#not the naivety of course bet he was anything but naive

[philiponmycracker]

A study in expressions Tom Hulce edition, as Artie Shoemaker, from Those Lips Those Eyes (1980)

[seijorhi]

Nothing Fucks with My Baby

The (not so) long awaited Hitman AU 👀

Iwaizumi Hajime x Reader

TW Blood, minor violence, referenced/implied murder, stalking, implied kidnapping

Iwaizumi has one rule. No kids.

They could be the damn antichrist for all he cares, if they’re underage, they’re off limits. Anyone else is fair game - kind old ladies, rich corrupt businessmen, housewives, politicians. He doesn’t give a shit so long as he gets paid, and paid well.

You were fair game.

He never cares why. Iwa has better things to do than listen to meaningless justifications and vendettas. They make no difference either way - he’s being paid to kill, so he’ll kill, ruthlessly and without prejudice. All he wants is a name, a picture and whether or not they want brains splattered on pavement or something a little more refined. An address doesn’t go astray, but he’ll work with what he’s got, it’s the reason he can charge a fucking premium.

But you… you weren’t what he expected. He’s used to filth. Liars, cheaters, bottom of the barrel trash. Every once in a while some poor idiot gets caught up in something they don’t understand and ultimately pay the price for it, but good people don’t often end up in files splayed across Iwaizumi’s desk. He’s not used to innocence, and as far as he’s concerned, you’re as close as they come.

He supposes that things might have been different if they’d wanted you dead quickly. 

Publicly. 

But they didn’t want that. They wanted you to disappear without a fucking trace. It wasn’t a kindness - it just meant more work for him. It meant that instead of staring down the barrel of a sniper rifle perched in the window of an empty apartment across the street from yours, he’d have to get his hands dirty.

If you want somebody to blame, sweetheart, why don’t you start with them?

In hindsight, he probably didn’t need to go inside the little coffee joint you worked at. He could lie to himself and say that it was an excuse to get closer to you, to see if you had friends at your work who might try and get in the way, but the simple truth was that he’d been up since four in the fucking morning, and he might just have shot somebody out of sheer irritation if he didn’t get a hit of caffeine and soon. 

Might as well kill two birds with one stone, right?

And it wasn’t like you were going to recognise him. Three days in, and as far as Iwa can tell, you don’t have the slightest idea that you were being watched, much less that the pair of eyes watching belonged to a cold hearted killer. 

People tend to be a little more scared when they sense he’s coming - there’s a kind of innate fear that seeps from every pore as they scurry about trying to hide, trying to put off the inevitable - but you, you’re just blissfully oblivious, flitting around with those wide doe eyes like you haven’t got a damn care in the world. 

He honestly doesn’t know whether he wants to envy or pity you for that sweet naivety. 

Currently though, he’s more concerned with whether or not you can make a half decent cup of coffee. 

“I asked for an extra hot latte.”

Or he would be, if the asshole with slicked back hair and an expensive suit hadn’t cut him off just as he was about to step up to the counter to shove the coffee you’d just made him back in your face. He watches your eyes widen for a split second before you smile - apologetic and demure before you can even open your mouth.

“Oh, I’m sorry, is it not hot enough?” 

The moment the words leave your lips, you all but flinch. Both you and he know that despite the fact you mean them sincerely (which kind of surprises him, considering that if your situations were reversed he wouldn’t have been nearly so generous) they’re a mistake.

The asshole sneers down at you like you’re nothing more than scum on his shoes. “If it was fucking hot enough, I wouldn’t be wasting my time complaining, now would I?”

Even before he found himself dabbling in his current line of work, Iwaizumi never considered himself much of a knight in shining armour. The world’s a shitty place, it’s not his job to go around fixing things and softening blows. He’s not a cold, emotionless bastard, as most people assume, he just has better things to do than run around playing a damn bleeding heart and sticking his neck out for strangers. It’s not his problem and as far as he’s concerned, he doesn’t owe anybody shit.

Impassive olive eyes watch as you try and backtrack, apologising again, offering to make him a new drink, explaining that the reason the coffee wasn’t as hot as he wanted was because you were trying not to scorch the milk- for naught.

You in your naive little world don’t seem to realise that the asshole doesn’t actually give a shit about the coffee. He wants a power trip, and you’ve given him the perfect excuse. He wants to yell and scream and stamp his feet and take all of his repressed anger and feelings of inadequacy out on you so that he can feel like a big man. He wants to see you whimper and cry and bow down before him.

It’s pathetic, but Iwa’s content to watch it play out, drumming his fingers against the wallet in his hand, more irritated with the delay in getting his own coffee than the outburst itself-

Until the asshole reaches for his latte. 

Iwa’s good at reading people, predicting their movements before they’re even made. It’s a necessary skill in his profession, one that’s saved his skin more times than he can count. He sees the little vein in the asshole’s temple throb, his jaw tighten, and the moment his hand twitches towards the still steaming cup of coffee, Iwa knows that he fully intends on throwing it at you.

He moves quicker than a man of his size has any right to, an iron grip wrapping around the asshole’s wrist, squeezing. He glares, sneering down at the man who all of a sudden doesn’t seem quite so angry, much less imposing. 

“Get out,” he hisses.

It’s not a request.

But the asshole either has a death wish or he’s trying to salvage what’s left of his fragile ego, because his beady eyes narrow and he opens his mouth - no doubt to spew more vitriolic bullshit.

Iwa twists.

Not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough that it sends the man to his knees, whimpering like a kicked puppy, desperate to relieve the pressure on his wrist. 

“I said,” he begins, his voice colder than ice, “get out.”

Yet he doesn’t spare the asshole another glance, not even as he releases his grip and the man skitters away like he’s been burned. The cafe is deathly silent, and without even glancing around, Iwa knows that they’ve managed to draw the attention of most if not all of its patrons.

And for once, he doesn’t give a single fuck.

Iwa’s eyes, his attention, all of it is focused entirely on you - on the wide eyed, stunned look on your pretty face. It’s a violent outburst, not nearly close to what he’s truly capable of, but in the quiet little cafe on a dreary Tuesday morning, glaringly out of place.

Will you burst into tears, he wonders. Ignore it, brush it aside and pretend it never happened? Stutter out more apologies for causing a fuss, for making a simple mistake? He somehow doubts you’ll be the type to scold him for it. No, you’re far too meek for that.

You surprise him, smiling slowly instead, and it’s like the sun breaking through the clouds after a storm.

It’s a far cry from the contrite air you’d graced the asshole with earlier. It’s hesitant, nervous, but it’s very much real, and Iwa finds it difficult to stop the corners of his own lips from twitching upwards in response.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

He inclines his head a fraction. “Don’t worry about it.”

You don’t charge him for the coffee, even when he practically shoves the bills across the counter into your hands.

“Don’t worry about it,” you shyly parrot back at him, and he almost fucking snorts when there’s a warmed chocolate chip muffin waiting with his coffee when it’s ready.

He’s being paid forty grand to make sure you’re dead by the end of the week, and you’re here giving him free muffins. Oikawa would see the humour in that. Of course, Oikawa would have absolutely no qualms in charming the absolute hell out of you seconds before he pulled the trigger. Realistically, he shouldn’t either. It’s his job, nothing personal.

To say he enjoys killing is probably a stretch, but he takes pride in it. Iwa’s good at what he does. It’s simple. Easy - so long as he follows his own rules.

This shouldn’t be any different. You’re cute, he supposes, in an odd sort of way. Innocent.

Endearing.

It shouldn’t have an effect on him. 

It doesn’t, but-

He could have killed you two days ago. He’d be willing to bet good money that he could’ve walked right to your apartment, knocked on your door, made up some bullshit excuse on the spot and you would have smiled and invited him right inside. 

And it’s not like you’d stand a chance of being able to fight him off.

Over the past few days there have been at least twelve different moments that Iwaizumi could have stepped in and snuffed that pretty little life of yours out without making a fuss and it would have been easy.

But he hadn’t.

There’s a difference between surveillance and stalking - it’s a fine line, a blurred one maybe, but it’s there all the same. After yet another night spent camped out watching you move about your apartment - cooking dinner for yourself, zoning out on the couch and fiddling with your phone while the tv plays in the background before finally curling up in bed in the early hours of the morning - Iwa comes to the realisation that he’s crossed it. 

He wonders why it doesn’t bother him like it should.

The next day, he goes back to your little coffee shop. There’s no muffin this time, but your face brightens when he walks through the door and when he goes to pick up his coffee there’s a tiny, bite sized cookie sitting atop the lid.

“Don’t tell my boss,” you whisper, darting a glance back over your shoulder even as another pretty little smile graces your features.

Something unexpectedly warm and pleasant sings through his blood, and this time Iwa allows his own lips to twitch into the faintest hint of a grin in response.

You really are a truly awful judge of character.

Maybe that’s your downfall, that beautiful, naive innocence you just bleed. It’s a wonder that nobody’s come along to take advantage of you, especially when you are so very ripe for the taking. 

Well, nobody until him, he supposes. 

Iwa doesn’t know for certain why the men who want you dead do, he doesn’t particularly care either, but he does know that whatever their reasons are, it’s not enough.

Neither is forty thousand dollars.

It takes time, more than he’d like, to find the root of it all. It’s messy and he has to call in a few favours from old friends, but Iwa is nothing if not thorough.

He’s never particularly enjoyed killing, but there’s a certain satisfaction he gets from watching the light leave their desperate, pleading eyes knowing that he’s finally done his job. When he comes home, his shirt flecked with blood, his hands still dripping with it and coaxes your stricken, tear stained face up into a lingering kiss, Iwa feels content.

They wanted you to disappear entirely, he made sure that you did. 

[7-wonders]

Hardships Unnumbered

Summary: The quest to save Julia begins, but not everything is as it seems in this mystical land.

Word Count: 1969

A/N: Hi friends! This is the second chapter of my Labyrinth King!Michael AU fic, "It's Only Forever." I'll link the first chapter down below. I hope that you enjoy and, as always, likes, comments, and reblogs make my world go round.

(also there's a couple of little easter eggs/one big one and I'm really excited to see who figures them out)

Chapter One

Though you put your hands out in front of you to brace yourself, it doesn’t help you to discern which way is up and which way is down until you finally stop rolling. With a groan, you shove yourself up to your feet. Your palms are scraped and slightly bleeding, your jeans are torn at the knees, and leaves and twigs now adorn your hair. All in all, this is not the way you had hoped to start this mission to get Julia back.

Now that you’re already at the bottom of the hill, it’s easier to decide how to start this jaunt through the Labyrinth. After all, you certainly can’t go back up, and the solid ground beneath your feet only leads one way. The shining spires of Michael's castle at the center of the maze, closer than you had thought, rise high above you and act as a compass. All factors considered, you can definitely run this in a couple of hours. Then, once you’re both safely out of here, your first order of business is to call the cops.

Your confidence begins to fade the longer that you walk along with the wall separating you from the inside of the maze. There’s no door, or arch, or opening anywhere to be seen. Turning around, you look back to see if you’ve missed the entrance. Instead of finding one, movement catches your eye. A man, tall and willowy, cries out victoriously at something trapped under his foot. He seems to be your best bet, and you decide to approach him.

“Excuse me?” you say.

The man startles, obviously not expecting to see anybody here. “Oh!” he cries in surprise, looking at you as if you’re the first person to ever cross his path. His hair is bleached to look almost white, and he has a pair of oddly-shaped sunglasses with purple lenses covering his eyes. The checkered jumpsuit, complete with ruffles on the shoulders, both does and doesn’t go with the sunglasses. You’re not quite sure why the people that live here dress so funny, but it’s making you feel underdressed.

“Which way do I go to get into the Labyrinth?”

“Now, why would I tell you that?”

“Because you must have come from there,” you pause, looking down at the man’s foot when you hear a squeaking, “oh! Is that a fairy?”

“Mhm.” Your childlike wonder is abruptly swept out from under you when he kicks the small, blue creature into the forest.

“Why did you do that? That wasn’t very nice!”

“Go ahead and pick one up,” the man says, “you’ll see how nice they are when you’re missing a finger.” As if to prove his point, a fairy flies up to you and hisses in your face, showing off two rows of razor sharp teeth. “What is it that you wanted, again?”

You huff. “To know which way to go to get into the Labyrinth.”

“Did you try asking it?”

“I’m sorry, what?” You roll your eyes in disbelief before mocking him. “‘Labyrinth, please let me in!’ Is that what I should say?”

He doesn’t have to respond, for a sudden rumbling has you turning around. To your shock, there’s suddenly an open space in the wall that hadn’t been there just a second ago.

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m Gallant.” You want to tell him that you weren’t guessing his name, you don’t even want to know his name, but he continues. “Who are you?”

“(Y/N).”

“Ah, that’s right.” So this is one of Michael’s ‘subjects?’ After all, if your dreams have been right (and you’re still half-convinced this is just the elaborate scheme of some unhinged weirdo and not magic, despite what you just saw), then that means that Michael is also the ruler of the Underworld. With that logic, Gallant must be some sort of a demon. If that’s the case, you certainly don’t want anything to do with him.

“Well,” you say awkwardly, “I’m going to go now. Running on limited time, and all that.”

“You’re just going to go in there? Alone?”

“Yep.”

“But--but the Labyrinth leads to the Labyrinth King!”

“That’s kind of the whole reason why I’m here.”

“You’re going to get hurt in there.” Gallant gasps. “You could even die in there!”

You set your shoulders, walking to the hole in the wall and glancing back. “I won’t, but thanks for the concern.”

“Wait!” Even if you did want to listen to what he had to say, you couldn’t, for the wall closes back up on itself the moment you step through it. Mildly jarred though you may be, there’s not much you can do to change this, so you turn around and try to figure out whether to go right or left. Both directions look exactly the same, so with the flip of a mental coin, you go right.

After both walking and jogging for what must have been over a mile, you’re no closer to any sort of landmark that would tell you where you are or how close you are to the castle. There haven’t even been any corners to turn past, just one long, unending aisle. You’re starting to feel a little claustrophobic as you finally come to a stop, needing to take a break for a minute. Sinking down against the wall into a sitting position, you find yourself looking back and forth down the path. Both directions look exactly the same, for as far as you can see. You groan dejectedly and put your head in your hands, allowing yourself a moment of pity before getting up and trying again.

“Hey there!”

You jump at the sudden Southern-sounding voice. “Who’s there?”

“Me, of course!”

Looking around, you see a small door just to your left, and a small woman, probably less than a foot tall, standing next to you. Her curly blonde hair is pulled up into a ponytail, showing off her pointy ears. “And you’re...talking to me?”

“There’s nobody else around, is there?” The woman glances inside the open door. “‘Cept the missus, of course.”

Another woman, also blonde, pokes her head outside and smiles up at you. “Hello!”

“Why don’t ya come inside for a while? ‘Delia makes a killer gumbo.”

“Uh...no thanks. I’m just taking a break for a moment before I find a way to the castle.”

The woman’s face turns severe, and she holds her shawl tighter around herself. “You must be awfully brave if you’re so determined to go up there.”

Brave? You wouldn’t call yourself brave. Stupid, maybe, for bowing to the whims of the guy who’s kidnapped your charge, but not brave.

“But anyways, just go through the wall across from us and you’ll be on your way.”

You look in front of you to see the solid wall. “Through there?”

She nods.

Logic is telling you that this is obviously false, but, considering the same thing happened with Gallant, it can’t hurt to try. Standing up, you cautiously put your hand up to the wall, expecting to meet, well, a wall. Instead, you almost fall through a doorway that leads to another passage in the Labyrinth. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“You will be if you keep going.”

You choose to ignore this, at this point knowing that everybody who lives here is terrified of their ruler. “Thanks for the help.”

The elf stares at your back as you walk through the new corridor, figure becoming smaller and smaller. “If she would have stuck around, I would have been able to get her on the right track back home, not towards that horrible man.”

From inside the house, a timer beeps. “Misty, supper’s ready!”

///

In the stone chamber of the King of the Underworld’s throne room, a three year old girl is currently winning a staring contest against a demon. Michael watches as the demon’s eyes begin to water (with blood, of course), before he eventually gives in and blinks. The little girl cheers before looking at Michael.

“My daddy’s gonna kick your butt, you know. He saved mama from aliens once.”

“Silence, child,” Michael commands, but he can’t help the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. It’s difficult to hide his amusement when this child is the most lively thing to grace his castle since...well, he can’t quite remember since when.

Being surrounded by demons of all shapes and sizes, with a variety of horns or extra eyes or tails, gets old after a while. Demons, quite frankly, are a bore. All they want to do is scare people and cause mayhem, yet continue to use the same methods that have been in place for thousands of years. If Michael’s being honest with himself, everything’s a bore to him here. In the early years, this job had been quite fun. Lots of naive humans to terrify and endless souls to torture.

Michael himself had been prone to naivety, then. It was easy to deal with the buffoons that called themselves demons when it seemed that, soon enough, he would find somebody to share this burden with him. After all, it was the guy upstairs who believed that emotions were for the humans. Michael, however, found it to be one of the most carnal pleasures. To love, and to be loved, seemed like the greatest sin. As the years passed, and the whole routine of ruling the Underworld became stale, Michael began to embrace the feelings of dejection, while simultaneously dreading the thought of an eternity alone.

That’s why, no matter the outcome of tonight, Michael would at least have something to add a little color to his black-and-white world. At the very least, the child would provide much-needed entertainment in the Underworld. She seems quite creative, which could potentially lend itself to some new and innovative torture methods. But, that would almost be a non-starter, considering the whole reason that she’s here, the whole reason Michael implemented this plan in the first place, is to get to you.

You, who managed to somehow win over demons disguised as beggars that loitered outside of the bookstore you worked for. You, who was constantly coming up with your own ideas for stories, creating and erasing entire worlds within your mind (a power far more powerful than any regular magic, Michael believes). You, who had somehow managed to vex and enchant him, without ever having spoken a word to him. He had seen you on one of his visits up Above, talking to a beggar demon as if they were your equal, offering food and shelter to their grotesque form. From then on, he knew that he had to have you, and from that, a plan was born. The Labyrinth, which he had subtly placed in every single one of your dreams for months now, was impossible to run through. You would inevitably lose. And when that happens, he’s prepared to accept your frantic offer where you exchange yourself for the child. He is, after all, a benevolent ruler.

“Mr. Michael?” Julia questions, breaking Michael out of his pondering.

Michael hums, deciding that he won’t lecture her on the importance of referring to rulers by their titles. “Yes, little one?”

“Do you have juice here? ‘M thirsty.”

“Abaddon!” Michael calls, the demon appearing in a puff of smoke. “Get our guest some refreshments.”

The demon turns to do Michael’s bidding, shocked when Julia grabs their clawed hand and skips along with them. “I really like your spiky horns,” she says.

Michael looks up at the clock on the wall, noting that only nine hours remain for you to reach the center of the Labyrinth and rescue the child. Perfect. He’s not one to get too cocky (yes he is), but these are odds he’s willing to take.

//

Tag List (send me a message if you want to be on this!): @sojournmichael @dark-mei-rose @blakescoven @xavierplympton @michaellangdon @trelaney @ajokeformur-ray @babyloutattoo89 @bloodcoatedeclipse @threeminutesoflife @annikathebananana @wth-trippy @thatonehumanbeing05 @dumybitch

[misscrawfords]

rorotheslytherclaw replied to your post: I think one of the things that really bugs me...

Omg her telling a random stranger everything frustrated me so much too! This woman could tell literally anyone and Georgiana would be disgraced I just read a fanfic where the main characters were kidnapped and it was all “noone can find out or she will be ruined!” Like how can a fanfic writer get this better than someone who writes for major tv networks…Also I agree about the character flaws, she does seem to become whatever the plot requires her to be. They can’t decide whether she’s a Catherine Moorland or an Elizabeth Bennet… i mean im still gonna watch it tho its hot trash and i enjoy but come on, I’ve read fanfics with better character consistency.

Fanfic writers very frequently get things better than fully paid, well-known professional writers... It’s infuriating!

I don’t think she’s half of Catherine or Elizabeth because she has no consistency. And tbh I wouldn’t care about any of it but her own lack of awareness of literally anything about the world she lives in means I can’t even respect her as a character any more. Catherine was naive about some things but she knew how to be polite and behave at a ball! In fact, it was her native understanding of what was appropriate and what was not that stood her in good stead when other people (the Thorpes) actually behaved badly. If Charlotte is like anyone, it’s Marianne Dashwood. Well-meaning but highly inappropriate in public places.

flibbertigiblet:

have to say I agree with you, OP. Naivety is one thing, but the utter foolishness of running away to London(!!!) with no money or contacts made me groan in disbelief. Then the word vomit to Lady Susan at the party happened, and no matter how sympathetic a character they intend Susan to be, I had to cringe, once again, at Charlotte's utter lack of discretion.

I’ve seen a lot of people saying how relatable Charlotte is for this and I get the word vomit to a stranger but it’s just so psychologically unrealistic that she would drop Sidney’s full name into it at a party to which he’s attending and this woman might know him! She might be his long lost love, Eliza! (I really wanted that to happen.) She might be his childhood BFF! His cousin! Like, really? If I have complicated feelings for a guy and I desperately need to talk about it, I don’t tell everyone who I mean! It just makes it soooo obvious it was not written by anyone who knows anything about female psychology! And I can’t believe she just ruined Georgiana’s reputation. “Oh yeah my friend Georgiana Lambe, you know her? She just got abducted!” Like, whoops, there go Georgiana’s chances in one fell swoop. Silly, silly Charlotte. But of course there are never any consequences for actions in this show.

lynsunrise:

Maybe they don't see so much real harm in Charlotte telling Mrs Susan everything because Mrs Susan either is a perfect stranger and has no interest in ruining someone's reputation or that she is to play a bigger role in everything, or she's genuinely kind and because of Charlotte's openness she feels that it's forgivable for such a spirited young woman. Running to London without money. I agree, it's absolutely crazy. But I can understand that impulse though.😘😘😘

She is clever but too hasty in judgment, she will correct that. Now that she finally understood the nature of her feelings, the source of her anger and anxiety, basically, that's she understood she's in love, it will open her eyes. And she will see better where she belongs. Till now she could not realize that she was challenging herself in challenging  others. But the picture of the old vision crumbled, and suffering can erase the prejudice and her illusions and teach her where she really belongs.

I think that she was so frustrated at the beginning of the episode because of her prejudice, it's so blind, that prejudice. And following it she acted too hastily and was so harsh. Ignorance was present, she was deaf to Sidney, and then everything turned out to be different. Sidney is the man that knows what is to love, suffer, really save someone. Everything's upside down. And it's more or less okay that she at first rejects that invitation... I think that she will analyze everything and everything will be fine💕💕💕Sorry for being so talkative 😙😅

Never apologise for being enthusiastic! I hope you are right in your evaluation of Charlotte’s character development here. Perhaps she has to go backwards to go forwards. I guess my main problem is with the inconsistent world building around her, because she is not facing any consequences - she doesn’t seem to realise how inappropriate some of the things she does are, though I grant you she does seem to realise some of them. And nobody around her is calling her out on them. She’s a complete and utter liability to the Parkers and I don’t really know why they don’t send her back to Willingden - apart from the fact that they can’t because she’s the heroine. But that’s a bad reason within the text.  *shrug* I guess we’ll see, but I’ve lost a lot of respect for the writing this episode. A lot.

kitten1618x:

^^ I find my views align with this, as well. I’m willing to bet that Lady Susan will be the one to rally the troops to save the day and be the one to help put Sanditon on the map...

Perhaps? I mean, she’s just a random stranger who finds Charlotte sympathetic and amusing instead of way out of order so I don’t know where she’s going to go.

lucyhoneychurches:

You're right. Even at the beginning I thought Charlotte was at the very least pragmatic but her lack of knowledge about the ways of society is both unconvincing and doing an injustice to her as a character

It’s the lack of social knowledge that bothers me. Like, in a way I can accept it in Sanditon because that place is frankly a backwater (no matter what Tom says) but in London there is no way in hell anyone’s going to be charmed by Charlotte on any level. It’s completely unbelievable.

mihrunnisasultans:

Mess, mess. And I thought the show had found its footing, even as simply entertaining, campy playing with tropes and cliches. Plus, I'm really hating Clara's characterisation at this point.

Yes, this! I genuinely enjoyed and was excited about episodes 4 & 5. I’ve been writing fanfiction! But this episode has really soured my enjoyment. The more I think about it, the more annoyed I become. I even went on a massive rant about it on Facebook! And that’s even before we get to Edward and Clara having sex on a cold stone floor with a snake mosaic...

[incmorata]

A Tragedy In Six Parts

Self Para / Past

ACT I

                  It was a particularly hot day in Chicago when Sierra steps into the doctor’s office. For the last couple weeks she’d been feeling sick. Overcome with nauseousness that would overwhelm her, mostly in the morning but would be easily triggered throughout the day. School was finally over, Sierra no longer shackled by the confines of the daily, mundane routine that was high school. She barely graduated, never caring enough to put forth the effort. Always more focused on her social life and whatever extracurriculars that came along with them.

Most kids her age would be thinking about college but Sierra’s mind is on a summer vacation. Basking under the sun at the French Riviera, shopping in Paris. Most importantly, being home on a more consistent basis meant she’d get to see and spend more time with her brother. Which, honestly, is another reason she wasn’t particularly fond of getting out of the house and going to college like her older siblings. 

The only thing that could stifle those plans is this pesky summer flu bug that’s rearing its ugly head. Her name is called, Sierra grabbing her bag and heading into the room. Hopping up onto the examination table. She thinks nothing of it, going down her list of symptoms, letting the doctor examine her without thinking anything serious of it. An hour or so later, after a few blood tests, the beginning of what would turn Sierra’s is triggered. 

“I understand why you would think you have the flu but after hearing your symptoms, we ran an additional test just in case.” The doctor begins, causing Sierra to look on in confusion. “Miss. Calhoun, you’re seven weeks pregnant.”

Her eyes go wide, feeling like the world around suddenly comes to stop. Looking back at it now, she couldn’t tell you what emotion ran through her veins. Worry? She was eighteen and pregnant, of course that was a reasonable reaction. Excitement? Which was naive, she wasn’t qualified to be a mother, but the thought of a child -- their child in a fantastical sense felt like a shred of hope...happiness that only he could provide her. 

It never occurred to Sierra -- at least not until her life blew up into a million pieces way later -- that going to the doctor would be easily be trackable to her family. That they donated a fucking wing to the hospital and that within a few days, Leonard Calhoun would get a call that would break client-patient confidentiality notifying him of his daughter’s indiscretion. 

ACT II

                  Happiness is short lived. A few day window of a false sense of peace and a blissful naivety that can only be blamed on age. She’s more careful the second time around, although the damage is already unknowingly done. Going down to the other side of town, the more risky areas she’d never set foot in on a regular basis. A place where she’d normally look down on the girl’s who walked inside of here -- that’d she’d stereotype as poor and unloved.

Not her, not Sierra. Alistair’s been distant as of late, more moody than usual but she has the feeling her news would bring him back to her. That whatever bullshit that hack of a doctor is feeding him would wash away. He loves her, she knows it. There’s no way they could stay apart after this. They could be together, for real this time.

Eloise Wyatt -- her middle name and mother’s maiden name is the pseudonym she goes under. Unlike before, she gets onto the examination table with more certainty. Allowing this doctor to do a full check on her and the growing baby inside of her, it’s there she learns the baby can be described as looking like a tadpole. 

“Do you know the father?” The doctor asks, clearly out of concern because probably a handful of girl’s coming in here without any clue of who the father is. Not her, not Sierra. Fooling around with a few guys at school never went beyond heavy petting, her desire only saved for Alistair. No one’s touched her in that way since he came into her room late one night and took her, making him her first. A few times since then, she’s taken matters into her own hands, unable to stop the desire and love she feels for him. Only wanting him. “Yes, but he wasn’t able to make it today. He’ll be here the next time.” She responded, sure of herself and ignoring the skeptical look from the doctor.

With the mother’s health in good condition, now it was time to check on the baby. Sierra lays back, lifting up her shirt, heart beating erratically. A cool gel is applied, making her shiver and the instrument follows, moving around her stomach, giving some discomfort to Sierra. It takes a few moments -- although it feels like a lifetime -- but the thudding sound of an heartbeat fills the air.

Her eyes begin to water, the smile on her face involuntary. The view on the monitor looks like a lot of nothing but the doctor points out where the baby is. “Do you know what it is?” Sierra asks, eyes still fixated on the screen, somewhat in awe. “Not yet but you’ll know soon.” Her head nods absentmindedly. “I bet it’s a girl.” Sierra  turns back to the doctor. “Would you like a picture?” 

With a bag filled with vitamins that are shoved to the bottom of her purse, Sierra walks out of the clinic clutching onto the ultrasound and not letting it go until the car pulls up to the house. It then too meets the bottom of her bag but handled with much care, only retrieved when she’s back in her room and safely put away in her bedroom nightstand.

ACT III

                  The timing couldn’t be anymore perfect. She’d been away, a few friends from school meeting up to enjoy the beginning of summer before they all went their separate ways before college. She was supposed to be gone for the rest of the night but feeling sick was good enough excuse to want to go home. Plus, she finally felt like she could muster up the nerve to talk to her brother.

Sitting in the back seat of the town car that usually drives her around, in the distance she could see some movement at the front of the house. Usually, she adores the long driveway that leads up to the massive estate that is known as the Calhoun’s home. But instead, it feels her with panic and dread as she sees a tall, lanky figure come out of the front door while maids are carrying bags.

“What’s going on!?” Sierra panicked, hands immediately going to the door and trying to unlock it but unable to do so. “Stop the car! Let me out!” It’s as if everything is moving in slow motion, she sees Alistair get into the car and the lights flash. And now she’s beating against the window, unable to open that as well. Screaming at the top of her lungs, she feels helpless as the car he’s in begins to pull away as she pulls up. “ALISTAIR!” She screams but it goes unheard as the car begins to drive around the large fountain. The car comes to a stop, making the doors unlock and Sierra jumps out of the car. 

“What did you do?” The question is geared towards Damien who is standing there but she doesn’t wait for an answer. Their eyes lock and they both know Sierra is aware of what’s going on. Despite how she acts, they both know Sierra is smarter and more intuitive than what she looks. Not waiting for an answer, Sierra, goes running in the direction of the car. It’s already got a good head start and she’s sure the cars been instructed to drive away as quickly as possible, but that doesn’t stop Sierra.

Even pregnant, she still has the vigor of an eighteen year old as she goes bounding down the long driveway. “AL!” She screams, mostly into the void. The  estate takes up a large amount of land, which meant there weren’t any nosy neighbors to peer out of their windows to see a sobbing Sierra Calhoun calling out her brother’s name. It also meant there was a long stretch of road that was empty and endless. 

“STOP! PLEASE!” Sierra cried out, voice burning and hoarse from all the yelling. Her legs are still going despite the exhaustion, every step she takes feeling heavier and heavier. The distant red light on the back of the car is longer seen in the night, but she’s so damn persistent she doesn’t want to admit defeat and stop. “AL! COME BACK! PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME!” The body wracking sobs make it harder to breathe. In between the yelling and the tears, she’s gasping for air but it does little to fill her lungs. Their still burning as she cries out to a person that’s no longer there.

Sierra doesn’t know how long she’s been running but, eventually, her legs give up. She drops to her knees, not caring that they’re now bloodied and bruised from the gravel. All she can do is cry, tears streaming down her face as she sobs out his name. “Al...please...come back...don’t leave me...”

ACT IV

                  It’s a while before anyone comes for her, finally catching up. The footsteps don’t fully register, Sierra so out of it as she could feel her heart crumbling into a million pieces. Arms a wrapped around her stomach, hunched over as she continues to cry.

The only thing that snaps Sierra out of the grief is that she realizes it’s Damien. “Get off me!” But already he’s picking her up, hoisting off the ground. Sadness turns to rage as she violently squirms and wiggles around in his arms. “How could you?! What did you do?!” Sierra screamed as he brought her back to the house. “How could you do this to me?! He’s all that I have! I love him!” She sobbed out. The notoriously vicious Calhoun is quiet, taking every slap and jab and whatever else the younger Calhoun throws at him. 

“No! Let me go!” She struggled, already exhausted but her defiance made her preserve. “Let me fuckin’ go, Damien!” Sierra screamed, becoming more and more irritable as she got closer to the house. They get to the house and in an attempt to kick the door shoot, Damien’s grip on Sierra loosens. Wiggling out of his hold, she runs into the house as he attempts to follow her, a loud voice booms throughout the house. “Leave her be, Damien.”

The words come from the mouth of Leonard Calhoun as he emerges from his office. Making his way towards his daughter whose face is flushed and mascara stained tears running down her face. “I hate you.” She spat out, chest heaving up and down. “You are vile and you make me fuckin’ sick. He is the only person in this godforsaken family who gives a shit about me and --.” Before she could get another word out, Leonard’s hand is grasping Sierra’s jaw. At 60 he’s not the spring chicken he once was, but still possessed enough of a firm hand to rule this house and get his point across.

“Enough with the dramatics. You are nothing but a spoiled brat, I should’ve sent you away when I had the chance.” His grip tightens, blunt nails digging into her cheeks as her father draws Sierra closer. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out, Sierra? That you could keep that bastard of a child a secret from me?” His tone is low but lethal as he continues to talk. “The maids used to whisper about how easy you were but, Jesus, I didn’t think you’d whore yourself out to your own brother.” 

There’s a whimper that sounds from Sierra, his grip refusing to ease, making it hard for her to speak. “I...love him...” She grated out, to which Leonard all but growls before freeing his hold, it catching Sierra off guard to the point that her already weak frame crumbles to the ground. The gasp is audible from the few maids who were around and Damien already was about to take a step forward, ready to assist. “No, Damien, leave her. Leave her on the ground like the piece of filth she is.” Leonard snarls, looking down at Sierra one last time.“You disgust me -- both of you. Be glad this is the only thing that’s happening to you.” Leonard finished before turning around, heading back into his office, slamming the door shut, leaving her remaining on the ground.

ACT V 

                   It’s been a week since all hell broke loose in the Calhoun house. Despite Sierra’s best efforts, she couldn’t find out where Alistair was and the feeling of loneliness began to take over her with each passing day. Which made her even more reliant on the child growing inside of her.

Eight weeks.

Time is ticking away and everyone around the house is growing anxious because of it. She doesn’t leave her room, afraid that if she goes out they’ll take the baby away from her. The maids secretly leave food outside her room, mostly of concern and pity. She can’t hide away for forever, she knows that, eventually they’ll come for her but Sierra is trying to cling on for as long as she can. Part of her wishing...hoping that Alistair would come home and save her, like he’s always done for as long as she could remember. 

The door to the bathroom opens and immediately Sierra becomes frigid. She’s curled up in the corner of the bathroom, back pressed up against the wall, arms fiercely wrapped around her stomach as if that would protect her baby from them.

“Sierra...” The voice is soft, almost unrecognizable until the figure kneels down into view, making Sierra realize it was her older sister Sloan. They weren’t particularly close. The age gap between them wasn’t all that large but as they grew up, Sloan became colder and closer to Damien, and Sierra found solace in other ways...with Alistair. “You can’t stay here for forever.” Her hand reaches out to tuck a strand of Sierra’s hair behind her ear. It was odd hearing Sloan’s voice sound so warm...caring...and if Sierra didn’t know the woman so well, she’d almost think she’d care. “I know they sent you here.” Sierra stated, head lifting, gaze meeting Sloan’s. “No, I came on my own. I figured you needed someone right now.” Sierra probably wouldn’t believe but it was somewhat the truth. And whether she believed it or not, Sloan was convincing enough to get Sierra out of the bathroom and into a car an hour later, driving into the city and into a private doctor’s suite. 

Sloan’s hand is gripping tightly onto Sierra’s, the room dead silent as they waited. “You’re doing the right thing.” Sloan reassured, but Sierra’s unresponsive, a single hand resting on her un-protruding stomach. It feels like a lifetime but eventually her name -- her real name -- is called, signaling it was time. Her head snaps in Sloan’s direction, the look in her eyes almost pleading with Sloan to convince her to not go through with this. “Everything is going to be fine. Do you want me to go with you?” Meekly Sierra nods, Sloan giving a nod of reassurance before getting up and going into the back room.

The paperwork is nonexistent, the appointment never logged, the files from the first one shredded, the doctors and nurses paid off to never say a word, and with the flick of a machine, the procedure now done, it’s as if the baby never existed....

ACT VI

                     The ride back to the house is once again silent. Sierra’s head is resting against the window, awake but eyes lacking any sort of life to them. She’s looking out to the window but processing nothing, the feeling of numbness washing over her. She doesn’t even register that Sloan hasn’t let go of her hand, her sister occasionally squeezing or running her thumb across Sierra’s knuckles anytime she’d hear her sniffle. 

The front steps to the house remind Sierra of that night and the sadness pulls hers deeper into an inevitable depression. She can’t move, one of the guards coming out to help Sierra out of the car and bring her inside. Set into her bedroom, she remains still for a movement, unmoving. Slowly she’s feeling herself go numb, ready to shut down completely but there’s one thing she has to do. 

With every ounce of strength she has, Sierra rolls out of the bed. She opens up the nightstand drawer, blankly staring at that photo that rested at the very top. She’s hesitant to reach for it, but she does, hands shaking as it’s in her grasp. “I’m so sorry...” Sierra rasps out, eyes squeezing shut as a tear drops from them. The idea of motherhood was romanticized, Sierra not entirely sure if she wanted a child but it was theirs...it was the only thing left of him that she had left. Losing it felt like she had nothing left to live for, all she was left with was emptiness. 

Standing upright, Sierra leaves her room, padding down the long hallway before entering Alistair’s room. His scent hits her nose immediately. The clothes on her frame are shed, grabbing one of his shirts from the dresser drawer and letting it drown her frame as she heads towards his bed. Crawling under the sheets, the comforter wrapping around her is the closet she has to him being next to her. The ultrasound find its way under the pillow as she curls up, quietly crying until she can’t anymore and she fall asleep. 

She stays there for at least three months, the maids coming in to wash her, feeding her anything with liquid in order to keep her going.

A family function forces Sierra out of her depressed stupor, her presence required in order to keep up appearances. Mid-way through the party, Sierra stumbles across her father’s latest girlfriend doing a line of coke in the bathroom. 

And that is how Sierra discovered the newest love of her life and how she got the pain to go away...