiling me. Some of the other men get care packages too, but none as good as yours. They joke that they want you to teach their girls how to bake, and after this last batch I think they’ve become quite serious about it.

Thank you too for the photograph. You didn’t have to drive all the way out to the bluffs to take it but seeing the lake again after what feels like years really lifted my spirits. The one you sent of you standing in front of the scenery gave me a smile too. You look like you’re about to deliver some clever line in a movie. You looked pretty lovely beautiful, if that’s not too much for me to say. If it is, you can write me and let me know and I won’t say so again, but if not, I do mean it.

I wanted to let you know every time one of your letters comes through, or sometimes when I get a whole batch of them at once, it just makes me happy to know that you’re back home writing them. You’ve become a lifeline for me Anna, and I can’t ever thank you enough for that. If When I make it home I hope you’ll let me try.

If I know where I’m heading next I’ll send along an address. If not, I’ll just hope your letters make it.

I miss you, even though that doesn’t make sense.

I hope this finds you well. Don’t let them work you too hard at the USO. You’re already doing so much.

Yours,

Pfc Kristoff Bjorgman

Kris

P.S. I forgot to answer your questions, I was so taken by the photos and the sweets. I don’t smoke, it never really interested me much. I played a bit of baseball in school, and it’s the only sport I follow much. If you want to send me scores, I wouldn’t mind, even if they’re late. Though we do get updates here every now and then on baseball, football, and boxing. Problem with baseball is that most of the players I followed have been drafted too. Bet we could have a hell of a game with just enlisted. I hear there’s a women’s league now that’s making news? If you happen to catch a game on the radio I’d love to hear about it. What about you Anna? You smoke?  You follow any sports?

When he wrote her, his writing was full of strike outs and rewrites and while everything he said was well thought out, it gave her the distinct impression that he wasn’t used to corresponding with others, let alone with a woman. She thought maybe he was flirting with her from time to time, and while she’d never admit it to a soul, she was a relentless flirt back, because after all the letters they’d exchanged, she’d gotten to know him. He’d been a fireman before the draft made him a soldier, and oh while she didn’t know what he looked like, she imagined he was strong. All the firemen she’d ever seen were strong, and he’d played sports in school, so he had to be at least a little bit athletic. She imagined him from the pieces she had. He liked good food, and animals and being out in nature. He liked the lake, and she’d spent hours driving down to the bluffs, not only to send him photos, but to just imagine him there. It was hard to imagine someone without knowing what they looked like, but she could imagine the conversations they’d have.

He was shy and sweet, but unafraid to share his thoughts. He’d seem gruff to others, but she’d written to him and heard his thoughts on life and love and the war, so she wouldn’t be put off by it. She’d imagined meeting him for the first time. She thought about how he’d smile at her, maybe they’d share a hug. In her most daring daydreams, she thought that she’d press a kiss to his cheek to welcome him home. It would completely scandalize her sister, Anna kissing a perfect stranger, and yet she smiled at the thought because he wasn’t a stranger at all.

She sighed, picking up the box of strawberry topped cupcakes and bringing it out to her car. She didn’t have time to daydream. She had a dinner dance to put on, and while she was already dressed for it, she had cupcakes to drive over, dinner to cook, a band to instruct, makeup and hair to touch up, girls to prep, and ultimately men to serve and chat and dance with.

Her heels clicked against the blacktop of her driveway as she went, the breeze catching the stubborn hairs that were refusing to stay tucked into her victory rolls. She’d tackle them soon enough, packing her tools for the war effort in her vehicle; cupcakes, decorations, a makeup bag, a clipboard, and of course, herself.

***

When everything was sorted, dinner and dessert served, and the band just starting to play, Anna finally let herself walk out of the back room and into the dancehall.

She did this every week, and yet it always worried and exhausted her. She was always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for one of the girls to be sick, for her USO uniform to rip, for the band to simply not show up in time.

Tonight though, everything had gone according to plan, and she had even had enough time to change out of her uniform and into one of her dresses for the dance.

“Anna,” one of the girls called to her when she stepped out to where the action was happening. She almost didn’t hear her over the sound of the band playing “Begin the Beguine” and the giggling of the other ladies, dancing out on the floor with the various servicemen they were entertaining for the night.

She nodded and walked over to have a better chance at hearing what she was saying. Anna loved a good dance, but she found herself wishing that this one was a bit quieter. She’d had a headache since noon, and she was trying to keep in a good mood, but the noise wasn’t helping matters.

“What can I do for you?” she asked. The girl was newer, just recently volunteered, and Anna was used to the girls only calling on her when they needed a hand with something. They were friendly enough, of course, but none of the girls really chatted with each other once an event was on unless they really needed to.

“It’s more about what I can do for you,” the girl said, coyly smiling, “There’s a man here asking for you by name. He just got back into town, must be important.”

“Well who is it?” she asked, trying her best not to nervously straighten her dress as the girl caught her up to speed.

“I didn’t ask his name,” she replied, “but he’s one of the only men still sitting at a table without someone chatting with him. I tried, but he just smiled all shy and asked if you were here.”

That, Anna decided, was odd. Usually she was so busy behind the scenes keeping things working that no one knew she was there, let alone asked for her. There were some enlisted men she knew well enough before the war started for them to be able to ask for her by name, but really, none of them were particularly shy and probably would have been just as happy talking to another woman. It certainly wasn’t her ex-boyfriend. He’d run up into Canada to dodge the draft, and she’d broken up with him before that.

She nodded politely to the girl and decided it best to go and see for herself.

There was only one table with a lone man, and while she couldn’t really get a good look at him with the lights dimmed for dancing, he didn’t look at all familiar to her. She turned her charm on high as she approached him, wishing that she’d checked her teeth for lipstick before walking out.

“Hi there,” she ventured as she sat down at the circular table across from him. She smoothed down her skirt and smiled, getting a better look at his face in the light of the candle that sat in the center of the table.

She didn’t recognize him. He had the sort of face she’d remember. Dark eyes, light hair, and a wide nose. He was wearing his uniform, a few other men in the room were too, but most wore suits. Most were trying to forget for a few hours that even though they were home, they were at war.

He recognized her. She saw it in his eyes when he looked at her. He smiled and his eyes did too. Her stomach twisted into knots, there was nothing she hated more than forgetting a face. She didn’t want anyone she ever met at the USO thinking that they were forgettable.

She stuck out her hand anyway, better to act as she should and then tell him later that she had simply not recognized him in the dark, or that he was even handsomer than when they last met, should she realize that they did in fact know each other.

“Anna Arendelle,” she said with a smile, “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure?”

He took her hand carefully and she felt butterflies in her stomach when their fingers touched. His hands were so much larger than hers, so much rougher. He was probably a good foot or more taller than she was, and she knew so even sitting down.

“Not officially,” he said by way of response, adding, a bit nervously, “You’re lovelier in person… if that’s not too bold of me to say.”

It clicked then. No other man would ever question his boldness at the provision of a compliment. No other man would recognize her and smile without her recognizing him. She couldn’t believe it, she couldn’t even voice the thought for fear of being wrong.

“It’s kind, not bold,” she replied. “It’s a wonderful compliment to give a girl.”

“Is it?” he asked, giving her a coy smile, “I wouldn’t really know, I’ve only ever tried to compliment one girl.”

It was him. It was definitely, and without a doubt, him. She thought about all her daydreams. The ones where she hugged him, the ones where she kissed him and welcomed him home. She could hardly muster the strength of will to hold herself together let alone be so bold.

When she hadn’t heard from him she’d thought the worst. She always thought the worst when he didn’t reply within a month. It was so easy to be scared when she heard everyday about how brutal the war was. She put up a brave face at the dancehall, at the meetings and at the get togethers, but the truth was that when she went home to find no letters, she worried herself half to death.

“She sounds like a very lucky girl.”

He laughed, and it was a wonderful sound. Anna’s heart skipped a beat. She’d been so worried about him; she’d never expected to be able to hear him laugh. She hadn’t even been able to imagine his face, and she was glad that she hadn’t tried very much, because nothing she could come up with would be as perfect as what he was.

“Oh I don’t know about that…” he trailed off, and for a minute looked thoughtful, “I just realized you might not actually know who I am… I never sent you a picture did I?”

She laughed at that, at the way he looked so concerned after just teasing her back that she might not know who he was.

She shook her head, more certain now than she’d been even moments before. She was also certain that she was correct in her assumptions that he was, in fact, a man who had never or only extremely rarely, spoken to women. He was good at it so far she had to admit, but he also seemed terribly nervous at it, like someone just learning to drive a car.

“You didn’t, but I think I figured it out anyway. I’m not one of those girls that writes to every single serviceman you know. You’re special Kristoff.”

The smile that spread across his face warmed her from head to toe.

He squeezed her hand gently and she couldn’t help herself but to intertwine her fingers with his. This was not protocol in the hostess handbook, but she’d really never been one for rules anyhow. Structure was good and important, but rules were made to be broken.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t write you back. I was in the hospital… shrapnel… and even though I healed fast, they sent me back home. I don’t know for how long, but once I knew they were sending me back, I just… I needed to come see you.”

Anna flushed. She almost wondered if the room had suddenly warmed by a few degrees, but of course she knew it was just her reaction to him. He was real, and there, and holding her hand while giving her a look like she was the only woman on Earth. She normally took flirting in stride from the men who came to her dinner dances, but that the man she’d been writing to for so many months was there was so inconceivable to her that she threw out the whole rule book.

“You were hurt?” That had been her worst nightmare when she hadn’t heard back from him, that he was injured or worse.

“It’s alright,” he said, “I can’t really walk on the leg much yet, but what doesn’t kill you…”

She shook her head, “Guess I shouldn’t ask you to dance then.”

He shook his head and chuckled, “I’d try to if you wanted me to, but I’ve always had two left feet anyway.”

“Oh I doubt that,” she replied, trying her best to breathe as he openly admitted that he’d dance on an injured leg to please her. She was used to flirting, but this wasn’t flirting. This was his honest interest in her, this was talking to someone she’d already made a connection with. “I’m sure you’re a wonderful dancer when you’re not hurting.”

He took the compliment and grinned, “To be honest I’ve never really tried enough to know.”

“Well when you’re feeling up to it, we’ll have to try.”

She only noticed the crutch leaning against the chair to their side after he’d mentioned being injured. It was a relief to know what whatever had happened, or however badly he’d been hurt, he was getting around on his own now. That was a good sign if nothing else.

“I’d like that,” he said, then looked thoughtful for a moment, “Do you want to go someplace quieter?”

Oh she did. She very much did. She wanted to sweep him off to some dark corner and kiss him, but despite her willingness to throw out the rulebook, it wasn’t really an option.

“I do, but I have to stay here and clean up and make sure the girls head off home with their chaperones instead of…”

She flushed, then added, “Well there’s some rules…”

He nodded.

“What if I stay until after you’re done?”

“Oh!” she was surprised to hear him say that he planned to stay, to wait for her. It was absolutely against the rules, and she knew she should politely decline, but she’d rather hang up her uniform than not spend time with him. “I would love that.”

***

The last girl was off before the cleaning was done. Anna was perfectly content to do the rest herself, and she found, with great pleasure that Kristoff was an enthusiastic assistant for the last of her evening tasks.

“So you’ve really never gone to a baseball game?”

She was washing dishes and he, sitting on a barstool she’d brought in to keep him off his leg, was drying.

“I really haven’t. I heard them on the radio, and my dad bought a television not long before he passed, so I watched a few of the televised games, but I’ve never gone in person. My parents didn’t take me out much unless it was to a social event or something.”

He shook his head and took a cup from her hand, their fingers brushing as he did so. She knew she shouldn’t be blushing so, that she shouldn’t be alone with him in the first place but seeing him there had been like seeing an old friend, and she wouldn’t trade these moments of comfortable small talk for the world. Unless, of course, he offered something a little more than friendly, in which case she’d gladly trade up.

She’d started to form a crush on him when they were writing to each other. He was reserved at first when he wrote, gruff, uninterested in her charity, but as time went on he softened to her, he wrote to her about the dreams he had, about the places he wanted to go and about how he’d always wanted a dog. Most recently he’d written about how he wanted a family, about how if he made it out of the war in one piece he wanted to settle down and make a life with someone. It had been so easy for Anna to imagine being that someone, and now that she was meeting him well and truly, she could see it even clearer.

“We’re going to have to change that,” he said as he wiped the glass down and set it with the rest of the dry dishes on the counter, “It’s America’s pastime after all. You’re a patriotic gal, makes sense you should go see a game.”

She smiled and lowered her head to hide her blush. She didn’t know if he knew he was implying he’d take her to a game as a date. He wasn’t really a flirt, he was straightforward and true and she liked that about him. She liked everything about him really. He was so different than the sort of person she thought she’d fall for, the kind of person her parents had always thought that she would fall for. He was an honest man, he worked hard, he didn’t have much but himself to give, but Anna liked that. He wasn’t tactful, just kind.

“Are you asking me on a date?”

She couldn’t meet his eyes. She could be coy. She could flirt, but she didn’t want to. She wanted to show him that the girl who wrote him letters, was hoping that he meant that he wanted to take her on a date. She couldn’t bear to see him give her an apologetic look if it wasn’t what he meant.

His hand reached out and touched her arm gently. She was learning that about him too, the despite how large and strong he was, he was gentle. Every touch he’d given her was tentative, gentle, borderline tender.

“Yes. I’m trying to anyway.”

Anna grinned at that and turned to look at him.

His smile was nervous, and that was just another endearing thing about him.

“I’d like that very much then,” she replied, not bothering to duck her head down to hide her flush.

“Good,” he said, and then cleared his throat, “I mean, that’s… thank you?”

She laughed at that. He was new at this. She loved that.

“Thank you for offering to take me,” she replied, trying to keep herself from giggling more when he smiled at her laugh, “I’m looking forward to it already.”

She was looking forward to more than the baseball. She already wanted to give him a kiss, to put that victory red lipstick to work. She thought though, what could be more patriotic than kissing a soldier at a baseball game and leaving that symbolic red on his lips?

She was nothing if not an all-American girl.

[wistfulcynic]

To Keep It All The Year (3 /4)

Anyone up for a spot of pure fantasy in which people are essentially good and their positive actions are rewarded with deserved happiness? Yeah, me too. It’s been a WEEK, for me and @katie-dub​ and anyone else in the UK with a conscience and a shred of human decency, so let’s all have a bit of an escape.

SUMMARY: Killian Jones is a broken man, betrayed by everyone and everything he thought he could believe in. He’s all but given up on life until a fateful meeting with bartender Emma Swan and her son Henry gives him a reason to live again, and a chance to redeem his past.

All it takes is a little Christmas magic.

On AO3 | Tumblr: Part One | Part Two 

Thanks as ever to @thisonesatellite​ who keeps me fuelled with whisky and lebkuchen, a paring ordained by the gods, and also because MAGICAL WREATHS OMG WUTTT ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Tagging all the folks from the last tag list, PLEASE do let me know if you want to be added or removed. @kmomof4​​​​​​​​​​​ @shireness-says​​​​​​​​​ @snidgetsafan​​​​​​​​​​ @darkcolinodonorgasm​​​​​​​ @snowbellewells​​​​​​​​ @stahlop​​​​​​​​ @mariakov81​​​​​​​​ @courtorderedcake​​​​​​ @jonirobinson64​​​​​ @tiganasummertree​​​​​​ @ohmightydevviepuu​​​​​​​​ @shardminds​​​​​ @jennjenn615​​​​​ @superchocovian​​​​​ @teamhook​

-

PART THREE: THE FUTURE

Killian moves out of his apartment that very afternoon. He can’t bear to spend another moment there. He needs a fresh start in a new place, one that will encourage him to be better rather than indulging the worst of him. 

Everything he owns, every single thing, fits into a large satchel and a medium-sized suitcase. Packing it all takes less than an hour. Killian drops his key into the landlord’s mailbox and heads across town to a guesthouse he found with a quick internet search, not a great place but his finances are limited and it’s still better than that apartment. There’s an actual bed, for a start, and part of him is tempted to crawl into it and drink until his chest stops aching and he no longer sees the crushed look in Emma’s eyes each time he closes his own, but he has made promises to himself and he intends to keep them. 

So instead he falls back on the least damaging of his old crutches and heads out for a walk. The guesthouse is a bit rough around the edges but the neighbourhood whose western boundary it marks is a vast improvement over his old one. There’s an elegance and dignity in the slightly run-down buildings here, like they’ve aged gracefully and in comfort without any of the desperation and squalor that characterised his old place. They’ve kept their head up, even through hard times, and they haven’t given in. A lesson lurks in there somewhere, he thinks. 

He’s been wandering for about half an hour when his attention is caught by a door. Not a particularly remarkable door, but has a jolly little Christmas wreath hung upon it which brings a smile to Killian’s face. Something about those little wreaths always draws him in, he thinks. Something he can’t quite put his finger on...

The door is made of wide wooden planks painted a deep forest green and boasts an old-fashioned brass knocker in the shape of a roaring lion. It belongs to what appears to be a small bookshop, and as Killian pushes it open he feels a stirring of eagerness that he hasn’t felt in years. He can’t remember the last time he read a good book. Something layered and complex, he thinks, with a well-crafted world that he can dig into and lose himself for a while. 

The shop is surprisingly spacious, with row upon row of tall wooden bookshelves lined up straight as soldiers along its walls and a broad central aisle leading to the till and a small cafe at the back. Twin spiral staircases rise up on each side to a mezzanine where he can see more shelves and a cosy reading area with overstuffed sofas and armchairs and a few scattered beanbags of the perfect size for children. Killian walks slowly down the centre aisle, aware his mouth is hanging open and barely resisting the urge to spin around, gaping in awe. Were he asked to give a description of his ideal bookshop it would be precisely this, he thinks, from the aged patina on the shelves to the fluffy grey cat curled on a cushion in the window, to the truly dizzying array of books. It is magnificent. 

“Can I help you find anything?” Killian shakes himself from his reverie and turns to see a petite brunette in towering heels smiling a friendly smile. 

“Ah, no thank you, lass,” he replies, “I’m just br—you know what, actually, yes. You can.”

He explains what sort of book he’s after and the woman—Belle, according to her name tag—leads him around the shop in search of it. She makes excellent recommendations, a fair number of which he’s already read, but after an enjoyable hour or so Killian has a small armload of books he can’t wait to crack open and perhaps, he hopes, a friend. 

After he pays for them he and Belle stand at the till for another ten minutes or so, chatting amiably. Killian formally introduces himself and informs Belle that he’s just moved to the neighbourhood and is out exploring. He’s just about to ask if she knows a good place to eat when he spots the small sign taped to the cash register. 

“Are you hiring?” he says in surprise.

“I am. I could use an assistant three or four days a week,” says Belle. “You interested?” 

“I might be,” Killian replies. He’ll need a job to afford the new life he intends to build for himself, he thinks, and working in this lovely little shop with Belle would be a dream come true. 

“Any retail experience?” she asks.

“None. But I’m a fast learner and fairly widely read.” 

“I’ll say,” says Belle wryly. “Okay, let’s give it a try. I can start you on—” she names an hourly wage that has Killian’s eyes widening. 

“Is that the standard market rate for a bookshop assistant?” 

“Nope.” Belle’s voice is cheerful and also makes it clear she doesn’t intend to answer any questions on the subject.

“Er—okay. Well, that would be more than satisfactory.” Enough to give him the new beginning he needs, he thinks. More than. 

Belle nods. “When can you start?” 

“Tomorrow?” 

“Perfect.” 

—

Belle lives above the bookshop, in a two-bedroom flat that she claims can get a little lonely. She claims this a week into the new year when she learns that Killian is looking for a place to live, and insists on showing him the spare room that very minute. 

Her flat is tidy but comfortable and the room she shows him plainly furnished, with polished hardwood floors and plaster walls painted a warm ivory. A large chest of drawers takes up one corner and in another is a metal framed bed spread with a quilt that he’s sure is handmade. There’s a single wide window framed by soft yellow curtains that turn the afternoon light golden and a single framed poster on the wall, of Waterhouse’s Miranda. Killian stares at the painting for some time, thinking it should probably upset him. Instead he feels soothed, by the room’s gentle simplicity and by the shipwreck safely tucked away in the brushstrokes of an oil painting. He moves in the next day. 

He and Belle get on splendidly. Their habits mesh in a comfortable way, both being meticulously tidy early risers, equally content to spend their evenings in heated argument about books as in the silent companionship of reading or watching television. Killian almost wishes their easy friendship could develop into something more, though it does occur to him that he’s never had a woman as just a friend before and perhaps this is a thing that might do him some good. 

That and he still dreams of soft golden hair, and green eyes that see into his soul. 

He begins to eat regular healthy meals, sharing the cooking duties with Belle, and after a month or so of that he joins a gym. He still goes on his long, rambling walks but far less frequently than before, using them as an opportunity to explore new neighbourhoods rather than a desperate attempt to escape his demons and he never, never stops at the docks. 

He also starts seeing a therapist, on Belle’s gentle suggestion after one too many nights of being woken up by his nightmares. She can recommend one personally, she confesses, for the very same reason that she is able to pay him so well. The bookshop is financed by hush money—she spits the words—her lavish divorce settlement from a man who controlled and abused her for years and when she finally managed to leave him tracked her down and nearly killed her. She grips Killian’s hand tightly as she tells him this, tears rolling unheeded down her cheeks, yet there is a ring of triumph in her voice as she explains how he signed over more than half his assets to her in exchange for her promise not to prosecute, or sell tales of his abuse to the press. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t have taken it,” she says. “Maybe I should have exposed him instead, or pressed charges. But he could weather bad press or bribe his way out of jail time while it will take him years to build his business back up again. Decades, even. And meanwhile I have my shop. And my freedom.” 

Belle knows as well as Killian does how heavily tainted money can weigh on person’s conscience, and that the only way to bear its weight is by turning it to something good. She’s a survivor, just like him. Just like Emma. 

Slowly, so slowly, Killian feels the parts of himself he thought were broken beyond repair begin to mend, and every day he focuses on that healing. He nourishes his body with exercise and good food and he nourishes his mind with books and conversation. He nourishes his soul as well, with his therapy sessions and with the bookshop’s weekly children’s story time, which Belle insists he take charge of after catching him watching wistfully from behind a shelf as she sat surrounded by a semicircle of rapt faces, reading an adventure book. 

He was thinking of Henry. 

He thinks of Henry often, and of course of Emma. Every time he rambles through a new part of the city he wonders if they are living there, perhaps in one of the sprawling houses with soft green lawns in the residential areas, or maybe in an airy loft in one of the edgier, artier neighbourhoods. He hopes that wherever they are they’ve found a true home of their own, with security and comfort and reliable childcare for Henry. Emma no longer needs to work so she could study full time if she wished, or do something else entirely. She wouldn’t strictly speaking need to do anything, but if Killian knows her—and despite the short duration of their acquaintance he’s quite certain he does—she will want to keep studying, for her own satisfaction and to find a career that suits her. Emma Swan could never be content sitting around all day doing nothing. She would want to do some good in the world, regardless of her personal circumstances. The kindness she showed to a strange man in a bar when she had next to nothing of her own was proof enough of that. 

It hurts to think of them but it’s a good sort of pain, a gentle, bittersweet ache that warms his heart, nothing like the tearing agony he felt for so many years whenever he thought of Liam. Thoughts of Emma and Henry inspire him, keep him moving steadily along this new path he’s chosen to tread. Though he’s certain he’ll never see either of them again he wants to live his life in a way that honours his feelings for them. 

He doesn’t go back to the bar where he and Emma met, not often. It’s just a place to drink without the magic her presence lent it, and drinking is a thing he’s trying to do less of these days. But the following Christmas Eve he finds himself back in his old neighbourhood standing before the plain brown door. There’s a jolly little Christmas wreath hung upon it, and Killian knows by now that he’s powerless in the face of those wreaths. He lets it draw him in through the door and over to a stool at the bar where he orders the expensive rum Emma gave him last year and sips it slowly as the memories that infuse the very air of this place both warm and pain him. He’ll allow himself this, he thinks, just this one small lapse. He’s worked hard all year, he can have one evening of self pity. His Christmas gift to himself. 

“Hey, sailor.” 

The voice is impossible and yet he hears it, turns towards it in astonishment then scrambles to his feet. 

“Emma!” he gasps. He stares at her, drinks in the sight of her, of the face that’s haunted his dreams for a year lit up by a bright smile. “What—what are—I had no idea you’d be here.” 

“I almost wasn’t,” she replies. “I was at a Christmas party across town, actually. but then I just had the strangest urge to come here and so here I am.” 

“It’s wonderful to see you, love.” His astonishment ebbs and gives way to a fierce and fearsome joy. He can’t believe she’s here, right in front of him and real, and so lovely he aches to look at her. “How are you? How’s Henry?” 

“Henry’s great. I’m great. We’re great.” She laughs. 

“That’s... well, it’s great.” His smile is beginning to hurt his cheeks, but he could no more stop smiling it than he could make the Earth spin backwards. 

“It is,” she agrees. “Listen, um, can we sit down somewhere?” 

“Of course. Can I get you a drink?”

“Yeah.” Something shifts in her smile, sharpens it in a way that steals his breath. “I’ll have a rum.” 

He orders one for her and another for himself and they sit together in a small, round booth in the corner of the bar. It’s cosy and intimate and it envelops them, making Killian’s heart pound and his mouth go dry. 

Emma seems unfazed, giving him a cool once-over as he slides in beside her on the leather seat. There’s a new confidence in her demeanour now, the kind of quiet assurance that forms in people who answer to no one but themselves. It sits well on her, he thinks. Comfortably, like it was always waiting for her to slip it on.

“You look good,” she tells him. 

“Um.” He feels himself flush and gulps some rum to wet his throat. “Thank you. You look lovely, but then you always did.” 

She observes him in silence for a moment, sipping her own drink. “I looked for you, you know,” she says. 

“You did?” 

“I did. Do you know how many Killian Joneses there are in the phone book?” 

“Er—no.”

“Zero,” she declares. “Including you.” 

“Ah. Well I don’t really—” 

“But,” she interrupts, “as it turns out, I’m pretty good at finding people, even when they don’t want to be found. I found you, eventually. In that bookstore where you work.”

“What?”

“Yeah. I was going to come in but you, ah, weren’t alone. I saw you through the window, standing with a woman. Laughing.” She stares into her glass. “I’d never seen you laugh like that before. Or at all.” 

“A woman?” Killian frowns in confusion. “What woman?” 

“A really pretty one with long brown hair,” says Emma quietly. “Cute dress, very petite. You looked... close.” 

“Belle,” he says. “My boss and flatmate.” 

“Flatmate?” Emma repeats with an odd note in her voice. Her eyes flicker up to him then back to her glass. 

“Er—my roommate,” he amends. 

“I know what a flatmate is, Killian.” 

“Ah. Yes of course, I just, er—” 

“What are you doing tomorrow?” 

He’s taken aback by the non-sequitur, and the shy smile that accompanies it. The shy smile and the eyes shining with something that makes his already galloping heart pound harder still. “Well, it’s Christmas Day,” he replies weakly. 

“That’s also a thing I know.” 

“I was just planning to have a meal with Belle, maybe watch some Christmas movies,” he says. “Nothing special.”  

“Why don’t you and Belle come to my house instead? For dinner?” 

“Oh, well, I—” 

“Come on, you have to,” she cajoles. “Henry would never forgive me if he found out I’d seen you and not invited you. He talks about you all the time.” 

“He does?” 

“He does.” 

Killian takes another gulp of rum, emptying the glass. He feels dizzy at this turn of events, almost afraid that they will turn out to be nothing more than another fevered dream. Surreptitiously he pinches his thigh and when he feels the sharp prick of pain he risks a look at Emma. She’s still smiling, that same hopeful, expectant smile he’d been so powerless against one year ago. “Well, I’ll have to check with Belle but I’m sure she’ll agree,” he says. “I’ve—mentioned you and Henry once or twice myself, she’ll be over the moon to meet you both.” 

Emma’s smile turns radiant. “Give me your number and I’ll text you the address,” she says. He does, and a moment later his phone dings with a new message. Her address he recognises from his rambles as belonging to a part of town that’s nice but not ostentatious, with comfortable family homes and plenty of parks and very good schools. He thinks about Emma and Henry living there and feels a warm glow of sheer delight. It’s exactly what he hoped for, for them. 

“I have to get home,” says Emma. “I told Henry’s babysitter I’d be back by midnight. But—you will come over tomorrow, won’t you? About noon? You promise?” 

Killian smiles. “You have my word. I’ll see you then.” 

—

Belle agrees to have dinner at Emma’s with as much enthusiasm as he predicted, practically dancing with excitement at the prospect.

“The mythical Emma and Henry!” she sings. “I feel like I’m about to meet a unicorn, or Santa himself.” 

Killian’s stomach is dancing too, with anxiety and eagerness and hope. Foolish hope, he tells himself firmly, but it ricochets around his insides nonetheless and refuses to be quashed. He walked away from Emma a year ago so she could have the freedom to make her own choices and she chose to find him, to invite him back into her life. He’s not certain quite what that means but he thinks—he hopes— that at the very least he won't have to go another whole year without seeing her and Henry. That thought alone is enough to make his Christmas bright.

As he stands in the shower with the hot water flowing over him he thinks about how very different his life is than it was just a year ago. The fact that his shower is hot and the water plentiful is the very least of the changes. He no longer has nightmares, no longer feels haunted by his past or fears he might be swallowed up by bleak despair. The dark moods still come from time to time but he is prepared for them now, equipped to weather them without turning to self-destruction. He feels healthier than he has since his navy days, physically as well as mentally. His paunch is gone, replaced with firm muscle, and though he’ll never be as ripped as some of the younger men he works out alongside, he’s toned and strong and that’s enough for him. His complexion now has a ruddy glow, especially when he returns from one of his walks, and he’s begun to take more care with his appearance again, keeping his hair trimmed in a flattering style and investing in a nicer wardrobe. 

He gets out of the shower and towels himself dry, then dresses in some of his new garments: charcoal trousers and a black sweater over a shirt with a soft tonal pattern, pale purple and blue against dove grey. He wonders what Emma will think of his new clothes, what she will think of all the changes this past year has wrought in him. He wonders if she’s thought of him the way he’s thought of her. 

He wonders what he can bring to dinner this afternoon. There’s a bottle of good wine in the cupboard that he and Belle planned to have with their own Christmas meal and of course many things in the bookshop he’s sure Emma and Henry would love. That should be fine for gifts but still something troubles him, an itchy sort of tingle at the back of his mind, like he’s forgetting something vital. What was it that he brought for them last year? He frowns as he tries to remember. The ship for Henry, that was it, and flowers for Emma from that odd little shop, the one with the florist who reminded him of... of... 

Bloody hell. 

Killian reels, gripping his bedpost for balance as memories from the year before come flooding back, clear and perfect as though they happened only yesterday. It couldn’t be, he thinks, it’s impossible, and how could he not have noticed at the time? How could he not have seen?

Magic, little brother.  

“Killian!” Belle raps sharply on the half-open door of his bedroom, her tone of voice suggesting she’s been calling him for some time. “Are you ready to go? It’s nearly half past eleven.”

“Aye, love.” He breathes in deeply and stands upright. “Be right there.”

They go down to the shop where Killian selects several books for Henry, some of which are slightly above his age group—because a child should have a library that builds towards the future—and, remembering the shelves in her old apartment, a picture frame for Emma made of delicately carved rosewood. He wraps them carefully and rings them up on his employee account as Belle calls them a cab. It’s not far at all to Emma’s house but when Killian suggests they walk Belle informs him crisply that while he might enjoy a snowy stroll across twelve city blocks her shoes would not, and takes out her phone. 

The quiet Christmas streets make the ride a short one, but Killian is glad of even a few minutes of peace to sit and to think and spends most of the journey staring out the window at the snowy trees and lawns and attempting to sort through the chaos in his mind. 

“Why didn’t you put the wreath on the door this year?” he asks Belle. 

“What wreath?” She turns to him with a small frown. 

“Last year there was a Christmas wreath on the door of the bookshop,” he replies. “A small one, made of evergreen and holly with pinecones and cinnamon sticks and a big red bow. It’s what caught my attention as I was walking by, why I went inside.”

Belle shakes her head. “There wasn’t any wreath, Killian, though that’s a lovely idea. Maybe we can get one for next year.” 

“Aye. I know just the shop to get it from,” he mutters, and then the cab pulls up to Emma’s house. 

It’s a charming little house, two storeys of dark red brick with slate blue trim on the windows and on the wide porch where comfortable looking wicker furniture and outdoor toys are all jumbled together. There’s a snowman on the lawn, jaunty and quite pleased with himself in his red and green striped scarf and an actual top hat, surrounded by piled-up and solidly-packed mounds of snow and the gruesome remains of what was evidently a long and hard-fought snowball battle. 

The mat lying at the foot of the front door reads Welcome! Everything is fine in soothing green lettering and Killian and Belle exchange a grin as they ring the bell. From within they can hear the sound of voices and then the door swings open and Emma appears, looking festive in skinny jeans and a green sweater with the cartoon face of Rudolph on the front, his nose large and round and glittery red. There’s a plastic holly sprig behind her ear and a bright smile on her face. 

“Hey!” she says. “Come in! You must be Belle, I’m Emma. You can hang your coats just here.” 

They do so, shrugging the coats off and handing Emma the wine and gifts which she accepts with a laugh that holds a touch of surprise. She leads them down a short hallway and into a cosy living room with a plush sofa along the wall and a tall and brightly decorated tree in the window. A fire blazes beneath a wooden mantelpiece where Christmas stockings labeled Henry and Emma still hang, empty now, and bits of wrapping paper and ribbon still cling to the rug in front of it. Killian has just enough time to observe these things before a miniature whirlwind bursts through the door and barrels into his solar plexus. 

“Killian!” Henry cries, squeezing him in a tight hug. “Mom said you were coming but I couldn’t believe it. I missed you. Why didn’t you ever come back?”

Killian’s chest feels as tight as Henry’s arms as he struggles for breath and for the words to explain his conduct. “I’m sorry, Henry, I just—I—I had some things I needed to sort out with myself, before I could be good company to others.”

“But you’re here now, right?” Henry pulls back and looks up at him with brown eyes as wide and trusting as ever. “And you won’t go away again?” 

Killian hesitates. He doesn’t want to presume, but then again Emma did come to find him. Surely it wasn’t overstepping to say he would visit Henry from time to time? He senses her watching him and looks up, catching her eye with an imploring look. She nods to him and he swallows hard before returning it. 

“Aye, lad,” he says, stroking Henry’s hair with a hand that’s not quite steady. “I won’t go away again.”

“Good,” says Henry solemnly, and then his face lights up. “Guess what? I have my own room now!” he cries. “Do you want to see it?” 

“I do indeed.” Killian glances at Belle who waves him away. “Go,” she says. “I’ll stay here and chat with Emma.” 

Henry’s room has bunk beds with Thomas the Tank Engine sheets and an overflowing toy chest in one corner. There’s a small bookshelf as well, with the beginnings of a fine library already on it, and taking pride of place in the centre of the very top shelf is the ship Killian gave him last Christmas. 

“I play with it in the tub. We have a tub now,” says Henry when he notices Killian looking at the ship. “Mom made sure we did but she says I can’t play in it every day because I splash too much and take too long, but on Saturdays I can play as long as I want.” 

Killian takes a moment before replying. “What else do you like to play with?” he asks hoarsely. 

Henry shows off his toys and books and though Killian is anything but an expert in parenting he can see that they’ve been carefully chosen for both fun and enrichment, and that while they are plentiful there aren’t too many for one child to use. Emma hasn’t spoiled him, or herself, despite how easily she could have. 

When they head back downstairs they find Emma and Belle laughing together on the sofa, each with a cup of hot chocolate in hand and a plate of Christmas cookies on the coffee table in front of them. 

“Hey!” says Henry indignantly. “I want hot chocolate!” 

Emma gives him a stern look and he flushes. “Please,” he adds. 

“There’s some for you in the kitchen,” she says, setting her mug down on the table and getting up. “Would you like some too, Killian?” 

“Yes, thank you,” he replies. 

They drink their chocolate and munch their cookies and conversation flows easily and merrily among them. Killian is amazed at how well Emma and Belle have hit it off and Henry is ‘on his Christmas behaviour,’ Emma says with a laugh, sitting on the floor playing with his trains and listening, occasionally piping up with a question or comment. Belle and Killian tell them all about the bookshop and Emma promises to bring Henry there as soon as possible. 

“For the story time!” cries Henry, eyes wide at the prospect, and then Belle suggests he might like to open the presents they brought him. He squeals with delight at the new books, and Killian gets so caught up in telling him about them that he doesn’t notice Emma quietly unwrap the picture frame until he hears her soft “Oh!” 

He turns to see her staring at it with misty eyes and an expression that makes his heart clench. “I know how you love your pictures,” he says softly. “I remember.” 

“Henry, what do you say we find a place for those books on your shelves,” says Belle. “Then maybe you can show me your room and the ship Killian gave you last year?”

She ushers Henry from the room, leaving Killian and Emma alone, staring at each other. 

“Emma—” he begins, just as she says “Killian—” and they share a nervous laugh. 

“Me first, please,” she says, and he nods. 

“Of course, love.” 

She licks her lips and takes a steadying breath before she speaks. “When you walked away last year,” she begins, “outside the bank, I was so hurt. I know why you did it—I think I know—but it still hurt and for a while I was angry. I thought—I thought we had a connection, and then for you to just leave like that, I—” She shakes her head. “Well, I tried to forget about you and move on, build this new life for myself and Henry, and I did build it but I couldn’t stop thinking about you. All year I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, and I missed you. That may sound dumb since we only spent a day together, but that’s how I feel.” 

“It doesn’t sound dumb at all,” he says. “I missed you too.” 

She gives a small, choking laugh. “I thought you didn’t,” she says. “When I saw you and Belle in the bookstore, I thought, well, he’s forgotten all about you.” 

“I definitely did not,” he replies. “I couldn’t. I thought about you too, all year.” 

“Really?” 

“Oh, aye.” He attempts a smile. “Every day.”

Her eyes are liquid soft and their expression makes his blood hum. “I don’t want to go through that again next year,” she says. “I want to… to see you, and not—not just as a friend.” 

“Emma—” 

“And don’t say you’re too old! I know that’s what you’re going to say.” 

“It is true.” 

“It’s not. You can’t be more than what, thirty-four, thirty-five?” 

“Thirty-five.” 

“I’m twenty-three.” 

“That’s—” 

“But I don’t care about that, Killian. I like your silver hair and that you’ve had experience of the world. Sometimes I feel like I missed out on so much, getting pregnant so young and since then my whole life has been Henry and trying to get through college. And now I have all this money and I know there’s so much I can do with it, and places I can go, but I don’t really know where to start.”

“Love—” 

“Not that I want you to be a tour guide or like an adviser or something, I want—fuck, I’m making a mess of this.” 

Killian realises he’s holding his breath, forces himself to exhale and draw in fresh air. “Emma,” he says firmly, “there’s nothing I’d like more than to have a place in your life, and Henry’s, in whatever capacity you wish.” 

“Whatever capacity?” 

“Aye.” 

“So if I said I wanted you to be my—” she takes a deep breath—“my date for a New Year’s Eve party I’m invited to, you’d agree?” 

“It would be my honour.” 

“And then if I asked you out to dinner?” she continues. “My treat.” 

He laughs. “I know a restaurant I think you’d love.” 

“And afterwards? If I invited you back here for some coffee?” 

“You do make excellent coffee, I don’t think I could refuse.” 

“Then if I wanted to go out again, someplace else?” 

“You could choose the restaurant, and I would pay.” 

“Then maybe a movie sometime?” 

“At the old cinema near the bookshop.” 

“And what— what if, after a little while, I wanted to have coffee again in the morning? You’d—you’d stay and have that second cup with me?” 

“I would love nothing more.” 

She nods. “That’s the capacity I wish.” 

She’s so close now that he can count the flecks of gold in her eyes and he realises that her hand is on his thigh and his is on her hip, and then she closes the remaining distance between them and kisses him. He moans and pulls her closer, his other hand tangling in her hair as hers curls around his neck and he loses himself in the taste of chocolate and cinnamon on her tongue and the promise of her lips on his. The promise of a future, their future, together. 

There’s a clattering noise of footsteps and loud voices on the stairs and they break apart. Killian leans his forehead against Emma’s, revelling in the sight of her dazed and happy smile, and silently thanks Belle for her discretion. Emma stands and pulls him to his feet, and when Henry and Belle appear she beams at them both. 

“I think dinner’s nearly ready,” she says. “Henry, let’s go set the table.” 

Belle gives Killian a smirk that’s thoroughly ruined by the delight dancing in her eyes. “You look happy,” she says. “And a bit shell-shocked.” 

“Aye, to both those things.” 

“And you appear to be wearing lipstick,” she teases, handing him a tissue and grinning at his blush. He wipes his mouth and when he offers it back to her she takes his hand as well. 

“I’m so glad for you,” she says. “Merry Christmas, Killian. The first of many, I think.” 

Killian looks into the dining room where Emma and Henry are laughing as he sets the table and she lays the food out on it. “Aye,” he says gruffly. “I think it will be. I hope.” 

-

[balancingdiet]

fallen stem

Detective Conan & Magic Kaito Characters: Kaito/Shinichi  Words: 1700 ish Required Fic: Tabula Rasa Extra: (1) (2) (3) (4)

“Forgive him this time, okay?” Kaito said as he straightened the pot and arranged the plant’s weak stem to its place. “He’s not a plant-idiot. He’s really quite busy lately.”

Pulling the last piece of rubbish out of his suit’s pockets, Kaito slumped onto the floor, butt first and legs sprawled out. He was exhausted and tired and... Did he mention exhausted?

Yes. Exhausted.

He tossed his suit over his couch and stared at the filled trash-bag between his legs, which contained mostly the leftover props he’d used during the heist earlier—Empty plastic balls, bent pins, torn poker-cards and some packaging of all the other things; things that were not enough to use as evidence to proof him as Kaitou Kid.

Even if he knew Shinichi wasn’t going to do anything about his other identity, that didn’t mean Kaito wouldn’t stay vigilant.

After all that clearing up, all Kaito had to do now was to tie a knot over the bag and then throw it outside in the bin, but he was just so, SO lazy to move right now.

Damn, maybe he shouldn’t have sat down.

Now he wanted more; to lie down instead.

With the trash-bag clasped between his thighs, Kaito laid his back on the floor and stared at the ceiling. He could see his doves shifting on their spots, all recognising his posture as an “invitation” to disturb him, like littering their feathers over his body or pecking his forehead (the latter was just Yoshi only). So Kaito kept his eyes open, as a warning to his doves to not come disrupt his temporary peace, and continued staring at the ceiling.

Besides, he wasn’t craving for sleep; he wasn’t experiencing that kind of exhaustion. His exhaustion was a little bit more to do with his inner than physical state, but it wasn’t as if using its actual term (i.e. disappointment) would make things turn out all better.

It could never be, until he found Pandora.

But there was some hope recently; some hope that came from hell. Literally.

Just last month, Akako contacted Kaito, telling him of a prophecy she received from Lucifer (and Kaito wished he could pretend it was just a name of a dog Akako gave, but who was he kidding?):

“The moon is going to shine red soon,” Akako said. The hood over her head casted a shadow over her face, but he could still see the gleam in her eyes, which warned Kaito to not question her words or source. At all.

“Ok,” Kaito answered instead, before wearily looking at the clock hanging on his bedroom wall. It was three in the morning, but he figured that concern was never a problem to Akako, given how she claimed she didn’t need the so-called beauty sleep that most women said they needed. “So the moon will shine... red? And? Do you need to video-call me for this?” Kaito muttered.

“Do you know what it means?”

Kaito briefly hid his face under the blanket, hoping it muffled his groans before he re-surfaced and squinted at his phone screen. His brain was not really working, but at least he could find some boldness in him to retort, “What? Am I suppose to send an email to NASA or something?”

”Imbecile.” Akako removed the hood from her head and glowered. “It’s about Pandora.”

That got him shot out of bed, and the plan for his next heist began its way.

Caffeine rarely worked for him, but he decided to down two cups of coffee rather than switching on the loud music to keep him awake. He knew how he’d often disturbed Shinichi, and he used to never care about that. But given that Shinichi wasn’t having the time of his life lately either, Kaito spared him that pain and decided to be a good neighbour instead.

So for the next month after that video call, Kaito had held heists for all the jewels he knew existed in Japan at the moment, be it ones that used to never pass the need of his attention. He wasn’t going to take the risk of losing any signs.

But he’d been feeling nothing short of that exhaustion since then.

(Maybe it was better to have no hope at all.)

Sighing, Kaito brushed away his thoughts and forced himself to sit and stand up, careful to not topple the trash-bag. But just as he was about to tie a dead knot, a huge gust of wind rattled against his opened kitchen window, and Kaito glanced up. His ears twitched, hearing more than just the nature’s howl—there was a sound of a soft thud outside; something that begged his gut to not ignore.

Tentatively leaving his trash-bag on the floor, Kaito approached his kitchen window. From here, he could catch a small glimpse of Shinichi’s backyard, but it was dark, and he couldn’t see much of anything besides shadows.

After closing his kitchen window, Kaito stepped out to his backyard. He ambled over to Shinichi’s side, until he stopped at the fence that separated their territories.

“Hah.” Kaito shook his head, staring at a toppled pot, the vines and soil sprawled all across the grass patch. The sweet potato vine started to overgrow again, and one side probably got too heavy. Adding from the strength of the wind, it finally toppled over.

“Plant-idiot—” Kaito stopped and shook his head at his words. He then slipped back to his own house, took a spade and pruner tool, before jumping over the fence to Shinichi’s backyard.

From the even darker darkness coming from Shinichi’s home, Kaito knew he was still at work. But Kaito also knew Shinichi’s recent increase in overtime wasn’t related to his pure interest of solving complex murders. It was more of real work—the lengthy phone calls, loads of interrogating and thousands and thousands of words Shinichi had to write in his report—given that one division recently closed down due to corruption, and Shinichi and his team had taken over their duties instead.

Shinichi never told Kaito, but given his intel, it wasn’t hard for him to know about it.

Besides that, seeing Shinichi’s eye-bags, crooked smile, and his slightly less concern of getting his shitted mailbox cleaned immediately were more than enough of a clue for Kaito too.

Kaito squatted before the toppled pot.

(“Forgive him this time, okay?” Kaito overheard one day as he peeked out from behind the corner of the hospital’s corridor, to see Aoko patting her hands over Kanna and another boy’s head—the latter probably recently admitted and thus Kaito never saw him before. “Kaito nii-san’s been busy recently, but maybe he’ll come next time,” Aoko continued, with a smile that held something wistful, and nothing promising, too.

But even after Kaito popped out from behind the wall and surprised the kids, including Aoko, saying that he had cleared something off his schedule and managed to make it for the volunteering session today, that smile of hers still remained.

Kaito should have seen it as a sign, but he didn’t, and he still couldn’t quite forgive himself for that.)

“Forgive him this time, okay?” Kaito said as he straightened the pot and arranged the plant’s weak stem to its place. “He’s not a plant-idiot. He’s really quite busy lately.”

Flutters of wing came from his side and Kaito turned, watching as Tamago settled on the fence; its beady eyes observing.

“Why are you always around when Shinichi’s stuff are involved?” Kaito scoffed as he continued his plant work and patted the soil into the pot.

Another flutter of wings, and Wasabi perched next to Tamago.

“Not you too,” Kaito mumbled.

Kaito decided to focus on his work, but there wasn’t much to be done beside cutting a few overgrown stems to have a better balance of its weight. Afterwards, he collected the evidence that proved he’d meddled with Shinichi’s plants, jumped over to his backyard and disposed them into his trash-bag. Finally, he tied a dead knot and headed to his front door.

His ears itched, and he dug it—care-free—as he stumbled out of his house and threw the trash-bag away

Then, he spotted Shinichi’s car, and the said man stepping out of it too.

Strange, Kaito wondered, but he didn’t have his phone on him, so he approached Shinichi, who limply allowed him to pick his wrist and check the time on his watch.

“You’re back earlier than usual,” Kaito commented. He actually expected a few hours more before Shinichi returned.

“And you too.” Shinichi waved a hand over Kaito, like he couldn’t care less, yet Kaito could still catch a hint of concern in his tone. “I thought you have a heist today?”

Kaito knew Shinichi was busy, but it annoyed him slightly that he’d grown so oblivious about his activities. “I’m already done.”

“Ok.” Shinichi put out a hand. “Where’s the jewel?”

“Why?”

“I figured if I’m not going to turn you in, I should at least do my part for the police and get the jewel back.”

“So righteous…” Kaito clapped his hands drily. “If I’m still in Kid’s attire, I’d definitely take my hat off to you.”

“Don’t change the subject. Jewel?”

Rather than him changing the subject, Kaito felt it was Shinichi that was trying to particularly focus the subject on his heist, the jewel — just everything besides the fact that he had knocked off early tonight.

Pot calling the kettle black?

“Aren’t you afraid that you’ll get suspected if you return my loot again?” Kaito challenged, raising his eyebrow further. “I mean, I’ve disguised as you before so it’s kinda on the track record.”

That seemed to put some perspective for Shinichi, and he put down his arm and narrowed his eyes—the kind of annoyance that Kaito recognized better. “Thanks for bringing up those memories.”

“My pleasure,” Kaito said cheekily before looking up at the dark sky. “They were good times indeed…”

Those words slipped out of his tongue even before Kaito realized, but he didn't find them wrong, nor having the need to correct it aloud or to himself.

Good times.

They were indeed times that started well. Times of the better past. Times that could be called memories rather than nightmares and scars…

Even when it was present earlier, the moon was nowhere to be found; now it was just a piece of dark sky hanging above. But Kaito knew it got to be out there somewhere, probably hidden behind the clouds, like a taunt for Kaito.

”I’m here. But try to find me if you can.”

Please. Kaito thought. Please just shine red soon.