#reblogging it here too because these books were such a huge inspiration for me

[tarysande]

On Grief. And On Friendship. On Memory. And Love.

When my grandmother died, we didn't have a traditional funeral. We didn't wear black. We didn't sit around, solemn and silent. We told stories. We ate food she would have liked and drank Bailey's with cream. We got to do it together, of course, and we got to cry and hug and mourn and laugh and sing.

I'm sure all of us have heard some version of the phrase "online friendships aren't REAL friendships." I know I have. I've never understood it, either. For me, in all my neurodiverse glory, online friendships are often MORE REAL. Where else can you meet people and immediately jump into all the things you have in common? All the shared loves and hates and hyperfixations? Where else can you just bypass small-talk and, as Anne of Green Gables would say, find bosom friends so quickly? I've met so many online.

I honestly don't remember when I met Sara/@dearophelia. When I look through my tags, I know it's been at least seven years. I'm certain it's been longer because she definitely had username changes. And I am total shit at remembering username changes. More than once, I've told myself I should keep a spreadsheet. I'm pretty sure I've known her almost as long as I've been on tumblr, and that's more than a decade.

When Sara got sick, I finally used that tumblr function that notifies you whenever a blog updates. I wasn't around tumblr as regularly, but I didn't want to miss anything Sara might say. I hoped that one day I'd get the notification that everything was clear, she was in remission.

I didn't. Today, I got what will be the final notification from her blog--@vhenadahls sharing the information that Sara passed away. That there wouldn't be anymore updates. No more reblogs. No more snarky comments in the tags or gushing comments in the tags.

If this were a room and everyone who loved Sara, who enjoyed her fanfic (with or without knowing the woman behind it!), who has listened to her playlists, who played ME3 multiplayer with her, who was in any way touched by her in a way that brought their lives joy, it would be so full. We would all have stories to share. We'd all have memories to relive.

This room would be decorated with labradorite and pink and fat birbs and cats. There would be so much music--Taylor Swift and Halsey and Florence and the Machine and Hozier and so many many others. There would be a million fabulous selfies on the walls of Sara's huge smile and her vulnerability and her bravery. There would be gaming knickknacks and D&D dice and tarot decks and crystals and magic and books on every surface. All her faves would be represented. And it would still only brush the surface of how vibrant she was and how deeply and enthusiastically she loved what she loved.

If this were a room where we could also add all the characters she created, whose stories so many of us loved ... well, it would have to be awfully big. Sara wrote a lot of stories for a lot of fandoms.

And if this were a room where we and her characters were gathered, but we opened the doors for all the characters and stories that Sara helped inspire, helped grow, encouraged and enabled, well, I know a whole lot of my characters and stories would be here, too. I'm sure I decided to create Rose Trevelyan because of some conversation Sara and I had where I was imagining Rose Vakarian-Shepard grown up.

Sara, I'm really sorry I didn't get to finish the Vakarian-Shepard stories before you left. Most writers write for themselves, sure, but often they also write for specific readers. Sara was always one of mine, but I don't think she knew it. I lived for her gushing tag-comments. I loved when she was always so quick to jump in with prompts.

I'm honored that I was someone with whom Sara shared her original fic work. (She also once shared an absolutely horrifying scene with Garrus and Shepard's clones that she cut from Nora's story because it was just TOO AWFUL. In fact, she shared it with me BECAUSE IT WAS SO AWFUL and she knew I'd appreciate it.) In my heart of hearts, I wanted Sara to finish that original story and publish it. I wanted us to be part of each other's group of writer-friends (you know, you always see them thanking each other in their books). Hell, I wanted to have a small press at some point just SO I could publish Sara's stories. I believed in her THAT MUCH.

I love Sara's stories. I love her playlists. I love her blog, with its hodgepodge of interests and loves. I love her imagination and creativity and attention to detail. I love that I can still visit that mind by reading the bounty of work she left behind.

I mean, she made me wholeheartedly buy into a relationship between Shepard's mom and ZAEED.

Sara was one of the constants in my online life over the last decade. Even if we hadn't chatted for a while, I always knew we could pick up again like no time had passed (thanks, ADHD). As I write this, there's a little chat circle on the bottom right of my tumblr screen with her avatar in it and I can't bear the thought of hitting that X button and never seeing it pop up again.

Sara struggled and loved and fought and overcame and breathed and was brave. Not just in the past few years, when she was sick. As long as I knew her. And she didn't let anything stop her. She snarled in the face of it all and wrote stories so beautiful they broke my heart and then pieced it back together again in the same paragraph.

I miss her. I will always miss her. But I'm so happy I got to know her as long as I did. She'll live on in my memories, in my stories, in the characters she helped inspire. She'll live on every time I look at my favorite tarot deck--she was the first person I yelled at when I bought it--and when I see fat birbs and cute-maybe-evil cats. And if that's not REAL friendship, real love, I don't know what is.

[artharakka]

Can I ask you where have you found inspiration for your art? For example I've noticed you have a very specific (and beautiful) way you draw jewelry and clothing. The shapes are very organic yet grounded at the same time, give a bit of a Nausicaä vibes, as well as art noveau meets iron age.

Honestly I could go on and on about the beautiful details of your art but I don't want to seem too fangirlish :D

Ohhh thank you I love those comparisons 🧡 Because I didn't even know those are the vibes I was going for but yeah that's great actually... This is like when one of you made a playlist inspired by my art... (I still have that saved btw! 🧡 And I still cannot believe!!). Here's a little Rhiam drawing with some jewelry she doesn't (yet) have in canon (earrings she does have but she cannot use them yet)

But what are my inspirations hmmmmmmm many! Idk even what all I have inhaled into my art but I try to list something (this got long so rest under cut):

Nature 🌿 I love both mundane (sparrows, plants growing from asphalt cracks, moss covered street signs... the little details) and grand formations that fill me with awe. There's something about things so vast that take my breath away. Like oceans, mountains, high cliffs, endless tundra, wind so strong you could lean against it, ancient stone that has been scraped visible by massive sheets of ice thousands of years ago. (But I'm guilty of not being that impressed by conventional beauty of average gardens. Aren't people tired of only finding planted blooming flowers beautiful!). Most often I'm drawing inspiration from nature familiar to me, that being Nordic/Scandinavian ones.

I already said nature but birds deserve a special mention! Agh I just love those funky little animals 🦅

Stories! I love making stories, I think they help me grasp and go over my thoughts. I love pouring myself into my characters, it makes them feel both personal but also makes it easier to talk about myself to my fellow storytellers. I'd love to do a long graphic novel or write a book one day, but I also love making ttrpg stories just for and with our little group 🧡 For a long time I felt kinda bad that I wasn't doing "real art" that wasn't just illustrations of my characters. But then I realised doing art for arts sake doesn't really inspire me. I don't want to do art that I'd think would be easily consumable nor do I have any great performance to create with my art. I just love to illustrate stories and tell stories through my art and I think that's great! I still love seeing and experiencing artworks that aren't this illustrative, I just don't have the motivation to do that myself. But I can get really excited of works like Emma Jääskeläinen's granite sculptures!

Other artists! There are two categories I think: 1) those whose work I've seen (usually irl) and whose technique or themes or symbolism facinates me. I usually don't want to create similar art, or replicate their style, or medium even. But there's something about them, a feeling of awe or they feel formidable. Or there's something clever about them that lets me have this sense of epiphany. For example, Jääskeläinen who I already mentioned, Marcel Dzama, Merja Palin, Helena Vaari, Marika Mäkelä, to name a few I've seen lately-ish. And then 2) there are artists whose stories and/or style inspires me and influences my art. One of the biggest inspirations to my softer line art style was and is @albabbgg. @serpentface has some really cool worldbuilding and designs, I think they were also a great influence to how I draw bodies these days. @wiltkingart has also very cool shapes and genders in his paintings. @sanctus-ingenium 's stories and art have been a huge inspiration lately. And to list a few others now that I started: @pangur-and-grim/@greer-art, @beidak-art, @elemei, @emilylorange, @pansylair, @cy-lindric, @psrj, @lokorum

And many others I'm probably forgetting now! I also have a side blog @sancta-cessatrix where I occasionally reblog cool art, check tags #art #inspiration

[vikings-til-valhalla]

Come meet your viking!

Wanted to update my intro post, so here goes nothin'!

Hey y'all, I'm Magnus! Gay trans guy (he/him) in my mid 20s. Autistic.

I began this blog ages ago, though I don't recall how long it's been around because time is a vortex and I'm too busy to count anymore. Anyway!

This blog is a place for anything Asatru and viking related. It's important to know that Asatru is an open practice, meaning all are welcome. And I mean ALL folks! Feel free to ask religious questions and advice, but know that Asatru is an individually practiced religion, and therefore nobody is an ordained professional, and I by no means consider myself an expert or professional on any level. I'm just some guy with a blog. That's it.

My Asatru journey began as a kid, at 15 years old, namely when I tried to call for some deity out there who'd answer my biggest questions about who I am and why I felt like a boy if I was a girl. Jesus sure didn't give me an answer, not after many years of asking, but when I reached out to Odin, terrified to stray from the religious path my parents set me on, I got my answer nearly immediately.

I came out as me. And my parents accept that, support me, and still help me to this day almost a decade later!

I find it comedic because I've tried to work with the Æsir and Vanir both, but traditionally Vanir worship was for more feminine folk, and Æsir worship for the masculine. I've been the rough and tough guy for as long as I can remember, always playing videogames that boys my age as a kid played, doing MMA, and all my clothes were from the boy's section. I thrive on my masculinity. And needless to say as a result, my Vanir worship has NEVER gone well. At all. But my Æsir worship? Yeah that's always yielded results and been helpful to me. So uhh... even the gods know I'm a man!! ;)

Know that on this blog, absolute zero bigotry or hate in any form will be tolerated. That means no misogyny, no misandry, no transmisogyny or transmisandry, no hate, no racism, no sexism, no religious oppression for any religion, no hate for the innocent whatsoever, no anti-feminism and no radical feminism especially trans-exclusionary (TERF). Any instances I find in reblogs, comments, asks, DMs, etc. will result in immediate bans without warning.

So! That's about it for the blog part! Love y'all, and I hope you enjoy the place!

Some cool things about me below the cut!

I'm an author! I've got 2 published books in paperback currently, with a third in the works being posted by weekly chapters on my Substack. Most of my works are high fantasy and space fantasy, but I never do any writing outside the fantasy and sci-fi umbrellas. I'm big on writing queer male stories, featuring men of adult age loving other adult men, but all characters in my writing regardless of gender or lack thereof, are assumed queer unless I state otherwise.

I'm unable to attend college for health reasons, but I plan to return when/if I'm able, and get a degree in ethics! I am HUGE on ethical practices in every aspect, love debating morality and ethics, I've studied the subject quite intensely over the 6 years I was in college, and it's been my passion besides creative writing, which I don't need a degree to do, but I will need certification if I wish to become a professional ethicist! So that'll be my degree someday, Odin and Tyr be willing! My experiences with transphobia, homophobia, and having grown up with a majority of my friends being Jewish and Islamic, has inspired me to fight for equal rights, safety, acceptance, wellbeing, opportunities, and freedoms for every single human being worldwide. I wish to someday leave this world better than when I arrived for all who have to keep going after me.

Before disability, I did MMA for 13 years. I had 2 teachers, but they split apart early on, and I stuck with the one. I'm still in contact with both! Seeing as I'm better now with my pain, I'm going next summer to join the local martial arts school by the other former teacher.

If you ever find me at a renfaire, you'll know me when you find the tiniest little beefcake guy dressed in furs and plate armor (I'm less than 5ft/150cm tall).

My absolute favorite type of music is metal. All types of metal! Mainly power, symphonic, folk, and death are what I listen to!

Favorite medias are: Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, D&D, Gravity Falls, Destiny, The Elder Scrolls, Transformers, Futurama, Pokémon, and anything Lego

I have an insanely huge cat who is my son. His name is Patron, said like the tequila, and as of September 2024 he's 17.6lbs of man. Here's a video of me and him for scale.

Feel free to ask about my cat son. Please ask about my cat son. I love him. He loves hugs and snuggles. I could write a whole novel on him if I had time. Patron is my whole world and life.

[kimtaegis]

{Kimtaegis’ GFX Breakdowns, Ep. 1:

↳ SARANG/SARAM; a namgi web weave}

better late than never – I’ve mentioned that this year, I will start writing my thought process behind my graphics down in actual posts instead of hiding them in the tags of a self-reblog, both for myself and those who are interested in that, so here we go!

the first more graphic-y post of the year was a little birthday present for @outroindigo, who told me that namgi’s dynamic as well as their solo music are extremely important to her, so that was the starting point basically! I initially wanted to use a web-weave-like layout for yoongi's birthday post this year, but thought that it just fit too well for this project, since including lyrics and website screenshots made it so convenient to explain the topic. the main source of inspiration but also material source was doolsetbangtan, an incredible blog that not only translates bts' lyrics, but also gives extra insights and explanations of their word plays, references to reoccuring lyrical themes and even links to other media that are connected to the songs' content. they were a huge help, most elements that ended up in the post had been already pointed out under their sites for trivia: love, people, and people pt. 2 respectively, I pretty much only had to follow the mentions and use them!

my post starts with the first half of a quote from namjoon from his november 2016 vlive and ends with it as well (in the caption) to tie the whole set together. I tried to organize the elements in a way that even someone who has never heard of the whole live/love/sarang/saram thing can easily follow and understand it, while also maintaining a pleasant overall layout and colour change (planning that took quite some time, I tell you). the trivia: love lyrics panel is a screenshot I took from spotify, I just changed the background colour to fit. underneath the people performance gif is an excerpt of yoongi's billboard interview from july 2023. the rest are screenshots directly from doolset, gifs from yoongi's iu's palette interview and selfmade visualisations of lyrics, etc. I decided against listing all the content elements in the caption - as usually done for an actual web weave - because some media was used multiple times and it would've felt weird to repeat it in the listing.

regarding more stylistic choices, I decided on a blue and warm yellow-orangy colour scheme, both because kari's current blog layout is this beautiful blue, but also because I associate blue with both namjoon (especially after indigo, obvs) and yoongi (his painting from 2020 instantly comes to mind). since 'love' on the other side is often portrayed as something warm and cosy, red/orange/yellow became the contrasting colours. I tried very hard to make all the colours look as consistent as possible and to match the shades of blues to kari's blog colours. funnily enough, there always seemed to be either something blue or warm-toned in the actual content, which was pretty convenient. besides the pseudo-screenshots for some of the lyrics (typed out in fonts that are typically used in books), I created three graphic elements as well, simply because I know sweet kari appreciates them and I wanted to have a personal kimtaegi touch in it. the first one is a visual representation of people pt. 2's lyrics. I always thought of faceless silhouettes when thinking of people, and combined that with yoongi's painting style (you see that painting means a whole lot to me lmao). since I can't really draw, I used paintings I found on pinterest (you can find the whole board in the source of the og post), masked the person and the heart out and changed their colour (which is not as easy as it sounds!). the fading effect was achieved by carefully going over both until I liked how it looked (which again, took embarrassingly long). the second graphic element is again a direct visualisation of the lyrics used in the panel: I digitally cut up a picture of namgi, in multiple rectangles that are supposed to represent the letter ㅁin saram. I actually printed the picture out first and cut it up with scissors, but I couldn't find a good way to scan it back in :( so digital cutting it was; please note that the edges of every snippet are rough, I always try my best to make it look as realistic and tangible as possible which is time-consuming but adds a nice touch in my opinion.

the collage effect of this graphic is inspired by works of anthony garace. his artworks are stunning, and I do love a good mixed media effect! also it just fits perfectly with the lyrics... among all these straight lines (-> the rectangles), [I find/ is] my love, my love, my love (-> little snippets of a picture of the two). the flowers in the last graphic both represent yoongi (the lotus flower cutout, referencing his amygdala lyrics about blooming like a lotus flower, which is also achieved by love, y'know :( ) and namjoon (the wildflower; yes it's an actual blue wildflower, I researched! it's a wild blue flax; referencing his same-named song). I used an actual photograph of it and made it look like a painting with photoshop magic. it also was supposed to look just a litte like a cynotype as used in his album design.

again, look at all those nice rough edges in that panel, this is all added intentionally. I hope everyone who saw the post also caught the teeny tiny animation of the hangul letter ㅁ to ㅇin the text on the left side; quite literally eroding edges <3

the last gif of ot7 was perfect to round it all up, referencing the lyrics above quite emotionally, starting off with the two of them, then them being joined by the rest....sigh. I will be honest, there have been a few tears falling onto the keyboard. I hope this set can convey namgi's beautiful lyricism in an interesting, artistic way. it's easy to get inspired by their art, it definitely makes you appreciate everything they do even more.

[andreabaideas]

Idea : thoughts on Daisy Jones and the Six and why the love triangle worked for me.

I just saw an inspiring publication/post (by @hellcat-in-chaos :https://www.tumblr.com/hellcat-in-chaos/190027062509/hellcat-in-chaos-66-fuucckk?source=share); reblogged by @alwayschasingrainbows

It made think on Djats. 

It finally lets me put into (mostly) coherent words what I thought about both CamiBilly (Camilly) and DaisyBilly (Daisylly) while watching/reading. Thats why i LOVE both. 

The post says that, and i quote : 

"What's the difference?" I asked him. “Between the love of your life, and your soulmate?""

“One is a choice, and one is not."

Billy may be a mess (totally IS), thats why i LOVE him, but i'm digressing...I get him!! Whats better the LOVE of you Life or your soulmate? 

There’s lucky people who finds one or the other, and never gets exposed to both at once (like Billy was) .

There's some others who never find any of them…Thats okay too, your biggest love should be YOURSELF (single Life IS awesome, i'm happier single than in couple,TBH, i'm more Karen Sirko) 

But, and that's when trouble begins, others are like Billy, and find themselves between  ice and Fire , or as my Abu (RIP) said (in spanish):

Está atrapado entre dos tierras…y al final no podrá respirar = he's trapped between two lands, and in the end he won't be able to breathe. 

To me Camila IS and Will Always be Billy’s love of his Life , because he actively has chosen Camila, both in book (better) and TV (not as good, but good enough), Camila IS the one he wants to be with. She is his choice. He loves her to the point of selfdestruction aka the relapse in TV show, when he thinks she has left him in the last episode. He thinks himself broken without her. 

On the other hand we have Daisy…To me Billy loves Daisy too, with every inch of him.

Fuck, even the lovely ever wise Camila acknowledges It (in book, the series did a huge disservice to her by erasing her discourse my fave in the book):

"He loves you, i know that he loves you, you know that he loves you...but hes not gonna leave me" (sorry for any possible mistakes, i read it in my native language spanish, not english, so Its a rough translation).

But… he denies It, because she IS just like him… and he cant admit/choose to loving Daisy, someone Who IS like him…Because at that point hes an addict (that doesnt act on It) but an addict nonetheless , once you are you'll always be , in the story he hated himself.

Billy and Daisy are soulmates (in spanish Its almas gemelas, like twinsouls, but in meaning more like soulmates really) because they hadn't chosen each other…yet they can't avoid their situation/ passion (and remember : passion is a also a synonym of pain) 

They dont choose each other…Because theres no choice at all for them. 

Billy has always had the choice that doesn't make him “broken”, the choice of love : Camila.

And in the end, when he manages to not be broken and only after losing his love, he can choose, from a healthy stand in life, to be with her soulmate (Daisy) and to turn her into another love. 

But that quote is right : Love IS a concious act of choice. Soulmates arent…It is someone whose soul calls to you, like a syren chanting in the shore, and that can be good…or -like syren chants were in legends-  a curse. 

To conclude: I dont get Billy hate at all, i didn't get It when reading the book, and later with the series casting Sam Claflin (my beloved) It didn't help at all for me being objective.

Billy's situation was difficult …His options nearly imposible. He was crying in that Taxi for fucking reasons, you all. In choosing love, he has to deal with the consequences: he loses his soulmate . Also hurts everyone (himself, Camila and Daisy) in the process. 

You find that easy to decide?? What would you choose LOVE or SOULMATISM? (I may create a future poll with this question)

If you doubt or dont know your answer,  then i'm glad to tell you that you are ...~(insert drumroll sound here)~ Billy Dunne.

[theladyofbloodshed]

Accidentally hit "unfollow" when I wanted to hit the ask button :o

I just wanted to say I'll be leaving the fandom with you. Your fics and blog were the only thing keeping me interested and tbh the negativity in this fandom is just too much. I'm sad that ACOTF will be ending because I loved the last few chapters the most but I do understand why you want to focus on your original work rather than the fics.

I'm currently working on my first book (writing in German) and the progress is slow but you've always been a huge inspiration with how consistently you write.

You only know me from a few comments on your fics and a few tumblr asks but honestly you've made my day so many times with your writing and posts!

If you're still looking for writer friends, I'm always open to chat and I gotta make a bookstagram soon so I can still see your writing or reading recs. <3

Oh, I'm so sorry you feel that way too. I will probably still be lurking and reblogging here but not putting so many hours into fics. Your profile picture always always makes me smile when I see it.

I would love to know more about your first book and I would love to be writing buddies with you <3 If you make a bookstagram please let me know the URL!

[asksythe]

Hi! I'm a huge fan of your book air. I read it first when you where still updating it and still come back to it from time to time to re-enjoy it. If you're still interested in posting your rough drafts to give insight in the finished story I would enjoy that very much too, but I understand if you don't. I just wanted to take the time to thank you for everything you've shared with the world and for inspiring me.

Oh wow! That’s… a while ago. Over 10 years ago, I think? I started writing Book Air when I first started using Tumblr. I vaguely remember I had just graduated from university around that time and moved back home to HCMC for a newspaper job too. That was when the whole Makorra vs Masami thing was still all the rage in the fandom and there I was in the corner, shipping Amorra and wanting to do lengthy character pieces into Asami (because she’s great) even after the first season finale had aired! Ahahahaha. I think I was among the first wave to ship Korrasami, too (back in season 1 before it was cool). And I still have the fanart to prove it. 

Man, what a trip down memory l lane! I’m glad you enjoyed my story so much. I’ve always been of the opinion that I write for no one else but myself. But to have readers like you, who have been with me for over a decade and been inspired and come back to visit this sleepy little blog. That is the best accolade a writer can ask for. So thank you.

Yes, I still do have the draft for it. And I’m very happy to type it out here. I probably will have to do several reblogs of this and come back again to type things out, because it is long, and it’s been a while. So it will take time to shake loose the rust in my brain where I store Book Air and its unborn twin, Sun Eater. 

In any case, that is the first thing I will say. 

- Book Air is the first part of a duology. The second part is called Sun Eater and tells the story of when Korra came back from the end of Book Air to the day she turned 17, right on the morning of her test before she snuck her way to Republic City. 

- Book Air was created as a character piece for Korra. So it’s a fairly intense story. At the start, Korra lost all of her bending, with the exception of air bending, which at the time, she hadn’t quite unlocked. Air bending is the most spiritual among the four bendings, so it would be a profoundly soul-searching journey for Korra.

-My idea is that Korra would have to experience life from the other side of who she was, as someone who effectively could not bend, who was poor and working, and who was potentially at the mercy and exploitations of unscrupulous benders. I wanted her to experience living and growing up as an ordinary girl and not… the avatar. So much of Korra’s personality, especially around season 1 and 2, revolved around her being the avatar, that I always felt like. If we take that away, who are you? There’s a reason why before Korra, every avatar had to pass their age of majority before they were revealed to be the avatar. A child raised atop a throne would never have grown up normal. She would be disconnected from the rest of the humans she is supposed to represent because for as long as she has known, she has always been an existence beyond mere humans. I always felt this was Korra’s personality flaw that the show… never properly addressed. I wanted to see Korra the human, interacting with the world and with people without the trappings of her avatarhood, wondering what’s out there for her besides just being the bridge between humanity and spirits. 

- Remember in the last chapter I posted, Korra showed off her jeweled necklace because she wanted the comfort she was used to enjoying as the avatar? It eventually brought unwanted attention her way. The region where she was, Emeq, was very poor, so showing off something like that attracted roving bender gangs looking for soft targets. In short, she got roughed up. Kaya, the shamaness who took her in, also got roughed up. This gave Korra a whole lot of feelings. She had rarely ever felt that sense of absolute helplessness before. She had a lot of rage, pain, and uncertainty. 

- That incident with the gang also opened the door to the plot thread between Korra and Kaya. Because Korra knew Kaya was a bender, likely a very powerful one too. But Kaya never used her bending even to defend herself. So around this part, a lot of Korra’s anger is directed to Kaya. 

- In any case, our girl has a lot of growing up to do. After the run-in with the gang, she was once more really bandaged up. Then came the next issue, which was who was going to pay for her stay. Here came reality knocking on Korra’s door. She had to work. She had to earn her keep, just like every other ordinary human out there. And she had to do this without bending. 

- Without going into the boring parts of Korra having to learn the ABC of ordinary life, this plot thread eventually ends with her getting a loan of a stringed northern water tribe instrument, a nine-string mandolin. It started out as something Kaya loaned to her when she was still bedridden from being roughed up by the gang. It became an outlet for her pain, grief, uncertainty, and anger. It would be the key to unlocking air bending without a teacher for Korra. 

- Yep, air bending. The idea I thought of was basically a reverse Toph style of learning. Air, wind, the vibration that traverses the void. How is Korra supposed to reach a bending that’s highly spiritual without a guide or a master when she herself was in a period of such turmoil and grief? By accessing her rawest emotions, processing them, and letting them out through music, of course. It’s all very unintentional on Korra’s part. But probably this kind of learning is most effective for someone like her. Certainly more effective than sitting her in meditation with old monks who she didn’t understand and who didn’t necessarily emotionally understand her either. 

-To be honest, at first, I thought of a type of zither for the instrument. Atla universe is based off Asia. So a zither would fit in right at home, But then when I really think about it, a zither doesn't really fit in with a tribe of nomads who live as real and raw as you get. When you play a zither, you have to sit down. You need a table or some sort of flat surface for a zither. So what if you want to play while walking during your pilgrimage? What about when you are riding an animal. Furthermore, zithers are associated with philosophers. The oldest type of zithers is considered the philosopher and gentlemen's instrument. So it's an instrument associated with philosophy and logic.... and masculinity. So I thought it didn't quite fit what I had in mind. So I ended up having to search a bit more, finally ending with the mandolin. It's similar to a guitar. It has a unpretentious sensual edge to it. It's also light and simple. An instrument that is both spiritual in a very feminine way and fits right at home in a nomad's hands. I can see Korra playing it as she rides a yak atop ice slopes.

- I also wanted to introduce a softer, more vulnerable, and yet still very fierce, very Korra-esque side to Korra through her musicality. I also wanted her to connect. I wanted to introduce something earthy and grounded, yet deeply sensual, because it’s speaking from her raw emotions. So the mandolin, the songs she learned from the people around her, and the melodies that she eventually came up with herself. These are the tools I planned to use. 

- So eventually, this plot thread would open up into Korra gaining a position as Emeq village’s musician of sort. It’s the one practical skill that she showed the most aptitude in and didn’t require too many tools that she didn’t have. This would eventually open up to a different kind of bending, sound bending. Also my take on something approaching spirit bending without being it entirely.

- Then, the people of Emeq eventually started their pilgrimage into All Dark. This is an idea I came up with when I created Emeq. The idea of Emeq was that I wanted a place that was both primal and raw. As in, the very beginning of the beginning. I wanted a different take on water bending, removed from the ethereality of the moon-based water bending we all know in canon. A much more grounded and fierce kind of bending. So Emeq and their annual pilgrimage into All Dark, the region of the North Pole where there was no sun light or moon light, was the result of this. So a water bending born from a place with no moon would be vastly different.

Tbc…     

[embossross]

I wanted to comment on the chapter 2 oh TDOTGITM but i can’t and idk why so I’m gonna leave my mark here.. lessgo.

FIRST OF ALL YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MANY TIMES I CHECKED YOUR ACCOUNT LIKE A CREEPY STALKER FOR AN UPDATE !

*coughs*

Well, I have to do a review. You have to know that I literally shook all the way through my reading, I would have been so nervous in Yasuko's place.

« When you brush your hair after a shower or laugh at a meme, you imagine his violet eyes are watching. » this. My very definition of having a huge crush on someone, to the point where that person becomes an obsession (and how can you not be obsessed with Haitani Rindou ?) We littaraly saw them everywhere with us, watching us, talking with us.

Poor Yasuko, certain that he can't possibly be a yakuza... I can't wait to find out what her reaction will be when she learns it (if she learns it, but I guess so).

The discussion that starts almost timidly, when both parties are sizing each other up and discovering each other, then being more confiant, I live for that.

The way Rin talks about Ran, and the memories he shares with her, I've said it before, but I would die for their interactions in the first chapter.

« Sometimes, I think every good thing I have is bound to collapse, and that I should just submit to it, so maybe I find that resistance inspiring » I MEAN, CAN I STEAL THAT TOO ???

« We aren't going to be friends. » oh the way I giggled like a schoolgirl, I think I even BLUSHED.

WHY DOESN'T THIS MAN ACTUALLY EXIST ?

I won't even talk about the part where he asks her to follow him into the storeroom and for what was next, that was just 🤌🏻 I'm wordless.

Now I'm going to calm down, stop stalking your Tumblr for at least a week (but I'll still follow your Hanma's story closely hihi)

Anyway, funny, i have Kitchen in my book-to-read list !

Thank you, thank you, for imagining this universe, this Rin, Yasuko. I hope i’m not too annoying and I'll see you at the next review !

wow so much to say, i think i need bullets lol

this is the first time i'm seeing an acronym for this story & i am horrified. why are my titles so long?!?! 😑 i chose the title as a couple literary references but god

i can't believe tumblr is being this difficult. it must be because of the mature tagging? because someone else mentioned issues with reblogging? idk but i am SOOOOOOO grateful that you're sharing your thoughts here instead because i love them 💖

when do i find the time / energy / inspiration to write the rin/ran tag team that i frankly deserve? bc you are so right, their interactions are everything!

SQUEALING at the call out to the resistance line! because that's like the theme work i'm doing. i'm a sucker for theme & the tension between rindou & reader on this subject is the inspiration behind this whole story!! you CAN use it however you like!

honestly just every one of your call outs - so grateful!!

do you want me to tag you in things so you don't have to stalk the blog? i'd be happy to. probably no update next week. my parents are in town lol

and kitchen is great! a wonderful rumination on grief and love. i have a quotes doc for this story and like half were pulled from kitchen & snow country. i'm gonna have to control myself!

[gay-prentiss]

Where I Stood - S.R

Spencer Reid x gender neutral BAU Reader

Summary: Reader and Spencer start to pull away from each other after JJ confesses her feelings to Spencer while they were held hostage in LA, and reader cant take it anymore.

Word Count: 706 (shes short again and not that sweet this time)

Content warnings: angst, spencer being abandoned (again), obvious allusion to j*id confession, indefinite ending

A/n: uh. im sorry? alsjsksj im so sorry i have no idea where this even came from. sad bitch winter ig 😔 anyways this is sorta a songfic as well, the letter reader leaves spencer and the title is are inspired by ‘where i stood’ by missy higgins. you can listen to it here, but it works as a stand alone heart breaker as well. also huge huge huge thank you to @will-on-the-internet , @sadgirlml and @writingquillsandpainpills for hyping this up and zahra again for proofreading for me. i love you all so fucking bad you have no idea. n e ways thank you for reading and if u like it reblogs would be appreciated 😋😋

Spencers POV:

They weren't at work and they haven't been answering my calls all day. I was beginning to worry. It wasn't like them to be like this. They've been distant recently after what happened in LA between JJ and I, but never anything like this. Even on their worst days, they'd still let me know they were safe.

I unlocked the front door to our apartment to find it deathly silent. “Y/n? You home?”

Nothing.

I walked over to the coffee table where their favourite book sat, and next to it was a letter. Addressed to me.

No. No no no. Not again. Please god not again.

I feel my eyes tearing up. As I reach out with a shaky hand to open the letter, I notice the paper smells like their perfume.

“My dearest Spencer,

I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the way I’ve been lately but I need to get this off my chest because I know you won't let me leave without a fight and I just can't be talked out of this one. I've had this nagging voice in my head ever since you told me what happened during the case in LA that told me to run. That told me I’m not good enough for you and that I never will be. Initially I thought I was being dramatic and insecure, but then I would observe the way you look at her. Like a new fire had been ignited in your heart to replace the one you had for me. You both would steal glances and soft smiles from each other and I felt left in the shadows. I brushed it off as silly voices and self sabotage, but the team started to notice too. What's worse is that they asked me about it. Asked me if we were okay. Pen even asked me if we’d broken up. That’s when I realised it wasn't in my head. I was falling behind her, and in that moment I felt truly lost.

I really don't know if I could stand another hand upon you. But I do know that this is what's right, at least for the foreseeable future. She will love you in ways that I never could, and you really deserve that Spencer. You deserve real, true love. And all this isn't to say that we can never speak again. You mean more to me than anyone I've ever loved. You taught me how to trust myself and I owe you everything I have for that.

I got an offer at the DC office that I’ve decided I’m going to take. It's the second hardest decision I’ve ever had to make but I need to be away from everything for a while.

I don't know who I am without you, but I have to do this. I'm sorry. I love you.

Yours always,

Y/n”

When I glanced over the letter again I noticed that I'd cried on it, my tears slightly smudging the ink of the words that tore my heart in two.

I needed to speak to them. To explain things. I can't lose them too.

I select their number in my phone and dial it, praying to whatever gods exist that they pick up so I can at the very least say goodbye if explaining myself won't convince them to stay.

“Hi! You've reached y/n! Please don't leave me a voicemail, its 2022. Send me a text”

I hear the beep and pour my heart out.

“Y/n it's me. Spencer. I read your letter and I need you to know that I'm sorry. I’m so so sorry if you ever thought you were second best because youre not. you're not. I did love her but I love you. now. right now. Please, whenever you're ready, call me. Talk to me. Let me know that you're safe at least. I love you y/n. only you and-” the robot voice interrupts me before I can finish.

“Your message has been saved and will be sent as an audio message”

I hang up, pull up my text messages and start typing;

Spencer: Please sweetheart, just listen to the voice message. It's always been you. Always.

And now I wait.

——————————

A/n (again sorry lmao): i hope you guys liked it! its currently like 4am as im typing this note im so dead but i wanted the fic out by saturday so here i am lol. im also open to part 2’s, and it doesnt have to be a happy ending either. im also open to doing multiple endings, so if you guys have ideas please feel free to send them to my ask box! ily all kith kith.

[peonierose]

”My love won’t let you down.“

Book: Open Heart

Rating: Fluff with a little bit of heartbreak.

Pairing: Soraya Auclair x Luna Auclair

Word count: 2,000+

Summary: Soraya got her heart broken and she’s being consoled by family.

Side note: All characters belong to Pixelberry, except my OC‘s.

Here’s the music that inspired me for this fic.

This story wasn’t pre-read, so please excuse any errors on my part. Please enjoy ☺️

Author‘s note: I’m participating in this weeks last @wackydrabbles - the prompt is ”This was really,really good.“ 🥺 and it will appear in color and bold. I wanted to thank you guys for making wacky drabbles this amazing. For continuously posting, reblogging, supporting writers and readers. Answering questions and the like. As sad as I am that this is the last wacky drabble, even though I wish I’d participated more, I’m glad I could be a part of it . 😍❤️ Hopefully there’ll be something similar as wacky drabbles coming and it’ll be as equally amazing as you guys. So thank you again 💚

”If you're cold and alone when you wake

Making all of the same mistakes

When your heart's given all that it had

But they say they don't love you back

When the party's over and your friends have all gone

And you're wondering where it all went wrong

I'll come running when you call out my name

And it'll always be this way

I'll be there for you

No matter what you're going through

I'll be there with you

Anytime that you need me to

When there's no one else around

On your last breath, calling out

Trust me, my love won't let you down“

It’s a beautiful Saturday morning. B and I are in the middle of driving to my aunt and uncle’s place to have breakfast with my cousins.

My uncle and my aunt went camping, while my cousins are staying at their parents place.

The blue sea is sparkling in the sunlight. While a summer breeze is wafting through our open Jeep. Letting in the salty wind, bringing with it a hint of hibiscus. I hang my head out the window and Bryce takes one look at me and laughs.

”You’re like a dog, all you need is your tongue hanging out to the side,“ he comments and takes a left turn.

I try it but only look ridiculous in the end.

”I wish my tongue was longer that way I could actually let it hang out like a little dog,“ I say sadly.

He shakes his head.

”This is officially the weirdest conversation that you and I had this far,“ he says and we get closer to my aunt and uncles place.

It’s this huge house that they’ve been looking for such a long time and when they finally found it they were over the moon.

It’s located close to the beach.

There’s a huge lawn, adorning the place. A two-story house, made out of wood on the outside and painted a marvelous jade green. Surf boards are leaned against the outside of the house.

Palm trees, and flower beds with vibrant colored flowers adorning their home.

My aunt even planted some herbs, vegetables and fruits in her own garden.

Bryce is parking the Jeep, while I get out and take the cookies with white chocolate chunks, macadamia nuts and fresh raspberries I made for later.

I balance them and Bryce walks around to take the box out of my hands.

I kiss him on him on his nose.

”Such a gentleman,“ I tease him and smile while we walk to the front door and knock.

”Oh I can be bad,“ he says his dark eyes twinkling in the sunlight.

”You can show me later,“ I say and kiss him just as the door opens.

”Don’t you have your own place where you can make out?“

Sky says annoyed.

”Love you too cuz,“ I say and Sky gives me a hug, then he and Bryce have their weird man hug. We then enter the house and walk inside.

It’s always so sunny and warm inside. All the white and little splashes of color adding a nice touch. It always felt like a second home to me.

”Yeah yeah I’ve heard that one before,“ he says though he smiles sweetly.

”Why are you so grumpy?“ I ask walking towards the open spaced kitchen.

He sighs

”Because my sisters are saying how it’s wrong to put in cereal first and then pour milk over them,“ he says and picks up a violet bowl and munches on froot loops.

I snort and put the cookies down on the counter. Greeting Evie and Soraya with hugs and kisses to the cheek.

I lean against the counter and smile at him.

”That’s what you’re debating about?“ I ask laughing.

But when there’s deafening silence I stop laughing.

”You guys are taking this way too serious. It’s an easy answered question. You first put in the cereal and then pour the milk,“ I say hearing gasps from Soraya, Evie and even Bryce.

Sky envelops me in a big hug, milk sloshing in his bowl, and a pink fruit loop is sticking to his cheek. How did it even get there in the first place?

I point to it, he grabs it and puts in his mouth. I watch him weirded out and he just shrugs.

”See Loonsey is on my side, she totally gets it,“ he gloats.

He whistles to himself as he’s rinsing the bowl and then putting it in the dishwasher.

We all get seated at the big table. An array of food is put on the table.

Bowls of fruits. All local.

Bagels, fig jam that my aunt made herself, cream cheese mixed with chives.

Banana blueberry pancakes, with maple syrup.

”Are you trying to feed an army of people?“

Soraya is the one who answers

”No just Bryce and Sky, since those two can eat like an army of six,“ she says her voice tired.

When I look at her I’m noticing the bags under her eyes. Getting concerned I reach across the table and squeeze her hand. She squeezes my hand back.

”Oh come on don’t be mad at Looney, just because she likes my method of cereal more,” he says.

”Screw you Sky,“ she says her tone dangerously low.

Sky sighs.

”Ever since you and A…“ he starts.

”Don’t,“ she says and tenses up.

Bryce and I share a look.

Soraya nibbles on a slice of orange.

”I’m just saying you’ve been in a bad mood,“ he says carefully.

She turns to him

”How would you know? Your relationships last five minutes. If you can even call them that,“ she says

He inhales sharply.

”Neither do yours. Just look at you. If this is what being in love is like, I’ll pass thanks,“ he says

Soraya gets up and walks out.

Evie looks at Sky, her brows knitted. Her lips pursed.

”Great. Just great,“ she says

He looks at her in turn.

”Don’t give me that look. You know I didn’t mean it like that,“ he sighs and rubs a hand over his tired eyes.

Evie sips on her grapefruit juice in silence and the emotions are rolling high around the table.

I’m the first to speak up

”Did we miss something? How did a debate about cereal and milk turn into this?“ I gesture at the table.

Bryce is munching on a piece of pancake, and I squat his arm and he almost spits out the piece of pancake.

”What? I’m hungry. But I’m sorry that Sor got hurt,“ he says in a quiet voice.

Sky plays with his silver bracelet

”She got dumped, and now she’s miserable…and I just made it worse,“ he sighs again. Looking deflated.

I rub his arm gently and smile at him.

”She just needs time to get over it. It’s too much right. I think she’s too wound up now,“ I say and get up from my chair.

They all look at me.

”I’ll see if she wants some company,“ I say and Bryce looks at me and seems to be asking if I’m sure and I just nod, giving him a light kiss.

Taking the box of cookies with me and walking down the path that leads from their home right down to the beach.

I can make out her shape in her light green sweater, while she’s hugging her knees.

I smile softly.

”I knew I’d find you here,“ I say sitting down beside her.

She looks up and wipes away some tears with the back of her hand.

I smile and open the box of cookies.

She gives me a watery smile.

”I shouldn’t have stormed out like that,“ she starts

”You have a right to how you feel. Sky was out of line, but he loves you. He didn’t mean it the way it came out,“ I say reassuringly.

She leans her head onto my shoulder.

I give her a kiss on her head.

”What happened?“ I ask her.

She sighs against me and I feel her warm breath against my skin.

”Well I don’t if we talked about this…with how busy we’ve both have been lately…but I found myself feeling more and more attracted to men and women. So I started going out with this woman her name is Alisha. Everything seemed great and I wanted to take her to Hayley‘s and Ethan’s wedding as a plus one…but, “ she drifts off and takes another cookie and continues.

”She said how she’s not ready for everyone to know. I was nervous too. When I told mom and dad they weren’t exactly thrilled, but they slowly started accepting me the way I am. But I fell hard for her and then she just broke up with me out of the blue,“ she wipes another tear away.

I hug her tighter.

”I know this isn’t what you want to hear but I think you’re better off without her. I think her fear of what people would think about her took over and she got scared and ran away, metaphorically speaking,“ I say and go on

”You’re such a wonderful person Raya. You’ll see the right person will stumble along when you least expect it to. That’s how it was with me and Bryce,” I stroke her hair gently and she just lets out sobs and I can feel my own eyes water, from seeing her this hurt over someone she’s clearly still in love with.

———————————————————

After some time, when the sun is starting to set and the box of cookies is empty, only leaving some crumbs, we get up and dust our clothes off from any remaining sand.

That‘s when Sky joins us. I leave them be and walk back towards the house. Illuminated from the inside.

As I turn around I can see them hugging and teasing each other and I grin.

I hate it when family fights. It’s so much more sweeter when they make up.

———————————————————

Later we’re all gathered around the fire pit. I’m nestled next to Bryce, wearing his warm jacket.

The others put on light jackets too.

We’re roasting some s‘mores and drinking some wine.

Laughing and joking around. Just like old times.

Evie is just telling an embarrassing story about Sky.

Who tries to throw marshmallows at her for her to stop telling the story, but she catches the marshmallows with her hands.

”One time we were at the beach and we only saw Sky running away screaming. At first we thought he was hurt. Turns out he ran away from a turtle,“ Soraya laughs so hard.

”I was four,“ Sky says defensively.

Evie laughs so hard the sip of wine she took almost comes out of her nose.

”Oh my god that’s even worse,“ Bryce says taking a sip of his beer.

”Or remember that one time…“ Sor says

”No more embarrassing stories of Sky. That was it,“ he says

”Do you have any embarrassing stories of Luna?“ I can hear Bryce asking next to me.

Sky smiles mischievously

”Oh I have one,“ he smiles in my direction smirking.

I know instantly which one he means.

”When Luna was about 3 or 4 she stayed with gramps and grammy. She was curious and felt bored so she opened the fridge and climbed into it. She planted face first into blackberry pie, “ Sky wriggles his eyebrows in a playful matter.

I bury my face in Bryce’s neck.

He laughs and looks at me and says

”Little Lu being adventurous. So cute,“ he takes another swig of his drink and asks

”So what happened?“

Soraya is on the ground from all the laughing.

Evie answers in between laughs.

”Grandma almost had a heart attack, because she thought Looney was hurt, because she was nestled between pickles and her face was in blackberry pie. Thankfully nothing happened,“ Evie finished the story.

Everyone is laughing and I chime in after a few seconds.

”What can I say. I love me some pie. I have to say that was really really good 🥺,“ I say munching on another s’more.

My cousins are still hollering with laughter at the fridge story.

We stay like this for some time and share heart warming stories about our families. About people we met and cared for.

It’s funny sometimes you’ll meet people and they’ll surprise you by accepting you the way you are. Loving you unconditionally.

That’s the difference between people who are meant to stay in your life and who care about you, next to those who are passing by and are only your friends temporarily.

As I look at the dwindling flames and my cousins and Bryce. All I see is family and love.

That’s the way it’s supposed to be. Never was I more glad that things that happened led me to this moment right here.

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[allthefilmsiveseenforfree]

Dear Evan Hansen

You may have seen some ~online discourse~ about the film Dear Evan Hansen, an adaptation of the 2016 Broadway musical, and you might have wondered what all the hubbub is about. I mean, it’s a feel good story about a senior in high school, Evan Hansen (Ben Platt), who has some pretty severe anxiety and depression. While trying to fulfill an assignment from his therapist to write a letter to himself, his letter gets picked up by another student, Connor (Colton Ryan) - and later that day, Connor kills himself. Connor’s grieving parents and sister Zoe (Amy Adams, Danny Pino, and Kaitlyn Dever) are desperate to learn more from the boy they think was Connor’s best friend - after all, Connor’s suicide note was a letter addressed to “Dear Evan Hansen.” And, as you can imagine, Evan tells them about the unfortunate mistake and sits with them in their grief as they struggle to pick up the pieces of their lives. 

Just kidding! He lies to them, repeatedly, elaborately, expansively for months, constructing an entire false friendship with Connor that never happened, and ingratiating himself into the wealthy nuclear family he never had, in large part because he wants to get into Zoe’s pants! THIS IS THE PROTAGONIST OF THE STORY. Oh, and it’s a musical so there is a lot of singing and crying and singing WHILE crying and sometimes crying and not singing at all. But the #inspiration, you guys. 

Things I liked:

Pretty much everything but the story and Ben Platt’s performance. The supporting cast is stacked, and all of them do a great job at elevating material scraped directly out of a diaper worn by someone who just chewed their way through a copy of the DSM-5. 

A couple of the songs are damn catchy - “Waving Through a Window” and “You Will Be Found” are standouts for a reason - and here’s the thing, Platt sings them well. But as you’ll discover, there’s a lot more to a movie musical than just singing your part. 

Stephen Chbosky, the man behind every deep thought I and a lot of people in my generation had in 2006 after he wrote The Perks of Being a Wallflower, is a pretty good director. I particularly enjoyed the fanvid-type cuts in “Waving Through a Window” in conjunction with the lyrics, and his use of interstitial shots to flashbacks (and sometimes flashforwards!) is a neat little bit of shorthand that I thought was used sparingly enough to be effective. 

Amy Fucking Adams. She’s holding on so hard, so desperately to the idea of who her son could have been, rather than the reality of who he was, and she is full of such deep pain that is masked by an almost endless supply of patience with Evan and relentless positivity. All this made me want was Enchanted 2 even worse than I already did. 

Super into everything Zoe wears - the costuming department did a great job, and now all I want to do is live in mom jeans and baggy sweaters.

Did I Cry? I teared up a couple of times because I’m not a completely heartless bastard and when Amy Adams offered Evan Connor’s college money, my heart broke for the lie Evan had thrust upon her, and Julianne Moore’s song got me good, because she’s just a single mom to Evan who is doing her goddamn best. 

Things I hated more than the time I dropped a frozen gallon container of fruit cocktail on my pinkie toe in my parents’ garage and it turned black and I thought it was gonna fall off:

Ben Platt is 28 years old. He originated the role of Evan Hansen on Broadway, so in many respects it makes sense that he plays the role in the movie, except for the one kinda sorta important thing where he looks like a wizened old crone standing amongst a sea of children doing his best twitching, cringing Hunchback of Notre Dame impression. If you want someone to convincingly play 20 years their junior, hire Paul Rudd. Otherwise, please don’t ask me to believe that this supposed 18-year-old has crow’s feet. 

And that twitching nervous energy is a huge part of the black hole at the center of this film - he’s playing to the cheap seats and walking through the halls of his high school like a wet chihuahua. It’s an excruciating acting choice to watch - he doesn’t just have anxiety, he is on the verge of a nervous breakdown seemingly every second of every day. Like honestly, where is only-mentioned-never-seen Dr. Sherman, because this young man’s meds are NOT WORKING DR. SHERMAN. 

There’s such a lack of self-awareness on behalf of the writing, directing, and performance by Platt. There’s one song, “Sincerely, Me,” that offers the only glimpse of commentary about what Evan is doing, by pointing out the malicious ridiculousness of him writing a series of fake emails as proof of his and Connor’s friendship. 

Also what high schoolers email this much?? I know this was written in probably 2014 or so, but has a bitch never heard of a text? Even a DM? This whole plot is constructed around the premise that high schoolers are just constantly, constantly emailing each other. 

Everything - and I mean EV-ER-Y-THING - about Evan’s relationship with Zoe is so creepy and disturbing that with a soundtrack change, this could easily be a horror movie. He attempts to get her to like him by describing to her all the things her brother noticed about her - oh wait, I’m sorry, all the things HE noticed about her while he was skulking in the shadows following her around for years, watching every move she made, and it ends with him singing repeatedly “I LOVE YOU” because following a girl around and never having a conversation with her or knowing her at all is love, right? This was clearly written by the same people who chose “Every Breath You Take” as their wedding song because Sting is hot and they never actually listened to the damn words. 

And it gets about 10 billion times worse when Zoe goes to Evan’s house alone, takes him up to his room, and sings “I don’t need reasons to want you” and that was the moment I was that person I hate in a movie theater and I pulled out my phone to Google who wrote the music and lyrics to the musical (we were in the back row of the theater no one was behind me THIS WAS AN OUTRAGE EMERGENCY) and of motherfucking course it was written by Benj Pasek and Justin Paul, 2 men who heard about meeting an actual human woman from a friend one time but otherwise are unfamiliar with the concept. 

Lastly, enormous serial killer vibes from Evan sending unlabeled flash drives anonymously through the mail with no note in an attempt to right his wrongs. That’s not catharsis, that’s how the next installment in the Saw franchise starts, with Evan in a Billy the clown doll mask showing up on the screen and asking if you want to play a fucking game. 

Also, I know it’s not possible for the narrative to justify this in a way that could be satisfying based on Evan’s actions, but what is with this thing where single working-class mom Julianne Moore is turning down rich people’s money for Evan to go to college? Like, obviously we can’t have that happen in the movie but in real life, fuck your pride! Take those rich people’s money!

I also know how movies work but nothing annoys me more than a giant group of high schoolers all getting beeps and boops to indicate text notifications all at the same time because I don’t know a single person under the age of 55 who keeps their ringer on. That shit is on vibrate AT MOST, and I feel like that’s a millennial thing. 

The emotional climax of the film is obviously Evan’s WAY TOO LATE confession, but the idea that it’s prompted by Connor’s family suddenly getting a lot of internet hate is, frankly, laughable. If Sandy Hook taught me one thing, it is that no tragedy is immune from trolls who live only to cause other people devastating emotional pain on the internet. That shit starts day 1. Apparently no one involved in this production has ever been on Twitter?

Also it feels like there should have been a dog somewhere in this movie and there was no dog, so points off for that too. 

Perhaps Dear Evan Hansen isn’t nearly as deep as it aspires to be. Perhaps it’s a morality play, a simplistic message of “Don’t lie, kids, lying is bad!” Major studio movies wrap themselves up with a nice bow at the end so everyone can feel good about themselves and leave with a happy ending, but the moronic cruelty on display here makes that feat feel impossible. We’re left with Evan in an orchard, reading Connor’s favorite books and staring into the big blue sky with all the self-actualization he’s earned now as a lil treat. And if Evan Hansen looked like an actual 18-year-old, it would be a lot easier to extend more empathy to him and his not-fully-developed prefrontal cortex, but it’s a little harder with this fully-grown, weathered man who was old enough to remember seeing Liar Liar in theaters. 

Dear Evan Hansen, 

Get some actual help and a haircut and maybe you can grow up enough to have an actual healthy interaction with any other living person, ever.

Sincerely, 

Me

If you liked this review, please consider reblogging or subscribing to my Patreon! For as low as $1, you can access bonus content and movie reviews, or even request that I review any movie of your choice.

[suzuki-violin-school]

I'm Alright

Inspired by this by @katsupeach and originally just titled "thank god for emme" and also I made it very difficult for myself to write because of all the fanfiction within fanfiction within fanfiction. Fanfictionception. Take a shot every time you read "holy shit"

Masterlist Next Chapter>>

Content: childhood friends? sorta, nerdiness and teasing, light smut (minors dni), cringe culture

Time travel. That’s what some people would call it. Most others would say nostalgia, or something along those lines. Everyone looks back on their life and remembers something embarrassing. Even pro heroes do some pretty cringey things in their youth.

Deku was a total nerd when he was younger- Not that he wasn’t one now, but he was better at keeping his mumbling to himself, better at not freaking out when a girl talks to him, better at not gawking at other heroes wishing he had the courage to ask for an autograph.

It was because Kaminari- No, Chargebolt. It was all because Chargebolt was bragging about his fans, saying edits about him were really cool and someone sent him fanfiction about himself. Deku’s face had gone as red as it’d been the first time he saw boobs, remembering the days when he wrote fanfiction, when he made edits, when he ran a fanclub online.

The sudden memories made him leave Mina’s party as quick as he could, wanting to delete his old fan account before it could be traced back to him. He hadn’t used it in years, but he was very aware that he’d never deactivated it.

As soon as he was home, he was on his computer, logging in with a very familiar (and very embarrassing) username and password.

username: allmight-alright password: #1PR0hero

He sighed to himself when his profile showed up, remembering the days when he’d log on excitedly, a bruise forming on his arm from Kacchan punching him and his feet hurting from kicking off his shoes at the front door too fast.

For some reason, his notifications were totally blown up. Thousands of likes and hundreds of comments, reblogs, even unanswered messages (most of which were years-old from his old internet friends wondering if he was okay). He scrolled through, seeing that most of his All Might fanfiction had blown up around the time he’d retired. One of his old online friends had kept his account on her fanfiction taglist, despite him being gone. He noticed the most recent one she’d written was only a week old. She was still using her account? All these years, she’d never picked up some other hobby?

He paused for a moment, remembering that she did have other hobbies. He cursed himself for the assumption that a fanfiction writer didn’t have a life, despite knowing that wasn’t true. Prejudice, you know? He remembered staying up late messaging her. She played piano. She wanted to be a dancer. Her favorite book was a compilation of professional essays written about quirks and theories about where they came from.

His face flushed red when he remembered the huge crush he’d had on her when he saw her first face reveal. She’d deleted it after only a few hours, but she was so pretty, and such a nice person. He blushed even harder remembering that he’d never put his real name on his account. She called him Alrighty based on his username.

Another message popped up in his feed, from her.

herofics-dot-org: OMG ALRIGHTY YOU’RE BACK !!!

Deku smiled, fingers flying across the keyboard to respond.

allmight-alright: yeah lol allmight-alright: i’m actually just here to delete this account

herofics-dot-org: nooo :( herofics-dot-org: why???

allmight-alright: my old fics are all super cringe

herofics-dot-org: you’ve only been active for like five minutes herofics-dot-org: at least stay a bit and chat herofics-dot-org: it’s been like nine years

allmight-alright: holy shit really???

herofics-dot-org: yeah, we were like 14 when you logged off forever herofics-dot-org: that makes you 23, right? herofics-dot-org: since you’re a year younger than me lmao

allmight-alright: ok but i’m probably taller than you now

herofics-dot-org: you 5’2” bastard lol

allmight-alright: kiuajbhgdvytf >:0 allmight-alright: n e ways why do you still tag me in stuff

herofics-dot-org: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ herofics-dot-org: idk i guess i was hoping you’d come back someday lol

allmight-alright: ok i guess that’s fair lol allmight-alright: i haven’t actually checked your recent stuff yet

herofics-dot-org: omfg go do it i’ve gotten so much better at writing herofics-dot-org: oh also i put that collab fic we did forever ago on my nostalgia masterlist herofics-dot-org: it’s where all my older fics are

allmight-alright: i’ll go check out the new ones!!!

Deku closed the messaging system, going back to his notification wall and finding her most recent fic. The first thing that caught his eye was the glittering gif banner of his own face. The second thing he noticed was her content warnings. His face flushed red again as he read.

Content: angst, hate fucking, exhibitionism, dubcon, secretary!reader, size difference, pwp, use of daddy and babygirl, comfort/fluff ending because i’m a huge sap for deku

The fic started off a little less intensely as all her other smut fics did, but she was right; Her writing had improved. A lot. Her infamous porn without plot fics had always started strong with ‘he slammed his member into me, ripping my hymen with no mercy’ or ‘she shoved me down on the bed, both of us tearing off our clothes frantically’ but this was so much better. So much so that he almost refused to believe it was written by the same giddy preteen fangirl he used to know.

“-the only good thing about you is your giant cock and you don’t even know how to use it, you asshole!” Y/n practically screamed, tears bubbling over from her eyes, spilling down her cheeks in thick droplets as her heart raced in her chest.

Deku grabbed both of her teeny wrists in one large, calloused, scarred hand, the warmth of his skin nearly burning Y/n as her head spun- With anger? Arousal? In the heat of the moment, she could hardly tell.

Deku blushed, not knowing if he could even continue reading without his head exploding. He’s not mean! He’s not an asshole, he would never treat a woman so roughly, especially one that worked for him. He treasured his work relationships almost as much as personal ones. Coworkers are people too!

He decided to scroll through her profile, maybe see if she had any Chargebolt fics. After all, he was so proud of his fans.

She did indeed have Chargebolt fics. Twelve of them, actually, accompanied by two Dynamight fics (both angst, one where the reader died at the end), seven Froppy fics, four Uravity fics, a Grape Juice crack fic, a Hawks x Endeavor request from a few years ago, and…

“Holy shit.”

Deku covered his mouth, realizing he’d spoken aloud. No one was around to hear him, but still.

Sixty eight Deku x Reader fics.

He also noticed she’d expanded from just fanfiction. She had a second account where she posted original short stories and poems, she had a place where dedicated readers could donate money or pay for more complicated requests. She had several professional-style essays on quirks and quirk history (Deku almost laughed, it was almost too in-character), reference links included, and dissertations of different heroes with images provided by another account- Credit given and granted permission of use, of course.

There was a lot to scroll through.

Why Hawks’s quirk is one of the worst Unpopular opinions about All Might’s retirement explained Deku’s UA debut and why he broke his own bones Deku’s UA debut 2: Shoto Todoroki Seven years ago today: details about All Might’s former sidekick Deku’s UA debut 3: his galaxy brain during the obstacle course Reasons I hate Dynamight (since people won’t stop asking) All Might or Endeavor? Deku’s UA debut 4: behind the scenes UA’s class 1-A at the USJ Why Cellophane’s costume is the worst thing ever ‘Deku is problematic’ theory explained

“Oh my god.”

The sheer amount of Deku content on her page was incredible. Fanfiction, photos, edits, videos, explained theories, multiple essays about his costume alone, clips of interviews, cross-referenced articles side-by-side with opinions and facts pulled out of official papers-

allmight-alright: holy shit there’s so much deku

herofics-dot-org: lmao yeah herofics-dot-org: i suddenly understand your fascination with all might

allmight-alright: kyjwfevgdh shut up

herofics-dot-org: i can’t believe you’re going to deactivate your account T-T herofics-dot-org: i don’t even know your social medias so i won’t be able to find youououuuuuuu :(

allmight-alright: ok ok i won’t delete my account

herofics-dot-org: YAY!!!! herofics-dot-org: you’re the best alrighty

Deku froze for a moment, pondering his next message.

allmight-alright: yeah i AM the best allmight-alright: i’m like the number one hero or something lol

herofics-dot-org: jhagvjcdghvre you wish lmao herofics-dot-org: you just wish i liked you as much as i like deku

allmight-alright: gjaskdhvbywe shut up

She’d always been very good at messaging back quickly, as well as knowing when not to send a text or exactly what message an emoji was meant to convey, but she didn’t answer for a minute. Deku thought perhaps something had happened before she got back to her computer, or maybe she wasn’t as good at texting as she used to be.

He saw the gyrating ellipses pop up for a moment, indicating that she was typing, but it disappeared again in a second. It popped up again, then disappeared, then another time.

herofics-dot-org: hey so this might be kind of a weird ask and i know we haven’t talked in nine years but do you wanna meet up?

Deku stared at the screen blankly.

allmight-alright: irl?

herofics-dot-org: only if you want to but yeah

Deku was typing in an answer before his brain even registered her other message.

allmight-alright: i’d love to allmight-alright: when and where?

herofics-dot-org: i’m not busy tomorrow if that works for you

Tomorrow? Deku got off work early tomorrow.

allmight-alright: sure!!! do you know where?

herofics-dot-org: you still live in the same city, right?

allmight-alright: yee

herofics-dot-org: how about that cafe across the street from deku’s agency? maybe we’ll see him and we can take a picture lmao herofics-dot-org: at noon? we can have lunch together

Deku grinned mischievously.

allmight-alright: oooh yessss allmight-alright: i could add his autograph to my collection

herofics-dot-org: nerd

allmight-alright: you’re no better than i am

herofics-dot-org: i have an idea for what to write next herofics-dot-org: “fifty reasons alrighty is the nerdiest nerd of all”

allmight-alright: ooh that reminds me allmight-alright: you write so much non-fanfiction stuff now, even on your fanacc

herofics-dot-org: one time i posted something like “ten reasons the iida agency is totally underrated” and it blew up herofics-dot-org: you probably weren’t online for the ingenium craze i sparked, it was insane

allmight-alright: there was an ingenium craze and i missed it????

herofics-dot-org: yeah!!! it was the best herofics-dot-org: it was my biggest post ever so i took the idea and ran with it herofics-dot-org: i got so many new followers and my non-fic posts like “reasons why” got super popular

allmight-alright: yeah, your masterlist is crazy huge now

herofics-dot-org: LMAO herofics-dot-org: my main masterlist, you should see all the other ones

allmight-alright: ...do you have a deku-only masterlist

herofics-dot-org: NKJGBVHSEFA DON’T CHASTISE ME

Deku stared at the message for a bit before going back to her masterlist. He found the link to her Deku-only post and scrolled through all the works she had. One called Fanfiction caught his eye, the title almost too relevant to be a coincidence. He decided to read it.

Content: established relationship, teasing, caught in the act (of reading a fic lol)

Y/n was at it again, indulging in her guiltiest pleasure yet. It wasn’t her fault she was lonely- It was Deku’s! For sure. She had to do this. Since Deku was always working. Yeah. It was all his fault.

That’s what she would tell herself every time she lowered herself onto her green hero-themed dildo. That’s what she would tell herself every time she turned on her phone and started reading the filthiest things she could find about her boyfriend. It was his fault, not hers, that she would feel so empty without him around, like a hollow shell, a hole that needed to be filled up.

Deku slid his dick in easily, Y/n’s ready-and-waiting hole fucked into the shape of his cock long ago. He whispered filthy praise in her ear, holding her close as he snapped his hips against hers, slowly, but with the force of his quirk x1000.

She was so focused on her reading, on how she was feeling, that she didn’t hear the front door open and close, didn’t hear Deku coming home early just for her.

Y/n was right, her writing had improved. Deku couldn’t look away from the screen, eyes scanning every word, taking in every bit of filth. He’d always read everything she wrote, her every post that crossed his dash, and she’d always been good at what she does. He’d been turned on by her smut plenty of times before, but this was different.

She was writing about him. She was writing about having sex with him. She was writing about loving him. Wait-

Okay, wait, hold on.

He remembered having a huge crush on her. She was nice, never made fun of his dorky interests, they even indulged in fantasies together. She had always been on his side. Anonymous hate online had never affected him because she was there taunting his mean anons. She would always say he was one of her closest friends, she was always the first like, the first comment, the first reblog with encouraging tags included (#oml this is the best all might fic ever #number one pro? nah. number one fic). They were each other’s beta readers, the “hey, should I include this?”, the best person to collab with.

She’s totally head-over-heels for Deku. He’s Deku.

So… Does that mean we both like each other?

Deku grimaced, exiting the fic to check her profile and consequently blue-balling himself, sifting through her posts to see if she had a more recent face reveal.

It took a while to find since it was buried between a Dynamight x Red Riot drabble and something called Daddy, I’ve Been Bad that he was scared to look at.

She was still beautiful. She looked incredibly similar to the photo he’d seen of her when they were younger. She still had the same sharp eyes, the same crook in her smile, but she was taller now, filled out in all the right places, and her hair had changed, though it was still just as entrancing and easy to lose yourself in as he remembered.

Speaking of remembering things, he remembered just how hard he was from reading her Deku smut. He decided relieving himself should be the first thing he did next, so he did what he thought was the only rational thing and went back to the Fanfiction smut.

=

Y/n waited patiently at the café, sitting at a table just outside and drinking a hot chocolate as she slowly nibbled on a pastry. She perked up at anyone who passed her on the sidewalk, always disappointed when they weren’t who she thought they were.

She heard a giddy shout from across the street and watched, fascinated, as the number one hero left his agency, immediately swarmed by fans and press. The urge to run across the street and beg for an autograph was strong, but she’d made a deal to meet with Alrighty, and she didn’t want to miss him. She settled with watching Deku from across the street. She pulled out her phone and snapped a picture of him signing a little girl’s backpack, watching as the crowd slowly dispersed, fans leaving with autographs and interviewers slowly slinking away empty-handed.

To Y/n’s surprise, Deku crossed the street (he looked both ways first, of course) and stared at the café for a moment. He scanned the storefront, smiling when he saw Y/n. Her heart almost stopped beating.

Holy shit, the number one pro’s looking straight at m- HOLY SHIT HE’S WALKING UP TO ME

“Hi.”

“H-Hi!” Y/n said nervously.

“You’re a big fan, huh?” He asked, gesturing to the Deku t-shirt she forgot she was wearing.

“Uh, yeah,” she said awkwardly.

“Want an autograph?”

Y/n’s eyes lit up and she grinned.

“Yes! Please, yes, sure, thank you,” she said, reaching into her pocket and grabbing a pen, then digging around in her purse for something he could sign. She settled on her phone case and handed them both to Deku.

“No, thank you,” he said smoothly, signing her phone. He handed it back to her, sitting down at her table before she had a chance to look at the signature.

Holy shit, why’s he sitting with me?!

Y/n glanced down at her phone as she tucked the pen away.

Alrighty

She stared at the autograph, completely dumbfounded.

“I- You- Wait, but you’re- We- Huh?!”

“Yeah. Something got lost in translation, I think,” he said, chuckling. He shrugged. “It’s been nine years, after all. I’m sure you’ve got things happening that I don’t know about.”

Y/n was silent for a moment.

“…Wait, shit, you read my fanfiction about you, oh my god, holy shit-”

“I think it’s cool,” Deku said quickly. “I mean, I know what it’s like, remember? And then I actually met All Might himself, so I really do absolutely totally know what it’s like!”

“Oh. Right,” Y/n said awkwardly. “So, the great number one pro used to be some little fanboy dork?”

“Hey! Mean,” Deku said, pouting. He smiled, noticing that Y/n was still shaken, starstruck at the idea of meeting her idol. Not only meeting him, but actually knowing him. Actually- Knowing about parts of him no one else did. After all, none of his other friends knew a thing about his life before UA (save for Bakugo, but he didn't count. He didn’t know anything about him, he just knew him).

Y/n laughed, tearing her pastry in half and offering the larger side to him.

“…I asked if you wanted to meet up so that I could ask if you-”

“Want to go out with you?” Deku finished. “Yes. Yeah, I do.”

“…Wanted to go to HeroCon together,” Y/n finished slowly. “Holy shit.”

=

Taglist: (Want to be on it? Fill this out!) @sageyrage @izuushi @adminbryantsaki @a-mongoose @jodrawssmut @dearestdynamight @angelmidoriya @itszero16 @devilgirlcrybabiey @nightwingsgirl @kirishibaby

[dantedeservedbetter]

Hey do you have any headcanons for the shadowknights (Mystreet)? Btw more importantly you seem really cool? Which is surprising considering the whole Aphmau thing (I say as if I don’t literally have a sideblog for aphmau stuff too) but yeah, good on you you’re pretty damn funny too

(I’m gonna be really honest, the Tumblr blog that I’ve dedicated towards a bad Minecraft series that I watched in middle school might just be one of my biggest and weirdest secrets. I have no idea what I’ll do if anyone I know irl actually finds this blog on my phone. Ty for thinking that though! It makes me feel good whenever people are actually interested in whatever nonsense I put on here :,0)

ShadowKnight Headcanons!! (Gene, Sasha and Zenix)

• Gene and his mother took Mother+Son dance lessons in high school, so he ends up becoming insanely flexible as he continued dancing in his own free time after college

• Sasha is the only one with a decent memory between the three of them. Without her Zenix and Gene would probably forget their own heads

• Zenix is Hispanic. And despite how much he speaks it, English is his second language.

• For the longest time, Gene didn’t realize how lucky he was to have Dante as a brother, so he simply refused to interact with him. Dante hardly remembers those moment in his life, but Gene does; and he regrets it all these years later

• Sasha is Wiccan, and she absolutely loves her crystals. Zenix will find (often fake) crystals at the store and buys them just for her. She knows damn well they aren’t useful in her daily life, but of course she shows off every crystal he buys her. They’re often her most favorite regardless.

• Zenix has a huge love for breakfast food but specifically waffles. He has several waffle makers in different shapes such as a bat, christmas tree, a cute ghost, and an old one from when he was younger of Lightning McQueen.

• Gene paints his nails, they all do it from time to time but he’s the only one who does it on a regular basis

• Sasha knows how to sew very well! She joined a sewing club as a joke in HS but grew to actually enjoy the hobby overtime

• Zenix is a dog person, he will sometimes take home any lost street dogs and takes care of them until he calls the owner or makes sure there’s a good shelter they can go to

• The three of them invented aesthetic picnics, over the years of their friendship they take the time to go out onto a nice field and take in the sun for a while

• Gene’s style was inspired after he watched the Diary of A Wimpy Kid movies with Dante when they were younger

• Sasha loves the color purple because of Sailor Saturn from Sailor Moon. She watched it when she was younger and decided that she wanted to be a magical girl one day. (That was before she grew up and realized things like that don’t really exist)

• Zenix saw The Outsiders with his parents once and immediately bought a second-hand book of it. He then went on to watch The Karate Kid and made that his personality for a couple years

• Gene had a quick Harry Potter phase but that was only because he read “My Immortal”, saw how people were comparing it to the real material and decided to see what the books were actually like

• Sasha is now into super gory/horrifying/tragic anime’s now. She’s even gone far as to actually purchase some of the manga behind her favorite anime.

• Zenix has tried to give himself a mullet a couple times but every time he does it or goes to a barber, it never comes out the way he wants it

• They all use some form of ‘_/they’ pronouns

(Oops this was shorter than I thought it would be asdfghjk, if I come up with more of these I’ll reblog and make a pt.2! I hope you enjoyed these!!)

[terrm9]

Here you go, Terezka💚 Because 13 is my lucky # 🍀 “i’m not worthy of anybody’s love.” “that’s not true, you’re worthy of mine.” followed by the lover breaking eye-contact… + a love confession (if you feel like doing it and in any form you like😉) I was aiming for e & c because I miss Chiara damn much!🥺 but I really leave it up to you...if you feel it better for l & t, just do it. I'll take whatever your brilliant mind comes up with🥰 Please&thank you🌻

thank you so much, darling! <3 fluffy domestic E & C (and maybe a bit of Matilda?) ahead!

Senza un perché / Amo soltanto te

(Without a reason / I only love you)

It has been one of those beautiful, calm evenings. The air finally warm enough for the couple the enjoy their dinner on a balcony, the rush and stress of work left behind for a while. Topics of their conversation light, jokes said and laughs shared and Chiara couldn't stop smiling with how happy, how content, she was. They were.

At least until the moment Ethan asked the question that has changed the air around them, between them; the question that has led to the conversation that lacks jokes and laughs, that is rather filled with vulnerability and doubts.

"Do you think I can do that?"

A quiet question, asked between the sips of his whiskey. Almost casual, if only it wasn't accompanied by a deep frown.

"Do what?" Chiara asks back, confusion visible on her face.

"Being a father."

A wholehearted laugh that follows eases the tension in his shoulders a little bit, Chiara's faith in him almost too overwhelming at times - and surely misplaced, he knows. Had always known. And now there are two people he loves that he could let down.

"Bold of you to put it as if you already weren't one," she grins, only swallowing a remark about the worst fucking heatburn of her life ("caused by your daughter!") because she sees how strained his own chuckle is.

They have been through the variations of this conversation several times. Chiara has always told Ethan the same - that the fact that he worries about being a good parent already makes him one. Today is no different.

"It's just-" Ethan begins and immediately stops himself, taking another sip of his drink, his eyes following the horizon, the purple and orange of a summer sunset. "With Louise and all that... It has always been so easy to believe that I am not worthy of anybody's love," he shrugs, still avoiding Chiara's gaze.

"What is she hates me?" he whispers after a long while, the back of his neck flushed - and it makes Chiara's heart break to see that he not only fears such a ridiculous thing, he is also embarassed to share his worries.

"That's not true," Chiara mutters, taking his hand into her own, tugging on it until he finally meets her eyes. "You are worthy of mine," she smiles and pulls his hand closer so that it rests on her swollen belly, in which Matilda makes sure she is being noticed. "And you are worthy of hers."

Ethan blinks once, twice, three times but it does little to help - he cannot hold Chiara's gaze, so open and full of the love she is talking about. He tears his eyes away and looks down at their interwined hands, wondering if his daughter's eyes will be just as green, as open and as loving as Chiara's - he hopes so.

"I love you so much," he murmurs before looking up again and smiling at Chiara. "And you. I will always take care of you both, you know?"

"I know," Chiara nods, reaching out to caress his jaw gently, knowing that no more words need to be shared. "And you could start now by making me a popcorn? My mom says it helps with the heatburn."

Ethan laughs and shakes his head, but is already standing up, getting back inside to make the damn popcorn.

"Some people say that if a woman suffers from heatburn, the baby will have terribly huge amount of hair!" Chiara calls after him, fully expecting him to reprimand her for believing in such tales.

"Well, I know how to braid hair, so I think we are good," Ethan chuckles back.

***

The title is inspired by (yes you guess it right) Bocelli's song Amo soltanto te

Heatburn is the biggest bitch of pregnancy

I am not sure what this is, I wrote it in 20 minutes in between of studying to distract myself a bit so sorry if it's thrash

It's definitely not a micro story like I promised it would be ooops sorry

Ethan knows how to braid hair because Chiara cannot sleep with her hair loose and one time she broke her wrist and couldn't braid her hair herself so Ethan had to learn

I am fully aware of Ethan maybe being too soft and OOC in this but man, nothing is as OOC as canon version of Ethan in book 3 and I am not even paid for writing him so I will post it anyway

Tags in reblog <3

[bopbopstyles]

ROSE COLORED GLASSES: PART ONE

SERIES RATING: R (cursing, smoking, alcohol use, violence, PTSD, and sex)

WORD COUNT: 19.5k (long boi)

CATEGORIES: boxer!Harry, gang/mob!Harry, 1920s!Harry, Peaky Blinders!Harry (?)

As the daughter of the most powerful man in Birmingham, there were expectations of Cicely King: an advantageous marriage to save her father’s business, for one. But Cicely had never been one to follow orders. So when she woke up after an accident in the home of Harry Styles, the illusive boxer, she took it as an opportunity to escape her life. What she didn’t intend on was falling in love with him.

MASTERLIST | INSPO TAG | PART TWO

a/n: IT’S HERE!!!! Cicely and Harry dropped into my head and have lived in there rent free ever since. strap yourselves in for a ride, my friends! this story is hugely inspired by Peaky Blinders, and i willingly admit that characters and elements of the story resemble parts of PB, including Cicely’s appearance (Grace). thank you @hsogolden for making this beautiful banner,  and thank you to @bfharry @harrysclementines​ @stellarboystyles and @havethetimeofyourstyles for beta reading this, ilysm!

historical notes: i’ve got a couple of things to alert the public of for this story. 1. this story is set in Balsall Heath, Birmingham, UK in 1920 or so, and i did as much research as possible on the area, but it is by no means all accurate. imagery and descriptions of the neighborhood are largely my own. 2. Church Hulme was the name of Holmes Chapel until 1974, so it is used in this story. 3. The Magnificent Ambersons is an actual book that was a bestseller in 1918. you can read it here. 

without further adieu, here is part one of ROSE COLORED GLASSES - come talk to me about it in my asks! pls reblog and share with your friends 💕✨

The cool spring air swept around Cicely like a cloud, the hem of her skirt ruffling in the wind. She was miles from home, the landscape around her having turned to just rolling hills of green, just the way she liked it. Here, she could finally breathe. At home, all she could smell was fear and secrets, while here, out in the open, she was anyone and everyone. It was just her and Joseph, her beloved horse, on the empty road.

Father had told her it was going to rain when Cicely pushed her way out of the house, stomping away from him in anger at the news he had given to her, but she hadn’t given it a second thought. She loved rain, loved being caught in it and getting drenched, not minding the weight of the water on her skin. If anything, it made her finally feel something, even if it was cold. In hindsight, she probably should’ve thought twice about going out so far in the rain, Joseph being a bit skittish as he got older, but now here she was, having ridden over halfway between her estate and the city, and she could feel the droplets falling onto her blond coiffed hair that her maid, Polly, had done this morning.

She sighed and looked up at the sky—it was grey and angry, the wind swirling around her. It was going to be a downpour, she suspected. Joseph stopped when she pulled on the reins, and she considered whether she should turn for home or find somewhere to ride out the storm. It seemed to be coming soon, after all. She glanced around and there was just open space of hills and trees, but none large enough to provide any sort of suitable protection. Plus, she was closer to the city than home, anyways, so maybe it was better to just keep on going the direction she was heading. She could stay with friends in town if need be.

So she dug in her heels and Joseph continued, her urging him to go faster as the rain began to come down harder around her. It was like a curtain, the combination of the rain and the dark skies making it hard to see very far in front of her. The water licked down her face, and her chiffon blouse was sticking to her skin, the one her maid had made her promise not to get dirty, as it had just been mended for the second time. But she could make no promises—it was her favorite one, after all. And now, it would most definitely be ruined as dirt road beneath her turned to mud and it splattered Joseph and her clothes. She held fast though, wishing now more than ever that her father let her wear the new fashionable pants to let her ride more easily because side saddle was simply not cutting it at the speeds she was urging Joseph to achieve.

All of a sudden, a crack rang through the clouds, bolts of lightening littering the path far ahead. But the sound was enough for her to tense and Joseph to whinny, his front legs leaving the ground, her hold on the reins slipping as she was thrown from the saddle.

The last thing she remembered was the sight of Joseph taking off into the rain, saddle empty and reins flying around his body.

Harry could barely see in the storm, the downpour causing sheets of rain to fall on the windshield, his vision completely obscured. So he inched along as slowly as he could without endangering his ability to drive—or the car, since it was a gift from Josiah—and kept the headlights on full blast. He was exhausted after a weekend of fights in the town over, ones that left his body aching in ways he preferred to ignore. But he had a pocket full of earnings and he knew Josiah would be happy with that, so he paid it no mind.

He was running through the fights, thinking about the missteps and wrong moves he had made, spots for improvements, when he saw a girl lying down on her back in the mud a few feet in front of the car. He slammed on the brakes immediately. What the fuck was a girl doing out in a storm like this? When she didn’t move as he sat in the car, surveying the scene, he couldn’t help but wonder if she was dead. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had been killed on a road, left there to be found by the next car.

Slowly, he pulled himself out of the car, lifting his hand to shield the rain from his face. “Miss?” He called into the storm, eyes drifting over her body. She looked well to-do—her blouse seemed to be some type of lace material that the girls he knew were always fawning over, skirts bright and recently washed. What was she doing out here, alone and in the mud? And how had she gotten there?

He took a few paces closer to her, and she didn’t make a move when he brushed the hair away from her face. Hesitantly, he leaned down, an ear to her mouth to see if she was breathing—which she was, to his relief. She must be unconscious, although he could only begin to imagine how she had gotten that way. But Harry wasn’t the type to leave a young woman in need, alone on a dirt road in the middle of a storm. So he bent down, slid his aching arms under her body, and lifted her from the mud, cradling her against his chest as he walked back to the car.

She fit perfectly on his back seat when he tucked her knees in closer to her chest, blond hair draped over the seat. He grabbed his coat from the passenger side and draped it over her body, her skin cold to the touch from the rain. The thought crossed his mind of where he should take her—the police, perhaps? Or maybe a hospital? But Harry hated both of those establishments after years with Josiah. Plus, if she needed any protection, in town it was best if it came from Josiah anyway. The police were useless, a bunch of pompous assholes too big for their britches, Harry thought. And a hospital, Harry believed, was where people went to die not where they went to be healed. So he decided to take her to his flat, despite the fact that the prospect went against most principles he was raised on.

Although, everything Harry did went against his childhood principles.

When she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was green peeling wallpaper. It wasn’t a wallpaper she recognized, and as she came to, looking around the room, she realized this was definitely not a place she had been before. Her heart seized as she inspected her surroundings. She was in a wire-frame double bed, a red duvet cover pulled around her shoulders, a soft light coming in the heavy curtains against a small window in the middle of the room. Clothes littered the floor—men’s clothes, from what she could tell—and a rug sat in the middle of the room amidst the chaos. An ashtray and the butts of cigarettes laid on the bedside table next to her, as well as a glass of water. Maybe it was a stupid choice, but her throat was raw and so she took the glass, gulping down the water without a second thought.

Faintly, she could hear the sound of a whistle. Tea, she realized. Someone was making tea.

Which meant she was not alone.

Her hands dove under the covers, inspecting the clothes on her body. Everything was still intact, her green skirt and the lace blouse she had put on,  every button done up exactly as she had left it. She didn’t have her shoes on, but on closer inspection, they laid on the ground next to the bed, but her stockings were still clipped to her garter at least. A sigh left her mouth at the prospect of some semblance of safety in this foreign place.

She tried to remember what had happened last—she had been riding through a storm after a fight with her father. Then, there was a bolt of lightning, she thought to herself, piecing together the memories in her fuzzy brain, and then remembered Joseph bucking her from the saddle. She couldn’t keep herself on, so she let go, knowing that was better than being dragged along. The last thing she remembered was Joseph riding away, her lying in what she believed to be mud.

Which would explain the brown marks all over her clothes.

Polly was going to kill her for the stains.

The whistle she had heard earlier suddenly stopped, and she heard the thud of something. Then, a soft hum of a song she recognized from the gramophone her father had in the sitting room. After a few beats, she heard the sound of footsteps on the wood floors, the creak of the footsteps growing closer and closer. Someone was coming. She was going to finally discover who had picked her up off of the road and where she was—hopefully it was some nice old lady and she was in their son’s room.

But instead, a boy about her age stopped in the doorway, a cup of tea in his hand, wide eyes at the sight of her sitting up in bed. His brown hair was tousled in soft curls across his forehead, and just trousers, a shirt, and suspenders adorned his body, his feet bare. His shirt sleeves were pushed up and she could see tattoos on his arms, something she had never seen in person before, just in photographs and magazines.

He was, she thought to herself as he stood there in shock, quite handsome.

“You’re awake,” he finally said, voice croaking in his throat. “I—uh, sorry, would you like a cuppa?”

Cicely considered the question for only a beat before nodding. He seemed nice enough, judging solely from his embarrassed reaction to the croaky sound of his voice. The boy disappeared and she waited patiently in the bed, flexing her toes to bring some feeling back into her limbs. She wondered how much time had passed—it seemed to be daylight out, so maybe not much time at all.

The boy returned, a second tea cup balanced in his other hand, his face more serious and put together than before. “Here you are,” he said, making his way over to her, his presence instantly changing the feeling of the room. Before, it was small, but not too small. Now, with his large frame and dark eyes, it seemed as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the space.

“Thank you,” she replied, accepting the cup with cold hands. It was chilly in the room, probably from the draft coming in from the windows and her skirt which was still a bit damp in spots. The tea, though, was delicious on her tongue, plain, just how she liked it.

The boy grabbed a chair from the corner of the room and pulled it over to the edge of the bed before sitting down, eyes darting between the tea cup and her face. “I’m Harry, by the way.”

“Cicely.” She took another sip of the tea before resting it on her lap. “Is this your flat?”

“Yes,” Harry said, eyes glancing around the room. “My room too—sorry about that. It’s just me here, so I didn’t have anywhere else to put ya.”

So no wife or family then, Cicely thought, filing the information away for later. It was interesting, a boy of his age living alone. He must have moved away from home and made decent enough wages to get a place of his own, she decided, eyes fluttering around the room to see if she could pick up on any other clues about him. But she couldn’t find anything. “How did I get here?” She asked after leaving them in silence for a few moments, the curiosity getting the better of her.

Harry placed his teacup on the nightstand as he spoke, eyes avoiding hers. “Found ya in the road in the rain. Cold as ice and unconscious, all covered in mud. Didn’t want to leave ya out there, so I brought you here—thought I could take you home once you came to and all that. Call your husband.” He added the last sentence as an afterthought, and Cicely couldn’t help but smile internally at the thought of him thinking she was married.

Which she wasn’t. At least, not yet. And not for a while, if she had any choice in the matter. “No husband,” she informed him, thumbs brushing over the duvet. “How long have I been out for?”

He pulled his lip into his mouth and Cicely didn’t know if she had ever seen something so enticing. “Almost a day.”

A day? God, her father would have her head. He probably thought she was dead after she didn’t come home. Although it wouldn’t be the first time she had let him think that, her flair for escaping after an argument a reoccurring personality trait that her father despised. Which of course, was exactly why she did it. “I hope I wasn’t a bother,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear.

Harry shook his head, and Cicely studied his face, the sharp angle of his jaw, the high rise of his cheekbones. He had a bit of scruff around his lips, which looked soft and pink and she tried not to think about what they would feel like. Cicely didn’t usually pay men all that much mind—sure she noticed them, but did she study every feature on their faces like she did Harry? No. She was intrigued by him, the rings on his fingers and the tattoos on his arms, the way he licked across his bottom lip. And perhaps that was why Cicely made no mention of needing to go, or that she should call her family.

“Are ya hungry?” Harry asked, pulling her out of her thoughts.

At the concept of food, suddenly her stomach grumbled and she blushed, embarrassed at the sound, but Harry didn’t even react to it. “Yes, actually.”

He stood immediately, wiping his palms on his trousers as he did so. “I don’t have much here,” he said, taking their empty tea cups with him as she walked towards the door. “But I’ll put something together.” She watched him, unsure if he wanted her to follow. She was a bit curious as to what the rest of the flat looked like, she had to admit. “Ya comin’?”

Cicely scrambled to follow him, her stocking-clad feet nestling into the rug by his bed. Her skirt was crinkled from sleep and she straightened it as much as possible before sighing and exiting the room and into the hall. When he turned down a set of stairs, she realized that what she thought to be a flat was actually a little townhouse. When she reached the base of the stairs, she found that the rest of the home wasn’t much—dimly lit, only one other window in what seemed to be a small sitting room and a kitchen. A table was pushed to the side, two chairs tucked into it, a plate with crumbs on it sat on one side. The green wallpaper from the bedroom covered all of the walls of the home, and when she looked around, she saw a noticeable absence of most personal effects. He had only one photo up on the side table next to the couch, of what Cicely assumed was his family. Next to it laid another ashtray, a pack of cigarettes, an empty whiskey glass.

At the sound of a plate on the counter she turned to see Harry placing a slice of bread on a plate and tenderly spreading jam across it. Cicely tried to imagine her father even entering a kitchen and she had trouble with the idea, while here was Harry making her a slice of toast. The thought was actually quite endearing, despite the fact that Harry had not once smiled at her.

“Thank you,” she said when he set the plate down on the table, grabbing the dirty one and taking it to the washbasin in the corner. Harry didn’t reply, so she took a bite. The jam wasn’t quite as good as what she was used to and the bread was a tad bit stale, but it was food all the same, and she didn’t mind all that much. As she ate, she watched Harry wash the plate, dry it with a dishrag, and place it back in a cabinet that held a few dishes.

He turned around when he was done, eyes trained on her with an intensity she was beginning to grow accustomed to from him. “I have work in a bit. Can I drop you someplace before that?”

Should he? Yes. Did she want him to? Not in the slightest. She pushed away the plate, and tried to figure out how to say this. “Would it be a bother if I stayed?”

Harry blinked at her a few times, his face finally changing from the usual intense stare that he gave her to one that was more curious in nature. “Is home not safe for ya?”

Cicely tried to decide whether or not she should lie to him. He seemed kind, generous, probably understanding, despite his inability to speak to her for very long periods of time without stretches of silence. Maybe he would understand that her desire not to go home wasn’t because home wasn’t safe, but because the life that was waiting for her was one she despised. So, she decided not to lie, but not to tell all of the truth. “No, it is. I’m just not eager to go back right now.”

“Oh.” Harry twisted a large gold H ring around one of his fingers, contemplating her words, before looking back up at her. “If ya want to stay, ya can. Know what it’s like to wanna hide for a bit.” Before she could request more information, he came towards her, snatching the plate and taking it back to the sink. He seemed to be awfully set on a clean kitchen, despite the messy state of his room. “You’ll have to come with me tonight, then.” He still had his back to her, so she couldn’t study his face as he said the words that piqued her interest.

Most girls would have probably requested to stay home, but Cicely wasn’t most girls. “Ok,” she replied, pushing back the chair. “Could I—uh—wash up somewhere?” The prospect of a bath sounded utterly delectable, although on second thought, she didn’t expect him to have a bath quite like the one she had at home.

Harry whirled around, eyes looking everywhere but her. “Yes. Um, there’s a basin in the washroom. Don’t have the water for a full bath right now, but…”

Cicely realized what he was so flustered about—he was embarrassed. Perhaps he had realized that her social station was a bit higher than his, that in her home they didn’t have to go fetch water somewhere, that she could have a bath relatively whenever she liked. And when she did it, someone else filled it for her. “That’s fine. I’ll manage.” She stood and made her way towards the washroom, following his directions, and shut herself inside. It was dark in there too—far less than she was used to. A silver bathtub was on one wall, and a smaller basin on a pedestal, a toilet in the corner. It was simple, bare bones, but she didn’t mind too much. Her father had put in running water when she was an infant, so she had never washed without it, but she decided it wasn’t too much of a change.

Quickly, she undressed, making sure the door was locked, and hung her clothing over the lip of the bath so it didn’t touch the floor. She took a rag and dipped it into the water, exhaling softly at the feeling of the cool water on her skin. There was some mud on her skin from when she had fallen, although she thought that perhaps Harry had washed some of it off—there wasn’t quite as much as she thought. A small mirror allowed her to wash the crust of mud from her forehead, and by the end of her washing she felt rejuvenated, even if it wasn’t a proper bath. Slowly, she slipped back on her clothes and considered for a moment the idea that she might need to purchase some more. Her clothes were stained from the mud, and she imagined she wouldn’t quite be able to get it out.

Although it would’ve been convenient, she didn’t imagine Harry had extra ladies clothes lying around for just this purpose.

She ruffled her hair slightly, the curls unfortunately having dropped for the most part, and sighed before letting herself out of the washroom. “Harry?” Cicely asked, turning the corner into the kitchen, where he stood, holding a glass of what she thought was a whiskey, a cigarette between his lips. “You wouldn’t happen to have a set of ladies’ clothes lying about, would you?”

Harry furrowed his brow before taking the cigarette from between his lips. “No—why?”

Cicely gestured at her stained clothes. “Mine are a bit dirty, and I wouldn’t want to wear them to your place of work like this.”

The chuckle that left Harry’s lips surprised Cicely in more ways than one. One, that he was laughing at all, for she didn’t find it to be a laughing matter. She didn’t want to make a bad impression to whoever his employer was, especially if she was going to have to be there. Second, his laugh was sweet, syrupy, one that rocked his shoulders, and made her heart flutter in a way she wasn’t used to. “You wouldn’t want to wear your Sunday best to my place of work, love,” he told her, tapping his cigarette in an ashtray on the table. “You’re fine the way ya are, but we can track down some clothes for ya tomorrow.”

Where would he work where her appearance would be adequate? But rather than question him, she just nodded. “Well, I’m ready,” she told him.

“Gimme a mo’,” he told her, tucking his cigarette back between his lips before heading out of the room. Cicely decided to check out the sitting room a bit more, investigate the people in the sole photograph in the whole home. She picked up the photograph and studied it, a man, woman, and young woman, probably a few years older than Harry, stood outside of a family home, a younger Harry nestled between them. It was curious to see him younger, his face less defined, an obvious softness to his facial features. But what stuck out to her the most was the uniform he wore.

He had been in the war. Of course. Her father had avoided it because of a years old injury to his leg, although she had secretly always throught he had gotten his doctor to make it seem more severe than it actually was. Many of the men her parents had set her up with, including the horrid one they were currently trying to force her to marry, were in the war, but when she asked them about it, they only talked about their medals, heroism, the beauty of France’s countryside. But she also knew most of them had been officers, their social ranks earning them a certain level of protection, and she couldn’t help but wonder what it had been like for Harry who had none of those privileges.

Footsteps came from behind her and she turned, dropping the photograph back to the table when she saw Harry in the hall watching her. He had changed while she was looking at the photo, a charcoal jacket over his shirt, a pin with a J on it buttoned to the lapel that she thought was a bit curious. He had a bag over his shoulder, and she wondered what was inside. “You were in the war,” she said, not acknowledging his appearance.

“Just like everyone else,” he replied, his response a stark departure from how the men she knew would’ve replied. “Come on, we’re goin’ to be late.” She followed him out, wishing she had a hat or a small purse with her at the very least, but she had nothing but her dirty clothes and scuffed boots.

When they stepped onto the street, the sight of a wide and long street, row houses lining each side met her gaze. They were in working class Birmingham, she thought to herself as Harry locked the door behind him. Most men would’ve made to put their arm through hers, but not Harry—he just began walking, letting her catch up to him, struggling to keep pace with his longer legs. His bag swung at his side as they walked, and Cicely took in their surroundings, the silence stretching between them. It was dusk and women were calling their children inside, the games of football on the street breaking up. Two young children squabbled until their mothers separated them, tugging their little hands inside. Doors shut behind them and Cicely snuck a glance at Harry. His eyes were trained on the ground in front of him, most likely adjusted to their surroundings.

He didn’t want to talk, she understood from his body language, and she decided in a choice completely against her normal mannerisms, not to push him.

Cicely didn’t know what she expected from Harry’s place of work, but it was definitely not a boxing ring in an empty warehouse. She could hear the shouts and laughter of men from outside, and she had looked at Harry with confusion written all over her face when they approached the warehouse, but she followed him inside anyways. The smell of stale beer and sweat overwhelmed her immediately, and she had to squint in the darkness of the entryway. The ring had some lights rigged up around it, some chairs around it, but it was by no means someplace fancy.

So this was what Harry had meant by her not wanting to wear her Sunday best.

“You work…here?” She asked, turning to Harry, who stood beside her, watching her take in the surroundings. He nodded, offering no additional information. “And you box?” Another nod. “Is this legal?”

That’s when he gave another one of his chuckles, and then under his breath he said, “Doesn’t need to be, love. Josiah McClemmons runs it.”

Cicely may not live in Birmingham proper, but that didn’t mean she didn’t know who Josiah McClemmons was. Everyone did. He basically ruled Birmingham, especially the working class neighborhoods, having built up his stronghold there. Her father complained about him at least once a week, about the violence and bloodshed in the city where his garment factories were. Although, Cicely had always thought to herself, her father probably shouldn’t complain too much because a dead husband meant a wife who had to work to feed her children, which meant a larger workforce for her father.

From the way Harry was greeted, Cicely assumed he was the reigning champion, the usual fighter here. Which meant that he was probably McClemmons’s payroll, if she had to extrapolate. “Do you work for McClemmons?” She asked when the few men who had come up to them walked away.

Harry adjusted the bag over his shoulder, and then nodded. “Could say that.” His eyes darted around the establishment, taking in the sight, before resting back on her. “C’mon, I’ve got to get changed and don’t want ya waitin’ out here.” He ushered her over to a man standing against a wall who wore a J pin on his lapel like Harry, which she now realized stood for Josiah’s name, a brand of who they worked for. “Tommy,” he said, the man’s gaze turning and settling on them. “This is Cicely. Keep an eye on her while I change?”

Tommy stood up straight immediately and when he took her hand in his and pressed a kiss to it, Cicely couldn’t help but smile. “Pleasure to meet such a beautiful lady,” Tommy said to her, a wink gracing across his face.

When she turned to speak to Harry, he was already gone, a few paces away towards a door. “Is he good?” She asked Tommy, turning back to her new acquaintance.

Tommy’s eyes widened. “The best,” he informed her before taking a sip from a mug of what she assumed was beer. “You’re in for a treat if you’ve never seen ‘im fight ‘fore.”

Cicely agreed, the prospect of a sweaty Harry in the ring a bit more enticing than she perhaps wanted to admit. She was able to get some information on Harry out of Tommy, the combination of a pretty girl and a mug of beer not a combination meant for secrecy. He fought with Josiah McClemmons’s youngest brother in the war, the experience making them nearly brothers, and came back to Birmingham with them. No one knew where Harry was from, but people had a number of guesses, everything from London to Liverpool. Apparently before the war he had been learning to fight, and the war sharpened his skills, so when they came back it seemed natural that Josiah would use the rings as a way to make money, using Harry as his prized fighter.

She couldn’t help but think it made Harry sound a bit like the Spanish bulls she had learned about in a magazine, a caged animal. But Tommy assured her Harry loved it when she asked, so she tried to put her mind at ease.

“Who is he fighting?” She asked Tommy after refusing his offer for a beer of her own.

“Peters—a local bloke,” Tommy replied. “Harry’s expected to win.”

Cicely gathered as much from the grumblings of his name that she could hear when the betting started, money flying in the air. It was fascinating to her, and she thought that she also fascinated the men—she was the only woman in the room and she tried not to squirm against the wall she leaned against.

But then, she heard a cry go up, and Harry’s opponent came out of a door, trailed by two men. “He’s massive,” she told Tommy as she watched the man walk to the ring.

Tommy grunted in response. “Harry’s fast, though.”

She hoped he was fast enough. Peters crested the ring, pushing himself between the ropes. One of his men handed him some gloves and Cicely watched as he pulled them on, his massive chest glistening under the gas lighting.

All of a sudden, a louder cry sounded, whoops and hollers of Harry’s name, and her gaze flickered to the door she had last seen him go into. There he was, walking towards the ring, a determined look set on his face. Tattoos littered his body and Cicely realized the few she had seen were a mere teasing of the real deal. And seeing Harry without a shirt on, his broad shoulders and narrow waist, tanned skin in the light, she couldn’t help but think he was even more attractive than she had thought.

A man helped Harry into the ring, and when he stood up, she caught sight of tape covering where his nipples should be. What in the world? She turned to Tommy and pointed at Harry. “What is the tape for?”

Tommy guffawed immediately, beer sloshing in his mug. “He’s got ‘em pierced.”

“What?”

She expected Tommy to tell her he was joking, but instead he nodded. “Got ‘em done durin’ the war, apparently. Some dare from his mates. Now he’s gotta have ‘em taped up or they’ll get ripped out.”

Cicely truly didn’t have the words for a response to that. She turned back to the ring, eyes set on the two pieces of tape over each of his nipples, entranced by the idea of them being pierced. She had heard rumors from her friends of ladies getting them done, but men? Why on earth would they want them done? She had never understood it on women, but the prospect of them on men completely confounded her imagination. Although, her best friend had told her it made them more sensitive, so perhaps that worked on men as well.

The thought was tantalizing at the very least.

“Sure ya don’t want a beer, love?” Tommy asked.

She had grown to quite like his company. He was a bit crude, but for some reason she liked that he didn’t treat her like she was made of glass like most of the men she knew. Her gaze darted between Harry, standing in the ring, and Tommy’s mug. “You know what? Sure.”

Tommy beamed. He was overjoyed at the idea, and Cicely was as well. She had never actually had beer before, just sips of champagne and wine here and there when she snuck it from her parents or during parties. But nothing as normal as beer—she didn’t even think her father drank it, to be honest. Perhaps that was why the idea was so exciting to her. Tommy left her on her own for a few minutes and she tried not to let the stares that still lingered on her bother her. Instead, she watched Harry, listened to the announcer, some chap in a jacket and askew flat cap, read out their names and weights. The part about Harry being the reigning champion stuck with her.

Cicely had never seen a boxing match before. Sure, she had heard of them, but actually been to one in person? Never. And much less one that was definitely illegal and held in a warehouse, a bunch of drunk men betting and still in their work uniforms. It made her heart race and she liked the feeling—usually she just got it when she rode Joseph, who she hoped had gone home to her estate.

“Here ya are.” Tommy had reappeared, a full mug of beer in his other hand for her. “Got ya somethin’ my sister likes.”

Cicely took the mug. It was heavy, heavier than she was expecting. Would she even be able to drink it all? She stared at the murky brown liquid, the foam on top, and then up at Tommy who she could tell was stifling a laugh. Fuck it, she thought. And took a long sip. It wasn’t as bad as she expected. Sour, sure, but it was also refreshing. A bit heavy, and considering she had only eaten some toast today, that wasn’t a negative thing. “It’s not bad,” she told Tommy, who gave her a grin in response.

She was about to say something else when she heard a bell sound—she had been so focused she had missed the start of the match. Whirling around, the first thing she saw was Peters’ arm fly through the air. The breath knocked from her chest at the possibility of Harry getting hit, but to her pleasant surprise he ducked it completely, feet helping him to move away from his attacker. The crowd cheered and Cicely took another sip, the action of having the drink in her hand helping calm her nerves as she watched Harry dance around Peters, ducking at every punch. She could see the frustration in Peters’ eyes, and the focus in Harry’s eyes making her scream out his name along with the men in the room.

She could feel Tommy’s eyes on her as she did it. She didn’t even need to look at him to know that surprise was written all over his face. If Cicely was going to be at a boxing match for the first time in her life, drinking her first beer, she was going to enjoy it. And watching Harry take a swing—and make contact—at Peters was exactly the excuse she needed to scream his name again.

The match passed quickly, and by the end of it Cicely had reached the end of her beer and her and Tommy were laughing at the fear in Peters’ eyes as Harry’s punches landed. He was winning by a long shot, and she had to admit, she was proud. During the whole match she had barely been able to take her eyes off of him, gaze trained on the sweat dripping down his cut body, his broad shoulders and tattooed skin glistening. His hair was stuck to his forehead and neck with sweat, and for some reason she had the innate desire to twirl it off of his forehead and see what he did.

She also desperately wanted to see his nipples without the tape.

Desperately.

He was beautiful in the ring, his steps almost like choreography she had learned as a child to all of the dances she had to know for parties. Except Harry looked like a natural up there, his body moving before Peters made the move, as if he could read his opponent’s mind, his reflexes faster than anything she had ever seen before. She had a million questions for him the minute he stepped out of the ring, but the first thing she wanted to was clean the blood off of his body—blood which was a mixture of Harry’s and Peters’.

The end of the match happened so quickly that Cicely barely caught it. One minute, Harry was boxed into a corner, his arms up to protect his face, and the next, he was throwing a powerful punch to Peters’ face, the sound of bone crunching at Peters hit the ground so loud she could hear it over the men yelling in the ring. The announcer counted and she watched Harry’s chest rise and fall, his breathing ragged. Everyone else was staring at Peters, but her eyes were glued on Harry. And then, his lifted to her, their sight lines catching from across the room, and she could’ve sworn she saw him smile at her.

As much as she wanted to rush to the side of the ring as many people did, she waited where she was. She knew Harry would come find her eventually, since she was sleeping in his home, as weird as that sounded in her brain. So she turned to Tommy while she waited, her bones feeling light in her body. “He’s good,” she said, her words slightly slurring. Huh. That was weird.

“Told ya!” Tommy replied, taking her mug from her. “Forgot to ask you, love, how do you know our fighter?”

Her eyes trailed across the room to Harry, who she noticed was making his way towards them, a towel draped around his neck. “He saved me,” she said, watching his body flex as he moved. And her words were true, but in that moment she didn’t know quite how true they were. Only later, would she look back on the moment she met Harry and consider how he had changed her life by picking her lifeless body up on that dirt road in the middle of a storm.

Harry had fought the desire to look at Cecily throughout the match, and now that he was done he couldn’t stop. She looked so relaxed, leaned against the wall with Tommy laughing, her blond hair messy and her eyes bright. It was if his feet were carrying him towards her without a second thought, weaving through the crowd of sweaty drunk men in pursuit of the girl made of light. The closer he got, though, the more he noticed how she stumbled on her feet, how rosy her cheeks were, how loud she laughed.

Fuck.

Tommy had gone and gotten her drunk. Tommy might have been Harry’s friend, but that didn’t make him the smartest bloke in a room.

As he reached them, she took an uneasy step and Harry was there immediately. His hands fit around Cicely’s waist like it was the place he belonged, the lingering smell of perfume in his nostrils before he could clear the fog of his mind. “Ya okay, love?” The words slipped from his mouth, the pet name he had never called a single woman before just finding his way into his speech, as if his brain knew that she was special. He sure thought so.

Cicely turned her head, her gaze catching his and a smile broke across her face. “Harry! You were incredible!”

“Thank you,” he replied, gingerly removing his hands despite the fact that all he wanted was to hold onto her hips for the rest of time. “Tommy, did you give her beer?”

“He did,” Cicely answered instead, a hiccup escaping her mouth. She rushed to cover her lips, a blush creeping across her cheeks at the sound. “It was quite tasty.”

“I’ll bet,” Harry said, giving Tommy a hard look that Tommy only shrugged at. “I’ve got to change and get you home,” he told her, processing the situation here. Although he trusted Tommy with his life, in this moment he didn’t trust him not to give Cicely more beer.

Before he could say anything though, Cicely was speaking, her fingers brushing across his arm. The feeling sent sparks up his spine, delicate compared the touches he was used to, the ones he had just experienced. Her fingers weren’t callused, but soft, as if she hadn’t seen a day of work in her life. Which she probably hadn’t. “Can I come with you?” She asked, eyes on his, a slight pout on her lips that drew his gaze in no matter how hard he tried to avoid it.

“While I change?”

She nodded. “I’ve got some questions about the match that I want to ask you.”

Harry glanced at Tommy who he could tell was barely holding back a laugh, a grin on his face that told Harry he would never hear the end of this exchange. “Fine,” Harry told her, the word coming out gruff. “Tommy, I’ll see you later.”

Cicely slipped her fingers around Harry’s wrist as he stepped away, and he tried to resist the immediate urge that came over him to rip them off, the touch something he hadn’t experienced in ages. The feeling of a woman’s hands on him was one of the things he had not indulged in when he came back from France, preferring drink and alcohol to drown the memories in. The prospect of one of them experiencing him at night, while he slept, was enough to make him frightened enough to avoid the concept.

So when Cicely touched Harry, even in the simplest of ways, it stirred something in him that he hadn’t felt in a very, very long time. Something that he hadn’t experienced since before his life changed, since before he saw men die in front of him, his friends lose limbs and call out for their mothers in their final moments. He had always thought that his ability to feel had died on the battlefields of France, but with Cicely’s fingers on his skin, perhaps he was wrong.

She didn’t remove them, either, as they moved through the throngs of men. When they reached the hallway that led to the room where he got dressed, though, he had no reason to let her continue touching his skin. So he wrenched his hand from her grip, as much as he wanted to let her touch every inch of his skin if she could continue to make him feel something again.

“I need to wash off,” he said when he shut the door behind them. “Wait over there.” He pointed to a couch in the corner of the room. Usually it was an office of some kind, but for Harry it was his dressing room. A basin of water sat on a table, cold and full, and he was itching to wash his sweat-coated skin. Surprisingly, Cicely followed his directions, and so he turned to the basin, using a rag to rinse off his skin, the feeling of the cold water like heaven on his pores.

“When did you learn to box?”

His head perked up at her voice. He could barely see her in the dimly lit room, but the outline of her was enough, her legs thrown over the arm of the couch in a complete unladylike way. “I was sixteen.” He surprised himself with his honesty, but in the room with just Cicely, for some reason he let a piece of his past slip through.

“Do you like it?”

The question had Harry pause. Did he like it? He cupped some water and ran it through his hair, the sound of the water dripping into the basin filling the silence between them. “It’s a job,” he told her simply. It was the best answer he had. He didn’t really have the luxury of considering whether or not he liked his job. It paid the bills and earned him a reputation that meant no one tried to talk to him, which was all he wanted. After France, all he wanted was to be left alone, save for a select few.

He was focused on his thoughts and the murky water in front of him that he didn’t see Cicely move from her position on the couch. Suddenly, she was there, her fingers dancing across his back that faced her. “Hand me the basin,” she said, voice firm in his ears.

Harry considered fighting her, but his body exposed him. His body craved her touch on his skin, and so he slid the basin to the side so she could reach it. The rag was wrung, and then she was brushing it over his back, reaching the places he couldn’t reach. He could smell her perfume, the faintest taste of beer on her tongue as she breathed lightly in his ear, the traces of jam on her breath from the food he had given her hours before. It made his fists clench against the table and he hoped she didn’t notice.

They stayed that way, Cicely brushing the rag across his skin, wiping away his sins from the night. Her fingers brushed a cut once or twice and he hissed, stopping her in her tracks. She halted her motions each time and wrung out the cloth with fresh water, cleaning the wound with a delicate touch he had never felt. She murmured how they needed alcohol when they got home, how she needed to properly clean the wound. It was something his mother would’ve told him, he thought to himself, a thought he quickly pushed aside as he clenched his jaw.

“Turn around,” she said, voice so quiet he barely heard it above their breathing.

And Harry did as she said. She had made him pliant under her touch, his desperation not to let her stop clouding his ability to speak. His bum pressed against the table and his eyes caught hers in the dim lighting, the gaze that passed between them making Harry stop breathing for a second. But when she brushed the cloth over a bruise, the wince that fell from his lips drew him from his fog.

The rag criss-crossed his body, covering the area he had already cleaned, but he didn’t stop her. It was only when her fingers brushed over the tape across his nipples that his hand shot up, grabbing her wrist and halting her movement. But her eyes zeroed in on him, a determined look in her eyes that made him pause. “Let me see them.” Her words were gentle, but firm.

That made him release her hand, and he sucked in a breath and she pulled the tape from his nipples, the air on his sensitive skin making his stomach clench. He stood there under her gaze as she looked at him, the bars through each nipple that he had gotten on a dare. At first, he had been embarrassed of them, regretted them because they hurt like hell and scratched against his uniform. He considered getting them removed, or just ripping them out, but each time he paused. Paused just enough to let the thought pass, and his best friend’s voice entered his mind. “Who gives a fuck, anyways?” And that was the voice that made him keep them.

Now, it was too late to turn back. He was a boxer and the moment he stepped into the ring with taped nipples, it became something he was known for. The stories circled, tall tales that made Harry chuckle to himself, but he never told the truth. He liked the mystery around them. They became a sort of badge of honor, something that set him apart.

But he had never experienced a woman’s gaze on them, and he couldn’t help but fear her reaction. Would she be disgusted? Ridicule him?

Cicely, though, just looked at them, and then up at his face. “What do they feel like?” She asked tentatively.

It was a question he had never been asked before, actually. And one he didn’t quite know how to answer, because after two years with them they had become normal to him. “They heighten everything,” he replied honestly. It was about the only answer he could give.

This seemed to pique her interest. “Can I touch them?”

Fuck yes, his body screamed, desperate for her fingers on the most sensitive part of his body. His gaze zeroed in on hers, searching her eyes for a hint of a possibility she would ridicule him. But instead he found just genuine curiosity. And perhaps a hint of desire. So, he told her, “Yes.”

When her fingers grazed the bars, her warm touch on the cold metal that ran under his skin, he tried not to flinch, but it was difficult. Her touch was like a lightning bolt through his body, setting every one of his nerves on fire. Holding in the desire to moan was one of the hardest things he had done, and as she touched the other, fingers curiously exploring his skin, it became more difficult. And then she whispered, “I like them.”

Harry’s eyes snapped from where her fingers touched his skin to her eyes, and he found her already looking at him. He watched her lick across her top lip, the flush to her cheeks and wide eyes that stared at him making his body boil. It was too much. He pulled away, desperate for space, for something to allow himself to calm down.

Cicely must have sensed the change in his demeanor, because she immediately stepped back, the rag dropping into the basin of dirty water. Sweat, grime, and blood all mixed together and Harry thought as he looked at his reflection in the water that a mixture had never described him more.

“Let’s go, I need to eat,” Harry said, bending to grab the shirt from his bag on the floor.

Cicely didn’t reply with anything but a nod, and when he had laced his boots she followed him out of the room. The warehouse had emptied out, just some of Josiah’s boys around to help direct the cleanup. Harry knew he’d stop by the office tomorrow to get his cut of the winnings, so he didn’t bother to stick around. Instead, he pushed open the front doors and led Cicely out into the nighttime Birmingham breeze of coal and horse shit.

Cicely awoke to the sound of someone moaning and talking. Her eyes blinked to adjust to the darkness in Harry’s bedroom, her mind taking a second to gather her bearings and remember where she was. Then she heard the sound, something that resembled an injured animal, the edge of fear and pain that made her skin crawl. Last night Harry had given her one of his shirts to sleep in after she said she wanted to wash her clothes and leave them out for the night, and the cotton material bunched under her thighs and she swung them over the edge of the bed. She paused to see if she heard the sound again.

This time, a scream ripped through the house, and Cicely knew something was wrong. She pulled open Harry’s door and moved through the hall, eyes searching to see if she saw anyone, but it was empty. And then she heard it again, and this time without the barrier of a wall, she could tell who it was.

It was Harry.

Her feet didn’t bother to avoid the creaks on the stairs as she moved down the stairs to where he was asleep on the couch. The only light was the faintest bit from the moon, high in the sky, and it was just enough to make out the pained expression on Harry’s face and the thrashing of his body on the couch. He was talking to himself, something about the dark and the word No repeated over and over again, his voice cresting in panic.

It was a nightmare, she realized as she crouched next to him on the floor.

“No, please, it’s too dark, please—“

“Harry,” she said firmly, hands reaching out to grip his wrists to hold his arms to the couch cushions underneath him. “Harry, wake up.”

His eyes didn’t open though, and his body only trashed more under her. She didn’t know what to do, how to wake him up. The only thing she could think of was how when she was scared it helped when she felt safe. She didn’t know what made Harry feel safe, but for her, it was when her mother held her. So carefully, she lifted Harry’s shoulders, trying to avoid his arms trashing as she did so. Once she was seated on the couch she tugged him into her, letting her arms wrap around his chest and pin down his arms.

She murmured his name over and over again, softly in his ear to try and rouse him from the dream. “It’s Cicely,” she told him, “You’re safe, Harry, you can wake up. Wake up, Harry, you’re safe.” With their bodies this close she could feel his heartbeat, the way it raced in his chest. What was he experiencing? Where was he? She wanted to rouse him, pull him out of it and bring him back to her, but she was powerless.

After a few tries, she saw his eyes flutter open, his arms immediately trying to himself free from her grip.

“It’s me,” she said softly. “Hey, hey, it’s me.”

“Cicely?” His voice was rough from the screaming and it broke her. It was raw in a way she hadn’t heard from him, honest and open. Nothing protecting him from her.

She could feel his heartbeat slowing already, and the thought put her at ease. “Yes.”

He didn’t say anything for a few beats, and Cicely just ran her hand up and down his back, hoping to calm him as much as she could. His breath was ragged, big inhales of air and deep exhales, but it was becoming more normal as time passed. “I—I’m sorry,” he eventually said, voice small in the room.

But he had nothing to apologize for, Cicely thought to herself. The last thing he should do is apologize—it’s not his fault. “It’s okay,” she told him earnestly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

That made him pull away from her arms, her skin immediately missing his. Her arms fell to her side and Harry sat up, swiveled, and laid his face in his hands. “No,” is all he told her, not even lifting his head.

She didn’t know what he needed from her in that moment, but she knew she would do anything. Somehow she had only known this boy for a day, and yet the sight of his pain made her heart break. “Do—do you want me to stay?” It was the only thing she could think of to help, and if it would work then she would do it.

But he shook his head. He didn’t want her there. And the last thing she would do is push him after what had just transpired, so she stood, the hem of his cotton shirt reaching an unladylike mid-thigh. When he finally looked at her, she saw that he noticed, his eyes falling to the place where the material ended and her skin began. She tugged at it, hoping he didn’t judge her—she didn’t exactly stop and think about getting dressed, she just moved. “I…”

“Looks good on ya,” he said, words reverberating in Cicely’s mind.

She stood there, as still as stone, trying to figure out what to say to him. No man had ever seen her like this, and she had always been taught that they shouldn’t. And yet, the idea of Harry seeing her exposed legs, her hair messy from sleep, her in his shirt, it didn’t bother her in the slightest. So she didn’t disguise the blush that she could feel in her cheeks, and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Try and get some sleep,” she told him, and then she turned away, heading up the stairs and back to his room.

When she looked back from the third stair, Harry’s eyes were transfixed on her figure, gaze locked on her. For a moment, she held it, letting him watch her, but then she turned her head and went the rest of the way up the stairs, leaving Harry behind in the darkness.

Harry didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

The prospect of having the dreams again (although he got them most nights) and Cicely waking up again was too frightening a thought for him to allow himself to go to sleep. Instead, he ended up having a glass or two of whiskey in the wee hours of the morning, smoking too many cigarettes on the doorstep, and thinking. His thoughts revolved around Cicely, weaving in and out of the snatches of moments they had spent together—of which there were few—and the bits he knew about her. Which was very little. He didn’t even know her last name, where she was from, or why on Earth she was out in the middle of a rainstorm, lying on her back in the mud. He hadn’t asked, not wanting to make her uncomfortable or push her to talk, because he had this feeling that she was more than some spoiled rich girl.

The fact that she was rich was an assumption on his part, but one he felt was probably right. First, there were her clothes, which were nicer than any he had seen a girl around here wear, boots that looked like they were new, unscuffed.  Then there was the way she looked at his neighborhood—as if she had never seen something like it before. When she had walked out of his room and into the rest of the house, he had had the fleeting thought that perhaps he should be embarrassed, and at moments he was. But as they spent more time together, he began to get the feeling that even though Cicely may not be used to the way he lived, she didn’t seem to care all that much.

It intrigued him, the way she looked at his world. The way she had watched him during the match, the feeling of her eyes on his skin something he couldn’t shake, the way she had adapted to Tommy like a chameleon, blending in with ease. The way she had slid into the booth at the pub last night where they had eaten a late meal, complete disregard for the fight breaking out in the corner, her focus only on him and their meal. He kept expecting her to fit into the mold he had created for her, but she continued to slip away. And he didn’t quite know what to make of it.

Or the fact that she seemed to want to stay. When she had asked him if she could stay, and she said she didn’t want to go home quite yet, he immediately jumped to the worst of conclusions. That her father hurt her, that something had happened, and she was running from a past as dark as his. But then he reminded himself that she had money, wealth, status. Problems like the ones he knew didn’t exist in their world. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to cast her in a mold of wealth and opulence he had read about and encountered on a handful of occasions, people who used people like him and tossed them aside when they had had their fill. But the world wasn’t fair.

He flicked his cigarette butt into the street, the sounds of horses and distant rumble of cars, clap of house doors as men left for work telling him that the day was beginning. It was time for him to see Josiah and pay a visit to Nellie, who he hoped wouldn’t slam a door in his face. Inside, Cicely was still asleep—he couldn’t hear any footsteps from upstairs—so he decided to dart out while she was still sleeping. With any luck, he’d be back before she awoke.

The walk to Josiah’s offices was a well-remembered one, the row houses, shipyards and factories he passed old friends. He waved to the children he passed on their way to work or school, and nodded to the men he knew from matches or Josiah. He lived deep in Josiah’s territory, a requirement for what he did, and as a result every man was on Josiah’s payroll in some way. They all knew when to turn their heads, when to lock their doors, and when to pull out their guns. It used to unnerve Harry, but with time it became as normal as the nightmare that plagued his sleep.

He knocked on the back door as he was trained, a nod to Cyril when the door opened. People congratulated him on the match last night, and he didn’t respond. They all knew he was quiet most of the time, knew not to expect lengthy replies. Before France, he used to not shut up. Now, he preferred to think rather than talk.

Josiah’s door was ajar, his ankles propped up on the desk, the telephone stand in one hand, the handset in the other. His eyes darted up as Harry opened the door wider, shutting it quickly behind him. Josiah never changed much—a mustache on his upper lip, hard brown eyes that only lightened if he had enough drink in him, lips that curved into a smile when someone made a very bad mistake. He wore exclusively charcoal suits, saying black was too common, and he wanted to stand out, and a dark blue tie every day, a silver pocket watch chain tucked into his vest. Josiah had built his operations from the ground up, a man of barely 25 years of age when he came back from France, determined to make a name for himself and protect the community that had been, in his eyes, murdered by the British government for a war they had no business being conscripted for. His hatred for the government ran deep, deep enough to line the pockets of the police across southeast Birmingham, especially in Balsall Heath.

“Alright, but don’t fuck it up, ya hear?” Josiah said, nodding for Harry to sit in the leather chair across from his desk. It was the chair where Harry had sat during many conversations, both good and bad. “Yeah, okay.” Josiah hung up, resting the telephone back on the desk and running a hand through his longer dark brown hair. He picked his cigarette up from where it was burning in the ashtray, and swung his feet off the desk. “Heard ya won,” Josiah said, finally speaking to Harry.

Harry took the offer of a cigarette and nodded. “Peters wasn’t as bad as everyone said.”

“Mhm. I’ll tell Billy that when I see him.”

“He was Billy’s?” That was a surprise. Billy had been on the rise in the neighborhoods bordering Balsall Heath, his power growing to become something threatening to Josiah’s operation. So for Harry to be fighting one of Billy’s boys was unusual to say the least. Josiah didn’t usually like to risk the fights turning into something more—at least, not when they weren’t meant to be.

Josiah nodded, pushing aside a stack of papers and resting his elbows on the oak desk. “Newer kid. I was promised no trouble, thought I’d take the gamble.”

“Warn me next time, eh?” Harry wouldn’t have had Cicely within a mile of the warehouse if he had known his opponent was one of Billy’s. The prospect of guns coming out while she was in the room made his skin crawl.

But Josiah just chuckled and stubbed out his cigarette. “Goin’ soft on me, boy.” Harry hated it when Josiah called him that, but he always had. So he wasn’t going to start correcting him now, even though he was anything but a boy. “Heard ya had a girl there.”

Cicely. He knew Josiah would hear, but he had hoped he’d have a bit more time. “Yeah.”

Josiah wrenched open a door, reaching around for what Harry hoped was his pay. He wanted to get out of this damned office. Harry tolerated Josiah for Jack’s sake, but in truth Josiah had always been a bit too much of a wild card and a short fuse for Harry’s liking. But he gave Harry work, so he didn’t let his feelings get in the way. Plus, most men were short fuses after the war. “Where’d she come from?”

Harry chose not to answer, and thankfully Josiah didn’t push. He knew Harry didn’t like to talk, and most times he didn’t push too hard. “D’ya have the money from Manchester?”

Josiah didn’t reply, just pulled out a stack of bills, crisp and ordered, and placed them on the desk. “Manchester and last night,” he said and Harry took it, folding the bills over and shoving them into his pocket. It was more than most should carry, but Harry was anything but most people. “Don’t spend it all in one place, yeah?”

Unable to help it, he rolled his eyes, the tension in the room lifting. Josiah smirked and Harry pushed back the chair, the thought of getting back to Cicely making him eager to leave. “When’s Jack back?”

Josiah pulled a ledger from a drawer before responding. “Sunday.”

Harry nodded. Jack had been in London since last week, working on some deal that Harry didn’t have the status for the details on. “Tell him I’ll come by?”

“Sure.” Josiah didn’t look up as Harry took his leave, shutting the door behind him and giving Josiah’s secretary a nod. Next was Nellie’s, which he hoped would go smoothly, at least.

Unfortunately, he was not so lucky. Nellie stared at him when she opened the door, hair swept up on her head, clothes disheveled as usual. She cocked her hip against the door and rolled her eyes at him before asking, “What d’ya want, Harry?”

It had been over a year since he had rejected her, and yet she still treated him like he had broken it off with her after months. When in actuality, she had been the one to pursue him, and he hadn’t had it in him to tell her he wasn’t interested until she tried to kiss him. To say the least, things had been icy ever since. “Can I borrow some clothes?”

Her eyebrows furrowed. “Clothes for who?”

“A girl.” To her credit, she didn’t react to that news with anything but a sigh.

“What happened to hers?” She asked, opening the door wider. He stepped inside, the sound of children from upstairs wrapping around him, the sound making his body itch. It was too loud.

“Mud,” he replied simply, looking around for something to keep his hands busy, but he turned up empty. “So?”

Nellie pointed to the couch in the sitting room, a bit sunk in and worn with love. “I’ve got some that no one picked up. What size is she?”

Harry sat down the couch, folding his fingers together. “About yours.”

Nellie gave him another pointed look, but said nothing. She just disappeared to where she kept the clothes she mended for ladies, and he had to sit there and listen to her younger siblings squeal and yell up the stairs. When she reappeared, she had a few things in a stack for him, which she set on the table next to him. “There.”

He looked at the stack, the fabric without anything around it. He would have to walk home with them under his arm. “No wrap?”

“No,” she replied, and he decided that she purposefully didn’t give him any. “3 shillings.”

Harry pulled the coins out and pressed them into her hand, taking the clothes and tucking them under his arm. “Thank you,” he said, and headed for the door, knowing when he wasn’t wanted.

“Bye, Harry,” Nellie said, and proceeded to slam the door in his face. Which he didn’t deserve, but wasn’t the type to protest. He checked his pocket watch—a little over an hour had passed since he left home. He wondered if Cicely would be waiting for him.

Walking into his home to find Cicely in his kitchen in nothing but his shirt made Harry stop in his tracks. While he knew he had seen her like this last night, last night it had been dark. In the dark he couldn’t see the lines golden curl of her hair, the milky white of her skin that seemed to go on for miles. It should be illegal, he thought to himself, to look as beautiful as her.

“You should put some clothes on,” he finally said, words gruff in the distance between them.

Cicely looked down at her legs and then at Harry. “I was waiting for you to come back, hopefully with clothes. Which I see you did.” She nodded at the stack of clothes under his arm and Harry knew he should move to give them to her, but he was frozen in place.

Seeing her in his kitchen, a plate with a piece of bread on it, an open jar of jam on the counter next to it, tea in his cup, it made him wonder for a split second what it would be like if she stayed. Like, really stayed. He knew that what was happening wasn’t permanent, that eventually she would have to go back to wherever home was for her. But having her in his home was making him realize that perhaps he didn’t like being alone as much as he had thought.

“Harry?”

His thoughts cleared and he jolted into action. He set the clothes on the table by the door and walked into the sitting room leaving her make her own decisions. Space, he thought to himself, he needed space from her. It was a push and pull inside of him—a pull that drew him to her and a push when he got too close. He stood by the fireplace, eyes trained on the black metal of it, as he listened to Cicely move through his home. Across the room to get the clothes, feet creaking on the stairs as she went up. When he heard her door shut he let out a breath, his body softening, tension leaving him.

The prospect of breakfast was enticing—he hadn’t eaten this morning. Porridge was what he had every morning, and this wasn’t the time for that to change. He shrugged off the jacket he had on, dropping it onto the couch, and headed for the kitchen.

When Cicely reappeared, the porridge was done and he was pouring it into two bowls, one for each of them. “Did you make me breakfast?” She asked, and his eyes drifted up to her. Nellie’s clothes fit her perfectly—a bit more snug on the curves of her body, but he wasn’t complaining.

“S’just porridge,” he replied and took the two bowls to the small table. He returned to the kitchen to grab his cup of tea, and he immediately felt her presence next to him as she picked up her own cup, left on the counter. Somehow he would have to get over the tension that raked through his body whenever she got near, but he didn’t know how he would manage that.

Cicely turned away from him and he followed her to the table, eyes trying to land anywhere but her body. She pulled out a chair and smiled at him softly. “Thank you. I’m not used to men cooking for me.”

Harry realized that him making breakfast for both of them meant they would have to eat together, that they would be forced to talk. The idea made him falter as he went to sit, but he forced himself to do it anyways, knowing that she would probably make him. “Mum taught me,” he mumbled, chair scraping against the floorboard as he say.

“Is that her in the photo?”

He knew exactly which photo she was talking about—the only one he had up. “Yes.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and dipped her spoon into the porridge, taking a bite. She was probably used to better quality, an actual chef maybe (he had heard rich people had those), but she didn’t give any indication that it was bad. Instead, she just took another bite before opening her mouth again to speak. “Where are you from?”

Harry didn’t tell people where he was from. It was a decision he made when he came to Birmingham, to leave his past behind him. The photo was up in his sitting room because he would’ve felt like shit for not putting it up, not because he particularly wanted it there.

“Harry?” She prompted, gaze fluttering over his face.

His grip tightened on the spoon in his palm, eyes on the food in front of him. “I don’t talk about my past.” Why did he want to tell her? He could feel it on the tip of his tongue and he tightened his jaw, trying to keep it from tumbling out on its own accord.

Cicely considered his statement as she sipped on her tea. “What do you talk about?”

The question made him look at her, her brown eyes already waiting for his. “What d’ya mean?”

“If you don’t talk about your past, then what do you talk to people about?”

He didn’t talk to people, he thought to himself. That was how he dealt with it. He only spoke to people who he felt safe with—Jack mainly, sometimes Tommy, Josiah if forced. They all knew his past, knew not to share it around. “Dunno.”

The sigh that slipped from her lips made Harry grimace. He had disappointed her and he didn’t like the feeling. “How about this? I tell you about myself, and you do the same in return. We each get a question.”

The idea was enticing, mainly because Harry desperately wanted to know more about her. She was like a period to him and he wanted to know everything that came before it in the sentence. Was it worth telling her about his past? Perhaps. “Fine. What’s your last name?”

Her eyes twinkled, a playful grin sliding onto her face. “King,” she said, that one piece of information rocking Harry’s world immediately. The Kings were as notorious as Josiah was, just in a different way. They owned dozens of garment factories in Birmingham, controlled a handful of shipyards, one or two coal factories. Harry estimated probably half of Birmingham’s working class was employed by the King family and he assumed properly, by Cicely’s father.“Where are you from?”

“Church Hulme,” he told her. “Who is your father?”

He searched her expression to see if she recognized it, but she didn’t seem to. And why would she—it was nothing but a small farming town, some local businesses and a forge. “William King. How old are you?”

So she was the daughter of the head of the King family, an heiress to a fortune larger than anything he could imagine, no doubt. He knew the Kings had only daughters, but he didn’t know how many, or if Cicely was the oldest. The importance of staying up to date on the lives of the King family was never something he felt inclined to do, but now it was vital information. “22. How did you end up on that road?”

“I went riding,” she said after taking another bite of porridge. “The lightning scared my horse and he bucked me off. I must have passed out when I hit the ground.” Cicely considered him for a moment before speaking. “Where did you fight?”

Harry’s blood ran cold at her question. It dredged up memories he didn’t want to talk about. “We’re done,” he told her, pushing away his finished porridge and standing abruptly.

“Harry, wait.“ Her hand wrapped around his wrist, catching his arm as he stepped away, and the feeling of her skin on his made him have to close his eyes to get his breathing under control. Did she know what she did to him? “I’m sorry.”

“‘m not talking about that,” he said, not budging from his position.

Cicely’s thumb brushed across his forearm, the thinner skin meaning he could feel the press of her fingers on his body. “That’s okay,” she said, voice soft. “Will you come back?”

Although he probably shouldn’t, he opened his eyes and turned back around. “Why don’t you want to go home?”

Her hand dropped from his wrist immediately at his question. “My father is forcing me to marry Clifford Stevens. Do you know who that is?” Harry shook his head. He didn’t exactly keep up with high society Birmingham circles in his free time. “He’s thirty and disgusting. He never even acknowledges that I might have a brain, much less that I’m a human being. If I marry him I’ll end up shut in his estate to raise his children for the rest of my life and I would rather die than sentence myself to a life like that.”

Clifford Stevens immediately became Harry’s least favorite person in the world, with the second being William King. To sentence a girl as kind, spirited, and open-minded as Cicely to a life as a glorified hostage was deplorable. “Why is your father forcing you to marry him?”

“We’re nearly broke,” Cicely said with a sigh. That was news to Harry. “Father has been losing money for years. He gambles most of what he makes away and because he’s a fucking idiot he never wins, and he hired a series of treasurers who are apparently inept at balancing the budgets. The factories are bleeding money and rather than take any responsibility for it, his solution is to marry me off with the knowledge that Clifford will bankroll my father’s lifestyle.” Perhaps it was the look on Harry’s face that gave him away, but Cicely gave him a weak smile. “Didn’t know the truth of the Kings, did you?”

“No.”

She fiddled with the cuff of her blouse as Harry considered her words. Was there any way to get out of her future? Probably not, unless she left behind everything that came with her name. Although from what she told him, it didn’t sound like there was much left. “Will you tell me about your family secrets in exchange for mine?”

His family secrets? God, where did he start. His gaze drifted across Cicely, her fingers brushing through the ends of her hair. What would she say to his answer? He supposed it didn’t hurt to tell her, since it wasn’t like she would tell anyone in his life about it. They were from different worlds, after all. “I found out when I came back from the war that ‘m not my father’s son.”

Cicely blinked at him, face softening as the words settled in. “What?”

“It’s just what it sounds like,” he said, leaning back in the chair and taking a breath. “Grew up my whole life thinking I had one father, when in reality it’s not him at all. My mum had an affair with some bloke and the man who raised me,” he spit out, hating the word father when he thought of him, “decided to keep me.” The feeling of her hand on his warmed his skin, but didn’t have the calm effect that he expected she intended. “Haven’t been back since.”

“Harry,” she murmured, calling his eyes from where her hand covered his to her face. “I’m sorry.”

It was the first time someone had told him that, now that he thought about it. He had told Jack, who said, Fuck mate, that sucks. Want another pint? And that was that, but he didn’t mind it. Somehow though, Cicely’s compassion made his chest ache, his throat close up. He could feel tears rising inside of him and he panicked—he hadn’t cried since France and he wasn’t bloody going to start now, not in front of her. “I—I need a second,” he said quickly, scooting back in the chair and walking into the hallway, leaving her behind at the table.

He rested his forearms on the wall and let his head fall on his neck. Deep breaths in and out, his eyes shut, struggling to keep his brain together as his ears buzzed. They didn’t deserve his anger, he reminded himself for the millionth time, they didn’t deserve shit after the secrets they had kept from him. That his sister wasn’t his sister. The man who had taught him how to play football, how to tie a tie, wrestled with him as a kid, wasn’t his father. His fists clenched against the wallpaper, knuckles hurting from last night, but the pain almost felt good to Harry—it was a feeling he knew.

All of a sudden he felt a hand on his shoulder and he whipped his head to the side to find Cicely standing there. “What?” He asked, not moving an inch, but just looking at her, trying to understand for the life of him why she was there.

Instead of responding, she ducked her head under his arm and wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling his body into hers.

She was hugging him, he realized.

He was frozen, unable to move. He could smell the faint scent of flowers on her skin, somehow still clinging to her despite being in Balsall Heath for almost two days. The darkness of this place seemed to not even touch her, the light from her repelling all of it away. Her fingers gripped the back of his shirt loosely, but just enough to where he could feel her through the fabric, her body feeling impossibly close to him.

No one had touched him like this in years. And he didn’t know what to do, how to respond, how to act.

The only thing he could think to do was to lift one of his hands from where it was clenched in a fist against the wallpaper, and brush it down her hair. It was soft against his skin, the strands of it darting between his fingers and petting the rough calluses he had from years of hard work and fighting. They stung against his cuts from the past week’s worth of fights, but he didn’t care. The prospect of touching her was enough to push all of the pain away.

Slowly, she lifted her head, eyes finding his. She was sandwiched between him and the wall and it was way too fucking close, so Harry immediately took a step back, giving her space. “Will you show me your Birmingham?” She asked him softly, voice echoing in the narrow hallway.

“What d’ya mean?”

“The Birmingham that’s your home,” she offered as an explanation. “I want to see it how you do.”

His Birmingham, the one that he had made a home, full of people who knew him as he was now. Respected him, feared him even—because what was the line, really, between fear and respect? The prospect of her wanting to understand his world the way he saw it was one he had never expected, but appreciated more than he could say. “Okay.”

Harry took her on a grand tour of Balsall Heath, them weaving through the streets with children playing, horses and cars  making their way down the thoroughfares. He showed her the factories her father owned, which he assumed she had never seen before, and he studied her as she saw the conditions of the workers her father employed. Cicely seemed to be everything her father wasn’t and he hoped that that continued to her views on labor.

Parts of Balsall Heath were more well-to-do, people who could afford to send their children to the art school opposite the public baths. But Harry showed her the parts he knew, the parts where people scrapped together money to make ends meet, where they relied on wages from people like Cicely’s father. He was thankful he had gotten her clothes from Nellie because at least at this rate she blended in more, although her nice boots still stuck out like a sore thumb. Although, he expected her being with him drew a decent amount of attention. When men stopped him to talk about a match and their children were with them, Cicely would squat and talk to them, not minding that her skirts got muddy from the unpaved roads. Harry had a difficult time understanding her when she did things like that. She was so unlike so many people of her station, and yet here she was crouching to talk with grubby children on unpaved streets with a pile of horse shit just a few feet away with a smile on her face.

For a second, he let himself consider what it would be like if she stayed. But he didn’t let that thought linger for too long.

They visited his favorite pub for a pint and she laughed at the barkeep’s jokes and charmed every man they met. Perhaps Harry should have been hesitant to introduce Cicely to so many people in his world, but at the same time he didn’t care what people thought of him. If Cicely wanted to see his world, then by God was he going to show it to her.

It was getting dark by the time they made their way back to his flat, bellies full from a roast they’d had at the pub. Harry watched her walk beside him, her eyes darting around the homes as they passed. “I like it here,” she told him, not meeting his eye. “Everyone is so nice.”

He couldn’t help but scoff at the thought. “Not everyone is. See all these houses?” She nodded. “In every one of them is a man who works for Josiah in some way. There’s a gun in every one of these houses for when Josiah calls.”

“Does he call?” Cicely asked, eyes finally turning to him as they walked.

He nodded, hoping that was the explanation she sought. From the way her expression changed, he assumed it was. Harry didn’t know what to do with her naivety, because it mystified him that someone could know so little of the world around them. Although, he thought as they rounded the corner to his street, he couldn’t exactly blame her.

“Does he ever…call for you?”

“Yes,” he responded because it was the honest answer. Even though he got to avoid a lot of the action because he specifically had told Josiah when he signed on to box for him that he didn’t want to get his hands dirty, it came with the territory. Sometimes they needed all the people they could, and with someone as skilled at fighting as Harry and the experience from the war that he had, it would be idiotic for them not to call on him.

They reached his house in silence and he unlocked the door before pushing it open. She stepped in, and leaned down to wipe off her boots. He liked how she had already made herself feel at home in his space, knew that he always wipes off his shoes in the entryway on the mat, because otherwise the filth from the streets ends up inside. “Do you have a match tonight?” She asked, moving to the side.

“No.” It was his night off, but he had one tomorrow.

Her fingertips grazed the table and he watched them trail, the thought of her fingers on his skin drifting into his mind. “What do you do in the evenings you have off?”

Harry considered her question. He didn’t know, really. The evenings all passed, though, somehow. Time was irrelevant to him since the nights dragged on, plagued by nightmares most of the time. He spent a lot of time staring at the wall in the dark. Sometimes he took walks. Sometimes he drank enough to where the dreams didn’t come, but that was when it was really bad. “Nothing, really.”

Cicely rotated to see him, the sliver of moonlight those shone through his curtains hitting her blond hair perfectly. “Do you do anything but box?”

“No.”

“Do you read?”

Harry hadn’t read a book since before France. “Not anymore.”

Cicely turned to his bookcase, which had collected dust from disuse. “Then why do you have so many books?”

“They make me think of my sister,” he replied, the truth shocking both of them. Gemma loved books, always had—she would be curled up on a chair all day with a book in her hands if their mother didn’t make her stop. When he was young, she would read to Harry sometimes, his childhood memories a mixture of fantasy and historical tales from his sister’s lips. Perhaps the books were his way of keeping her close.

Her fingers grazed the spines of his collection, dust falling around her. “Do you talk to her?”

“No.” He’d picked up the telephone a handful of times, ready to say the number to the operator. But then he’d think again, and set down the stand.

“I like this one.” Cicely pulled a bound volume off the shelf, her eyes dancing across the cover. “The Magnificent Ambersons.”

The name meant nothing to him. He bought bestsellers because he knew his sister did the same. Sometimes he considered reading one just to see what she would’ve thought about it. One time he almost mailed her one on her birthday. But each time, he did nothing.

“Can I read to you?”

Her voice was hesitant, nervous of what he would say. No one had read to him since the war, when his friends would read aloud their letters if someone didn’t get one. It made them feel like someone was looking out for them, even if they didn’t get a letter themselves. If it had been someone else, he probably would have said no. But it was Cicely and her voice was like his favorite church hymnal, entrancing and meditative. He would have listened to her talk for hours. So he said yes.

She directed him to lay down on the couch and he did, while she sat in the chair to the side. Harry lit a cigarette as she opened the cover, the sound of her tuning the pages the only noise except for the flick of his lighter. And then, she began. “Major Amberson had ‘made a fortune’ in 1873, when other people were losing fortunes, and the magnificence of the Ambersons began then.”

Cicely’s eyes fluttered open and at first she didn’t know why. But then she heard a shout and a long, deep moan from downstairs. It was Harry again. Her hands pushed at the duvet and she flicked on the light by the bed. As she left his room the sound of him moaning in his sleep, words she couldn’t understand reached her ears, but louder without the muffling of the door. She didn’t bother to keep her footsteps quiet as she made her way to the stairs and down to the first floor, her eyes adjusting to the dark.

A scream, blood curdling and filled with anguish, ripped through the house, and Cicely flew the remaining few feet to the couch. The sound of Harry’s scream, sharp and frightened, shook her to her core. She just wanted him out of there, free from the clutches of whatever demon robbed him of his sleep.

“Harry!” She said, loudly, jostling his shoulder to try and rouse him. Unlike last night when she had knelt by the couch, Harry wasn’t flailing around. He was stick-straight, as if held in a straight jacket, but she could feel his pulse racing when she pressed her fingers to his sweaty skin. It was almost more frightening—seeing him unmoving but mumbling nonsense in his sleep. The only part of him that moved was his head, ever so slightly shaking back and forth, a stream of Nos leaving his lips.

“No,” he mumbled, “please, it’s too dark, please.” His words from last night were back again, and she wanted to know where he was. What endless circle of hell he had found himself in and how to dig him out of it.

She decided to do what she had done before, and tried to lift his shoulders from the couch. But this time, Harry’s body was so tense that she couldn’t lift him, as if he had made himself a thousand pounds. As he let out another loud groan, she grimaced—she had to wake him, she just didn’t know how. “Harry,” she said again, “wake up, please. Please, Harry.”

But her words didn’t seem to do anything, because the next thing she knew his scream was filling her ears, the sound ripping at her heart. Her body seemed to move without her knowledge as she threw herself on top of him, her knees falling to either side of his hips, her palms cupping his face. “Harry,” she said softly, brushing her thumbs across his cheekbones. “Wake up for me, please. It’s Cicely. It’s safe, I’m here.”

Somehow, that seemed to rouse him, because his eyes fluttered open, his hazel eyes meeting hers in the dark. She was inches from his face, and she wondered if his sight was filled with her face just as hers was. “Cicely?”

“It’s me,” she said, brushing his sweaty hair off of his forehead. “You’re safe now.” She could feel the sigh that left his body intimately, her skin touching his in parts. That was when she realized how close they were, how completely improper her position was. She was on top of him for Pete’s sake. Her knees were on either side of him, their most intimate parts just inches from one another. If her elbows weren’t propped up on his shoulders, her chest would be touching his.

She scrambled to move, but Harry’s hands moved to her hips, halting her in place. Her eyes flickered to his, trying to read him, decipher what he was doing. Usually she had a hard time reading Harry, understanding what he wanted and needed. But now she had no problem. She watched him lick his lips, his pupils still blown out from the dream trained directly on her. When his grip didn’t shift from her body, but his thumbs brushed across the shirt she wore—it was his—and she knew.

He wanted to kiss her.

Cicely had never been kissed. Boys had tried, but they’d been disgusting, as had every other man she had ever known, and she had no interest in them. Until Harry, she hadn’t ever understood romance novels, the attraction people described in them. Every man who had ever showed interest in her had been boring, unattractive, and more than anything, just made her want to run in the opposite direction. But Harry made her want to race towards him at full speed, the darkness in his gaze and warmth in his heart made her want to know his stories, the way he looked at her made a part of her heart race that she had never felt before. He made her feel alive, as if she had been sleeping for nineteen years, just waiting for him to arrive.

One of his hands moved from his hip, inching through the air until his knuckles softly brushed across her jaw. Her heart was beating in her chest so fast she wondered if she was going to pass out again. It couldn’t be possible to go this long without breathing, right? Because Cicely didn’t know the last time she had taken a breath, all of them swallowed up in the look on Harry’s face.

She wanted him to kiss her.

Desperately. With every bone in her body. Cicely wanted to know what he tasted like, what it felt like when he kissed her. She wanted to know everything about him, to uncover every piece of him like gifts on her birthday, ripping back the pieces of wrapping paper walls that kept him from her.

“Harry,” she whispered, her voice one she had never heard before. It was soft, yearning, the encapsulation of everything she wanted in that moment.

He seemed to understand, because his fist uncurled, his palm moving to cup the side of her face. Slowly, his hand moved around her head, his fingers threading through her hair, the feeling of his callused hands on her skin alighting every inch in her body. Then, he pulled her head into him, his fingers on the back of her neck, delicately pressing at her skin. His eyes fluttered shut and perhaps hers were supposed to, but she wanted to see every moment of this—she wanted to know what he looked like when he kissed her.

When he did, his wet lips meeting hers, it was like returning home after a long trip, a homecoming she had been waiting for her whole life. Her eyelids shut, lost in the feeling of him, of the faint taste of cigarettes and whiskey on his lips, the smell of him that she had grown to look forward to when she walked into the room he was in. Fingers drifted from her neck to her hairline, and he lifted his chin, changing the angle, and Cicely fell into the kiss. Her arms gave out, elbows falling from his shoulders to the cushions of the couch, her body suddenly flush with his.

Harry’s hand moved from her hip to curl around her lower back, tugging her impossibly close to him as their lips parted and met again. It felt like there wasn’t a centimeter of space between them and Cicely didn’t want any. Their noses were pushed against each other, foreheads touching, lips moving in a dance they somehow both knew by heart. She pushed her fingers into his hair, nails scratching at his scalp lightly. A sound left his throat, and Cicely went to move her fingers, thinking she had hurt him.

“Do it again,” he mumbled.

Cicely’s eyes flickered open, studying him with her lips just a centimeter from his. He looked at her as if the rest of the world didn’t exist—it was a look she had never seen but one she wanted to see for the rest of time. So she brushed her nails across his scalp and slotted their lips back together, squeezing his hips with her knees. Under his shirt she could feel his heart racing, and she wondered if he was as affected by what was between them as she was. Because for her, it felt like her world had become Harry, even though she had known him for only two days. Somehow, he was her every thought and she didn’t want another thought to grace her mind ever again.

Harry shifted his head, nudging at her jaw and pushing it up so that her neck was stretched out. In rapid succession, he pressed soft kisses to her jaw and Cicely’s head lolled back to make room for him because it felt so good to have his lips on her skin. Then, his tongue flitted out and licked over her pulse point, making her squirm against him. His hands gripped her tightly in response, before ducking his head down, pulling the collar of her shirt to the side, and nipped at the juncture of her shoulder and neck.

A breathy moan left Cicely’s mouth, mixed in with the undertones of Harry’s name. It seemed to spur him on, because he opened his lips and sucked on her skin softly. It was a sensation Cicely didn’t even know what to do with, how to process, but she knew it felt good, so she held his head to her skin, urging him to continue. Which he did—laving his tongue against her tender skin in between nips and harsh sucks, and when she looked down and saw the mark he had formed, it didn’t bother her in the slightest. She just pulled his head up to meet hers, desperate to have his lips back on hers again.

His hands fell to her waist, clutching at his shirt that hung there. When he pulled at it, the hem crawled up, leaving her thighs mostly exposed to the cool air inside the room. But to Cicely, her flesh was burning from Harry’s touch and the cold air was welcome, and she didn’t mind that more skin than was appropriate was on show. She had a desire within her for Harry to see all of her, every inch of her skin if he would keep making her feel like this.

Harry seemed to not notice her exposed skin until his palms drifted downwards and gripped her skin, his eyes fluttering open and his lips pulling away from hers. “Cic—“

“It’s okay,” she whispered, brushing at the hair on his forehead. “I trust you.” And she did. She trusted him more than she did anyone else in her life, who had just let her down in a series of lies and cheats. He was the first person to take her for as she was, not demand her to be some prim and proper version, to show her the truth of their life, even if it was in pieces. It didn’t matter to her that she didn’t know it all, she knew enough. Enough to know Harry could never hurt her, at least, not in the ways that mattered.

His head bent, and he rested his forehead against hers, sucking in air and quick puffs. “We—we should stop.”

“I don’t want to,” she said, barely trusting her own voice in the moment. She didn’t even know what it was that she wanted, but it was everything, anything he would give her. She would take scraps at his table, if it meant one more moment in his arms.

Harry pushed her hair behind her ear, and then let his fingers fall to the mark he had left on her skin. She thought she could see a blush rising to his skin and it made her smile. “I want you to be sure,” he told her earnestly. “And I—I haven’t done this in a long time. I need…I want it to be perfect. Does that make sense?”

“Yes.” It did, and the fact that he wanted her to be sure made her trust him even more. Because even though she wanted it, she had barely thought about it. Cicely was impulsive, and her impulses had a tendency to get her into situations she regretted, and she didn’t want to regret a moment with Harry. “Will you come back to bed with me at least?”

His breath shuddered, eyes closing. She could see the wheels of his mind turning, and she thought she had an inkling as to why.

“Harry,” she murmured, pressing a tender kiss to his brow bone. “Your nightmares don’t scare me. I want to know every part of you, even the dark bits.” That made his eyes open, his pupils found her in the moonlit room. “Will you come to bed and tell me about them? It doesn’t have to be everything, I just want to know how to help you.”

Slowly, he nodded. She scooted back, letting him sit up on the couch. Tentatively she pulled her knees up from the couch and dropped back to the floor, coming to a standing and taking Harry’s hand in hers to help him up. He was a disheveled mess, his hair standing in all directions, and she realized it was from her. She liked it, seeing the results of something she had done on him.

With his hand in hers, they walked up the stairs to his bedroom, to the unmade bed she had been sleeping in before. Knowing he would be hesitant, she got into bed first, scooting against the wall and turning, so she could watch him get in behind her. The moment his head hit the pillow, the duvet cover around his waist, Cicely leaned into him, wanting to be close. She rested her head on his shoulder and his arm cautiously wrapped around her, holding her to him. One of her hands rested on his chest, just inches from the nipples with barbells through them, the ones that she wanted to see again but didn’t know how to ask about. The bed suddenly smelled like a mixture of them, a new scent that she already adored. She hoped she didn’t have to go to bed again for a long time.

She brushed up and down his chest over his shirt, drawing light lines across his skin. After a few minutes of just lying there, Harry cleared his throat and began to tell her the horrors he saw when he closed his eyes. “I’d barely been there a few weeks,” he said softly. “It was still all new to me, the landscape of France, the sound of bullets in the distance, the smell of smoke and dead bodies in the air. We were in this open field, the only protection was an occasional tree, but we spent all of it in trenches.”

His voice was like gravel, rough in the silence of the room, and Cicely kept rubbing at his chest, hoping it would keep him calm enough to keep going. She didn’t want him to stop, no matter how bad it got. “There was this massive offensive in motion from the French, and we were a piece of it. We were supposed to take Arras, to gain a strategic advantage against the Germans, break the deadlock we were in. All of us were itching for action, something just to keep our minds from spiraling in those fucking trenches. I’d never really been in battle before, so I didn’t know what it was like. But god, the minute we started moving, when we came up out of the trenches and the firing started, it was like the world was ending.

“Everyone around me was dropping, partly from the German fire, but more so from the shells from the air. It was so loud—they don’t tell you that, how loud war is. Your ears never stop ringing, and you’re almost able to like, drown it out for a second? But then something goes off near you and your whole body is jolted and it draws you back to the Earth. And I was just trying to like, reload my gun, right? And keep my body from shaking. Jack was there, and he was telling me to keep it together—that’s how we met actually. He found me on the field, my hands shaking so bad I couldn’t reload.

“It went on like that for days. Weeks, even. We made it three or so miles on the first day, but we also lost so many fucking men. We had to figure out who was gone, and it was easier to figure out who was still there. We made it into the town and there were all these houses with no roofs, tanks covering every inch of the road. It was like walking through the end of the world. And you can’t sleep, but you also can’t do anything but sleep because it’s this bone exhaustion you’ve never felt before in your whole life.”

Cicely could feel the fast beat of his heart and his voice was speeding up, the anxiety settling into his bones. “I’m here,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his shoulder where her head laid. “I’m still here.”

His head shifted, tilting to his chin rested on the top of her head. “I thought I was going to die. Sometimes I feel like I did, on that battlefield. Everything I knew before that moment was gone. It was just echoes of the dark trenches at night, the feeling of rats crawling across your boots and the niggling feeling that you can’t go to sleep because something might happen. And the death...I think I stopped believing in God on that battlefield, because how could any God ever want that many men to die? And for what, a few measly miles that didn’t even fucking matter in the end?”

“How many did you lose?”

He paused before answering, but when he did his voice cracked as he said the number. “158,000. There were conflicting numbers, but that’s the one I heard the most.”

Cicely couldn’t even wrap her head around that number. What did 158,000 people look like? Who were all of those 158,000 people? Who were their families, their children, their loved ones? How many lives were changed forever by those days? “I’m glad you survived,” was all she could think to say. She didn’t want to say she was sorry because that didn’t really mean anything, did it? Not in comparison to everything that had happened.

“For a long time I wasn’t,” he said.

“What changed?”

His fingers brushed through her hair, tender, soft caresses that made her eyes flutter shut. “A girl who showed me there was still someone left inside of me.”

Cicely looked up at him, at the exhaustion in his eyes, the light bruise on his cheekbone from the fight the other night, the curls of his hair. “You know what I see when I look at you?” He shook his head slowly, eyes never leaving hers. “Someone who has experienced more pain, hurt, and loss than any one person should be allowed to. But who still manages to be kind, to be generous, to care. Someone with a life worth living, someone who is worth loving.” She reached up and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth before pulling back slightly. “Someone who is worthy of everything in the world.”

She felt the tears on his cheeks when he kissed her, their lips molding together just like before. His hands gripped her face, as if he couldn’t have her close enough, and she didn’t blame him. She wished with every kiss she could drink away the pain inside of him, pull it from him piece by piece until none remained. But she couldn’t. She could only hold him and tell him who he was to her, that he was everything to her, someone she didn’t know was waiting for her out there in the world. But who now she couldn’t imagine a life without.

The days melded together in beautiful technicolor. Seven days had passed since Cicely had woken up in Harry’s bed, and each one made her more thankful it was him who had picked her up on the road. She stood in the crowds during his matches, cheering his name with Tommy and becoming less floaty every time she had a pint. At the end of each night, Cicely cleaned the blood and sweat from his skin with a tenderness he had never experienced, pressed kisses to his forehead and told him how good he did. Each night in the pitch dark, she chased away his nightmares with reminders that she was there, she was real, this was real and the battle wasn’t. He clutched the shirts of his she continued to sleep in and held her close, letting the beat of her heart and the exhales from her chest lull him back to sleep.

He hadn’t slept this well since before the war.

Cicely had discovered a new routine. While Harry was meeting with Josiah and Jack, training, or just generally out of the house, she went next door and helped teach the Rollings children to read. She had stumbled on Pippa and Clarence the morning after she had kissed Harry, almost stumbling over them in the daze she carried. They were playing outside and she had a book under her arm, a plan of finding the nearby park and reading for a few hours. But when she stopped and apologized, Pippa asked what she had, and at the sight of the words and Cicely’s description of what a book was, she was intrigued. After asking their mother, Cicely began to spend her mornings with the children curled up on their couch or at their small table, or even on their front steps, teaching them their alphabet and how to sound out words, how to form sentences and read them on the page. They were ravenous for learning and their mother was happy to see her children entertained by someone who wasn’t her for a change, so Cicely quickly became a fixture in the house.

When she had told Harry, he gave her a small smile, the first one she had seen, and a quick peck to her forehead. It was exactly what she needed from him, a vote of support and nothing more. In the afternoons she washed the blood stains from Harry’s clothes and towels, or carried water into the house and ran herself a bath, a task well worth it. One time Harry almost walked in on her and the flush on his cheeks made her almost let him in. But that wasn’t how she wanted him to see her naked body for the first time, so she squealed for him to shut the door and he did, none the wiser.

After he had told her about France, about the demons that followed him into the night, the secrets between them fell away. It was if a damper had been lifted, and at night when they laid in bed, he shared more about his past and she told him of her family, the life she was supposed to live. She tried to avoid the topic of the future, because it made them both anxious. It felt a bit like they were living in a bubble, as if the outside world and its pressures were nonexistent. One morning Harry brought up how they hadn’t heard anything from her family, and Cicely nodded in reply. She had thought about it many times, and she didn’t quite have an answer for it. Although maybe Harry was just so far from the expected answer that she would never be found.

Just as she was starting to settle into the prospect of her life becoming this permanently, her past came knocking. She was with Pippa and Clarence on Harry’s front steps, their own ones being swept by their mother. A book was spread open on her lap, one she had found at a bookstore for children, and she was helping them decipher the sentence. She could feel eyes on her, which at face value wasn’t something to worry about—people were always looking at her, at the new person in the neighborhood, although once they found out she was Harry’s, they stopped. But this time, the feeling of someone watching her didn’t let up.

So when they reached the end of the page, she looked up in search of whomever was so interested in her. And what she found were the eyes of a policeman, the black uniform and intent stare raising the hair on the back of her neck. She knew immediately what it meant, that this wasn’t some normal policeman, because the ones in this area normally didn’t pay her any mind. Josiah had made clear she was not to be trifled with the minute Harry had told him that Cicely was with him, for all intents and purposes.

This policeman, though, wasn’t from around here. He stuck out, the shine of his shoes a bit too bright, the cocky attitude obvious from a mile away. He didn’t know the people or the area.

Which could only mean one thing.

Her father had found her.

TAGLIST: @autumn-sunflowers @afire-hes @harrydobedirectioning​ @harryinsweatersandbandanas @vapingisntmything @frindgeyy @froggystyles @magical-mischief-makers @heslilac @ursogoldenshan​

PART TWO

[theonetheycallhannah]

The Treatment of Captain Syverson-Chapter 20: Second Assist

Characters: Captain Logan “Sy” Syverson, Shane Benton (OFC), various other original supporting/secondary characters

Summary: Shane reunites with friends and family, hashes out some feelings, and gets real with Sy. Can their relationship survive her trauma? And the threat that still looms above them?

Romance and Smut Abound HERE!

Word Count: 4500

Warnings: Mention of rape, alcoholic beverages, violent imagery…feels out the butt.

Author’s Note: You guys are so splendid and beautiful! I can’t thank you enough for your support and encouragement to finish this piece. First, welcome to new readers! I know poor Henry’s injury and subsequent physiotherapy has driven some of you here, and while I’m sorry for him, I’m glad I can consider myself something of a pioneer in this particular genre and provide you some help for your newfound thirst. To my OG readers, it is to you I owe this entire work, parts written and incomplete, and I hope an eventual book deal. I mean to mention you in my acknowledgements, should this ever reach a willing publisher. You’ve inspired me so supremely that I cannot quantify it, even with the words I hold so dear.

Since my last chapter was posted, we’ve said a relieved goodbye to 2020 and a tentative hello to 2021. To be honest, this year has started out worse than last year. Lots of bad weather in my area this winter, my sister is currently on her way to a new life in another state, and my grandmother, the last grandparent I had, passed away in February. Those last two things have been especially difficult to shake off and recover from, both coming to fruition pretty suddenly. Amongst all that, I’ve been pretty distracted by my other fandoms, especially Marvel, and I’ve been reading a killer book series that I’m utterly in love with. (The Throne of Glass novels by Sarah J. Maas. 10/10 recommend.) But I knew I needed to get back into Shane and Sy’s story, especially given the new and rekindled interest in the subject matter. In all honesty, I’ve had most of it written for months. It’s just been a matter of finishing it off to set up the rest of the story.

I really hope you all enjoy Chapter 20, Second Assist, and would love your feedback and notes. You are all so important to this story, and your notes, reblogs, and comments are cherished. Thank you so much for reading! Love from Hannah!

Disclaimer: Unfortunately for me, Henry is not mine, le sigh, and all mention of him, his characters, any characters from his films, or his precious doggy, Kal, are strictly for transformative and recreational use. I neither ask for, nor accept payment for the work I post on Tumblr or AO3. Unbeta’d because this is for fun and escapism. This is an original work by me, Hannah. Please reblog if you wish to share. Please do not repost either in whole or part, as the work of anyone but myself. Thanks so much for reading!

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If you want to be notified when I post a new chapter or work, I’ll be happy to add you to my tag list! Stricken blogs are getting personal messages from me when a new chapter is uploaded because Tumblr’s faulty tagging system will not stand in the way of me delivering what the people want!(?) lol! (Although…their lackadaisical notification system might…sorry for that. I have no control. lol!)

X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@

Shane woke in her warm bed, late morning sun streaming in through her sheer curtains, the heavier drapes parted to let in the light. She wished she'd remembered to close them before now. She really was not ready to be awake.

She was sore. Achy. Her sleep had been fitful and full of shadowy nightmares and muffled screams. Beyond that, she didn't try to remember images or events. She knew the general premise of the dreams. It would take a lot of time, effort, or a miracle to make her forget those traumas she'd been through in the last week. Not even forget. She knew she never would. But move on from them. Accept them. And heal from them…even that seemed a mighty obstacle. One she was not sure she could surmount.

Through the open bedroom door, she could hear Lynyrd Skynyrd and the clanging and sizzling of pans, and she could smell bacon and freshly brewed coffee. Sy had left the room, but had not, it seemed, gone far. She gingerly sat up, stood from the bed, and donned her robe as she walked out into the hall and down the corridor to the kitchen.

The sight before her warmed her heart. There was Sy. In only his boxers, daringly frying the notoriously dangerous breakfast meat. Upon her entry to the kitchen, she could also smell pancakes, and she thought syrup, as well. He seemed to be warming a bottle of the maple unction in a pot of hot water. He turned as she stepped on a squeaky floorboard, and grinned widely at her.

"Mornin' sunshine." And she was struck by the irony of someone with such a radiant smile calling her sunshine. Especially when she didn't feel much like beaming. But she couldn't help return the expression, even through her pain.

"Mornin' bear. Did you go to the store?" She knew she couldn't have any bacon in her fridge, and she doubted her eggs and milk were still good at this point. But she also couldn't think that he would leave her for any reason.

"Nah, some of the guys brought over some provisions. Matt worked on your car all night, too, and filled up the tank. It's as good as new. He and Nate brought ‘er over as well as the groceries. I just had ‘em get stuff I knew your family wouldn't be bringing later. They've had tons of food given to them this week, and they're ready to share. You should have seen your mom loading me down with sandwiches and chips and whatnot when I visited them."

"I still can't believe you met them. I really wanted to introduce you personally." Shane's face fell. She would never be able to get that back. She wanted to cry. Sy had poured her a cup of coffee and sat it in front of her with her favorite creamer.

"Darlin' I’m so sorry. I had to talk to them."

"I know." she sniffed. "I'm not mad. Not at you. Just…"she didn't want to say Elliott's name. "I'm disappointed that the experience was stolen from me." That so many things had been stolen from her. By that monster. There was no other way to describe him. Sy growled. As if he could read her mind. He really just knew her well enough and shared her thoughts.

"Well, don't worry, we'll have a nice dinner with them one of these days, and we can pretend. Sound good?"

"Yeah, and I can feign nervousness." she laughed.

"And I'll pretend too. That I'm scared to meet your dad." he chuckled. "What if he threatens me with his shotgun?"

"I'll pull the ol' 'Daddy, no, I loooooove him!' line, as I throw myself between you!"

"That oughta work." he laughed and kissed her on the forehead as he stepped toward the stove and flipped a pancake.

As they sat eating their late breakfast, Shane's mind wandered. Nothing had changed on the surface, but everything was different now. This cozily mundane breakfast with her boyfriend felt like an out of body experience. As delicious as it was, as wonderful and comforting as it should feel, her guard was up. Even through her amiable façade. She was not the person she was two weeks ago. She was not the same woman who said goodbye to Sy at the base. Maybe that was the real transformation. Maybe that was why nothing felt normal. It wasn't the world, but her own self coming back into it.

"Shane?" Sy asked, gently, but it felt like he was speaking through a megaphone directly into her ear. She was so startled, she nearly dropped the half full mug of coffee that was paused midway to her lips. A bit sloshed out onto the table and splashed her shirt.

"Shit!" she chided herself. It wasn't a big deal, but she felt stupid jumping at the sound of her own name.

Sy reached for the closest towel, hanging from the oven handle, grabbed it and started for her clothes with it. She stopped him. But she couldn't think about why the intimate act made her uncomfortable.

"No, don't, it's fine. These clothes have seen better days, anyway." She pulled the towel from him and began to mop up the small puddles of coffee around her plate.

Sy seemed to note the stains already present on the shirt, as if trying to divine their history. She was something of a messy eater, so the battle wounds of many a barbecue, spaghetti dinner, and hurried breakfast peppered the now off-white SATB club tee she'd gotten her second or third year in college choir. She thought back to a huge room with high ceilings. White, cinder block walls, flecked tile floors, a beautiful, glossy, black baby grand in front of a long whiteboard with black lines to resemble sheet music. She thought about the mnemonic device she'd learned to help her remember what notes appeared on each line, and in the spaces between them. She pondered the deeper meanings and implications of these devices. EGBDF…every good boy does fine. She thought about the "good boys" in her life. She knew many. Her dad, her brother Ethan, Sy, obviously, her many male coworkers and friends…and honestly they did far better than "fine." They were wonderful. But she was letting the "bad boys" she'd encountered dictate her mood. Permeate her psyche. Tear her down. She didn't want to be like this. Then FACE came to mind, and above their purpose of indicating the notes between the lines on the staff, they called her to action. To face these newly minted demons with all the strength she knew she possessed, and she too would "do fine." But as with almost all actions, this was easier said than done.

She felt a warm presence on her left hand which had paused it's torture of the now coffee-infused kitchen towel. Sy's hand was squeezing hers gently.

"Shane." he uttered, barely above a whisper this time. She looked at him through tears that she had not realized had formed. He continued.

"Shane, what can I do, darlin'? I'll do anything."

"Babe, you're doing everything you can, and more. This…this is all going to have to come from me. I…don't know when I'll be myself again…" she paused, tears streaming now. "I'm…I'm different."

"You're not though." he reached for her face, but she pulled away.

"I am, damn it! Sy, I was…" Words had power. And the one she was thinking of had more power than she thought was warranted. She knew that uttering it would take away it's power…and yet mustering the courage and strength to actually do so…seemed impossible. She took a deep breath, and disassociated herself from the statement, even though it was about her own past.

"I was raped." She refused to cry. She felt it all again. She had never said the words. She had never thought it necessary. Everyone understood. Sy, his friends, and she was sure her own loved ones had made the connection. But she knew she needed to say it now to drive home the points she was about to make.

Sy, looked at the table, nodding, not needing to be told in so many words something he already had surmised from the clear evidence. He remained silent. She went on.

"I love you, Sy. I have since the day we met, on one level or another, and I believe that I always will. But I…right now I can't be a proper girlfriend to you. I can't…be with you, touch you, be touched by you, in the way we used to be. In the way you deserve…and I don't know when…or even if…I ever will. Not that I don't want to. That's ALL I want in the world. To go back. To be the woman who fell in love with this…incredible man. To make love with you, but…I can't."

Sy's eyes were full of tears, their predecessors already descending his round cheeks and disappearing into his thick, dark beard.

"Sy, I don't want to lead you on and keep you tied to a relationship with no life in it. You deserve someone who's whole. Someone who can be a fully invested partner for you, and not this broken, damaged--"

"You stop that, Shane. I won't hear no more of this kinda talk. Y'hear? You're my girl. My woman. My person. No matter what. You gotta know I'd never leave ya just cuz you aren't ready for sex again. You don't think that I would, do ya?"

"Well, you went to Virginia…you took that job…knowing the distance it would put between us. Literally and figuratively."

"Biggest mistake of my life." Shane raised her eyebrows in surprise as Sy elaborated. "I couldn't focus on my classes without wishing you were there. Wishing I could team up with you for discussions and hand to hand combat training…that thought got me a little too excited, if you catch my drift." He smirked, pulling a sheepish smile from Shane. "Then in that forest. I dreamt about you every night. I thought of you constantly. I could barely breath sometimes, I missed ya so damned much. I was an idiot. I was insane to think that I needed anything other than you. Any MORE. There IS no more. You're it. You're the MOST! The most important thing in my life."

The declaration hung like vapors in the air, more felt than seen. Tangible yet ethereal.

"And when I found out that you were missing…I was…well, I think I looked like death…and not warmed over. You can ask the program director I met with after I got the news. She could tell I was just sick over it. And as I thought about it on the way home, pieced things together, started thinking about who'd taken you, I got murderous. Shane, I have been in dozens of battles, skirmishes, firefights, you name it. War. But…the sheer bloodlust I felt thinking about what you could be going through…I've never experienced anything like it. Everything was red. Everything. For days. Until I saw you, alive. And then it went red again when I saw the fear and damage on your face." she could tell he was doing his best not to talk about the farmhouse and that basement, but she still flashed back to the moments before and after his appearance there. The moments when she simultaneously prayed to live and hoped to die.

"You don't owe me anything, Shane. I just want you in my life, and I don't care what your presence looks like. Romantic, platonic, or somewhere in between. I'm here for you. And I wouldn't have it any other way."

Shane felt the urge to wrap her arms around her boyfriend, but could not seem to move more than one arm to place her other hand on top of his. She hoped the gratitude and love behind the small, but heartfelt gesture landed. It was all she had in that moment, no matter how abundant her affection.

~~~~~~~~~~

Shane's family's arrival was a complete blur to her. It was joyous, tearful, and the happiest she'd been in a long time. The moment she opened the front door for them, she was surrounded, engulfed with hugs from her parents and siblings. They stood in their affectionate huddle for several moments before Peg waved Sy over with marked insistence. He'd been standing by, observing happily, but not wanting to intrude on the familial reunion.

When they finally dispersed, John asked the two younger men to help him bring in groceries. The women headed into Shane's bedroom for a more private setting in which to talk. Shane filled her mother and sister in the best she could given the rawness of the wounds left on her mind by the events.

She leaned against the headboard cuddling with Gabby while her mom rubbed her feet. She had insisted on doing this thing that had always comforted her children, and made them feel much better when they were younger.

"Well, I'm very proud of you, pumpkin." The girls both looked at their mother, who rather uncharacteristically hadn't spoken in some time. Shane was nonplussed. Peg elaborated.

"You survived something that many women don't. You're talking about it now, which even more women don't. You may think you're broken, but you're just a tree damaged by a storm, but standing stronger than ever." Trust her mom to lay such wisdom on her. When she felt like giving up. When she just wanted pity. When she could only see defeat. Her mother had always found a way to encourage and buoy her and show her the victory.

"Mom's right." Gabby affirmed, and it was Peg's turn to be nonplussed, as the two women, though similar in so many ways, never seemed to see eye to eye. "It's true. Shane I've seen a lot of women come into the clinic in shoes very much like yours. And trust me…some of them…they don't make it to this point. You've got a long way to go before you're fully recovered, don't get me wrong, but you'll get there. You have us. And you have Sy."

"And then there's Sy." She diverted. "How am I supposed to plan any sort of future with him when…" She looked at her mom, and hesitated. Peg rolled her eyes.

"Shane, I know what the two of you get up to when you're alone. You don't have to be shy with me."

"Still…" she took a breath and spoke. "When I can't bring myself to…sleep with him?"

"Look at him, you're kidding, right?" Gabby chided, insensitively, but recanted at the pained expression on Shane's face. "Sorry, sis. Trying to lighten the mood a touch. Too soon. But seriously, I don't think this reluctance you feel will be permanent."

"And even if it is," Peg took over, "that man is out-of-his-mind in love with you, Shaney." She kissed Shane's toe before putting a sock on her foot. "He almost seems to worship you. Now, you know how I feel about using that term outside of religious context, but that is exactly the kind of love I want for you. Devout, and unconditional."

"But, mom, I can't--"

"Did you hear me? I said 'unconditional,' sweetie." Peg interrupted. "No matter what. No matter the obstacle. No matter the distance. No matter the circumstances. Love unwavering. That's what Sy has for you. I've seen it in him. Trust the momma."

The insistence her mother placed on trust had always ruffled Shane's feathers. Gabby's too, who she could feel stiffen slightly beside her. But Shane, for once, really wanted to trust her mother, hoping against hope that she was right. And that she, herself  wouldn't screw up the best relationship she had ever been in or was likely to ever be in again.

The girls had begun talking about some of the coworkers who'd brought food in the past week, and Peg couldn't resist remarking on the character of her favorites and judging the ones she didn't care for…oddly enough, getting more or less, the correct measure of them, as Shane saw it.

After what must have been an hour from the time they'd arrived, they heard a knock on the slightly ajar bedroom door. John poked his head in.

"Ladies, we've put a casserole in the oven, and completed various manly projects around the house--"

"Oh, daddy, what projects?" She cringed. She hated that the men had felt the need to "fix" things.

"Babe, your guest bathroom had not one, but two leaky faucets, your kitchen table seemed to be more of a teeter-totter, and half the light bulbs in the living room were out. Among other tiny things. You're welcome." he smirked his crooked smirk so similar to her own, and she returned it as if he was looking in a mirror.

"Thanks, dad."

"Anyway, lunch is almost ready. So, when you've finished your confab, let's eat."

Dinner passed amiably, Shane found a reserve within herself to allow some quasi-normal behavior, as long as you didn’t look too closely. She was talking animatedly with her siblings, making their parents and Sy laugh riotously. Shane noticed some odd looks passing between Sy and her father, but chalked it up to paranoia. She wished at least Gabby and Ethan could stay, but Heather would be over soon, and she deserved her own dedicated time. Shane wanted to give that to her.

She said her farewells to her family with promises to visit them the next day, and at least one more time before her siblings went back home, if she could work it out.

Sy was so wonderful the whole time. Standing by her, a hand resting lightly on her shoulder as they waved goodbye to the departing vehicle. He made her feel so safe. They went into the kitchen and cleaned up from lunch. Well, Sy cleaned. Shane was texting Heather about when she'd be over.

"Heather says she'll be here in about a half hour. She's picking up wine and pizza." Shane told Sy without looking up from her phone. She could see out of the corner of her eye, though, that he had just closed the dishwasher and was selecting a cycle.

"Sounds great. Do you want me to get out of here? Give you guys some time, one on one?" He asked as he dried his hands, wet from preparing dishes for the machine.

She thought about it, and shuddered. She played a scene in her head that startled her. In her mind's eye, she saw Sy leave and then moments later heard a knock on the door. Presuming it was Heather, she opened the door with abandon, only to see Elliott standing there under a flickering porch light, smirking maliciously at her and ready to overpower and abduct her again. She shook the thought from her head, but remained uneasy as she answered his question.

"Uh, no. Thanks. I'm sure she'll want to talk to both of us. She likes you." Shane grinned softly at Sy in an attempt to mask her trepidation over the thought of him leaving her alone for any period of time. She thought it had worked.

"Okay, well, whatever you think, sunshine. I don't wanna get in the way." He was wiping down the countertops. She felt so impossibly full of love for him, she was starting to wonder how she hadn't yet burst with it. She couldn't bear the thought of holding him back from a fulfilling relationship. He deserved everything she couldn't give him right now. And she knew she should make him leave her. Cut him loose. But she was, as she'd been since she'd met him, a weak woman. She couldn't stand the thought of being without him. Of him no longer being hers. And somehow worse, of not being his, herself. She would always need him for so many reasons, not least of which being her love for him. Maybe one day, she'd recover from this trauma, and be able to be who he deserved. To give him what he needed.

"You're never in the way, bear." She walked up behind him, wrapped her arms around his middle and squeezed him as tight as she could. He placed a loving hand over hers, sighing and smiling, though she had no visual proof of the latter. It was just a feeling.

Heather's greeting was no less exuberant than that of Shane's family, but it was more joyful and less emotional, even though she was immensely relieved to see her best friend after so long. They talked as if no time had passed, and Shane mustered up the dregs of her former self to have one more interaction for the day. Thank God it was Heather and not someone who would require more. She wouldn't have it to give.

"I am so glad you're okay, Shane! Things around the clinic have been bleak as fuck. Susan is loosing her mind, Anita is beside herself with concern, and the rest of us just plain ol' miss the hell out of you. And not just because of all of the overtime everyone has been pulling to get your patients seen."

"Oh, God, I'm so sorry! I didn't realize…wow, I'm awful. I didn't even think---"

"That you'd be missed? Think again, sister. The place would fall apart if you ever really left. But don't feel guilty. It's the least everyone can do, and they've all said it themselves. We all love you, and know that you'd do the same for any of us if you could at all. Hopefully you won't have to, though!"

Shane nodded, eyes wide in agreement. She wouldn't wish the last week of her life on her worst enemy. On the worst person in the world. Except maybe the people responsible. Tit for tat.

"Well, I'm sorry my absence has caused extra work for all of you." Shane looked into the deep glass of Chardonnay Sy had poured her from the bottle Heather had brought. She felt about as small as the air bubble making it's way up the sloping curve of the stemless vessel. She felt a guilt that she knew was fully void of logic. It made no sense for her to feel guilt for being kidnapped. But she had always had this notion, this nagging voice in her head that told her that her misfortunes were a direct result of her decisions. That she'd inadvertently stepped on the butterfly that resulted in the monsoon she was currently experiencing, and whatever cataclysmic events she would face next.

"Why in God's name are you apologizing for this, Shay?" Heather's tone was kind, but still mildly scolding.

"If I'd never been with Elliott, none of this would have--"

"Bitch, are you a fortune teller?"

"No, but--"

"Soothsayer?"

"No."

"Time traveler?"

"I wish!" Shane chuckled. But she really did wish.

"Have you any real and proven success at consistently predicting the future?"

"I don't, but--"

"No. No buts. No howevers. You had no idea what becoming involved with Elliott could have done. Were there signs, sure. But you can't look on the past as a rubric to judge the quality of your decisions. You know that. You can only learn from your mistakes. And you have."

"Heather's right, sunshine. You really have learned. You look for Elliott's behaviors in mine and shut me down quick if you see 'em. You're not going to let yourself go down that road again. And I'm proud of you for it."

Shane silently worried her wine glass. It was hard to argue with such truth. But it was hard to agree when her own feelings were in such stark opposition. So she did neither.

"Well, I've preached my sermon for the day." she laughed. "I've taken up enough of your time. Oh, your phone. It's in my purse. I think it's fully charged, but I turned it off."

Shane thanked her friend, then Heather hugged them both and took her leave.

"Y'okay, bug?" Sy asked her after what she surmised was several minutes of silence. Minutes she didn't notice as they passed.

"Mmm…" she trailed off.

"Can I do something for ya?" And she really thought about the question. He could probably do a lot of things for her. He could make love to her until she felt whole again, even if it hurt her at first. Not an ideal option. He could probably get them both some new identities and enough money to spirit her away to somewhere her past wouldn't follow. If she became someone new, literally, would she have to bring that old baggage, those old scars, with her? Again, suboptimal. But he could definitely take the source of all grief and turmoil in her life far into the Missouri back country, somewhere not even the hunters would venture, some fallow field or forgotten cistern, and end him. Snuff out his spark of life like a candle caught in a tornado. Spill a fatal amount of his monstrous blood onto the unforgiving earth and send him to the Hell to which he was undoubtedly destined. But did she want that? Did she want another soul as a scar on that of the man she so deeply cherished? He'd say it was worth it. He'd say he'd take a thousand more for her. A million. That was Sy.

"Nothing comes to mind." She lied. And he knew it was a lie, but didn't push it. She was so grateful that he respected her, not for the lie itself, but for the reason she wasn't giving him the whole truth just now.

His phone went off and he picked it up as he stood from his seat at the table. She could only hear that it was Matt, the guy she thought she understood had the car place, before she heard tension in Sy's voice. Even from the next room, she could tell something was wrong, though he was talking too quietly for her to make out words.

She heard him suddenly shout a stream of profanities that he rarely said at all around her, at least, let alone together. There was a bang, and the walls of her kitchen quaked like the tectonic plates beneath them were shifting.

Sy walked back in, his face was red, as were his knuckles. He was shaking an injury out of his hand.

"What's wrong?" she asked, deep concern at his appearance and demeanor, suddenly ominous.

"I need to fix your wall in there." he grumbled, evading, without success. She'd be doing therapy on his hand, next.

"What's really wrong?" she repeated, sternly.

"That was Matt. Elliott's…escaped, somehow. He's in the wind."

Shane's heart became so heavy, she could almost feel it smashing through the kitchen floor and burying itself deep in the cement floor of her basement.

"Oh, God! No! What if he goes to the police!?"

"Fuck that, I'm more concerned about him coming after you!"

The two stared, faces full of equal measures of concern for the other.

Up Next: Chapter 21-Patient Education