#save my prescription specifically for this summer

[treecakes]

this migraine that keeps coming back after a few hrs each day that i’ve had this past week and a half is making me nervous for the digs i have starting tomorrow. i want to enjoy them they’re the first two real archaeology field schools i will have participated in and i’m really excited but i’ll have absolutely no fun digging in the sun for hours if i have a migraine every single day.

[incidentallysunny]

I Was Never There.

Death Island Leon x Reader

Real!Dad Leon

Dead dove warning.

13k word count. Proof read 3 times until I got to around 11k then I stopped worrying and just skimmed. Critique is welcomed and my skin is thick for it.

I’d like to appear in the tagz pls so here’s a warning. My writing is not ever meant to be taken literally and is just for the sake of writing f*cked up content that I enjoy writing. If you do not wish to read this, please do not as my intentions are not to offend or make you intentionally uncomfortable but if you choose to read- don’t be hateful. With that out of the way, extremely sensitive content and dead dove material ahead.

Specifically blood-related incest, smut, suicidal ideation, mentions of grotesque imagery, light mentions of gore in a hypothetical scenario, daddy-issues, age-gap, overall disturbing topics.

As far as smut specifically: this includes talking of public sex, mentions of oral, fingering, unprotected sex, cream-pie (wrap your willy irl pls) praise, dirty talk, any probably some other irrelevant shit I’m forgetting my b.

PROCEED if you read the above, are okay with it, and are mentally unwell like I am. Happy reading, it’s a long one.

The drive from your college town to where your home had been all your life was as expected. Nostalgia and homesickness being mixed in your gut like a can of paint in one of those weird machines at the hardware store that your dad would take you to. Speaking of dad, you hardly remember him. He was present for a short while, your mom always excusing his absence with work this and work that. He really did get busy, though. Almost dying several times. You still remember your moms panicked phone calls, her countless prescription drugs for the same problems you now suffer from, and her late-night bathroom breakdowns. Apparently he couldn’t get out of this job though. Some real fucked up government shit he was tied to, your mom explained. All you know about him is that he saved the president’s daughter. Whatever.

So yeah- a perfect life with a perfect set of parents. One being mentally driven through the dirt and the other that you haven’t seen in 8 years or maybe more. You can’t seem to remember if the last few times you saw your dad were daisied dreams or reality. Bastard has never FaceTimed or video called you, either. Dunno if he even had a phone capable of that. Either way, it must be for the better, because your grades had been sufficient without stressors on your mind. And we all know a low-effort dad would definitely be one. But perhaps he’d rather just be there in person. Older people are like that.

You grunted, trying to drag your over-packed suitcase up the steep suburban driveway before sighing and standing in place. Sure, you didn’t need to bring so much shit home, but would you really want to risk some bitch at college stealing anything from your quad-dorm?

Before you could think and figure out how you’d even get the plastic luggage up the pristine, hand-painted porch steps and inside (without scratching them up and having your parents on your ass about their perfect house having a flaw) a voice called out to you. Unrecognized and not ringing any of the bells in your head. (If there were any left)

“Hey there, sweetheart. It’s been a while, huh?”

You turned to see a middle-aged man, similar to the last memory of your dad that had been printing-pressed into your mind for safe keeping. He was just emerging from the front door, broad chest accentuated by a well-fitted T-shirt. You immediately felt angry that his tits were bigger than yours. Would probably look better with a bra, too.

You didn’t answer.

Fuck- nerves were getting the better of you. Your palms were slick with sweat and you didn’t know if it was from the building summer humidity or anxiety. Was this normal? No the fuck it wasn’t.

“Uhh.. dad?” You queried- almost certain the gorgeous man at the door was just a hotter, older version of your dad and not actually him. The fuck is wrong with you? You’re getting this worked up over your father? Did college drinking really rewire your brain to be this fucked or is it all of the anxiety meds? Maybe both. Maybe you’re just overwhelmed. Maybe it’s because you rarely saw him and have zero attachment.

“Yeah, it’s me. Your old man. Missed you, kiddo.” There’s a pause for a moment- because you’re not sure why he’s talking so casually as if you see each other every weekend- like it hasn’t been years and years since you’ve seen him.

“Don’t remember me,huh?” He laughs satirically- like you’re supposed to be so sure. It makes you slightly furious and the feeling of anger bubbles up again- replacing any strange thoughts you were having moments ago.

No, my apologies dearest dad. I totally recognize you despite having met you enough times to count on almost two hands.

But the better part of you that managed to exist underneath the scores of problems you had just replied in jest- like someone without said scores of problems. It was best to keep the peace for now.

“You look a little different… sorry.” Is that all you can manage? It’s pitiful the state that your sullied mind is in.

He chuckles, though, like he knows your’re right. The sound is more pleasant and striking when it’s genuine. Makes you feel damp in other areas than just your armpits (thank you, heatwave).

“I suppose there’s truth to that. But It’s alright, sweetheart. I know it’s been a long time. People change, right?” His eyes scan you in an undecided way.

“But you, shit. You’ve grown into such a beautiful woman. College treating you well?” His words sound a little huffed then, he’s clearly beating around the bigger issue with a stick. But him calling you beautiful and being all fucking sappy makes your face feel hot and sticky like it’ll melt off. Got you wanting to rip the hair from your scalp to hear him say it again.

“Please?” You called out gently- gesturing to the suitcase and ignoring any other question. You were very much overstimulated- having overexerted muscles in your arms by being a weak bitch about a crammed carry-on. Just get your ass out here and help your daughter, thanks.

He shook his head- again laughing hotly while looking down as he stepped off the porch- his brown bangs were peppered with greys and they brushed his face on one side, his hair somehow pornographic on its own. Christ. He looked like one of those men you saw on Viagra commercials that obviously didn’t actually need it. Even the sight of your perfectly trimmed lawn and faux-looking home completed the scene. Where was the camera?

He walked over to you- there was a slight stiff in his stride; like he had a bad back or something. Maybe he did. Almost dying was the likely cause for that. Serves him right for leaving you with issues on top of issues. Maybe you should stop being mean, you’re the one getting hot over your own father. Again- because of him. Circle back to square one.

Leon towered over your frame as he hinged at the hips, picking up the suitcase with ease- the muscles in his arm flexed with each small movement. His face was a tinge of smug with a mix of something else…satisfaction? Maybe he was just pleased he was able to lift it without rupturing a hernia. Jesus Christ, his veins. You wonder if he has them anywhere else. No- maybe you should be wondering about taking your ass to an inpatient facility immediately. A few screws are loose and you don’t exactly have the tools to tighten them.

“I guess college did treat you well. You’re here in one piece.” He says- cutting you thickly from your thoughts and answering his own question from earlier. His blue eyes are sweet and gently lined with signs of aging. Which only makes him hotter- just like the fiery pits of hell that await you.

You scoff.

“Well, it’s not like I went to war or something.”

“Still. It’s nice to see you, sweetheart.” The word rolls off his tongue again. Your insides are trapezing around in their own miniature, fleshy circus- you’re wishing you could stab yourself in the stomach to stop the swarm of butterflies that don’t even feel metaphorical anymore. You’re sure they’re real now.

He continues, though.

“I know I haven’t been around much in your life- this fucking job and-“ You stare up at him- glossy doe-eyes and stupid look on your face. An apology- or even an explanation from your daddy might be part of what your scrambled brain needs.

“Work kept me away, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t think about you every day. I’m sorry if I wasn’t there for you like I should have been. Shit… What I mean to say, is- things will be different. I’ve retired. Your mother wanted me to tell you over dinner later but I figured you’d be happy to know. I’m not the best at keeping secrets.” He jokes at the end, but how is that true in the slightest? He’s kept his job a secret for your entire life, so he clearly can’t be that horrible at it.

“Oh.” Leaves your lips quietly, ghosting over Leon and leaving him wondering if he said something wrong. But then he realizes it’s probably just overwhelming for you. The worst part of him thinks you hate him. A feeling overcomes you though, and you rush in to wrap your arms around his waist- hugging him tightly. You now wonder why he didn’t hug you to begin with. Maybe he wasn’t an affectionate guy.

He says nothing at first- he’s even more awkward than you are if it’s possible. But he’s trying. He sets down your suitcase before returning your hold. One arm comes around the back of you and the other is overlapped on top- a hand nestling on the back of your head. Seems he’s getting a bit emotional, too. The attention from him is nice, though.

When you make a small grunt as to wanting to end the hug, his hands linger on your shoulders and he smiles at you. You actually return to, not feeling anything horrid become of your thoughts right now. Whether it be anger or incestual lust.

—

Your dad pushes the front door open with one of his large hands encased on the knob. Hands you immediately find attractive, wondering if they’d feel nice scissoring your cunt open. You now begin to understand why your mom was getting suicidal over him possibly not returning home. You’d kill yourself over him too. But that’s too morbid- especially after the moment you just shared.

That’s already lost to you.

He shut the door firmly, sighing, then gestures to the stairs.

You went up first, self conscious about your backside being right in front of his view but he was your dad. Wouldn’t be looking at you that way. You’re just brain-rotted and have an ill opinion of men.

Your old bedroom still looked the same, basically. Just emptier and more hollow without your things. But the walls were still painted a babydoll-pink and lined with the few girlish decorations you left on the wall. No way you would have been caught dead with those in your dorm. Not unless you wanted to endure torment and bullying that’d lead you to jumping off the dormitory roof.

He sets your luggage down and takes a seat on your bed. A groan escapes him as he puts a hand on his lower back for a moment.

“I see this room hasn’t changed much, has it?” he muses, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Your mom and I had a blast putting it together for you when she was pregnant.”

Yikes. You almost feel guilt for both the incestuous thoughts and the fact you may have ruined your parents' marriage. Maybe that’s not true. It was his work- not you. After all, he’s insinuating how happy they were to have you brought into this world. Plus- they were fine. Never argued or anything.

“I’m sorry. I dont- I don’t know what to say.” You laughed awkwardly, throwing your hands slightly up by your side.

His face doesn’t drop, though. It seems he understands perfectly fine.

“It’s okay. We can start from scratch. Not talk about… your room or childhood stuff. I know it’s a sore spot for you, sweetheart.”

Wrong. It’s more like a festering wound with the rusted knife still wedged in it. The knife being Leon and the wound your daddy issues, by the way. And having no attachment to him as a father figure makes the attraction worse. Notably when he calls you any term of endearment. He leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

What the fuck. Was he sculpted by Satan himself as some kind of hell-on-earth punishment? Is this purgatory? Everything he did now was driving you up the wall like a roach- every movement and small flex showing a vein or bulge of muscle. And his arm hair didn’t help. Fucking Christ- shave it off or something. You don’t know how you’ll be able to stand it.

“Okay…. How does that work?” You cocked your head to the side a little, shifting your weight onto one leg. A nervous habit.

“Well- what do most parents do with their kids? We could go out for dinner, catch a movie, just… hang out. I’d like to spend time with my daughter, you know.”

Okay, so maybe he did care. That’s a start.

“Uh… all three?” You questioned, an eyebrow lifting along with the infliction of your voice towards the end of your sentence. You’re indecisive like your mom.

He smiled, lines and the corners of his mouth pressed. Happy. Something you heard wasn’t common for him, anyways.

“Of course. We can go out tomorrow, honey. Your mom just wants us to all have dinner together when she gets home. She missed you- not as much as I did, I bet.” He does that stupid fucking wink again. It makes you switch emotions and want to throw something at his head. Maybe your lamp. You feel bad, It’s not his fault you’re acting like a mental freak about him. You don’t even bother to fixate on the fact you’ll have to have dinner with your cunt of a mom. Okay, maybe that’s harsh.

“Okay.” You breathe out, looking around your room. Leon takes that as a cue to stand up from your old bed- the thing creaking from his weight and leaving an indent on your comforter.

“It’s a date, then. I’m going to start dinner. As much as I love your mother, she can be…scary.” He says, still rocking that pressed-in-cheek smile and cracking your door closed behind him. By the way, what he really meant was probably ‘bitchy’- not scary. But dad seems too kind to say that. He loves your mom.

You can breathe again without his presence. It was smothering, like you had to overperform. You find yourself rushing to your dresser mirror to check how you looked. Hair looks great, face too- though a little tired from college over-studying and then driving 4 hours home with no break.

You might as well write ‘whore’ on your mirror with lipstick. Or a marker- since that’s a more permanent reminder with the way you’re acting. But part of you wanted to know what he thought of you- how he perceived you. For now though, it doesn’t matter. Had barely been 15 minutes since you arrived. You turn your attention to your suitcase and push it over flat, unzipping it before the teeth give out and some of your things spill from inside.

You had less than a sufficient amount of energy to care about it being broken now- so you just put your things away quickly before plopping onto the bed and indulging your senses with the smell of the floral detergent your mom always used on your sheets.

—

It’s some time later when you’re abruptly awoken by your moms manicured hand shaking you awake by the shoulder.

“I can’t believe you’re sleeping when you could be spending time with your father. He was excited for you to be home.”

‘Way to wake me up.’ You thought. She was always having a stick up her ass about this kind of thing. Or anything, really..

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep. Besides, we’re going out tomorrow to do a bunch of stuff.” You argue sleepily, sitting up as your back aches with your vision still adjusting. She cuts on the lamp, sizzling your retinas.

Her face perks up but is pleasantly surprised.

“Oh, okay..” silence.

“I’m sorry, honey. It was just a long day at work and I’m just over-the-moon for you two to finally have some daddy-daughter time.”

You wrinkle your face in disgust, but not fully disgust since you were just fawning over your hot dad earlier. Maybe daddy doesn’t sound so bad.

“Ew- mom. He’s just my dad. I’m not five.” She laughs, waving her hand off at you.

“Well anyhow- come down for dinner, will you? He put in a lot of effort to cook something for us.”

You cursed under your breath and straighten out your shirt- hoping she wouldn’t bitch about it being slightly wrinkled from you sleeping in it. You seat yourself at the table- adjacent from your mother sitting at the end. She’s already changed out of her office clothes and sure enough, here comes your daddy dad from the kitchen with utensils.

“Sorry ladies- almost forgot these.” He laughs, placing down everyone’s set before seating himself next to you. Fuck.

“You know- your father has only been home a few months and he’s already shown the extent of his memory loss.” She jokes, giving him a loving yet teasing look that makes you want to vomit. And yet jealousy curls up like a cat in your lap, wanting to be lavished with attention from you. The metaphorical jealousy pounces off your lap as you’re met with your dad’s hand on your denim-clad thigh. It’s an innocent gesture but you want to his hand to go further than just sitting politely.

“She’s right, but I can be useful otherwise.” He’s bantering back with her- and you realize he’s making an innuendo when you look over at his face. But it’s weird that he’s saying it while his digits cradle your thigh so gently.

“Gross.” You take a bite of your food- momentarily shocked that a dad of any sort could make such a pleasant meal, especially when he’s spent such little time doing domestic duties.

“Oh honey- you’re grown. We’re just teasing each other.” Your mom nods to Leon, taking a bite off of her fork. His hand slides off of your thigh and he grabs his whiskey glass to take a proper sip.

Jeez, he drinks that shit like its water. No grimacing. No face was made when he swallowed it. Just a guy thing you suppose.

Dinner drags on- the both of them forcing you to talk about your less-than-thrilling college experience. No mom, no boyfriend. No dad, I’m not failing. No you two, I’m not having unprotected sex- fuck off.

After that eventful meal and conversation where your parents basically eye-fucked each other over dinner, you’re left to clean up the mess while your mom gets ready for bed. She has to leave for work early in the morning- as usual. Guess she’s going to take your dad’s spot for the absent parent now that you’re grown and traumatized full and proper.

-

Sleep came and went- leaving you to trudge out of bed and do your morning routine. It felt out of place trying to do it back at home- but it was also a sentimental feeling to be doing just that.

Leon is already in the kitchen, shirtless and cooking. Seems impractical, but holy fuck. You’d gorilla glue your eyelids open just to not miss a single second of what you’re seeing. Maybe that wasn’t needed- because you've been staring long enough that your eyes prick with tears. You remind yourself to blink and you seat yourself at the high-top, the stool swiveling slightly when your bottom meets the material.

“Morning, sweetheart. Sleep well?” He asks, turning to look at you over his shoulder. His traps are distracting you. You want to chew your fingernails past the nail bed- bite a finger off too. You can’t stand it. For a moment- the way he talks to you- you’re pretending you’re not his daughter. And then a moment later, you’re not being delusional anymore.

“Mhm.” You mumble sleepily- wishing you’d have stayed in bed longer. But piercing morning light, lack of blackout curtains, and the chirping of birds outside made that idea inconceivable. Leon chuckled to himself- turned away from you.

You decide to scroll through your phone for a moment’s time before he slides a plate to you from across the island.

“Breakfast a la Leon.” He says- clearly being silly. Corny as fuck, anyways.

“You’re old.” You snort, setting aside your phone and grabbing a fork to pick at your food until he turns away again. You didn’t enjoy the idea of having a hot, shirtless man watching you eat.

He shakes his head, sitting down next to you at the island.

Christ. Fucking go away. It’s actually enraging now.

You want to scream at him- it’s irrational and crazy- but you do. Screaming at him and being sent away to a ward sounds more appealing than the anxiety crawling up your spine like a horde of fire ants. Potentially- just like the butterflies- they’re real too.

He seems undisturbed as he settles- taking a bite. You do the same- trying to ignore the fact he's so close you can nearly feel his arm hair touching you every second or so. He breaks the silence after a moment.

“So- after this, I’ve got a whole day planned out. Mall, movies, and dinner. Sound good?” You nod, a soft ‘mhm’ reverberating on the roof of your mouth.

He finishes before you and makes his way upstairs- the occasional pain in his back unmistakeable every few steps. And yet he wants to take you to the mall to walk around? You didn’t even know how to feel about a day with your dad. What’s a dad? What’s daddy-daughter bonding? That’s lost to you- well- more like it was never even discovered. Not even Columbus could have ventured out and conquered it.

Since he’s no longer in the room, you hastily eat the rest of your breakfast before you discard the plate and fork into the way-too-elaborate dishwasher your mom had installed (you totally didn’t spend 10 minutes trying to turn it on).

Back in your room, you settle on a simple, totally not underlyingly slutty outfit. Shorts and a crop top. Can never go wrong with that. It’s just soft/core prom enough for an outing with your dad. When you leave your room- Leon is just headed down the stairs. He turns to look at you, his smile is as jovial as it has been since you’ve seen him. For a moment though, you think you catch his eyes landing on your exposed legs- but you know you’re just crazy. You’re the one lusting after him, not the other way around. Your dad isn’t abnormal like you. His head is on correctly- even if it’s been battered and spun on his shoulders throughout the years.

“Ready?” He asks, stopping in place to wait for you. You nod stupidly, breaking from your trance to follow him in a descent down the stairs.

He’s dressed similar to how he was yesterday- jeans and a t-shirt that should be considered indecent. If you were your mom, you’d beg him to wear something that doesn’t highlight every curve and dip of his chest. Hell, if you were your mom, you’d never let him go outside. Too risky. But you’re not your mom. You’re just unusual.

As a perfect man does, he opens the door for you. Then opens the SUV door, allowing you in before shutting it behind. You’re sure you've never met a guy that does that in real life, but maybe it was a ‘you’ problem and not the guy. Who knows.

When he gets in, he cranks the vehicle only for rock music to start playing from the radio- making the corners of his mouth dimple with a pleased look. Really are the simple things for him. As for you, you’re suffocated in a Hellish torment by both his presence and the expensive scent of cologne and leather seats combo.

The ride isn’t long, nor bad. Albeit you two only talk here and there so he can focus on the road- and so you can focus on not dying (he’s not a perfect driver, but not terrible either). Just enough to keep your nerves teetering between a light anxiety attack and full blown panic.

You’re relieved to get there alive. Maybe not. Your thoughts have you thinking suicide may be your only option for now disgusting they are. And it only gets worse when he helps you down from the step up of the SUV- a hand on your exposed waist and the other on your shoulder. It’s harmless. Just a dad being gentlemanly. He was shaped and carved out in that perfect, chivalrous image with only a mallet and hammer. No reason to make it weird.

Inside the mall is a tad busy- the perfect amount to be comforting. You feel a bit more at ease in a public setting since you can now focus on anything but your dad’s chest. As long as he doesn’t require eye contact or talk to you, that is.

He looks around, arms crossed. It’s almost whorish. He has to know his arms look good. Or that his everything looks good. The fuck.

“So…” He cranes his head to the side, bangs brushing over his nose for a moment. The way he looks around makes his Adam’s apple and neck muscles a little more prominent. A perfect, stubbled spot to attack with your lips.

“What do you feel like doing first, kiddo?”

You. Is what you want to say.

He looks back to you, smiling down amused. He seems genuinely happy to be able to take you out. But really- his face is making you nauseous. Obviously not because it’s bad. But because it’s good-bad. Too good it’s bad.

“Uhh… “ you look away from him, scanning the entrance area and looking at any signs. Almost like an escape.

“How about new clothes maybe? Seems like something got ahold to the other half of your pants anyways.” He nudges you with an elbow, gesturing to your shorts with his head.

So he probably did look at your legs earlier. Maybe not in the way you think, though.

You glare at him.

“Seriously?”

Leon puts his hands up in defense. He’s always on the defense in life anyways.

“Joking, joking. You’re…grown.” His forehead lines crease when he raises his brows. You did get rather annoyed at his comment, however.

“I could always buy some even shorter.” You spit sarcastically.

“Yes- because every father wants to walk around with their daughter who has her ass out.” He’s quick to remark, this time he seems grumpier when he talks. Sorta like he’s uncomfortable with the conversation. Or that he’s mad.

“Sorry my legs make you so uncomfortable. I guess I should’ve left them at home.” The back and forth here could go on forever between you two but he catches you off guard.

“Shit- no. It’s not that- ‘s just you’ve got nice legs. Can’t have these…shitheads eying down my little girl. I may be old, but I can fight when I need to.”

You know he meant his words innocently enough, but the fact that he said nice legs has you giddy inside. Same feeling when your crush calls you pretty. Yeah- that sorta feeling. And his little girl. It has a ring to it. Could even legally change your name to it so that he can call you by it more often. Maybe he’ll even let you jump on his dick right away.

Your face is pure rose-shaded. A perfect, neutral shade to make your embarrassment pop on your skin. You’re sure it’s visible to him, too. Your mom always teased you about how blotchy it would get when you were humiliated. Particularly when she would tell awkward stories about you at family dinners. Bitch.

“What’s wrong? Don’t be pissed at me, sweetheart. I was just teasin-“

“It’s not that.” You interrupt- heart thumping into your rib cage. If it doesn’t stop, or you don’t stop your word-vomit, it might crack a rib or four. Probably more. Better have hospital bill and therapy money ready, dad.

“Then what’s the matter? I just want us to have a good time together. I’m not trying to upset y-“

“You said I have nice legs.” You’re quick to cut him off again.

“And…?” He trails off, cocking his head to the side like he’s confused. Because he is confused. You stare off to the side- eyes glued to the fountain. Maybe you could go drown yourself in the penny-flavored water that you guarantee hasn’t been changed out since you were still the unlucky sperm in your dad’s ball-sack.

“I like that. You saying that.” You speak a little lower now- afraid someone will hear. Or because the tinnitus is so loud in your ears. What you’re getting at is almost clear now. Or at least clear enough.

Leon’s expression is taken aback but still confused to an extent because he’s not even certain what you’re saying. Though, he has an idea.

“Oh- uh. Okay. Sweethea-“

“Holy fuck- stop calling me that. You’re not making this easy. Wanting to fuck you. I know- I sound mental.” You spill it out, guts on the floor and the sword still in hand. Holy shit. Just told your dad you want to fuck him. You could have backtracked- fucking dumbass. You won’t be shocked if he packs his bags and leaves off again tomorrow.

He’s silent for a moment.

“Okay- clearly I wasn’t around enough. I get that. But I mean- fuck.” He runs his hand through his hair, looking around. Probably thinking the same thing about the fountain that you did. Still- he looked hot while having a crisis and contemplating immediate suicide. He paces while your nerves are being electrocuted in your body. Why couldn’t you just be normal?

“Just- sweetheart, no. None of that’s.. I can’t.” He starts, turning back to you. It seems he can look you in the eyes now. So maybe he’s not entirely disgusted by you. His face isn’t contorted with disgust, so there’s a chance. Yeah, you’re off your rocker now. You know.

“Look- let’s not talk about this. C’mon. Let’s go catch a movie like I promised.” He starts walking- leaving you standing in a puddle of shame and embarrassment for a moment before stopping to let you catch up.

Luckily- the theater is joined to the mall. It’ll be a short walk.

—

Leon is lax on the couch until he hears the crunchy sound of tires on concrete. You’re home. Despite his shitty back, he's huffing as he gets up fast and is already opening the door. The air is hot as it greets his skin and he watches you struggle with your suitcase through the heat-haze that spans over the distance.

He calls out to you- making your head snap in his direction. Your face is that of awe and confusion. You don’t seem to immediately recognize him- okay. He gets it. It’s been a while. Nevertheless, you’re beautiful. He’d seen pictures of you from your mother, but he’s in awe just as you are. Though, he doesn’t think that highly of himself so he often wonders if you’re even his kid. Couldn’t have made something that perfect, in his mind. He helps you with your bag and follows you to your room. But your demeanor around him is noticeably mousey. At first, it doesn't seem like much. You’re just getting used to him.

Plus, Leon knows he can come off intimidating. Sometimes. But for him, he’s got a good eye and his job has led him to being able to read even the tiniest bits of body language. Doesn’t take him long to see how you’re worming around shyly- subconsciously smoothing your hair down and biting at your lip. Same way your mom acted around him before they started dating. But again- maybe it’s just in his head. Leon’s been wrong a time or two.

A better man would have left it alone. Leon gets that. But an innocent thigh squeeze at dinner can help him test his theory. A thigh squeeze that’s under the guise of friendly, fatherly touch. You tense- he can hear your small, sucked in breaths as long as his hand is there, along with heat radiating off your body like a wildfire. If wildfires could be horny college-aged daughters with daddy issues, that is.

The idea disgusts him. Because he should feel disgusted and just kill himself. Where did these thoughts come from? He even has the urge to let his hand wander other places. Bets that you have a cute pussy. No matter what it does or doesn’t look like, it’s yours and he knows it's cute. He’d give you two thick digits in your hole (three if you allow him) and have his tongue kitten-lick your clit.

“There we go. Good girl.” Is what he envisions saying before diving back in for a mouth full of you. Girls like you love being praised. Especially by their estranged father-figure or a middle aged man. It’s all the same. He’d pry the daddy issues right out of you with his dick. It’s long and fat enough, and solves all of his matters properly. Your mom is in a bad mood? His dick will fix that. He can’t sleep? His dick will fix that. His daughter is a horny freak and begging for it? His dick will fix that, too- obviously.

It’s only when your mom makes some stupid fucking joke about his memory loss that he snaps back into reality and he loses the momentum he had going for an erection. Which is good. Maybe thinking about fucking your mom will make him normal again. So he drops a quip right back- something about… being useful. Yeah. Again, his cock is useful. Your mom bites at his words, but you’re annoyed and disgusted with his comment- especially with his hand on you while he says it.

Trust me, baby. Much rather be splitting you open than having performative, mandatory spousal sex. It’s like a switch flipped. He’s not interested in your mom. Should’ve had that realization years ago, even. Technically he did. He’s just now saying it in his head finally. Mostly he was exhausted because she had nothing to do with Leon even when he was home (unless it was for dick). Too bad he was a golden retriever following after her every step like a good doggy. Marriage did that to a guy. He just did what he was supposed to. Kept the lights on, blew out her back occasionally, listened to her complain, and took care of the lawn when he could. Easy enough. That’s what men do, right? He doesn’t really know what being a man is, honestly. Thanks, Major Krauser. Anyhow- he chokes down his food with a smile. The need to upchuck after everything he just thought up is a given.

He takes the liberty to fuck your mom later that night as promised per (faux) flirting over dinner. He has her face down-ass up, though. For… imagination’s sake. At least fucking a pussy and imagining you is better than his hand and imagining you. Or so he tells himself. Call it killing two birds with one stone, satisfying your mom and quelling his own desires. And it’s not hard to imagine any of it, because you look so much like your mother. He lies awake for a short while after- contemplating his existence and fucked up thoughts. He’s still holding back vomit and the urge to grab his gun from the nightstand and off himself all over the wallpaper, while in the process, traumatizing your mom. After an hour of this- he figures it’s fine, men think of perverted or weird shit sometimes. Jerk off to weird shit too. He hasn’t technically done anything morally wrong… sort of. It’s denial. At least he’s good at playing the part of a genuine, loving father. Because he is! He loves his family. Always has!

Spending time with you would make you happy, him happy, your mom happy. He loves you dearly. All is great. He’s swearing that his brain won’t be smoothied in his skull by tomorrow. It’ll be normal and function rationally.

But Leon wakes up with the thoughts being real as ever while he stretches an arm out to feel around for your mother- bed empty since she leaves at the ass crack of dawn. Leon had just missed her leave, he’s still getting used to sleeping in ever since he retired.

He gets up and heads downstairs- immediately starting breakfast to take his mind off his…mind. Breakfast is his favorite meal of the day, it makes him feel better to indulge in it right now. Though, he doesn’t bother putting a shirt on at any point- just rocking those generic, green and blue tartan patterned pajama pants. Cooking shirtless is weird- but he’s hungry and part of him wonders if he’ll get to see your priceless face when you walk into the kitchen. He shakes his head- telling himself that he just had this talk with himself last night. None of that shit.

He was right about one thing. God, he could make a killing in betting. He sees your reflection behind him in the small window above the counter but you didn’t know that. Just stood, gawking. It’s okay. He’s observative, you’re not. You’re his dumb little girl. Dumb in the way you shift in your stool next to him when he sits down, dumb how you hold your breath when he’s near, dumb how you can’t even eat next to him, and dumb how your thighs seem to wriggle when his arm ‘accidentally’ brushes yours. Oh, he’s definitely not wrong.

Still- he knows when to back off. He hounds down his food, before you even make a dent in your plate, and heads upstairs to shower. He’s analyzing every detail of himself, contemplating how he can get under your skin the most- his knuckles gripping the sink with distaste for himself. Because it’s wrong. He’s acting like a teenager. This is a date with his daughter, not his highschool girlfriend.

Leon skips over shaving his face. Likes to keep it a little grown out but not too much so. Just in case he gets the chance to eat (your) pussy or kiss (your) a neck. Then comes the Dior ‘Sauvage’ body wash he never failed to keep with him. He takes pride in smelling good if anything. And this particularly expensive wash, plus the cologne, was his lifeline for that. When he traveled for work- the D.S.O. better have god damned had some sent to his room as courtesy. Ever since Raccoon City- he’s adamant about not smelling less than great. He swears he can still smell the sewer on himself sometimes, even if it’s not really there.

His hair routine was even more extensive and involved a weekly hair mask. Hey- it wasn’t wrong for a guy to have nice hair. It paid off.

Heat protectant, blow dry, hot-comb to get any cow licks or fly-aways he might have- though it’s unlikely- and a little spritz of biotin spray to keep it healthy and shiny. All of that in reasonable time, too. And no- it's not weird for him to spend longer on his hair than your mom does.

Besides, you seem to appreciate the way he looks when you come out of your bedroom- watching him descend the stairs. Leon looks back at you- eyes on your legs momentarily then coming back up. He knows it was a quick look- quick enough to make you question it. You do. Very much. Still, taking you out in public wearing those shorts is less than ideal for him, but he’s the one who needs to be watched closely. Aforementioned, Leon’s great at pretending. Pretending to be normal. Pretending to not have ulterior motives. Pretending to not want your legs on his shoulders as he-

“All ready?” He interrupts himself here. Can’t let his thoughts keep going too far. Even if he does want to rest a hand on your leg while he drives. Or veer off the road and into a tree so that he can’t continue to be disgusting. He’d die with the image of being a good, wholesome dad in everyone’s mind. And if you did or didn’t die too, at least you would have died not having been fucked silly by your old man. He manages to not kill you both, though. He wasn’t planning to- his driving is just ass. He knows whiskey with his breakfast isn’t ideal but when you’re a recovering alcoholic plus post traumatic stressed failure of a father, it helps.

Can’t complain though since he gets to put his hands on you while helping you out of the vehicle.

Now you’re both in the mall- Leon questioning what exactly he’s supposed to do now. He hasn’t been to one since… he doesn’t have enough fingers for that. But you’re seemingly calm. Until he makes a stupid joke about your shorts. Sure. As much as he’s thinking about ripping a hole in the crotch to fuck you cause he’s impatient and stupid- he said it out of genuine concern.

He still has fatherly instinct. Some sick bastard could get a glimpse of your exposed legs and go jerk off to it or take a photo. Ironic coming from him right now. The call is coming from inside the house but the dad is too busy fiending after his own daughter to answer.

You’re royally pissed. He knows it. Women don’t like having it insinuated that they’re dressed like a whore. Big whoop, though. Someone has to say it. Then you blindside him. Big, needy eyes and saying you like it when he tells you your legs are nice. Then something about how you want to fuck him. Christ. What the fuck. He’s not sure if this is some kind of screwy set-up or you’re actually just so slutty that the only dick you’ll accept is your dad’s. He’s rocking a semi now. Would be a full hard-on if he weren’t in public but his head spins cause all the blood went to his loins too fast.

Leon doesn’t accept the advances yet. Not now, anyways. He’s mortified. He really thought he had himself going in delusion about how you were behaving- but he was actually right. And now being confronted with it… he’s fucking scared - that’s for sure. Hmm. Be a morally acceptable human or fuck your needy, whore daughter silly? He shakes his head and lets out an exhale.

That question needs some thought. No, it doesn’t. He knows better than to do any of that shit, right? He takes a moment to start walking while you follow along shamefully- the two of you headed to the theater. A movie is perfect. Don’t have to talk or anything. No interacting, really. But how the fuck is he just going to forget what you said? Sure, he’s been having questionable thoughts but they’re just thoughts. Your words, however, spoke it into existence. Like a fucked up, frankenstein’s monster of father-daughter reality.

Don’t mind us, everyone. Daughter’s got it real bad for me but I’m just going to take her to the movies and pretend it’s normal. Reality was distorted for him ever since the existence of zombies and BOWs anyway.

He lets you pick the movie- telling the attendant that he needs two tickets. It’s a horror movie. Of course. Something to trigger his PTSD, maybe. Then he could say anything he did after that was just accidental. A mental slip. He goes to fork over the $60 for tickets and popcorn- god, when did shit get so expensive? As he’s pulling out the cash, he sees you give him a look like you want to say something. His mind is racing looking at you- it makes him nervous.

“Uh.. what about candy?” You ask, looking away from him and at the display.

“What? Sour worms?” He questions you, laughing. Not in a mean way- but because it’s your favorite. So insignificant but he remembers. You were still a kid when he and your mom took you to see some milked out children’s movie that was a part of an entirely too long series. He bought you two boxes of sour worms then. You were a weird kid, though. The worms were split into two colors, and you’d always bite them down the middle and make him eat the side you didn’t like. But he’d do it. Gladly.

You nod, a little befuddled that he’d remember something like that. Cute. Too bad your weird ass just told him you wanted to fuck him about 15 minutes ago. So not entirely a cute moment.

“Oh- and two boxes of Sour Worms, please.” He adds, now pulling out a little more cash.

You both respectively grab your own drinks- Leon with popcorn in tow and you, your worms and cherry soda. His hands are full but he manages to flash the movie ticket between his index and middle finger to the usher, who then ripped it in half and pointed to the left end of the hallway.

You both don’t say anything, but you immediately race to the very top row like a child once inside the screening. Leon swears under his breath as he follows you like a geriatric snail. If a snail could have lumbar issues. He’s able to make it up the stairs to you quite some time after and takes the seat next to you that’s closest to the aisle. Safety and all that jazz.

Previews are already playing so it gives him peace of mind to not address the awkwardness between the two of you. Your soda is in the cup holder that’s separating you both, but you lean over to take a sip, cheeks hollowed out while you drink. Of course Leon looks over, fuck.

Pretty little lips wrapped around the straw until you pull off of it with a satisfied sigh. Cause you were thirsty from anxiety- like someone shoved gauze and cotton into your mouth.

He shifts in his seat and looks back at the screen. He doesn’t even know if you’re doing it on purpose. You’re not, however. He’s just a perverted dickhead.

Time passes and not a single soul has come into this screening. It’s Monday at 11am, after all. Who the hell would come watch a horror movie at this time? No one except two fucking weirdos. It’s making Leon’s nails dig into the armrest with the other set scratching at his jeans.

The movie doesn’t start off bad, to Leon’s shock. He’s actually enjoying it and you seem just as entranced, pulling open the box of Sour Worms without looking down. You do wind up looking down, however, to bite one in half because it just so happened to be a blue and orange combo, and you hated the orange side.

“Here.” Leon turns to look at you- your eyes coming up to meet his blue ones that are oddly blue enough to the point that any light from the screen makes them pop. Pretty.

“The orange half. I know you don’t like them.” His voice is husky and low since the speakers are blaring some generic string-quartet horror piece. He nods down to the half chewed candy in your palm.

You pinch it between your fingers, bringing it to his mouth as your cunt throbs. He was expecting you to hand it to him, but the way you confidentially yet instinctively brought it to his lips isn’t entirely unwelcome. The emptiness of the theater makes it that way. Allows room for incest of whatever. He opens his mouth for you, and you go to place the sour treat on his tongue. His lips gently close around it, before he grabs your wrist to hold your arm in place. A hold gentle enough to tell you that if you want to snatch your hand away- feel free to do so. But you don’t. And you won’t. He knows.

Candy in cheek, he brings your fingers to his lips and nurses your knuckles with a kiss before puppeteering your hand with his larger one, working each digit so that he can equally suck each one clean. You’re amazed, aroused, and alarmed all at the same time. Amazed because he looks so gorgeous sucking on your fingers. Aroused for the obvious reason. Alarmed because duh, he’s your father and things can only go further from here.

Leon places your hand back onto the arm rest between you, chewing the halved sour worm now. As if he didn’t just give you the most visually appealing form of sexual affection in the history of womankind. The dryness of your mouth returns and you take another sip of your Cherry soda. Maybe you can drown yourself in it. No, stupid. That’s what the public bathroom toilets are for.

Right before you set the plastic cup into the cupholder again, Leon speaks.

“Ah, ah. Put it over there.” You don’t even hesitate to listen. Record timing for you doing anything. You don’t even know why you followed his instructions so quick.

“Good girl.” His words send lightning of excitement down your nerves and straight to your clit as he pushes the armrest between you upwards and out of the way. Because that’s a thing, for some reason. It’s like theaters want people to fuck, give head, and spread their diseases everywhere. And why does he know they move? You don’t even want to question it. Maybe he’s just a knowledgeable guy.

“Come here, honey. Let daddy kiss that pretty mouth.” Fucking Christ. This can’t be real. Doesn’t matter, ‘cause again, there’s zero hesitation on your part. Leon likes that. A woman that can follow orders. He’s so used to taking them, not giving them. And your mom isn’t one to listen to other people. Either way, if this goes south, Leon can always just off himself. He wasn’t around much so what difference would it make if he was permanently gone? The reassurance of being able to log out forever gives him courage here. It’s rational.

You scoot over since you’re free from any barriers or restrictions, and he puts an arm over you. You swear you almost hear your skin sizzle from the contact. You’re not a witch- and as far as you know, he’s not water. Even if he gets you wet. He brings a hand up to cup your cheek and swipe a thumb over your bottom lip- teasing you.

“D-dad.” You stutter a protest- cringing that you sounded the way you did just now. Maybe you shouldn’t be embarrassed ‘cause he’s your dad- but you are embarrassed ‘cause he’s hot. You can’t even figure out why you wanna back out suddenly. Probably because the idea was better than betraying your mom and knowing yourself as someone who fucks their dad. Anywho- didn’t he say something about kissing you? Cause he’s not even doing as promised.

Your dad leans in, his free hand is now on your neck and angling it just to show you how easy he can manhandle your body. He plants a kiss on your earlobe before saying anything.

“What’s wrong, baby? Can’t go giving daddy blue-balls now. It’s not polite to start things you don’t wanna finish.”

Leon’s words simultaneously gross you out and turn you on in a self-deprecating, disgusting kind of way. Not to mention he’s literally contradicting himself since he would gladly eat the half of the sour worms you didn’t want to finish- therefore entirely enabling you to start things you couldn’t finish. Hm. That must explain a large portion of your life, then. And besides all do that, doesn’t the know blue-balls is some kinda stupid myth or whatever?

His thumb falls down your lip and traces your jawline with intentional slowness while his eyes look over your face appreciatively- but it also seems as if he’s looking for or at something specific.

You get the courage to speak, air sucked fully into your lungs.

“Sorry, daddy.” The fuck is wrong with you? You could have said anything but that. It’ll only spur him on. But you want that, obviously.

He smirks, lips pressed together as the corners of his mouth do that same, pitted thing they do that you like so much. Must go hand in hand with how his chin is also dimpled. It’s sexy. But little do you know, it’s one of the reasons he keeps his stubble. Doesn’t feel like having his butt chin on display to the world- even if every woman that’s ever laid eye on him sees it and wants it buried in their cunt.

“That’s my girl. Didn’t even have to be around much to teach you that, did I?” Leon queries, grabbing your chin to crane your head just so that he can plant his lips onto your neck. His other hand is on your knee, unmoving. You want it to move, though. God- you’re sure whatever higher power is in the great sky is throwing up right now, moments away from pressing the reset button. The same higher power will make a new rule on humanity.

No free will and absolutely no incest. Yeah. Probably should have written that into the books ages ago, one fears.

You fidget as he kisses your neck, stubble scratching your epidermis yet tickling all the same.

“Not gonna answer me, sweetheart?” He murmurs against your throat, the neck kiss he gives it uses a bit of tongue- making your body jolt. “I know your mother taught you manners.”’

You mumble something pathetically apologetic, hands gripping the fabric over his shoulders. Hopefully your mom won’t notice his shirt being stretched out there- cause she notices everything.

“N-no, daddy. I knew it on my own.” You huff, that hand you wanted him to move is slowly doing so- fingers dragging along your inner thigh as if everything he’s doing to you is purposefully meant to be some kind of forewarning. But for what, exactly?

“Such a smart girl. Get that from daddy, you know it?” Ok, cocky…

Leon kisses his way back up your neck, jawbone, and then your cheek. It’s sweet- if being lavished with saccharine, sexual and inappropriate attention from your dad could be sweet.

You nod, feeling his grip loosen from your chin and now sliding up the back of your neck to tangle in your hair, threading it. He’s slow and deliberate- part of you wishes he’d not give you time to think about your actions. Not that you can really think anyways. Your heartbeat is muddled in your ears and the movie is still rumbling through the speakers while someone gets murdered on screen. Lucky them.

The hand on your thigh presses firmer into the skin just below the edge of your shorts, a silent telling for you to keep your attention on him.

“Sorry baby, daddy got distracted. Just so pretty.” He must be able to tell you’re impatient because he kisses your cheek (with an oddly dark undertone to it) before slimming the distance between your lips. He pauses right when they touch and you’re breathing in the taste-turned-scent of the sour worm you fed him earlier. Sugar and that weird orange flavor that is only specific to orange candy. You’re obviously not a fan, but it suits him.

You don’t get any time left to process before it’s a full on kiss- well, make out, actually. It’s slow. You can’t recall being kissed like this, ever. Normally it’s straight to tongue with guys, and not in, like, the good way. The ‘having an eel invading your oral cavity’ kind of way. Eugh.

But your dad’s tongue does brush yours, tastefully. You can actually feel the texture and it’s easy to tell there’s an erection fueling his actions- but not so much so that it takes over the whole kiss.

He uses your hair to pull you closer, teeth clashing momentarily. Not exactly the best feeling but everything else envelops your senses to the point that it’s only a flash of a moment. Your thigh is neglected by his touch, hand moving up and around onto your backside. He gives a squeeze to the fat of your ass and groans against your mouth before pulling you into his lap- legs folded on either side of his thighs.

You break the kiss, looking over your shoulder and to where the entrance is- the exit sign casting a nearby glow that gives you anxiety..

“Can’t- we’ll get caught.” You pant, that weird feeling that’s the grotesque love child of nervousness and excitement is swimming in your gut like a parasite before settling. The severity and realness of the situation sinks in.

Leon laughs low and mean, retracting his hand from your hair and moving to run it through the top of your scalp to push it back. He juts his hips upwards to prod his denimed erection into the cunt of your shorts. You mewl quietly, or maybe it was loud. The movie is just too deafening to distinguish which.

“Suppose you’re right, baby.” He tucks a loose strand behind your ear, leaning in to give you a light peck on the lips. “Told you you’re a smart girl, didn’t I? Can’t let me go around thinking with my dick, huh?”

His hand pats your thigh as if to tell you to get off.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Up.” He commands you with a huffed voice- not because he’s annoyed but because he’s a middle-aged man. Moving is hard. You ignominiously climb off of his lap, putting your bottom back onto the seat next to him. He’s looking at you, meandering a hand back onto your thigh just to rest in place.

You stare at the screen- but you can’t even register it because you’re too disassociated from what just happened. You almost want to beg him to fuck you right here- plead for forgiveness that you suggested stopping in the first place. And you can still taste that damned orange sour worm in your mouth.

Leon behaves, though. He’s good about that. Respectful. In the way of consent- not in the way of not tongue fucking his daughter in a public space. When the movie ends, he gestures for you to stand and you walk past him, carrying your empty cup and boxes of sour worms while the uncomfortable feeling of your slick clinging the gusset of your panties to your cunt. You look back at your father, the sight of him in the palely lit theater is a bit intimidating. He’s adjusting his pants for obvious reasons. You look away quickly and keep walking- a giddy feeling of satisfaction overcoming you. Shortly enough, you’re both back in the main area of the mall. You brush your shirt out and fix your hair- the thought occurs to you that maybe you look a little mussed and should have straightened up sooner.

But the daylight beaming through the sky roof brings you back to your senses.

“Hmm. What does my sweet girl want to get up to now?” Leon asks, intersecting his arms as he looks over you.

You think, mind fizzling as it short circuits. You almost smell smoke emanating from your head, too. How can you look him in the face right now?

“Uhh..” You really don’t know what to say. What can you focus on doing after everything that’s happened today?

“How about this? We can go home a little early and I’ll cook something up for lunch. The drive will give us time to work up an appetite.” He says, nonchalant. Right back to his same fatherly tone from earlier today instead of the ‘I want to split you open with my dick’ tone he had moments ago. Maybe he’s just being sweet and you’re overthinking.

You’re befuddled that he’s not saying anything else about… that. How can he so easily go from publicly groping you to acting cheery and normal? It’s frustrating. Disturbing even. Leon can see the disappointment on your face- but you don’t know that. You assume it’s well hidden, just like the fact you kissed your own father. He thinks it’s cute though. You’re just cock dumb for him. On the other hand, this whole situation is something he has to deal with.

“Got it.” You manage to say, walking a little faster than he does. This is the second time you’ve walked off from your dad, and it does irritate him because he can’t keep up like he used to. Displaced disc in his spine or whatever. Plus, he thinks you’re pissed. Which is worrying. Should have known better than to mess around with his own daughter, he supposes.

The drive back is silent and less terrifying than the previous, part of you thankful. Maybe he was only a bad driver in the morning. Unlikely, but not impossible. Maybe it was the fact that he drank whiskey with his breakfast. Hm. ‘Responsible’ in hindsight.

It’s still early in the afternoon when you arrive back home. The concrete is sizzling from the heat and the sun beats down way too uncomfortably for even a walk from the driveway to the front door.

Leon side-steps you to unlock the house before he urges you in. He may be morally reprehensible but he still didn’t want to let any cool air out- AC’s expensive. You plop down on the couch and he locks the door, walking past you and straight to the kitchen.

The tension is thick for you- but for Leon- not at all. You watch him disappear through the doorway as he goes to prep food. Why is it so hard to read his emotions? He’s like a fucking light switch. You’re annoyed- leaning back on the couch, until he calls for you. You’re quick to get up, scrambling into the kitchen.

“Hey, sweetheart. Mind giving me a hand?”

“Yeah. What is it?” You faintly cock your head to the side.

Leon looks to the side- directly at you. You’re cute when you’re confused. He can tell that all you’re thinking about is continuing where you two left off earlier. Shit, you’re no better than your mother. ‘S just that you’re not crabby and sour all the time like she is.

“Can you grab the saucepan from the bottom cabinet. Your old dad can’t exactly bend over too well.” He laughs- shaking his head. Yes, dad. I get it. I know you have a bad back.

You walk over to the cabinet where he’s leaned onto one hand which is rested on the marbled countertop. You feel a bit apprehensive to be close to him again. Mostly because you don’t trust yourself to not jump his bones, but Leon’s already ahead of you. As soon as you bend over, he pulls you back by the hips so that your ass is flush with his groin.

You’re taken aback but definitely not surprised. He’s a dirty old man, as you’ve learned.

“Gonna let daddy fuck this pussy now, or are you getting flaky on me?” He coos against your ear while he runs his hands up your sides and down again- creeping his hands to your front and over the buttons of your shorts- unhooking them through the slits.

“Yes.. want it.” You breathe in quick- the word coming out on its own. If god could hear you right now, he’d set your house ablaze with lightning.

“Need you to loosen up if I’m going to. You’re way too stiff.” Your shorts are the opposite of you, loose and unfastened fully so they fall to your ankles, and Leon nudges your feet apart with his boot. You realize he’s got a point as you feel his calloused hand glide down your hip and yank you in place. The other hand is spreading your pussy lips apart before finding that fleshy bud between them. A moan rumbles in your throat as your legs almost give out below you. He mutters a curse under his breath, and you realize his cock is now out while he rubs up against your ass- getting off on not only playing with your pussy but from dry humping you.

“Fucking christ. Got the prettiest ass, baby. Think daddy needs to see it bouncing on his cock.” You can practically feel that stupid, smug look as he grabs his dick- slapping it on your ass. It makes you cringe a little, but maybe you should be cringing at the fact your dad is the one doing it. You figure it’s just something he saw in porn, so it doesn’t leave your expectations high at the moment. Great. Leon adjusted himself back into his pants, for now.

His finger continues circling that bundle of nerves, your legs shaky as you’re being pressed into the counter, a hand is on your lower back to keep you down so he can do what he wants. You sound stupid- tears welling in your eyes as you babble nonsensically about wanting to cum. He moves his hand off of your back and sinks to his knees to be face level with you (even if it makes his back hurt a little), sliding his fingers up your inner thigh until there’s a digit prodding your hole, slowly pushing in.

He watches your cunt swallow his finger, barely able to fit it inside.

“Fucking shit, baby. Gonna have to stretch this pussy out if I want my cock in you, huh? Think you can let daddy do that?” He asks, breathy and sounding like he’s trying not to bust all over himself.

You eagerly shake your head.

“Yes, daddy. Need you to get me loose.” The words spill like a hot cup of tea from your lips, scalding Leon with desire.

“God damned. Such a polite fucking girl I’ve got. Might have to eat your mother out later to thank her for making you so respectful.”

You scrunch your face in disgust.

“That’s fucking gross.” You moan, Leon slipping a second finger into you, which should technically feel like four with how worn and big his hands are.

He tuts, planting a kiss to your asscheek.

“Now, didn’t daddy just compliment you? Could be a bit more grateful since he’s trying to make you cum” He grits, sounding a bit (terrifyingly) stern.

You apologize again.

“Sorry, daddy. Just don’t wanna hear about you and mom. Makes me jealous.” You admit, briefly thinking about their dinner conversation last night. Then about how fucking weird you are. You’re really hoping you get the courage to bash your head on the marble countertop and get amnesia.

Leon laughs, but in a way that makes you think he’s amused more than actually laughing.

“God. Want me to stop fucking my own wife just ‘cause you’ve got a needy pussy?” A third finger slips in, making an almost unbearable stretch as you feel a slight ache, but the previous two fingers already did enough work that it’s not completely unbearable.

“Maybe you’re not that grateful. Giving you three fingers here and she’s still too tight.” He twists his hand, letting the inside of you feel every inch of his knuckles and calluses. Your knuckles, however, are ghost-white as you grip at nothing.

“Maybe your fingers are just too small.” You say- mostly from built up tension and annoyance that you didn’t get to let out yet. But you regret the words.

He’s silent- which scares you. He pulls his fingers out of you- the stark contrast in emptiness is clear and the cool air stings you.

Leon groans as he stands up, kicking off his boots before yanking you by the arms to stand straight. He leans into your ear.

“C’mon. You’re gonna come sit on daddy’s dick, since you’re too fucking picky.” Goosebumps form all over you as he leads you to the couch. Leon leaves you standing there so he can get comfortable and discard his clothing, lying back with his hands behind his head. You make a mental note of how his biceps look with his arms bent in this position, even if you kinda feel like it’s lazy. But holy fuck, his toned stomach is perfect- sprinkled with a happy trail that will definitely lead you somewhere that will make you happy. Speaking of, his dick is nice. Fat. Not sure how big it is since you have not much to compare to, but you’d imagine taking it would be a bit of a proper challenge.

You step a little closer- crawling awkwardly over his lap- ass faced towards him so that you settle on his waist. It’s hard not to feel self conscious about your backside in this position, even considering the fact that he was just fingering you from the back moments ago. You’re mostly just upset you can’t gawk at his tits or stomach.

You grab him by the base, shifting yourself to hover directly over him, letting the tip graze your wet hole before slowly sinking down- a drawn out moan escaping you.

“Fuckkk. That’s it. Sit down on it. Take all of daddy.” You glance over your shoulder as you bottom him out; his eyes are half-lidded. Well, at least he’s got a pretty face while you’re fucking him. You almost failed to realize his hands moved from behind his head to your ass- gliding up your back and down again.

You take a moment to adjust, breathing shakily ‘cause his dick is so fat you think you might die. Or maybe you’re having a heart attack at your ripe age.

“Didn’t tell you to take any breaks, did I baby?” You’re annoyed at his pushiness, but you did have a bit of a sour attitude earlier. So you can only blame yourself.

You’re not sure how to entirely do this, but you move yourself up and down. Not at a fast pace, yet. Just that savoring your dad’s dick seems like a reasonable ordeal.

He doesn’t shut up, though. You’re learning just how much he likes to talk- as if he just wants to hear himself. Is he even getting off on you or the sound of his own voice? It makes you roll your eyes even if you do like hearing him say dirty shit.

"That’s my girl. So fucking good. Ride it nice and slow... Work that sweet pussy on daddy's cock.” You just might fall over dead hearing him say any of it- it’s disgusting but sweet Jesus are you eating it up. He must know it too because of how you clench around him involuntarily when he talks like that.

“You like when daddy praises you? Yeah, you love me telling you how good you are.” His words are husky and yet pleased with the previous tidbit of information.

“See how nice I am? Letting you sit on my cock after you made me wait earlier. Wasn’t very nice of you, now was it, baby?” His words have an underlyingly mocking tone, but you’d do anything to make him change it.

“No, daddy. Was really mean of me.” You whine pitifully, bouncing yourself on his dick like it’s your major in college and you’re trying to pass with flying colors.

“I know, baby. But daddy forgives you.” He murmurs, sitting up with you still on top of him. He’s flush against your back now- reaching in front of you to make those same tight circles on your clit. You both exchange your pitchy moans and his grunting and groaning- working up to a good point in both of your impending orgasms.

“Gonna cum in this pussy, got it? Daddy doesn’t like to pull out.”

You scramble a bit, squirming on his lap.

“Fuck, dad! You can’t do that!” You whine as his other arm holds you onto him- wrapped around your stomach. Your nails dig into his forearms, hopefully not leaving noticeable scratches.

“I think I can, baby. You’re squeezing me at the idea- I’m not fucking stupid.” He’s quick to be mean again, but you’d be a liar to say you’d don’t want him to cum in you. And you’re not a liar, that’s just deplorable- coming from someone who is literally fucking their dad with enough energy to power a small village for a month. And yet, you don’t stop riding him.

And your silence tells it all.

“Yeah- my baby wants a nice creampie.” He sounds more strained now, letting go of his hold on your stomach and using his hand to now guide you to roll your hips on him.

Sweat beads down Leon’s forehead, bangs sticking to his face as he watches your ass grinding against his lap.

“Fuck, baby. Just like that. I’m gonna cream this tight fucking pussy. Want that, don’t you? ‘Cause daddy’s gonna give it to you whether you want it or not.”

You should be a little more upset or concerned in any regard right now, but the last two days have made you into a proper whore to the point that you don’t even give a shit. Self respect crawled itself into a space shuttle and launched off of the planet, probably to never be seen again. Stuck in orbit, if you will.

You’re sucked out of the motions when Leon speaks again.

“Stop, stop.” He pats your bottom.

“Turn around, baby. I wanna see your face. Wanna kiss those lips while you’re on my dick.” Your stomach flutters with nervousness and a sickly sweet feeling. You lifted yourself from him with a trail of arousal to follow and maneuvered to turn around- this time he was holding his cock ready for you. Moments went by of you staring, getting a proper look of him since everything had been a quick blur so far.

“Come on, baby. Need you to mount daddy’s cock again. Told you I wanted to kiss you, didn’t I?” He exhaled, sounding a bit pent up. Jeez- seconds without pussy and he’s getting upset. Maybe he needs a therapist and anger management, not his college-aged daughter spearing herself on him.

You replied, yes, daddy. Sorry, daddy. Didn’t mean to make you wait, daddy.

You dropped yourself down onto him once more- only this time it was easier since you were able to get accustomed to his dick.

“Start moving sweetheart, make daddy cum.” He instructed, leaning in to take you in a kiss. It was more dirty than the last kiss, somehow. His tongue slipped between your lips- Leon lifted you with his hands on your waist before jutting his hips up to slam his cock snugly into your heat, groaning against your mouth delightfully.

His teeth nipped your lower lip- giving you a little further taste of just what kind of lover he is. Or maybe this is just the version you get. Either way, you can’t complain in any area. You feel lucky to receive even a sliver of it.

The familiar roughness of his thumb returns to your already throbbing bud- circling at the same pace he’s now moving at. Despite his age, he seems awfully enthusiastic to do strenuous work involving his hips. Bad back, my ass. Or maybe he’s able to put that on the back burner to please you. Probably worried if he doesn’t give you good dick then you’ll go tattle on him.

Leon didn’t break the kiss whatsoever while he pounded into you ruthlessly, he swallowed up every moan and noise you made like it was alcohol. ‘Cause that was his favorite, obviously.

When he pulled his mouth off of yours, a trail of saliva lingered- stretching out while you giggled on top of him. Something about you laughing almost made him nut immediately, but he held out just to prolong this and let it engrain into his mind for certain.

“Got the prettiest baby- look so good on my cock like this. Want daddy to bust in that pretty pussy?” He asked, looking for your approval.

“Uh-huh. Need daddy to knock me up.” The words came from god knows where, making even your eyes look bewildered for a second.

Leon laughed darkly at you.

“God, baby. Daddy’s so fucking close.” He muttered stupidly, almost like he was drunk. At least this could be an ego boost for you- but the fact it was your dad canceled that out. Dick only counts if it’s from someone that’s not related to you. His eyes did that half-lidded thing from earlier that you found so hot, and he pulled you down onto his cock one last time, spilling thick ropes into your blood-related hole. His dick pulsed as he let out a muted grunt, head lolling back and his adam's apple on full, stubbly display. You could bite it, just like a real apple.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He moaned. Jeez. He was a whore, honestly. The way he made noises and didn’t shut the fuck up was honestly… a case that should be studied. Maybe he had been turned out a time or two himself.

His cock didn’t soften though, nor did he not forget about you cumming. He lifted his head back up, looking down at where his thumb was. It was almost like he read your thoughts, not saying a word as he concentrated on making you cum. ‘Cause earlier he had been too eager to get in you and you were too eager to get on him.

Your nails dug into his shoulders (hopefully your mom wouldn’t notice any marks on him when she gets home from work later) and he gently fucked into you while you received proper attention on your aching clit. The combination of his dick keeping you full and the sensation of his digit sent you throbbing through your orgasm around him- low curses and other disgusting things coming out of both your mouths.

‘Cause you’re both disgusting.

[joshleyson]

summer 2023 on film

El Nido + Puerto Princesa

shot entirely using Fujifilm Simpleace 35 mm camera

☾

“Some of the earliest memories I can recall are of my mother instructing me to always “save ten percent of yourself.” What she meant was that, no matter how much you thought you loved someone or thought they loved you, you never gave all of yourself. Save 10 percent, always, so there was something to fall back on. “Even from Daddy, I save,” she would add. Stop crying! Save your tears for when your mother dies.”

- Crying in H Mart, Michelle Zauner

This was a part of my 10%. To be able to disconnect. To breathe. To try to heal and maybe, that would be the last thing that can save me.

So happy to finally go back to the majestic islands of Palawan for the third time after a year, this time specifically in El Nido (and a side trip in Puerto Princesa). The last time I’ve been to El Nido was 5 years ago when I flew back to Manila with a copy of my leg X-ray and prescription meds after my first vehicular accident. But this time, amidst the Betty super typhoon, I and my friends were still able to pull it off safely and enjoyed wandering from one island to another, relaxing on the beach for hours, and having lots of mango shakes! This trip I also finished which I feared to be my Book of the Year which is that quote from above. Michelle Zauner literally took me on a surprisingly, meaningful journey which was a great accompaniment for my 6-day vacation trip. Also, I’m planning to compile my “recent book list” of the year just to break the usual “travel beach photos” trend on this page (I know 😅). I still have a lot to post from this trip but this dump of photos captured on a Fujifilm summarizes the beauty of nature and the summer season that’s so real, quaint, and frozen in time, but will always hit me with a wave of comfort and familiarity.

Goodbye, summer. See you next year ☀️

J.

🎥 watch the short mood film here:

//

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(Music by GIVEON. All rights belong to him and his publishers. For personal and non-commercial use only. Stream his great music on Spotify and Apple Music.)

[crosseyedcricketart]

Tips for Packing Light for Road Trips

Literally.

These tips both cover packing light weight-wise and packing light in terms of bringing only what you need. This list is targeted for roadtrips, but some points work for flights too.

make a packing list

Having a written list of everything you usually use and need for a specific location can help you to pack only what you need. If you’re going somewhere cold, make sure to amend your packing list to include layers such as thermal undergarments and coats. If you’re going somewhere warm, make sure to take note of lighter garments and breathable items. The best way to pack light is to pack wise, and the best way to pack wisely is to plan. This doesn’t just have to include you either, especially if you’re going with your family or a group. Think about what you’ll need but if you need to, make a packing list for your child or a list to double-check that your party has what they need.

Here’s some important aspects of a packing list:

clothing

toiletries

destination specific needs

documents and identification material

medication and prescriptions

technology

I have a large packing list here if you would like to reference it, or you can make your own. Just make sure you have a baseline of what you’ll need, where you’ll need it, plus it doubles as a re-packing list so you don’t leave anything behind.

replace liquid toiletries with bars

I’ve said this before many times, but I mean it. If you have a liquid toiletry you can trade out for a bar version, it will save you space and weight in your luggage. While this list is focused on road trip packing, bars also avoid any carry-on TSA issues that can happen with liquids. Building on that note, a bar of product can be more or the same amount as a full size bottle, depending on on the product. All of that being said, if you can trade out a bottle of shampoo for a shampoo bar, you’ll be able to save a lot of weight and space. Plus bars can’t bust if you load it in the car odd.

There are a lot of bars available now, online and in-store, such as soap bars, cleanser bars (such as a Dove beauty bar), shampoo bars, face wash bars, and conditioner bars. Being able to switch out one or two of these can save you a lot of space and weight. Here’s what i personally use:

Ethique shampoo & conditioner bars.

Dove beauty bars.

Beekman 1802 soap bars.

Duke Cannon soap bars.

If you’re going to switch out any of these products, make sure you try them before your trip. Don’t take a product unless you know it works for you. Make sure you do your research to ensure that what you get will actually work for you or have the chance to work for you.

The only catch with bars is that you need to know how to take care of them. Really, all you need to do, is make sure you pack them dry and have a carrier for your bars that allows it to have a dry space. Make sure when they’re used, they’re removed from the shower or bath and placed out to where they can dry, either in the sun or in a well ventilated area. If you’re going to need to use the bars and don’t have a place to dry them, make sure you have an air-tight container for your bars until you can get to a point where you can let it dry.

use mini or travel size products.

now this is the oldest piece of advice with packing light, but it’s constantly said for a reason— using minis and travel size products can save you space and weight. this is especially helpful for mouthwash, skincare, some makeup products, perfume, deodorant, cologne, or toiletries. if my tip about bars (above) doesn’t work for you, that is a-okay, and this tip will probably help you more. Find some nice travel bottles (I use Target’s OpenStory Ivy set) and find any products you can get a mini of. A lot of brands sell mini products on their own websites, such as Saltair, Tatcha, Summer Fridays, Glow Recipe, and Hourglass. Look to see if your favorite brand sells a mini on a retailer or their own website. Target (in the U.S.) has a substantial travel section, with travel size products such as mouthwash, soap bars, wipe packs, and hair care.

I’m going to put this under this tip, but it’s not exclusive to this tip: if you can find a concentrate that works for you, pack that with you. I personally have those mouthwash concentrates in mind, where you add your own water to it in a cup and mix in the concentrate. A lot of products that are mainly water (because water is needed to dilute the product to be useable) are starting to sell concentrates now, so look into that if you think that will work for you.

Building on the minis from brands above, you can also do this and then keep the mini container to refill with products as you please. I have a Youth to the People cleanser pump and two mini glass containers that I use for home and travel. I actually refill it with the BYOMA cleanser. If you buy a mini, make sure to keep the container to see if you can reuse it for a future trip. On a side note, I actually had a mini of the Tatcha Dewy Skin Cream, and I reused it by filling it with brush cleaner for when I’m painting and switching in-between colors that I don’t want to mix. I know name brand mini’s can be a bit expensive, but the right ones can also be reused past the product being used, so keep that in mind.

make planned outfits

I actually didn’t come up with this in my bubble of life, my brother did. Make planned outfits for your trip so you know what you have and you don’t over- or under-pack. This is a tip that feels obvious and once you implement it, it makes packing what you actually need a lot simpler. Here’s how I personally do it.

First, I look into where I’m going, specifically the weather. The weather is a massive aspect of what your outfit plans should be. It’s never fun to go somewhere and only have sneakers and have it snow or rain. Next, taking consideration from the weather forecast, I write down how many outfits I will even need for the trip. If I’m going 3 nights, I’ll need what I’m wearing when I travel, outfits for the full days I’m there, and something to wear on the way home. So, out of those factors, I’ll need to pack 3 but prepare 4. Finally, you go into the specifics of what you want to bring, keeping in mind the context of the two points above. This is where you get as specific as you want. It can be that you’re going to pack 2 sweaters, or that you’re going to pack the green and the brown sweaters. At the very end, recount what you have and make sure you have other clothes that aren’t just your outfits, such as what you’ll wear to bed or wear when you’re relaxing. Make sure you have your necessities such as undergarments too.

This is an amazing tip for any trip you’re planning. As you plan your outfits, it gives you an opportunity to do any last minute laundry you need to do, makes sure you have clothes you’ll actually wear, and you’ll know you have outfits that match. This helps to both prevent overpacking and underpacking.

use organizing cubes and bags

Consolidating and organizing what you’re packing makes it so much easier to pack, plain and simple. Using packing cubes, space saving bags, and organizational bags can save you space and can allow you to opt for smaller luggage.On top of that, they keep your luggage from becoming a tornado-level mess if you’re going to be living out of your luggage instead of putting it away while on your trip. Or, if you do want to take out your items, you can keep it in the organizers and know that you didn’t accidentally leave anything behind.

Having just one additional item to organize your packing can make a world of difference. I personally use compression bags and packing cubes and it makes it so easy to know what you have, where it is, and (for the compression bags) it saves space for puffier/bulkier items. I love sweaters. Bulkier sweaters suck to pack. However, with compression bags, I can pack my sweaters and have them compressed. The specific compression bags I have are water-resistant and dust-resistant. That becomes useful if you’re using a softer bag, such as a Vera Bradley weekender bag, that has the chance of getting wet.

Compression bags are extra helpful if you want to pack something outside of luggage: as is the case with a lot of road trips, you’re going to want an emergency bag of items to keep with you, including a blanket. Compression bags work out in favor of this, as you can make an emergency bag with a compressed blanket in it, in case you need it.

Organizing cubes add a lot of structure to your packing. They’re great for hardshell luggage, weekender bags, and children’s bags. My mother has a Vera Bradley weekender bag that doesn’t have much structure to it as is, so packing cubes add structure and organization to that bag without adding extra weight.

A lot of brands that carry their own travel section have packing cubes and some have their own compression bags. I got mine from Target, personally.

double check the weather of your destination

I mentioned this above and I’ll say it again— double check the forecast of your destination before your trip, even the day of. I live in the southeastern U.S., which means random rain and thunderstorms that were not in the forecast two days ago appear and now the sunny day you thought you were going to have will be rainy. Double check so you can pack anything you need in addition to what you have. This stays away from packing light to packing smart; you can pack everything in a backpack and forget an umbrella to render you wet with a backpack on.

To build on this point, I find it to be wise to get a smaller umbrella. When I say smaller, I really do just mean not a massive umbrella. This way you can keep it in a purse, backpack, or weekender. If you are road tripping, as is the focus of this article, keep an umbrella or two in your vehicle and, if you can, some emergency ponchos. While it makes your trips activities better, it’s also good to have protection if your vehicle breaks down or if you have an emergency where you have to be in rain, snow, or wind. This is a reminder if that does happen to you, keep the umbrella close to your person and move it against the wind so the top doesn’t turn inside out, and move against the wind so your poncho doesn’t balloon up and let in rain.

This is super important, not just for items such as umbrellas, but to see if you need boots, hats/beanies, gloves, scarves, or lighter clothing, shorts, or really anything that can keep you safe and comfortable on your trip in the event of weird weather. I almost never pack for a good day in mind, I think about how to layer an outfit to be warmer or cooler, and I think about the worst case scenario, weather wise.

think about what you’ll need on your trip

This is really road-trip specific, building on packing wise, think about the logistics of your trip and think about what you’ll need. The goal is not to pack nothing, it is to pack what you will need and use. If you’re going to be at a hotel for your sleeps, think about if your hotel will have what you’ll need, or what they might not have. If you have coffee/tea every morning, think about if you’ll be able to get what you normally prepare your coffee/tea where you’ll be staying. I personally want sugar in my coffee and hate sugar packets. That’s not even factoring in if the hotel will be well stocked, if they have gotten their hospitality shipments in, if there wasn’t a haggle of children who demanded sugar packets for some reason (that happened one time)— so with all that being said, it might be worth it to pack some sugar for me so I know i’ll have sugar in my coffee. Just think about if that applies to you. If you have any dietary needs or restrictions, think about bringing something with you so you’ll have what you need. This can be sugar alternatives, if there’s a certain brand of coffee you like, if there’s a type of snack you know you’ll want— go ahead and pack it if you’ll make use of it.

pack light, not insubstantial.

With my experience of packing light, I had a mixture of people to look to as examples. One of those people could fit a weeks worth of clothing in a backpack, one of those knew how to throw together a weekender for a work trip, and one knew how to pack just what they needed. The last person mentioned was the only one who wouldn’t forget something crucial to their packing list, without overpacking. That being said, the goal of packing light is not to pack insubstantially, but to pack wisely and know what you need. Don’t worthlessly wittle down your packing list if there are items on there that you have a high chance of needing.

This point is truly a conclusion of all my previous points above. Make sure you are packing what you need, what you’ll use, but don’t leave out things out of fear of packing too much. Overpacking is typically born out of ill-preparation and anxiety. Trust me. I’m both of those things. But the best way to counteract this is to plan. Make sure you know what you’ll need, and don’t bring too much else.

If you have any other thoughts, ideas, or questions, be sure to leave them in the comments or my ask box! I hope you have a gentle and kind day, and make sure to take some time for yourself today.

Happy travels- Annie, the crosseyed cricket.

crosseyed cricket art © all rights reserved. 2023-2024

[gotham-ruaidh]

Little Bit Better Than I Used To Be

This story takes place during the summer of 1987. It’s the time of the Cold War, and heavy metal, and Just Say No.

Ten chapters, each with a specific song as its soundtrack.

I’m so excited to finally share it with you.

Catch up: Chapter 1 (Starry Eyes) || Chapter 2 (Save Our Souls) || Chapter 3 (Dancing On Glass) || Chapter 4 (Merry-Go-Round) || Backstage (1) || Backstage (2) ||| Also posted at AO3

—-

Chapter 5: Danger

I was blind // One step from the edge // Spin round and round // Out of my head...

Soundtrack: “Danger,” Mötley Crüe, 1983 [click here to listen]

Dinner passed uneventfully. Claire picked at her spaghetti, lacking appetite, listening to the conversations unfurling around her:

“…yeah, I remember that one time my buddy and I were watching TV and one of those Just Say No commercials came on, and we laughed our asses off as we took bumps of coke…”

“…the bed sheets are way too scratchy. I’m trying to get my husband to send me a set from our house, but those goddamn counselors and their goddamn rules and phone time limits mean I haven’t told him yet…”

“…what kind of meat do you think is in this sauce? If it’s beef then I’m morally opposed to it…”

Most people had finished eating and were now getting up and moving around to other tables, sitting with friends, catching up after another day.

Quietly Claire stood and slipped out of the dining room and onto the spacious deck. Breathing deeply the fresh air.

Jamie was already leaning against the rail.

She sidled up alongside him. “Don’t feel like socializing?”

His fingers drummed on the wood. “Not today. This may sound funny, but I really don’t like crowds.”

“You seemed fine at Group this afternoon. That’s a crowd, right?”

He looked over – and down – at her. Christ, he was tall.

“When the attention’s all focused on me, I’m fine. I’m with other people, but I’m separate from them – whether that’s on a stage, or in my house, or on my tour bus. But to be in a room with a lot of other people…”

“Yeah. It’s not just the noise, either. It’s…you just want to get away from it. Process.”

He shared a small smile. “You understand.”

She nodded. “I do.”

Together they watched birds flit from treetop to treetop, and the setting sun glint off of a waterfall far away, deep down in the beautiful valley before them.

“You said that your therapist told you to be honest, right?”

He nodded.

The hum of conversation drifted through the open door.

“Why have you taken such an interest in me? You have your pick of any of the women here.”

He jerked, almost as if she’d hit him.

“What the hell are you insinuating?”

“You told me yourself – you’re a sex addict. I don’t know if that was your way of telling me – ”

“Do you seriously think I just want to get into your pants, Claire?” His nostrils flared – his cheeks flushed – his hands shook. “No,” he said, quite emphatically. “Christ, no. Definitely no.”

Agitated, he scrubbed his hair with his hands. “I won’t lie to you, Claire – you’re a beautiful woman, even with the dark circles under your eyes. Maybe six months ago I would have pulled you into my dressing room and had my way with you. But there’s a reason why I’m here. I can’t be that man anymore. The alcohol always brought it out in me.”

She closed her eyes, shame washing over her. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey. Claire, hey.” Softly, softly he reached for her clammy, shaking hands. Squeezed them. “I don’t want to upset you. I know you’re still getting used to everything here. The last thing you need is me in your life.”

She took a deep breath. “What we talked about in Group today – about clarity? Well, I fucking finally have clarity now that the Halcions are out of my system. I’m feeling for the first time in two years. Feeling so fucking much. I’m angry at Frank and I’m angry at my friend Joe and I’m angry at the pharmacist who had to know what was going on when he filled the prescriptions. And I’m so. Fucking Angry. At myself!”

She yanked her arms from his grip. Eyes wild.

“Fuck! How did it get to be so bad? How did I get here?”

“At least you’re here, Claire.” Jamie’s voice was quiet, calm. “It could be a lot worse.”

Tears wet the corners of her eyes. “You mean, I could be fucking dead?”

He nodded. “This is your second chance. Grab onto it.”

She completely deflated.

Slowly, slowly he gathered her into his arms. Tucked her head beneath his chin as she cried.

“Shh. It’s all right.” He ran a gentle hand up and down her back. “Trust me. It’s all right. I sobbed like a little kid every day for the first two weeks I was here.”

She inhaled deeply. A hurricane of emotion.

“I’m such a fuck-up,” she hiccupped.

“You’re not. You care about your own healing. Others care, too – that’s why you’re here. Right?”

She nodded.

He was silent for a long while. “There is a reason, Claire, why I – why I’m drawn to you. But I won’t tell you now, not when you’re so exhausted.”

She sniffed. Swallowed. Straightened in the circle of his arms.

It was almost dark, but she could see his eyes clearly.

Gently he brushed a curl away from her forehead. “Come on. I think we have chocolate pudding for dessert tonight. Let me get you a bowl.”

[pbandjesse]

I need to focus on the nice parts of today. We raised over $1000 for James. I loved my outfit and my hair. I got to spend time with the love of my life and walk around Johns Hopkins campus and it was very pretty. But I was just. So incredibly tired. I was not having the best time.

But I tried. I tried so hard!! I just didn't sleep great. And woke up later then I wanted. And when I woke up I was so happy to see James. But I felt so sad. For no good reason. I just felt bad. I felt like I had wasted the whole morning and wasted James's time. And they were like. No. They literally were doing their own thing all morning. But I still felt bad.

I got dressed and felt very cute. This is a very good outfit. And we would head out soon after I was dressed to go to the spring fair.

It was a little cooler then expected. I mostly wanted to see what people were selling at the art market but only a few tables were set up today. We would get food and sit on a bench and people watch. I enjoyed seeing flowers and plants and the old buildings. The falafel James got me was very good and I very much enjoyed the lemonade. I also liked the cup it came in.

We would walk around a bit but I felt really low. And we decided to head out of there and go do our next thing.

Sitting in the car for a while helped me feel a little better. I think the food helped too. But I was still sort of walking in a fog. My allergies were bad. I was just in a weird place.

We went to Ulta and James got some pretty new nail polishes. And I got summer lotions. One for nighttime that is soothing and one for the day that I can mix sunscreen in. I got the body shop body butter like I normally do for the summer. It is just the best. I got the satsuma scent and it is very nice. I like the new packaging a lot too.

We would go to old navy next to use the old navy cash back coupon me and Jess earned. This was specifically to get James shorts and summer tops. But it did not go super well. James was having a lot of image issues and didn't like a lot of things. And honestly the selection wasn't as good as it was when we were here the other week.

I did end up picking up a dress I had tried on last time but didn't want to pay full price for. And it was more then half off this time around so I was really pleased about that. It was a little upsetting to see my body, my skin, in the dressing room lights though. And it's hard because like I don't actually care how it looks. Like I think it looks like I'm a burn victim or that I have rubella. But also like. This is my body. I am more concerned about grossing other people out. I don't want people to think im contagious and gross. And like I don't want to be hurting. I hope my new prescriptions come soon.

James got a few shirts and shorts and they were kind of down but they just kept saying they were wasting my time. Which is very silly. Because I love them and just want them to feel their best.

We would save over $120 though between the coupon and sales and clearence. So that was exciting. But we were both ready to go home.

I was still very very tired. We got back here and I changed into a sweatshirt and got in bed pretty quick. I felt very bad about this. But I knew it wasn't worth fighting it anymore.

James came and held me for a bit. And eventually I fell asleep.

I woke up after 4 and felt bad still. But not as exhausted. Just a little woozy and so James made me a peanut butter and jelly which helped. And I got up and did all my knitting for the day.

It's the first of the month so I had to do the two lines of black and today's color. I was a little woozy still so it took me a while to get it done but I am really happy with the progress. A quarter of the way done? Almost half?? I am not good at fractions.

James made me breakfast for dinner. And I laid on the couch. Eventually I would take a bath and wash my hair. Use my new night lotion. And now I am cozy in bed.

I am at the nursery all day tomorrow. I wish it wasn't 930 to 530, as I prefer the days that end at 4. But it's okay. It will be a fun day still. And hopefully I will not be so sleepy.

Good night everyone. Love you all.

[fashionmarket]

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[nochanchu]

something about her (and that damn crinkly-eyed smile)

pairing: park sooyoung x reader genre: best friends to lovers + fake dating au / romance, fluff wc: 1,708 author’s note: completely self-indulgent. simply a scene in which miss sooyoung asks you to be her fake girlfriend because of an ex that would not stop plaguing my mind.

An invitation from the one and only Park Sooyoung brings you to her apartment for what should have been a simple studying session, but truth be told, simple just isn’t in her vocabulary.  

Sooyoung is her own kind of whirlwind, one that you have had the most gracious opportunity to be swept up in. She isn’t problematic, per se, but she has had her fair share of shitty relationships and poor decision-making that has made you worry for her more often than not. 

Her previous partners have either been too little or too much, and her last relationship left her a little less like her usual self. Her sudden bouts of flings afterwards and late night calls to you confirmed that. 

Sooyoung wasn’t one to let the ends of relationships hurt her, at least not in this way, but she and Doyeon shared i-love-you’s and an entire summer together when they took back to back summer sessions together. Neither of which were Sooyoung’s forte, because she didn’t fall in love and she didn’t cohabitate with partners longer than a couple of evenings at a time.

Now, you’re certain she is even more adamant to keep these rules enforced as you see her phone light up with unsaved contacts. They were probably people she had met at the bar she worked at, because one glance at the screen earns the sender a distasteful click of her tongue and her attention is turned back to you instead of all the Chaucer poems you two are supposed to be transcribing for the upcoming midterm. 

“Question,” she says, letting her pencil sit back on the coffee table. 

To be fair though, you two have been deciphering the texts for the last hour and half, so a break does feel necessary.

“Answer,” you reply, feeling some satisfaction in hearing her snort. 

Naturally, her answer isn’t one you expect. It’s hard to say what you expect from her sometimes; one minute you can guess what’s on her mind, the next minute you have to wait for her to explain her thought process. “Wouldn’t it be fun to try a relationship out?”

Your eyebrows furrow, never once had the topic of a relationship with Sooyoung ever popped up in conversation until now. “What do you mean? Why—?”

“Just to try!” she says this with a shrug; to which you raise your eyebrow. 

“I don’t know. Haven’t you ever wondered what a relationship with me would be like?”

You chuckle. “You’re so full of yourself sometimes.”

Leave it to your best friend to present the somewhat taboo questions in life. Not that thinking of dating your best friend is the biggest taboo, which it isn’t, but leave it to her to ask it as if she were asking how your day was going. 

“But haven’t you?” she asks, glancing at you with an indiscernible look. You can’t decide whether she is trying to parse out a specific answer or if this is genuine curiosity, and even then, you don't know what would have compelled her to ask such a question. An inkling of a feeling tells you she has motives for it though.

You gulp; it’s still such a loaded question isn’t it? Your best friend, who is gorgeous, vivacious, and all too good for any of her previous partners, was asking you if you ever considered dating her? It’d be a lie to say no. Of course, you have. 

“Who hasn’t?” you blurt out, voice a little uneven. It feels like your heart might beat its way out of your chest.  

That catches her off guard just a little. 

“Wait, huh?”

“I just mean I think it’s a common thing for people to think of what dating their best friend is like,” you say carefully, each word chosen with care, because you find the real reason a little embarrassing. Sure, you’ve joked about being the real one that she needs in a relationship, but deep down, you mean it. 

“Is that the only reason?” she asks, not wholly convinced, and with a damn good reason. 

You nod, but you’re awful at half-truths. 

“I believe you’re missing the part where you tell me the whole truth.” 

It’s an opportunity to guffaw, at least to diffuse the situation, but it falls short in your throat. 

You know you have to admit the truth then. If you’re awful at half-truths, then you’re abso-fucking-lutely terrible with whole lies. You had tried it once, and only then, because she had caught you the moment you tried to say you were fine when an ex had broken up with you on the same day he had cheated on you with someone he told you not to worry about. She knew by looking at you and was just about ready to light his ass on fire had you not needed her then. 

But, to set things straight: you’re not in love with Park Sooyoung. Of all people, you know better than to let yourself fall in love with her. That’s asking for hurt. But wishing you could date her? Show her what a relationship should be for her? Yeah, you’ve thought of it on more than one occasion, and you tell her that. 

“I’ve thought about dating you,” you admit to her. “I’ve considered what it would be like, how I’d treat you better than half of those other people you’ve gone out with, because I think you deserve a million times better than any of those assholes. It’s embarrassing, I know, and you’re in no desire to get into another relationship, but yeah, I mean it. I’d date you if only for that reason.” 

“So you think you could make it convincing if we tried it?” she asks, tilting her head at you. 

“Huh?” This time it’s your turn to be thrown off guard. 

“Is this where you tell me what brought all of this on?” You can tell your cheeks are burning; while you’re used to being vulnerable with Sooyoung, you also don’t like to act as though you know what’s better for her. You know your own capabilities of what you can do and offer her, and you know that a real relationship for you two could spell inevitable trouble if things go sour, and the idea of jeopardizing that feels more unsettling than being exposed to your own whims of seeing your best friend happy. 

“Well, do you want to try being together then?” she says all of this without batting much of an eyelash. If anything, she seems amused more than anything else; over what exactly flies over your head as you feel your cheeks burning even hotter. 

You say her name, more so in warning than in a whine, but you can’t even tell if your voice is strong enough to come off intimidating with the way her eyes seem to crinkle with her smile. 

“Ah, c’mon,” she giggles, “you’re too cute when you’re trying to be serious, you know that?” 

You shake your head at her, pursing your lips. 

She exhales, leaning closer to you on the coffee table. It makes you hyper aware of both your positions. Somehow facing her with only this glass top table feels too intimate for you, like you two are entering uncharted territory, what with the confession in the air and now her sudden proposition. You never know what to expect with her. 

“I just--I’m sorry,” she tells you, with a quiver to her laugh. 

This time it’s your turn to tilt your head at her. “What’s going on?” you ask, none of the potential conclusions making much sense in your head. She didn’t suddenly awaken with the desire to be in a relationship, least of all with you. This feels similar to the time she had you accompany her to her aunt’s wedding for the sake of saving face when an ex of her blew her off at the last minute. 

“Doyeon started working at the bar.” 

“Oh--” you blink. “Are you alright?” 

“I’m managing,” she tells you with a less than convincing nod, “but I didn’t realize it would suck this much to see her again. She’s been coming around with her current plaything, because he can’t seem to leave her alone, and it just… sucks.” 

“Oh Sooyoung,” you sigh, reaching over to put your hand atop of hers. “Do you need me to be your hot best friend-turned-significant other?” 

She smiles, the crinkly-eyed one, that you consider rather contagious. 

“Maybe, yeah.” 

“She never did like me all that much,” you tell her. “She always looked like she wanted to murder me every time I came around.” 

Sooyoung leans in, as if to tell you a secret, and whispers, “She did. She thought you actually had the hots for me, and would eventually steal me away. Some dumb shit like that. I always told her you weren’t the homewrecking type.” 

“Of course, she felt threatened by me,” you snicker. “Well, if you need me to be your new plaything, I agree.” 

She rolls her eyes at you. “You’re not a plaything,” her tone is gentle, and she changes the position of your hands so she’s the one holding yours, “but I appreciate your acceptance to being my fake girlfriend.” 

“Of course,” you scoff playfully, “what else am I here for?” 

“Apparently, to show me what a good girlfriend is supposed to be,” she retorts, earning a squeak from you. 

“Shut up!” 

She laughs, still a rather pretty sound. “I appreciate that though, Y/N. You’re always looking out for me.” 

“I’d be a really shitty best friend if I didn’t want the best for you, you know. But, also, let me just say that I didn’t mean it to be prescriptive or whatever. I just want to see you happy.” And it’s true, that’s all you want for Sooyoung. She’s so headstrong and passionate; she loves wholeheartedly and knows what she wants; so, more than anything, you want her to have someone that can match that, or if anything, keep up with her and support her just as she should be in her endeavors. 

“Well, you make me happy,” she says with a smile. That same damn crinkly-eyed smile.

It makes your heart flutter, just a little. 

[quinnmorgendorffer]

because i need to get this out here somehow...hopefully the cut works so you guys don’t feel obligated to read this lol

church was always a part of my life growing up, i know i’ve talked about it on here before. i know i’ve mentioned getting “saved” at recess and going to church lock-ins. i’ve mentioned missing some of the christmas traditions our church did, like ending on “silent night” in only a candle-lit worship hall. but religion has just a much heavier part of my life than i’ve talked about.

my family wasn’t always the best in attendance until i was around nine. to quote arrested development “i don’t want to blame it all on 9/11, but it certainly didn’t help.” but actually, yeah, i blame it all on 9/11. we went to a vigil the night of the attacks and suddenly every sunday my sisters and i were woken up to go to church.

i didn’t mind all of it. i liked being an acolyte when i was one on the first or last sunday of the month - first sunday was communion, which we helped with, and the last sunday was the “noisy offering”, where we went around with buckets to collect change for one charity or another. i liked singing in the children’s choir. i never cared for the sunday school or youth group stuff as i grew older and people i enjoyed hanging out with in my age group left our church to join different ones for various reasons. my parents had to deal with the multiple youth pastors we had over the years telling me and my sisters that, basically, believing in evolution was a sin. my parents were NOT okay with that since they, you know, actually believe in science.

i don’t regret all my time in church, though, if only for the music. i still love and miss the songs. it’s how i got my first solos, where i got to test performances at the annual variety show. i had a really bad relationship with my high school’s choir director, but i could always count on getting compliments and praise and love from my church community every time i sang. it was something that really kept me going when i felt very untalented.

when i was 13, i got to join the adult choir because the music minister thought i was good enough, which i was so proud of, because normally you had to be in high school before you could join, but i was asked early. and i even got to sing the soprano solo in fauré’s requiem, my first ever classical solo (which is funny to look back on now seeing as my voice is nowhere light enough to do that piece lol anymore lol). i would practice with the children’s choir every hour on wednesdays, then wait the half hour for the adult choir practice. the children’s choir didn’t perform every week, but the adults did, and we used to do two services every sunday, so i’d wake up early to sing at the first one, go to sunday school, and then go to the second service, where we would normally leave before the sermon started. eventually we went down to just one service (no pun intended but thank GOD for that). eventually i was asked to be the song leader for at least three years of vbs (vacation bible school, a summer camp for kids, normally some over-the-top story being taught through videos). i may have been asked/done more, i can’t remember for sure. 

outside of church, my family wasn’t super religious - most of us, most of the time. my dad still had some hang-ups about gay marriage due to what i have to say is religion, because i don’t think there was any other reason. we’d say grace whenever my grandfather came over for dinner, and sometimes during our own bigger meals when he wasn’t there. it used to be a thing with my sisters (and my mom, i think?) when we’d go to bed that we’d say something about “don’t forget to say your prayers”. oh and at one point, when my sister and i expressed a desire to not go to church, my dad said he was worried we’d go to hell. that was fun. 

all of this to say that.....i remember doubting a belief in god a lot. as i’ve grown older, i still haven’t been able to figure out my beliefs. i find it hard to believe there’s a god when there’s all this suffering, but i also find it, well, depressing to think that there ISN’T a god. i feel like it’s not “smart” to believe in god, at least not Christianity, but i’m afraid i’ll go to hell if i even speak that thought out loud. i’ve found comfort in prayer.....

......except, over the years, i’ve developed a bit of an ocd-style relationship with prayer. i’m terrified of flying, enough so i got a prescription from ativan just to help. and though it can knock me out, i always have to say prayers while the plane is taking off, or else i *know* i’ll die/we’ll crash/everyone on the plane will die. because somehow it’s all my fault, you know? it doesn’t leave me calm at all, but it makes me feel like i have SOME control over things. i’ll say my prayers during bad turbulence, too, any time we shake at all.

and i don’t know when i got back in the habit of saying my prayers at night, but i’ve been trying to prayer every night since covid hit. i’m sure i was praying again before that, too. they’re all silent and in my bed, no kneeling or anything. if it isn’t clear yet, i was raised in the united methodist church, so i was taught that we had a friendly relationship with god and could talk to him whenever. very much unlike how i’ve seen all my catholic friends talk about their upbringings. but i always do a silent prayer and then the lord’s prayer, just like how my church would do it.

and, again, it’s been a compulsive thing where i’ll start saying things in a certain order and HAVE to say them in a certain order with a certain wording, some of which i’ve kept since childhood. sometimes i’m spending several minutes just trying to get through everything because i’m falling asleep since it’s so late and i keep drifting off and i feel like i have to start over or something will go wrong. 

i prayed so hard for joe biden to win. i’m still praying he can get power peacefully. i pray for the covid vaccine. and i spent the most time every night praying that my family, friends, and loved ones don’t get covid. i specifically list my family members, i try to bring up every group of friends - friends from school, theater, the internet, my rocky group, music, opera, etc. - and pull out specific friends who i worry about the most for various reasons and try to remember to pray for their families, too. i pray for my voice teacher and her family. and for everyone i single out, i have to have a reason for why they’re singled out. i pray for my roommate and her family, and then lastly i pray for myself, and always add that if i get it, my roommate will most definitely get it and vice versa.

so all of this is just to say that my faith has turned from any semblance of faith to something i think i’m holding onto just from anxiety. and i hate this jaded dumb story that they do on sitcoms and the like, that someone’s prayers wren’t answered so they don’t believe in god. that’s not my only reason, of course, but having my sister get sick with something she may not survive has led to me feeling this dumb guilt, like i didn’t pray hard enough, that i was falling asleep during prayers, that i wasn’t being a good christian. and i know it’s not true, but it’s how i feel and i hate myself for even trying to take any blame on top of it and i’m just a mess and i’m so scared.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Through the Looking Glass || Morgan & Skylar

Timing: Early last week

Parties: @mor-beck-more-problems, @theskyeandsea

Contains: Mentions of drug use, depictions of death and dying

Summary: Morgan and Skylar take a break from it all to have a fun, innocent time at the carnival. 

Skylar basked in the rays of the summer sunset, taking in a deep breath to fully absorb the sugar-laden scent that mixed with the salty sea breeze in a surprisingly pleasant way. The heat of the day had faded and the flashing lights of various attractions blinked against the backdrop of the ocean. She could hear sounds of carnival games whirling and children laughing as they ran from one ride to another-- it was… wonderful. And nothing that she’d ever experienced before. Her mother had never liked the idea of state fairs or carnivals, calling them “backwoods entertainment” or other things like that. She’d never been to the circus either, though a part of her really didn’t mind that. The idea of seeing animals having to perform had always made her a little uncomfortable. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a familiar figure walking up and she offered a wave. “Hey, Morgan!” She said with her usual brand of quiet enthusiasm. “I’m glad you wanted to check out the carnival with me. I, um, I’ve never actually been to one before.” She admitted with a sheepish smile.

Morgan opened her arms to Skylar and pulled her into a hug. She was a tall girl, Morgan could never wrap her up safe the way she seemed to need sometimes, but she did her best, giving Skylar a little squeeze. The weeks since they’d seen each other had taken the stuffing out of her. New medication could be rough like that, and Morgan wrestled with the urge to ask if there was anything more to it. Another hunter attack? Another White Crest wilderness mishap? “Hey, you,” she said instead.”I’m glad you said yes. There’s at least a seventy percent chance this place is chock full of magic, but I can’t help but want to go back and it’s much more fun with a friend. “And you’re definitely not alone there. This might be my second trip, but this is still my first carnival. It’s so big, I don’t think even two trips would be enough to see or try everything. But we can do our best, right? We’ve earned a little break from all the mess. And I really want you to tell me if turkey legs are still all they’re cracked up to be.” She linked their arms together and lead them under the entrance archway. There was enough sun for her to read all the signs and posters indicating what lay where on the fairgrounds and she stopped a moment, feeling the same twinge of wonder rise up all over again at just how much there was, and how simple the choices were, all just a matter of want, of color, of impulse. Nothing more weighty or more complicated than that.

Initially taken aback by the hug, Skylar relaxed into the gentle embrace, squeezing Morgan back in kind. How long had it been since they’d last seen each other? How long had it been since she’d seen… much of anyone, actually? After her run in with the hunter, she’d spent so much of her time holed up in the house or hiding at work, desperately trying to keep her head down. She didn’t know if the man was still out there, only what he was capable of. But… it had been over a month since that awful night. Over a month since she’d gained the new scar that sliced across the back of her leg. “You’ve already been here before? Did you come with Deirdre?” She asked as she let Morgan take her arm and guide her into the carnival proper. It was loud and the noises from the people around them were slightly distracting, but being close to Morgan helped her focus on her words. “Turkey legs? Those sound really great, I’d love to try one.” She said, intrigued by the idea. Something that she’d be able to eat without worrying how people would look at her. That honestly sounded really nice. As they walked through the carnival, she took in all the games and lights, the various rides that spun around in dizzying circles. It seemed so fun and lighthearted-- a welcome change from everything else that had happened to her in the past few months.

“I did, yeah,” Morgan said with a smile. “It was quite the adventure, and uh, maybe as a consequence, we should steer clear of the Museum of Monstrosities pop-up stop. And that whole, uh, area. Just in case anyone recognizes me from last time.” She gave Skylar a sheepish smile. She felt a lot of things about that particular part of their visit, but regret wasn’t one of them. She knew, sure, that there was value in preserving artifacts and remains for the sake of history, for the preservation of people always on the run or in hiding, but that wasn’t what she’d seen. Hopefully this time, they could keep things easy and safe. “Come on, I’ll get you a turkey leg and  you can tell me what I’ve been missing out on while we figure out what we want to hit up first. It looks like there’s a lot of people taking pictures by that stand over there, but I can’t see what it’s for…”

Though she was a bit puzzled, Skylar nodded all the same, “That works for me. I’m not really interested in that sort of thing anyways. I figured there might be some… weirdness here. Given that it’s a White Crest carnival. But, yup, I’m very okay with not poking around that side of the carnival.” She said with an affirmative thumbs up. As they meandered through the carnival, her eyes flicked from attraction to another, Skylar could feel the tension start to ease from her shoulders. Being able to hang out with a friend, enjoy their company, do something new and interesting-- it was all just a nice break from reality. Kind of like how anime night with Rio and Winston had been. While she couldn’t remember the specifics of what had happened, it was still a very nice time. And hopefully tonight would be more of the same. “Oh, you don’t need to do that.” She said with a wave of her hand as she stood on her tiptoes, trying to peer over the crowd before them. “Um, I think it’s for some kind of lion..?” She asked, though her voice was uncertain. “Do you want to check it out? I’ve never actually seen one, so it could be neat. And,” Skylar pointed over towards one of the nearby stalls that was off to the side of the line, “There’s a turkey leg stand on the way while we wait. Two birds with one stone?”

“I think that sounds like a great plan,” Morgan said. She followed Skylar to the stall and took their turn in line, glancing up at her to see how she was easing into the day. She didn’t seem any more anxious than usual; there was even a hint of a smile pulling at her lips. But that flattened look remained. Maybe the side effects of her medication were more than just her mood. “Hey, I really am glad you got yourself figured out with your new meds. I got lucky that my happy brain shots don’t mess with me. It’s just my old prescription with an extra magic kick. But when I was first getting started, it was really hard.” She gave her a little nudge. “Anyways, I remember Turkey legs being really greasy and good. If it’s not just a little crispy on the outside and warm and juicy on the inside, throw it away as a lost cause.” She got on her tiptoes to look at the crowd by the lion’s den. “Must be a small lion. Think it’s a cub, or some supernatural critter we don’t know about?”

At the mention of her medicine, Skylar could feel her stomach twist a little, the inside of her left arm suddenly warm. But, she did her best to focus on what Morgan was saying instead, about how what she was taking really helped her. “That’s really lucky. I’m, um, I’m sorry about the other day. I just underestimated how much it was going to affect me. But it’s all good now.” She said with a nod. The pain was lessened, even now. Of course, she had some of the valium Felix had sent along with the bliss coursing through her system, cutting through the pain. But… Morgan didn’t really need to know that. As they passed by the turkey leg stall, Skylar slipped away from Morgan and bought herself one and was surprised by how tasty it was. There was a little bit of char, it was dripping with greasy, and just a little bit hard to chew through. While she was more than capable of eating with her veneers in, she was very aware of how easy it would have been to bite into the leg with her real teeth. Swallowing, she wiped her mouth before nodding in approval at Morgan. “Definitely worth the line for this, mhm!” She said before taking another bite as she looked over the crowd. She could just barely make out golden brown fur from where she stood, along with a very wispy looking mane. “It might not be very well taken care of..?”

“It’s really okay, Skylar,” Morgan said. “Things happen, especially here. We get taken away from ourselves for a little while. And then we come back. And yours definitely wasn’t that bad.” She smiled and stepped back to appreciate the scene of the turkey leg. Was it bad, somehow, to have so much excitement for something she couldn’t have? To fixate on how the skin peeled from the meat and the little bits of juice and how grease…? She could almost taste it in her mouth. She could only taste heat when it was boiling, enough to burn anyone else’s tongue off. If she reached for the wrapper, the grease would only be the memory of itself. Better to let Skylar have her fun and remember being at the rodeo on her own time, while she still remembered it at all. Besides, they might have a lion to save.

Morgan stuck close to Skylar as they made their way over. Crowds always parted for tall people and soon they were looking at...a dog. Morgan bent down and put her finger out to the animal’s snout. As he sniffed her experimentally before nosing her into pets, she noticed the seam around his head where his ‘mane’ pressed against his golden fur. Yep. Definitely a dog.

“He does tricks!” The boy handling him said. “Hey, Lion, can you roar?”

The dog wriggled into the most majestic pose he could manage and gave it his best effort.

“Lion, lay down!”

Lion laid down, puppy eyes turned upwards for approval.

“Good boy, Lion!”

Morgan exchanged a look with Skylar. Lion’s coat glowed in the afternoon sun and his tail wagged with delight as he received his ‘lion’ treats. Not much of a supernatural injustice or mystery there. “Is it okay if we pet him?” She asked.

Shifting with a slight unease at Morgan’s words, Skylar was suddenly grateful for the space between them. That, and the excuse not to respond as she took another particularly large bite of the turkey leg. Instead of responding, she offered a tentative smile and continued to shuffle forward towards the… lion. Which turned out to be nothing more than a dog wearing a scruffy fake mane, trying its very best to do the tricks that his owner commanded. In hindsight, seeing an actual lion might have been far too much for her, particularly if they were up this close. As it was, this “lion” was nerve-wracking enough. But, it seemed like a really well trained dog. As Lion’s tail wagged excitedly, eagerly looking up at his owner with a wide grin, Skylar couldn’t help but laugh a little. “If you’d like, that’s okay with me.” She said with a nod and followed behind Morgan as the two went up to the small stage where Lion sat, wagging its tail and accepting pats from the passing onlookers.

As she waited for Morgan to get her turn, Lion’s eyes lit up at her approach and darted across the stage towards her. Before she could react, the dog had stolen the turkey leg from her hand. “Lion! No, bad do-- lion! I’m so sorry, Miss, you coulda lost a finger.” The boy apologized as he grabbed Lion by the scruff of his “mane” and pulled him away. Meanwhile, the dog happily munched on the turkey leg, still very much grinning through the meaty bone in its mouth. “It’s okay, really.” Skylar laughed, shaking her head. “Well. That wasn’t exactly what I expected.” She said to Morgan as the crowd began to exit the small stage area. “Where to next?”

Morgan tried not to laugh too hard at the prospect of the golden mix dog taking someone’s finger. Lion was a lot of things, including meat hungry, but he yapped too happily and smiled too wide to look like much of a threat to anyone, even at his hungriest. But so as not to insult either one of them, she thanked the handler and went down the nearest walkway with Skylar. She looked up and down the stalls thoughtfully. “Probably not the games. Most of them are run by fae and not in the biggest at playing fair. And that game--” she pointed at one, “Looked a little weird to me the last time I saw someone play it. But, ooh, this is probably safe?” Morgan unfurled from Skylar and backed her way into a large wooden stall marked The Hall of Mirrors and Mystery. “I’ve always wanted to go into something like this before, but I’ve never had the chance. What do you think? Down for a little Wonderland walk, Alice? Feels like they have AC in here too.” She beamed wide, hand outstretched for Skylar, and slipped into the dark hall.

“That sounds good to me,” Skylar nodded as she followed Morgan through the crowd of people and they resumed their wandering through the carnival. At the other woman’s words, she raised an eyebrow, “The Fae? How did you figure out that they were running the games?” She asked, a bit curious. Did Morgan have some kind of sixth sense that came with being a zombie, that allowed her to figure out what other people were? Looking over in the direction of where she pointed, Skylar grimaced. People were just plunging their hands into what looked like a giant tub of mayo-- no, no thank you. “Mhm, I’d like to stay clear of that one too.” As the other woman peeled away from her, she tilted her head at the Hall of Mirrors. It didn’t seem too scary, unlike some of the thrill rides that dotted the carnival grounds. It was just a hall of mirrors, that was it. Looking at Morgan’s outstretched hand, Skylar nodded, “Does that make you the March Hare? Well, let’s go down the rabbit hole together.” She said with a smile of her own.

“My girlfriend has a very nifty way of looking out for me,” Morgan said with a grin. “Remind me to tell you how she won me two prizes at the dart game sometime.” She gave Skylar an elaborate curtsey and took her arm again as they moseyed inside. The mirrors were lined with bright strips of neon lights. Their reflections warbled in the first hall before their eyes like they’d been stretched out over the river. Then the room opened out to a large gallery, lined with mirrors fanned out in every possible angle, some into more halls, others into dead ends. The rest of the people with them scattered to their own corners, taking selfies and making fun of each other. Morgan let her fingers ghost over the edge of the panels she passed as she took them to the left. It was sweet, even, how much work had been put into something so simple. Then Morgan caught a glimpse of another self from the corner of her eye. She would know that Little Mermaid backpack anywhere. “Skye…” She knew exactly what day this was. Her little arms were so tired from carrying all the things she could squeeze into that dumb, plastic backpack. But the water was so high for her, she knew all her books would get ruined if she slid on the straps and carried it the normal way. She hadn’t packed enough clothes, and the neighbor’s boat had been left waiting because she was crying over the water in her socks and her ruined books. Her mother had yelled at her in front of all those strangers… She dropped Skylar’s arm. “Skylar, are you seeing this too?” She asked in a whisper.

Following Morgan inside, Skylar’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the hall, the only illumination coming from the bright lights that wreathed the mirrors in light. It was simultaneously blindingly bright and incredibly dark at the same time inside the hall. As she took in the room, she peered into some of the mirrors, a smile growing on her face as she saw how the various mirrors distorted her appearance. Some of them made her appear taller than she already was, others stretched her face, still others-- as she glanced over at Morgan, she was caught off guard by a reflection in the mirror. A small girl, with a bright Little Mermaid backpack… Blinking, Skylar looked around the room, trying to find the girl in the reflection. But, it was just her and Morgan. “I-- yes, who’s that?” Glancing around the room, she tried to look for any sign of supernatural monsters that might have snuck up behind them. Was it a ghost, trapped in the mirror? But, the expression on Morgan’s face was one of… recognition. Like she knew who the girl in the mirror was.

Before Skylar could question her further, she froze. A woman, her height, sandy blonde hair, her same blue eyes, but… much older. There were wrinkles around her eyes, the skin around her jaw tighter. And the way she held herself, was stronger, more assured. She stared at the woman, watched as her fingers began to sign something, though the mirror was too unfocused to make out the specific signs. But, she could make out the general idea. Safe, community, you are good. Swallowing, Skylar nudged Morgan, “I… Can you see her too?” The woman in the reflection looked to be about fifty. Who was she? Why did she look so familiar?

Morgan had knelt down to look at her nine year old self. She was trying so hard not to cry and Morgan felt a sickening twist of embarrassment for her. Just breathe, kid, she wanted to say. Just breathe while you still can. This isn’t gonna be the last time you lose everything, just pull yourself together. But she was just following her movements pitifully, struggling to carry herself upright with her wet things. She didn’t look away until Skylar’s call. She peered over at the next mirror and-- “Oh, Earth. It’s you. You look so--” A wet laugh burbled out of her. Morgan wiped the corners of her eyes and scrambled up to get a better look with her. “Um, I know these, she’s...comforting someone, yeah? She’s--” Older than Morgan would ever look, something she hadn’t bothered to think about before. What a life she was going to have, or might have, at least. It wasn’t going to be fun pretending to be a student or a younger friend of hers if they were even going to get to know each other that long. Morgan squeezed the girl’s arm gently. “She looks like she’s doing really good.”

The slightly off sound of Morgan’s laughter caught Skylar’s attention and she glanced over just in time to see the woman dabbing at the corners of her eyes. Not wanting to draw attention to it, she bit the inside of her cheek. It was only then that she processed Morgan’s words. It was her? No, that couldn’t be her. She looked so… assured. So calm and steady, like a tree that had weathered a storm and still remained standing tall. That couldn’t possibly be her. “I thought it might be my mom.” She whispered quietly, before reaching out to touch the mirror. Before her fingers could touch the reflective surface, the image seemed to ripple and she was face to face with her own reflection, tentatively reaching out to the mirror. The same clothes, the same choppy hair, the same blue eyes with dark rings below. “It’s me again.” She said, slightly aghast. “What was that?” Skylar asked, turning to Morgan, hoping the other woman would have some kind of answer.

“No, but she’s just your height, and the freckles--” Morgan was about to trace the pattern along the reflection when it shifted back to normal. “It...must be some kind of magic. Maybe it’s reading our memories, or the threads of fate. Showing us...our path, or some of them.” She rolled her shoulders and clenched and unclenched her hands, trying to steady herself without breath and moved down to the next mirror. “She is real, you know,” she said, putting on a brave smile despite her sniffles. “Fate? You have plenty of choices and opportunities, but once you’ve locked yourself past the point of no return, she won’t let you--” Morgan’s words died in a silent scream. She stumbled back into Skylar, trembling. Looking back at her was her body, but not rammed through with steel on the pavement. She was shot through with magic, energy warping her veins til they bulged white. There was a circle around her and a cauldron of blood at her feet. “Something went wrong,” her reflection whimpered. “I went a-a--”

Morgan backed away from her before another twisted, death-throes sound could escape her twisted mouth. “Sorry,” she stuttered, turning away and stumbling down the hall, only to find the vision of another death, this time, her body ground to a dark smear in some empty lot. She went stiff, turned again, and saw herself as it had really happened: stuck to the ground and choking on her pain as she cried. Stars above, there had been so much blood. She hadn’t remembered the blood except for what had stuck to her body. There was Deirdre and Remmy huddled around her, and the way everything burned and blurred because she was crying so hard and how she had fought because in that moment it was the end of everything: the last glimpse of the sky, the last cloud, the last look at someone who loved her, but the rest---Morgan’s hand went to the spot on her stomach as she remembered. Every time she’d  tried to lift herself off that stick, she hurt down in places she didn’t know she could. She’d hurt so much she’d barely been able to speak at all. Morgan screwed her eyes shut and clamped her hand over her mouth. “S-skylar?” She croaked. She didn’t want to be here anymore. If she had been fated to die the moment she came here, maybe even fated to become this (“Not a ‘this’, never a this,” Deirdre’s voice reminded her) she didn’t need to look at it. But Morgan’s jaw was clenched, her chest barely full with enough air to speak at all. “Skylar--?” She tried again, praying she was loud enough to be heard.

“But…” Skylar’s words died in her throat as she continued to stare back at her own reflection. How could that possibly be her? The woman who’d looked at her, she’d seemed… so much stronger, so much braver than she could ever imagine herself being. No, it couldn’t be her. As she listened to Morgan’s words, she wondered just what this place was. How could it know? How could magic see things that could be, or that would be, and project them out like this. Opening her mouth to ask Morgan another question, she caught sight of another Morgan in the mirror, a black cauldron rippling with red liquid at her feet--

Before she could react, the other woman had ran in the opposite direction, away from the terrible image in the mirror. And Skylar found herself alone. Except, she wasn’t. Not really. The image of not-Morgan faded from the reflective surface and a small figure appeared, her hair cut at a lopsided angle. Skylar’s eyes widened, a lump forming in the back of her throat. Blood, she could feel the blood that ran down her chin that day. That was the day she’d bit the awful boy who’d cut her long, beautiful hair. That had been the day her mother had taken her to get her hair cut in a choppy bob, to hide the large hunk of hair that was suddenly missing. She looked at the little girl who stared back at her with tear-filled eyes and blood crusted lips. Skylar wanted to cry. Wanted to sweep her up in her arms and tell her that it would… it would be better. But would it? Would any of this ever get better? Biting the inside of her cheek, she turned and ran in the direction of the exit. She had to get out of here, she needed to leave this place.

Morgan listened for any sign that the girl was nearby. All the grief she had buried rose up from the grave she’d dug at the bottom of her soul. It pulled on her bones with the coldest fingers, twisting her until she bent double, sore and aching. Then she heard crying. “Skylar--?” She choked out. She still couldn’t get her throat to open or her lungs to work. She looked around her and saw--another self. A live one, with flecks of gray in her hair and wrinkles around her mouth. She couldn’t stop her tears from coming anymore than Morgan could now. “What’s wrong?” Morgan rasped. She looked fine enough, save for the handle of whiskey in her grip and the mess of glass and dirty clothes at her feet. But there was something wasted-looking about her, like her insides had gone all shrivelled. “What did you do?”

The older woman shook her head and hid her face, ashamed.

“S-stop. Stop that. Answer me. Please, answer me. What did we do wrong now?”

The woman only popped off the lid of the alcohol and drank deep, grimacing with hatred before bending over with cries again.

Morgan stumbled down the hall, fingers catching on the bright edges of the mirrors. If she could just stick to one wall, she had to be able to find the exit. She passed herself crying in the bathroom as Karen was dragged away by her mom, the fragile whimpers she’d made when her mom explained that she was cursed, but no worries, great great grandma Agnes did it, it wasn’t just because she had the misfortune of being born. Stars, she never stopped crying, and it was all the mirrors were throwing back at her, a cascade of nothing but misery until, all at once, silence crashed through the hall.

The Hall of Mirrors, Skylar had realized, wasn’t a whimsical place. It wasn’t a fun, happy diversion from reality. No, it was just another reminder of how awful, how terrible this place was. How… inhuman she was. As she ran through a room full of more of the strange magical mirrors, she saw glimpses of her past self, of future selves. A small girl crying in the corner of the library the day after her brother had abandoned her for his new, better friends. A woman looking wistfully out to the sea. A seal, with deep scars running across her front fins and jaws. Tears began to streak down her face as she tried desperately to find the exit. She didn’t want to see this. She didn’t want to remember her past, she didn’t want to know what awaited her.

As she rounded a corner, Skylar found herself in a nearly pitch black room. The exit? It had to be, why else would it be so empty, so dark? As she took a tentative step forward, she realized the room was dark because the neon lights around the mirrors of this section had burned out. The room was filled with the barest hint of illumination that leaked from the hallway she’d just come from. She stood there for a moment, hesitant. Was this the right way? The instant the doubt entered her mind, a doorway creaked open at the end of the hall, filling the room with rays of sunlight. And that was when Skylar let out a horrified gasp.

A crumpled woman stared up at her from where she lay on the ground. An empty vial lay next to her and behind her, something burned. She couldn’t tell what it was, she was too focused on the tangled, matted hair, the scarred… collapsed veins of her arms. Sores, she could see ugly red sores that mottled her body. Dry, cracked hands rubbed at her skin, as though trying to brush away phantom bugs that crawled against her. Skylar stared in horror as familiar blue eyes looked back at her from sunken eye sockets. Even then, the expression on her face was serene. “It’s easier this way. For everyone.” The woman-- no, Skylar realized. Hardly a woman. This version of herself in the mirror… she couldn’t have been more than a year or two older than herself. A choked sob spilled out of her as Skylar sank her head into her hands, unable to look for any longer.

In the quiet, Morgan kept her trembling hands over her ears, just in case she was mistaken. She couldn’t handle another cursed, dead end future, she just needed to find Skylar and get out. Then she heard it: the faintest flutter in the air, a breathless laugh. She lowered her arms and looked, ignoring another series of selves that twinned with her exactly, alone at what might as well have been the end of the world. Morgan wanted there to be a point to all this, a reason to keep trudging through the days, even if it was so fucking rare and next to impossible.

Of course the Morgan in the mirror hadn’t aged a bit. Her dress was a little nicer, but no one would have been able to tell them apart otherwise. The only sign this picture had been summoned from years ahead was the girl next to her. She wasn’t more than thirteen by Morgan’s best guess, still round and soft in the cheeks. She swayed awkwardly on legs she hadn’t grown into yet, and only had to rise on her tiptoes to surpass Morgan’s height, which she did gleefully with a smile that made Morgan’s chest ache with recognition. Brown hair fell down her face and over her shoulders, ornamented with an uneven cascade of flowers and tiny bones she had tried to put in herself. She was, Morgan realized, a near-perfect rendering of Deirdre, only younger, happier. Her nose was sharper and upturned and her eyes were much closer to hazel than brown, but it was that same effervescent spirit that sometimes fell out of Deirdre when they were alone and happy, rendered large over the girl’s entire body. And she had wings: a thin set of moth wings patterned gray and brown and white like the trees in winter. They fluttered in giddy fits as she tried to show off the mess she’d made of her hair and cajole her Morgan into doing something for her.

Morgan reached out for them, forgetting the glass until her fingers knocked against it. She didn’t dare ask aloud, as if doing so might jinx this future’s existence. But she knocked, trying to get their attention. Was this everything it looked to be? Were they that happy? What was the girl’s name? And where was Deirdre? The Morgan in the mirror gave her a smug smile, seeming to read her thoughts, and mimed that her lips were sealed. Morgan could have watched them until nightfall, watching for some hint about how to get to that place, but the sound of another cry, markedly different from her own, jolted her out of her longing.

Skylar. Shit.

“Skylar?” Morgan called. “Where are you?” She followed the hall into another room and-- “What the hell is that?” She rushed over, but the image of Skylar’s ruined body faded as soon as she was close enough to get a good look.”Skye?” She asked softly. “Hey, can I help you up? We’re almost out of here, okay?”

Skylar didn’t want to see this, she didn’t want to see any of this. She didn’t want to know what the future held for her, not if this could happen to her. This was just… too much to bear. Even if the other possibilities existed, this one, the one that stood before her-- she let out a shuddering sob. As awful as this final one had been, the others replayed in her mind. The ruined jaw of a seal, an older woman staring with intense longing at the sea… She didn’t want to know those existed. None of them were good, none of them were right. Skylar felt the tears roll down her cheeks as she buried her head deeper into her hands. “No. No, no, no.” She mumbled to herself.

Skylar felt more than heard Morgan next to her and did her best to quell the sobs that shook her body. Peering through her hands, she nodded. “P-please. Please, I can’t… I can’t.” She said before retreating back to the shelter of her hands.

Morgan reached for the girl, pulling her up with ease. “You’re gonna be okay,” she said. “There’s nothing to see anymore, and we’re getting out of here.” She hefted them towards the wall she’d been following and soon found another door. One push and light streamed into the dark room. Morgan dragged them out, stumbling into the fair grounds and kicking over one of the cones that blocked it off for anyone mistaking it for an entrance. She held Skylar steady and upright. “Deep breath, honey, okay?” She said. “We’re out. You can take a big breath now. We’re safe.”

Breathing, she could do that. She could do that. Skylar let Morgan lead her out of the Hall of Mirrors, burrowing her head into the smaller woman’s shoulder. What she’d seen in there, what could come to pass… No. No, no, no. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. She forced her lungs to fill, made herself hold the breath, measuring time by the rapid pounding of her heart, before letting it out. Over and over, she did that until the panic began to fade. The fear remained, the dread and horror still hovered over her like a dark cloud. But, at least she was out of there. At least she was safe. “I… Need to go home.” She whispered. “Can we go?”

“Yeah, honey, we’re going home right now.” Morgan took Skylar’s hand firmly in her own and steered them quickly back the way they’d come. She could no longer pick out any one sound or sight. The lights were too bright in the afternoon sun, the sand glared cruelly against her eyes, bouncing against their bodies like spotlights. Morgan hurried them faster, faster, not letting go of the girl’s arm for a moment. “We don’t have to do anything else today, okay?” She said. “We’re just gonna go. We’re going, Skylar, okay? It’s already behind us. We can talk about it later. For now? It’s gone.”

[gotham-ruaidh]

Little Bit Better Than I Used To Be

This story takes place during the summer of 1987. It’s the time of the Cold War, and heavy metal, and Just Say No.

Ten chapters, each with a specific song as its soundtrack.

I’m so excited to finally share it with you.

Catch up: Chapter 1 (Starry Eyes) || Chapter 2 (Save Our Souls) || Chapter 3 (Dancing On Glass) || Backstage ||| Also posted at AO3

—-

Chapter 4: Merry-Go-Round

It's not easy puttin' on a smile // You're alone, lost and found // She waits at home just to love him // Through the night thinkin' // He's been gone so long now // Is he coming home...

Soundtrack: “Merry-Go-Round,” Mötley Crüe, 1981 [click here to listen]

Claire hunched deeper into her cardigan as she turned the corner into the dining hall. The thin mountain air was chillier than Boston at this time of year, and she’d have to speak to someone about getting more clothes. Gail, bless her, had shoved just a few days’ worth of essentials into the bag that she’d brought to the intervention – how she had gotten access to Claire’s apartment to pack, Claire didn’t even want to think about – and there was no telling how long Claire would stay at The Ridge.

Addiction was a tricky thing. It would never go away. So – how could she ever be cured?

“Hey!” Claire looked up to see Marsali waving from one corner of the dining hall. “You gonna be helping us out?”

Claire shrugged. “That’s what I was told. I don’t have a clue what I’d need to do.”

Marsali laughed. “I didn’t, either. And Jamie certainly didn’t – he said on his first day that he hadn’t set a table or mopped a floor in years.”

“I heard that!” Jamie popped up from behind the island at the other side of the room, setting down a package of unopened Sterno fuel cans. “Hey, Claire.”

“Hey, Jamie.” She rubbed her arms – from the chill, from discomfort.

“Well, I could use you over here, for starters.” Marsali gestured to a pile of placemats and a rack of glasses. “People pick up their own napkins and silverware when they help themselves to food – but it’s nice to have a proper place setting.”

Claire rolled up her sleeves and soon began laying out the placemats across the six rectangular tables, careful to ensure they were all straight and evenly spaced. Marsali was at her elbow, gently placing one tall, empty glass at the top right corner of each placemat.

“For water, of course,” she smiled. “How are you doing, Claire?”

Claire set down another placemat, not meeting Marsali’s eyes. “I still don’t quite know where I am and what I’m doing.”

“That’s normal, you know. For at least the first week.” Gently she set down another glass. “There’s so much to process. First and foremost, that you’re an addict. None of us would be here otherwise.”

Claire darted up a quick glance to see Marsali smiling kindly. “You didn’t know?”

Marsali snorted. “I’ve always liked to party a bit – even after my son Germaine was born. I thought it’s what adults did – Fergus and I were so young when we had him – and I didn’t think anything of it.” She paused. “Germaine is six. One morning I’m making him breakfast, hung over like you wouldn’t believe, and he asks me if I’ll be having wine with my eggs.”

“I take it that that had been an everyday occurrence?”

“I thought it happened only occasionally. But once my little boy said that, my husband just looked at me.” She set down another glass, and gently held onto the back of a chair. “That’s when I realized I needed help. I can’t do that to my son. Thank God Fergus had done some work for Dougal, so it just took a phone call to get me here.”

“Dougal?”

“Dougal MacKenzie – he’s the director of his place. Heroin was his drug of choice – he was real active in the jazz scene twenty, thirty years ago. He OD’d, almost died, and decided to get clean. Learned so much that he decided to open this place.”

“And he’s Gillian’s husband?”

Together they walked to the next table, and Claire began setting out more placemats.

“That’s right. Together they’ve helped so many people. And I really, really want to get better, Claire. I’ll lose my marriage if I don’t. And my little boy.” A beat. “Do you have a family of your own? It’s totally fine if you don’t want to share anything.”

Claire clenched her jaw.

“It’s all right. There’s not much to tell, really. My parents died in a car accident when I was five. I was raised by my uncle, who thankfully is still alive and enjoying his retirement as a professor of archaeology. I was married, to a man who I thought loved me but who seemed to love his students more. And one graduate student in particular.”

Gently Marsali touched Claire’s elbow. “I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.”

Claire shrugged. “It was the divorce that put me over the edge. I was so angry at myself – I felt so blind, and that I’d wasted so many years. So I just wanted to numb it all out. That’s where the pills came in handy.” She paused, smiling sadly. “I wrote out the prescriptions in the name of my ex-husband – and then I’d take them to the pharmacy myself. I used my old driver’s license that had my married name, to say I was picking them up for him. The pharmacist never knew.”

“That’s kind of brilliant.”

Claire set down the final placemat. “Yeah. I thought I was pretty smart. Though clearly it brought me here today.”

Marsali set down the final glass. “OK – next we’ll go check in the kitchens. We’ll bring out the food and set it up on the buffet. Ready?”

Claire nodded.

They walked toward the kitchen door, and passed Jamie – heaving a metal tray of tomato sauce.

“Spaghetti Wednesday again!” he exclaimed.

Feeling a sudden chill, Claire followed Marsali into the kitchen.

[pennys-th0ughts]

Robert Gray - The Origin of Pennywise 🤡 Chapter 1

Papers were scattered all over the desk and the dim light coming from an old oil lamp was fluttering in a lonely corner of the room. It was raining outside one cool November night of the year 1873 and the cobbled streets of Derry were almost empty. The sky was black ink like and the moon was bigger than usual. I was sitting on my armchair next to the window watching the last persons leave the street heading to the warm refuge of their homes.

The rain drops crashing against the window were falling down the glass getting thinner and thinner until the rain became a light drizzle. My eyes were focused on an old naked tree which had been stripped from all its leaves; it seemed to be dead since a crow was holding onto one of its branches looking erratically sideways. A seemingly endless night had woken up from its brief nap time, wet weather made it longer but sometimes the fresh breezes get to cool down my unstoppable mind from overthinking.

Stores were closed and finally the silence took over the sidewalks as insomnia used to take over my tired body and restless mind. I was twenty five years old and I suppose it was an advantage to be that young and have no commitments yet while being the sole heir of the only medicinal store in town. I could use my freedom at will and do whatever I pleased, managing my times since I was my own boss at work. The burden of such responsibility fell down on my shoulders when my father passed away, a couple of years after my mother decided to leave us because of a serious case of fever that my father couldn’t cure. I guess he felt defeated for not being able to cheat death this time and the corrosive feeling of guilt was what finally submitted him one night during his sleep.

The formalities concluded and after an orderly ceremony, the family’s lawyer made me sign some papers, then it all became in some kind of beneficious curse I needed to keep on going in order to survive. My father was the only apothecary in Derry and he began teaching me from an early age the art of mixing drugs to create specific medicines, so my grandfather did with him and so on.

Business flourished when a new disease wave attacked the small town leaving many fatal victims and several people in a critic health state. The only hospital was packed and people who couldn’t get medical attention in this facility had to stay indoors to prevent spreading the illness. There is when I stepped in. During a whole month I wouldn’t stop preparing thousands of dosses commissioned by the hospital and many other wealthy families. I would end up working night and day to fulfill the town needs for medicine to cure diphtheria, soothe the pain and reduce the fever. I got to really enjoy my work, but one day I couldn’t take the overwhelming pressure anymore that made me snap, so I started looking for an assistant to help me out with the preparations and also someone to deliver them. Speeding up the delivery could definitely save other people’s lives.

Shadows of death were still lurking and swallowing everything in its path, turning the alleys darker and the houses emptier. The plague was spreading faster than we could cure it and the atmosphere in Derry was getting heavier with sadness and hopelessness. During the nights, streets looked like pathways to afterlife and the little oil lamps hanging at the entrances were like golden eyes, always watching and waiting.

Two days passed and interested people didn’t make themselves wait much longer and started to come to the drug store asking for the jobs. They were all willing to help but none of them fit with the qualities I was looking for. Until one day I finally found her, or perhaps she found me. Her features were as I imagined them and even better; she had little hands and long fingers, she was meticulous and careful. Her name was Charlotte Wise but she was known in town as Ruby, a well-deserved nickname since her hair was red as the stone. The day she came into the store everything changed, as if a sudden peacefulness had taken over the place. My new assistant would transform not only my work but also my life from that moment on.

Spring arrived after the dark days left Derry and its people slowly tried to get back to normal. Charlotte and I began having more time to spend in each other’s company so I decided it would be a good opportunity to teach her something new related to her job. We were still working as usual but the environment inside the shop had some kind of magic that was making it springier. Andrew, Charlotte’s younger brother, took the delivery job and he was doing very well, we didn’t receive any complaints about time or packages delivered in bad conditions. The boy was attentive and helpful, just like his beautiful sister. Agility was on his side and he was making a great use of it with the bicycle he got for the job. When work increased we bought a new mean of transportation so the boy wouldn’t get caught under the suffocating heat or merciless storms.

That year ended with a happy ending for Derry and we started a new one even happier. Charlotte and I had gathered enough money to begin a new life; she wanted to live with me so we bought a small but modest house two blocks away from the shop. Her brother would inherit his sister bedroom in their mother’s house so things couldn’t have settled down any better. I proposed Charlotte to be my wife one hot summer morning to which she merrily accepted. We got married at the chapel and later we had a delicious brunch under the willows of the park. That day and the ones that would follow would be memorable.

August, 1875

Charlotte’s contractions were getting more often and she will soon start her labor. We found out she was expecting later that summer which to me was like more wonderful news. I was in the middle of a preparation to help diuresis when someone came to the shop and let me know that my wife was in the operations room. I left Andrew in charge of the shop until I got back and rushed to the hospital taking the carriage; it will get me there faster.

I got to the Derry Public Hospital just in time to hold my wife’s hand and help her with her labor. Although she wasn’t looking so well she was doing an amazing job, showing her braver side, as always. The nurses were extremely careful and gentle; they were coming and going, taking wet cloths and other objects to the room.

After a long struggle Charlotte finally delivered a beautiful baby girl into this world. The doctor cut the cord and put her on my wife’s arms; he turned around and made me to a side to talk privately.

– Congratulations Mr. Gray – the literate man said squeezing my shoulder-. Your daughter is in perfect shape – he made a pause and, with a lower tone of voice added- but I'm afraid your wife is in delicate condition now. She has lost too much blood and she will require an intensive iron treatment to overcome the anemia she might possibly develop.

The doctor gave me a prescription with the steps to follow and a food diet, I thanked him for his advice and went back with my wife that had fallen asleep cuddling our child. The little girl was oddly quiet, she seemed confused and curious yet she was paying attention to her surroundings very carefully. I came closer to take a better look at my tiny wonder and took her little hand with my fingers that she immediately held on to firmly. My heart was pounding inside my chest like a machine out of control, making me sweat almost profusely. Nervousness, excitement and curiosity were a complex mixture, as the ones I was so used to prepare with the only difference that this one was totally out of my knowledge.

Charlotte was indeed exhausted and very pale but I could see the joy sparkling in her face. She made a huge effort to open her eyes which eyelids seemed too heavy. Once she could finally fix her eyes with mine, she grabbed my hand and made me sit next to her. She looked at me in silence for some minutes as if trying to dig up my feelings somehow and figure out what was going on inside my head. Slowly the light in her eyes started to fade away, like a candle about to be completely consumed.

– Promise me you will always look after her, Robert – she pleaded in a whisper.

I nodded bitterly without saying a word knowing that, deep down inside she was, in some way, asking me to do something she wouldn’t be able to do and she just wanted to be sure we would be okay. I stroked her cheek so tenderly that the very contact with her smooth skin made the tips of fingers ache. I hugged them both as if I was trying to protect them from the world and the coldness it owned, but my arms seemed not to be enough. Nothing seemed to be enough to replace the turmoil of divided feelings I was being prey of that very moment so, I did what I was the best at, I began mixing them just to find the balance between happiness and sadness, wholeness and emptiness.

Five years later

Snow was covering Derry like no other time of the year and streets looked like unpolluted highways to heaven. There were some children playing in the front gardens of their houses, some were throwing snowballs at each other and some others were building snowmen. Augustine was having a hard time building her snowman since the snow kept on crumbling or the little branches didn’t stop falling from their holes. I was watching her through the window and her persistence was one of the many reasons of my smile. I grabbed my coat and went outside to help her finish what for her seemed to be a colossal monument. She was almost six years old and her mother and I had the chance to pick a name for her which I will always be totally grateful for.

Christmas was near and I had already bought Augustine her present. Andrew would spend the holiday with us since I started to enjoy my brother’s-in-law company and her niece loved her uncle very much. He became a great help when Charlotte passed away and our daughter was still a baby, he would take care of her while I was working and making the deliveries from time to time.

After Charlotte died I didn’t feel the need to bring another woman to work to the shop and less to start a new relationship, the hollow she left inside me was big enough to be impossible to be filled with somebody else’s presence and the fact was I wouldn’t ever try to replace my wife no matter how alone I could feel. My queen left her throne and I had a princess making her way to occupy it someday and that, for some unexplainable reason, was already a whole challenge that I had gladly accepted the very moment I looked at this little girl into her eyes.

To be continued…

[dear-wormwoods]

--> Playlist: Eddie Kaspbrak Makes a Change <--

All of this new content inspired me to finish fine tuning the Eddie playlist that accompanies the Richie one I posted last week. I’m super excited about this one because it has some incredibly meaningful songs on it and Eddie is REALLY hard to make cohesive playlists for because he’s so complex. This is like, the 6th incarnation of ‘my Eddie playlist’, but it’s by far the most cohesive one.

So, as with the Richie one, this follows the plot of IT as is, except that Reddie happens. Which... may not be as canon divergent as we all thought, now! The narrative here follows Eddie’s attachment to Bill, realizing the truth about his mother, falling for Richie, moving and regressing into mom dependency and sedative abuse, then returning to Derry and ultimately dying in Richie’s arms.

Detailed explanations underneath. Spoiler alert: shit gets depressing.

1. Intro: Like I said in the Richie playlist, I like to start out with an instrumental that sets the right tone for the story that follows it. Intro has a really whimsical, dreamy vibe, which is how Eddie’s chapters always read, to me. 

2. Like the Dawn: This song is... so Eddie. It represents Eddie meeting Bill, his idolization of him, and the feeling that Bill can give him the world and therefore his world depends on Bill. It contains a lot of biblical imagery, which I love when it comes to Eddie songs. Most meta lyric: “and you will surely be the death of me, but how could I have known?”

3. Futile Devices: This one is also about Bill, but at this point Eddie is trying to figure out what category his feelings for Bill fall under. He grapples with the idea of it being romantic, but ultimately he realizes it’s familial - brotherly/fatherly. 

4. Glass Ceiling: This one represents Eddie’s gradual separation from his mother throughout his time with the Losers. At first it’s just, I only know what I’m told, I only do what I’m told. He says what Sonia tells him to say and acts the way she wants him to act. But as time goes on, he feels trapped and starts breaking out of this mold - and what’s more, he realizes this is something he has to do for himself, not something he will be saved from by a third party (no knight in silver armor shining). Most meta lyric: mention of losing an arm, rip.

5. Secrets and Lies: OOF. This song. This is after Eddie finds out about the placebos, when he’s in the hospital with his cast, channeling Maturin to fully and sternly stand up to his mother. At least for now, he knows exactly what she’s done and who she is, and he’s not going to take it anymore. 

6. breathin: Self explanatory. Eddie has an anxiety disorder and the Losers help him deal with it and keep going, even while he’s freaking out. This song also signals the beginnings of a shift in how he feels about Richie, who is the most adept at distracting Eddie from his panic and getting him to just breathe. Most meta lyric: “How do I know if this shit's fabricated?”

7. Meet Me in the Woods: This one represents the sewers and the first battle with IT. “There ain't language for the things I've seen, and the truth is stranger than my own worst dreams.” There’s also a reference to Holy darkness, which connects Eddie’s experience with IT to his issues with religion and spirituality.

8. Cigarettes in the Theatre: After that summer is over and things go back to normal, Eddie and Richie’s relationship spends the next couple of years changing. This song mirrors ‘Rules Don’t Stop’ on Richie’s list. It’s that initial excitement of starting something new, a trip to the movies that doesn’t feel the same as it used to, and quiet conversations under the stars that one day just seem deeper. My favorite line is ‘tell me your favorite things’ because of how invested Eddie is in Richie’s interests in the novel. 

9. Fire in My Bones: This song mirrors Richie’s ‘American Money’, but has a much more uncertain, anxious, Eddie feel to it. While Richie spends their brief teenage relationship thinking nothing can go wrong, Eddie is continuing to battle with his fear. Both songs are full of whimsical references to weather, geography, and open hearts, painting this exciting picture of that specific brand of young, idealistic love where it feels like the world is yours. Both songs also reference flying kites, which represent their newfound freedom to be open with each other. In Richie’s song American Money, the kite comes from Eddie (”you started flying a kite, at the end was the key to my heart”), who has always given him the freedom to be himself. However, for Eddie, the kite is waiting for him at the end of a tunnel - it exists in a bright light, representing the freedom Richie could give him, but the tunnel represents his mother, still attempting to close him off. 

10. Don’t Forget About Me: Richie moves out of Derry before Eddie does. Although he swears they’ll get through the separation, Eddie isn’t so sure - after all, Bev left, and then Bill, and they hardly heard from either of them again. In this, he’s begging Richie not to forget him, not to leave him behind for good. We all know how that turned out. 

11. Mother: Once Eddie is left with only his mother to turn to, and once his memories start to fade when they move to New York, he regresses quickly. This song represents Eddie’s repeated attempts to exist outside of Sonia’s security blanket and his repeated choice to return to her. He can depend on her to protect him, make him into what she thinks will be best, etc. There’s also some religious reference here, sort of implying that ‘Lord’ and ‘Mother’ are on equal footing - which, to Eddie, they always have been. 

12. Numbers: Over time, Eddie grows more and more dependent on prescription pills to get him through life. At some point he has to turn into the guy at the beginning of the novel who has every sedative in the book in his medicine cabinet and actively muses on how great those highs are, so I imagine that habit would begin in his 20′s. During this time period, he’s also seeking out sexual relationships with men who he thinks will make him feel better, or feel something, but they never do. At this point he doesn’t realize how big the hole in his heart is because he doesn’t remember who Richie is. 

13. Cough Syrup: As time goes on, Eddie starts feeling restless within this numb, sedentary, safe life he’s stuck in. He dreams of running away and doing what he actually desires, but he still stays put, and stays “sick”, because he’s always too afraid to take a chance. 

14. Wake Up: He gets Mike’s phone call and starts to see things clearly again. Memories start to come back, he starts to open his eyes to what has become of his life, and how it didn’t have to be that way. This is Eddie figuratively throwing off the shackles and eagerly running back to Derry.

15. Home: Pretty much self explanatory. More so than most of the other Losers, besides maybe Bev, Eddie is the most eager to go back ‘home’, to his childhood friends, and the memories there. 

16. Dear Wormwood: Ohhhh Dear Wormwood... my old friend. I’ll just summarize what I’ve said about this song before: this represents the moment when, as an adult down in the sewers, Eddie is able to overthrow his mother’s voice in his head for good. Now that he’s back in Derry and his memories have returned, he can see her for what she was, what she did to him and still continues doing to him even after her death. He understands her and pities her, but he’s not going to fall into that trap anymore. Her voice no longer matters. Most meta lyric: “I have always known you, you have always been there in my mind... But now I understand you, and I will not be part of your designs.”

17. Blur: Okay so THIS song is literally about IT and literally about Eddie. At first it talks about IT coming back, and then ends with the iconic ‘we all float down here’, but this is the verse that matters: “My throat's cracked and beaten, my back's whipped and torn. The glasses you once wore won't have a use anymore. Where do we go? What will we eat? The only promise I can keep is the one where I say ‘I'll meet you again’, reborn from the sand. The glasses you once wore don't have a use anymore.” So breaking this down, the first part refers to Eddie’s anxiety, his throat tightening. The ‘my back’s whipped and torn’ is a reference to when they fought IT as kids and he was attacked by Mike’s bird (when IT was targeting Eddie for beating the crawling eye for Richie) - his shirt and back were torn by its claws. Then obviously the glasses part is a reference to Richie, now an adult, having switched to contacts. Then the ‘promise’ he can keep is a reference to his own death. All he can do is promise to meet Richie again in the afterlife, or in the next life.

18. The River: This one is like, the beginning of Eddie’s death scene, when Richie stumbles to him. Eddie’s encouraging him to let his emotions out instead of bottling them up, because he knows that’s Richie’s coping mechanism and he knows how unhealthy it is. He wants to make sure Richie is going to be okay, and continue to be himself after this.  

19. Yes I’m Changing: FUCK. THIS SONG IS MY FAVORITE, IT’S SO FUCKING TRAGIC IN THIS CONTEXT AND I LIVE FOR THIS SHIT. Okay so this song is like, technically about a break up - whatever. It fits so much better as a death song. Specifically Eddie’s death song. This song fully represents his moment of self acceptance at the very end, and how at peace he felt as he died. The saddest yet most graceful death ever.

“I felt the strangest emotion but it wasn't hate, for once” - a glorious representation of Eddie feeling okay with himself for the first time in his known memory. 

“There's no future left for you and me. I was holding and I was searching endlessly, but baby, now there's nothing left that I can do, so don't be blue. There is another future waiting there for you.” - He needs Richie to accept that this is it, but he shouldn’t be sad, because Eddie is okay with it and knows Richie will lead a full life after this is over. 

“Yes I'm changing, can't stop it now, and even if I wanted I wouldn't know how. Another version of myself I think I found, at last.” - He’s changing in death to this cleansed, spiritually light version of himself he’d like to preach upon if he could. He’s been so miserable for basically his entire life, and dying isn’t so bad.

Repeating that the world is calling Richie’s name, as in he needs Richie to go on without him and not get stuck on this grief. “Arise and walk, come through. A world beyond that door is calling out for you.” - I love this outro especially because in this context, it acts as a reference to the door to ITs lair. There is a world outside of this place and that’s where Richie needs to be, he can’t stay here. 

20. The Trapeze Swinger: Okay. :) I don’t even know where to begin. This song has everything, it’s full of childhood references, biblical imagery, and visuals that inexplicably connect to even the most obscure parts of Eddie’s character. Plus the added layer of irony that he’s begging to be remembered in the afterlife, while Richie is desperate to forget, which makes it extra tragic. I’ve wanted to write a full meta about this song in particular for a very long time, but I’ll settle for a breakdown of some of the lyrics:

“Please, remember me, happily, by the rosebush laughing. with bruises on my chin” - Refers to the rosebushes by the house on Neibolt street where Eddie got entangled escaping from the leper, as well as his tendency to find humor and excitement in pain. 

“Someone caught us in the kitchen with maps, a mountain range, a piggy bank, a vision too removed to mention” - Refers to Eddie’s constant daydreaming about running away, his navigational skills, and the fear and guilt he feels whenever he let himself think about doing this. 

“The pearly gates had some eloquent graffiti, like 'We'll meet again', and 'Fuck the man', and 'Tell my mother not to worry'” - Refers to eventually reuniting with the Losers, his desire to rebel, and his continuous habit of putting his mother’s feelings and needs above his own as a child.

“And when the morning came, I was ashamed, only now it seems so silly.” - Refers to the shame he felt about his sexuality throughout his life, and then the clarity and acceptance he felt as he died. 

“And now you're lit up by the city, so please, remember me, mistakenly, in the window of the tallest tower.” - Refers to Richie now living in the city, and hoping he will remember him sometimes as life goes on, even by accident. Also lowkey refers to Bev seeing his ghost in their window reflection along with Stan’s.

“Just like the gates around the holy kingdom, with words like 'Lost and Found' and 'Don't Look Down', and 'Someone Save Temptation'” - Refers to his lifelong fear of being locked out of heaven. The phrases each refer to losing/finding the Losers, facing his fears, and accepting his “temptation” (aka his sexuality). 

“Please, remember me, as in the dream we had as rug-burned babies among the fallen trees.” - Refers to exchanging secret goals and aspirations with Richie as kids while playing in the Barrens. He wants Richie to remember that. 

“A fleeting chance to see a trapeze swing as high as any savior.” - Throughout this song, the trapeze swinger symbolizes love/relationships. Richie and Eddie’s window of opportunity to be together was fleeting, but it was more meaningful than anything else they’d experienced. 

“Please, remember me, my misery, and how it lost me all I wanted.” - Eddie spent his life being scared and stagnant, always miserable but never having the guts to change his situation on his own, which ultimately cost him a fulfilling life. He wants Richie to remember that and avoid making the same mistake. 

“... and chasing trains, the colored birds above there, running in circles ‘round the well...” - Refers to Eddie’s obsession with traintracks and freedom, the birds he watched fly away from Derry that brought tears to his eyes, and the cyclical nature of his life that he could never escape. 

“You turn from me and said 'The trapeze act was wonderful, but never meant to last.'” - Again, the trapeze act symbolizes love/the relationship. Richie and Eddie’s time together was limited and exciting, but couldn’t last forever due to the circumstances of their lives.   

“The clown that passed saw me just come up with anger.” - lmao I can’t even deal with this line. Self explanatory. IT is what tore them apart, both times. 

“Please, remember me, finally, and all my uphill clawing.” - He doesn’t want to be remembered for his previous failure, but for his determination and how he ultimately overcame the things that were holding him back. 

“My dear, but if I make the pearly gates, I’ll do my best to make a drawing of God and Lucifer, a boy and girl, an angel kissing on a sinner, a monkey and a man, a marching band... all around the frightened trapeze swingers.” - Eddie never thought he would go to heaven or ‘make the pearly gates’, but in his dying moments he finally feels like it’s possible. If he gets there, he’s going to preserve the memory of the Losers and their experience in the afterlife (the ‘drawing’). God and Lucifer represent Maturin and IT, the boy and girl represent Ben and Beverly, the angel kissing on a sinner represents he and Richie (who is who? Eddie would say he’s the sinner, but Richie would say the opposite). The monkey and the man refer to ITs timelessness - that the entity was here long before the evolution of man and witnessed all of human history unfold - it’s also a reference to Mike and Richie’s experience in the smokehouse. The marching band refers to the Losers as a group, working together as a unit. The frightened trapeze swingers again symbolize the relationships, how scary and thrilling love is, and that “love and desire” are stronger forces than memory. 

YIKES that was so much. I expect virtually no one to read all that, but I hope y’all enjoy the playlist!

[master-sass-blast]

Gatekeeper.

*rubs hands together* Oh, this is gonna be a Good One.

Summary: You decide you want to rejoin the X-Men after an ill-fated mission in Hell’s Kitchen. Piotr, unbeknownst to you, disagrees with the choice and tries to sideline you to keep you safe. You manage to work around him to make it back on the active mission roster --but will your relationship with Piotr survive?

Pairings: Piotr Rasputin x Reader and Nathan Summers x Wade Wilson.

Rating: T for politics, mentions of abuse, the Reader having the Biggest Dick Energy in the room, fights, emotional angst, and almost-smut.

@marvel-is-perfection, @chromecutie

Your legs are shaking. You’re feel like you’ve run a marathon. You’re covered in sweat.

You couldn’t be happier.

You pant and gasp for a minute, hands braced against your knees as you catch your breath, and then you straighten and let out a victorious whoop as you pump your fists in the air. “Fuck yeah! Kiss my ass, physical therapy! I’m finally done with you!”

After two months of recovering from getting shot at some God forsaken Hell’s Kitchen dock, you were finally done with physical therapy.

Which meant that you could finally get back to working with the X-Men.

From the patio behind the house, Piotr clapped his hands as you collapsed –triumphantly—onto the lawn. “Well done, moya lyubov’. You should be very proud.”

“Believe me, I am. And I’m gross and sweaty. Who wants a hug?”

He laughs and hugs you anyway, the good sport. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired. And super happy! It’ll be good to get back in the swing of things.”

He stays quiet for just a beat too long, and you might’ve called him on it if you hadn’t been so focused on breathing properly. “You have decided to rejoin X-Men? Actively?”

You shrug. “I miss working with everyone. I miss helping people. I miss doing things.”

He chuckles at that. “Very understandable, dorogoy. For now, how about we get you showered and fed.”

“I can be amenable to that.” You grin up at him. “But only if you join me in the shower.”

He smirks back down at you. “I can be convinced.”

It takes you a while to stop hemming and hawing over whether or not to run missions with the rest of the X-Men. You know you’re good at it, that your skills are immensely useful, but you don’t want a repeat of the Hell’s Kitchen incident; you don’t want to put your friends in danger.

And then Mikhail hits you in the head with an energy pulse, and you get a proper diagnosis, and you finally land on a choice.

You want to be an X-Man. Woman. Person.

Whatever.

“Is it weird that I miss doing missions?” You’re hanging out with Piotr in his art studio, watching him work on a painting of a vase of flowers. “Like, you’ve done them longer than I have. Do you think it’s weird?”

He smiles gently as he carefully paints delicate petals on the flowers. “Nyet. Not so much. You like to be active. To help others. To me, sense is made.”

You can’t help but grin at the mild mis-phrasing; you press on. “I want to get back into it. Now that I know it can all be managed, I want to get back into things. Like, soon. I miss the action.”

“Understandable,” Piotr says after a beat of silence. “But… perhaps it is better to wait.”

“Wait?” You frown. “What do you mean?”

“You… have never been on medication before. Perhaps… perhaps it would be best to make sure you find medicine that works before re-entering field work.”

And that… makes sense. A lot of sense, actually.

“Yeah,” you agree as you flop down in the over-stuffed armchair Piotr keeps in his studio. “Probably best not to be newly fucking with my brain chemical when I start doing missions again.”

Piotr smiles, but given your new position you can’t see that it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Da. Very wise thinking, myshka.”

Sitting out of missions while getting your meds worked out turns out to be a good idea. Given your “latent healing factor,” certain medications don’t work for you. Add to that the list of medication that are not compatible with mutants, and, well—

You wind up in a tough spot, to say the least.

Piotr stays by your side for all of it, true to form. He holds you in his arms while you deal with the ups and downs of weaning on and off of different doses, keeps your hair out of your face when one of the prescriptions you try winds up making you nauseous as all get out, and rubs your back when the medications invariably fuck up your sleep cycle and make it hard to wind down.

He’s a gem. Your gem, to be specific.

Fortunately, the medication journey is much shorter lived than the diagnosis journey. Within six months, you’re on a dose that works with you and the telepathic therapy you’re also doing.

“You know, I was worried that the meds would be like the repression serum for me,” you comment one early spring night as you and Piotr get ready for bed.

He pauses changing into pajamas to kiss the top of your head. “How so?”

“I don’t know, I just thought… I thought I’d be afraid to be anywhere without it. That I wouldn’t be able to go do anything without dosing myself, just to be safe. But it’s not like that at all. It’s not about my mutation, it’s about me. About my brain. And it’s not to keep me controlled, it’s to help me feel better. And I like that.”

Piotr smiles and kisses the bridge of your nose. “I am so glad, dorogoy. You deserve to feel better.”

“Well, I certainly think so.” You grin up at him as he finishes changing. “And, now that I’ve got my medication worked out, I can get back to being an X-Man. Woman. Person. Thing.”

You expect Piotr to smile along with you, so it’s surprising to see a flash of a frown cross his face before he turns away and fidgets with his phone real quick. “You are… you are sure you wish to rejoin?”

“Well, yeah,” you say with a frown of your own. “I mean… do you not want me to?”

“Nyet, nyet. Konechno, net. I simply figured…”

“Figured what, Piotr?”

“That you would want to get back into fighting condition, first,” he finishes lamely as he finally –finally—plugs his phone into his charger.

And, not for the first time since you’ve mentioned that you want to rejoin the X-Men, you’ve got a sneaking feeling that he’s trying to stall you. To protect you, in his own –misguided, controlling—way.

He’s right, though. Six months of ups and downs with medication, your diet, and your sleep cycle have left you no where near the condition you need to be in to do right by whichever team you wind up working with.

“Fair enough,” you concede with a yawn. You flop down on the bed and wiggle your way under the covers. “Turn the light off; I’m beat.”

You work yourself. Hard. You spend at least an hour in the gym every day, save for one full day of rest. You alternate which muscle groups you work each day, making sure that you give each set of muscles time to recoup before you work them again.

Fortunately, the ‘teacher assisting’ and grading work you’ve been doing for nearly your entire stay at Xavier’s is flexible. More often than not, you’ve got it with you in some facsimile while you exercise so that you can stay on top of everything.

The amount of working out you do does keep you away from missions –and, unfortunately, Piotr as well—but it does give you time to think.

Specifically, about your darling boyfriend and love of your life.

It’s not hard to tell that Piotr’s sidelining you. He isn’t cutting you down or making you question your abilities; in fact, every step of progress you make he’s praising you, encouraging you.

But, the fact remains: he’s sidelining you. Deliberately bringing up obstacles to keep you from running missions. Granted, he hasn’t brought up anything invalid or stupid, but you know your boyfriend. You know when he’s trying to protect you via controlling you. It’s not the first time you’ve been on the receiving end of this treatment, and it probably won’t be the last. Piotr copes with his stress by micromanaging. It’s a simple fact.

The fact that he won’t talk to you about whatever’s stressing him out, however, is bugging you. Big time.

I thought we were a team, you think as you put yourself through your paces on a treadmill one sunny –if chilly—early spring morning. But we can’t be a team if he won’t talk to me.

“He’s pushing me out,” you admit to Neena over a cup of coffee. The two of you had gone out so you could talk uninterrupted –a near impossible feat when school was in session—and so that you didn’t have to risk Piotr overhearing while you were trying to figure yourself out. “I just wish he’d tell me what’s bugging him.”

Neena raises an eyebrow at that. “You don’t mind him micromanaging things?”

You shake your head. “I’ve known for a while that it’s how he copes with stress. Honestly, given how discombobulated my head is at any given moment, I kinda depend on it. I just wish he’d talk to me when he’s worrying about something.” You frown into your mug. “Am I asking for two different things from him? Like, if I’m willing to let him have his bad habits –because I have mine too, and I’m not gonna expect him to be perfect if I’m not—is it even right to want him to just talk to me?”

Neena shakes her head after a moment. “I don’t think so. It’s one thing if he just micromanages how the fridge is arranged or how stuff gets put away, but it’s another thing when he’s micromanaging you. That’s an indicator of bigger stress, and he should talk to you about that.”

“Which is what I figured,” you agree. “He doesn’t have the right to sideline me just because I’m scared. I need to be able to make my own decisions without him interfering. If he has concerns, he should just talk to me about them!”

“Exactly. And if you disagree, that’s your prerogative.”

“Right.” You sigh and slump back in your seat. “I just… I’m tired of always having to fish stuff out of him. I want him to come to me. But I don’t want to be passive aggressive either…”

“If you don’t confront him, are you going to not do it to specifically try to punish him?” Neena asks, pointing her half-eaten biscotti at you. “Are you going to cold shoulder him?”

You shake your head. “No. I think he might just need to run the course on this one, you know?”

“Well, in that case, don’t confront him yet. Keep doing you, and start taking steps to handle things on your own. Get your shit in order and get back onto active duty without him. The fastest way he’s going to learn that he can’t micromanage you is if you sidestep him completely. You’re an adult; you can make your own decisions and call your own shots.”

You nod slowly as you mull the idea over. “Yeah. That might be the best way to do this.”

It doesn’t take too long for you to get yourself back into fighting shape. By the time the school year’s almost out, you’re back in mission condition.

You’ve also taken the luxury of participating in the group sparring the X-Men do to keep their skills sharp, having anticipated Piotr would pick that as the next “reason” for you to not rejoin the mission roster. As far the group you’ve been working with is concerned, you’re ready to start missions again whenever you feel like it.

Which takes you straight to Xavier’s office. When in doubt, talk to the man in charge.

Getting things straightened out with the Professor takes virtually no time at all. With your exercise, training, and therapy records, you’ve got all the –virtual—paper trail you need to warrant him switching your status from ‘inactive’ to ‘active.’

You thank the Professor as you exit his office—

And nearly collide nose-first with Piotr’s steel chest.

“Moya lyubov’?” He frowns. “What are you doing here?”

“Getting put back on the active duty roster for missions,” you say simply, as though it’s simple.

Which, technically, it is.

Piotr opens his mouth to see something, notices the Professor watching –the two of you are in his office, it’s not like he’s being a snoop—before ushering you into the hallway and closing the door. He escorts you a few feet away from the door –ever the gentleman—so the two of you can talk in relative privacy. “Myshka… are you sure this is good idea?”

“Alyssa thinks I’m ready, as does the team I’ve been training with to make sure I was on par against opponents,” you say. “And Xavier thought my records were sufficient justification to put me back on the list.”

Sad as the context of the situation is –and the stress and fear your know Piotr’s dealing with—it is a little satisfying to watch him flounder of the face of ‘you actually sorted your shit out and I wasn’t betting on that.’

Before he can say anything, though, Jean comes sprinting down the hall. “Y/N! Cable just called for backup! He and Wade accidentally stumbled into one of Magneto’s hideouts! We need to move out to help them!”

Your boyfriend stiffens. “Where—”

“You can’t come, Colossus,” Jean says quickly. “Magneto’s on site. Non-metal powers only.”

“I have to go.” You pop up to kiss your boyfriend’s cheek. “We’ll talk when I get back.” You sprint down the hall, keeping stride with Jean.

“Suit up and head out as fast as you can,” Jean says as she runs towards the hangar bay the jets are kept in. “We’ll be following you. I’ll send the coordinates to your phone.”

The site is an abandoned warehouse set on an equally abandoned, broken down industrial dock. Twisted piles of metal rebar lie everywhere –no wonder Magneto picked this spot to work out of—and various weeds are sprouting up from cracks in the concrete.

It’s also easy enough to track down Wade and Nate. You just follow the sounds of Wade’s pissed off screaming and the general sounds of rampant destruction until you practically walk into the fight scene.

Magneto and a few –much fewer than you expected, Wade and Nate must have caught him off guard as opposed to walking into a trap—of his men are facing down Wade and Nate.

Well, it’s not much of a face down since Magneto’s got a hold of all of Wade and Nate’s weapons, the weapons being metal and whatnot.

“Give me my guns back, you crotchety, geriatric fuck!” Wade screams as he pops his head over a concrete highway divider.

You land in the middle of the fracas, sending a gust of wind at Magneto and his henchman that knocks them all off their feet. “What’s good, dudes?”

“Oh, kickass entrance with casual catchphrase!” Wade chirps. “Very nice! Very on trend!”

Several meters behind you, the X-Jet lands on an open patch of concrete. The ramp to the main bay lowers, and Jean flies out followed by Bobby, Scott, Ororo, and Kitty –who’s clad in her trainee crop top, no less.

“It’s over, Magneto!” Scott says, pointing at him with an air of –arrogant—authority. “Whatever you’re planning won’t come to fruition.”

“See, now that’s just forced,” Wade says as he watches Scott, shaking his head. “So tripe-y. Yawn.”

“I am surprised you would declare this event over,” Magneto declares evenly as he stands up and dusts himself off. “Considering you nothing of what I am planning –to say nothing of the fact that I have not even started yet.”

“Give it up, Erik,” Jean says, glaring him down. “You’re outmatched and you have nowhere to run to.”

Magneto’s –Erik’s—lips curl into a cruel smirk. “On the contrary. You have given me everything I need to succeed.” He lifts his hand—

And Nate drops to his knees with a scream of pain.

Wade’s by his side in an instant, holding him. “Nate! No!”

Your stomach churns with horror as Nate’s screams echo off the concrete around you. They’re tortured, like nothing you’ve ever heard before.

Your vision goes red when you see a little streak of metal worm its way up Nathan’s neck. He’s activating the virus. He’s—

You whirl on Magneto. You can see his lips moving, no doubt saying something about trading Nate’s life for the escape of Magento and his team, but it doesn’t matter. You don’t care.

To your credit –or perhaps the credit of Magneto’s sense of self-preservation—he pales when you launch yourself at him. He lifts a twisted, thick steel beam with his other hand and launches it at you.

You let out an enraged scream and bat it away with an air current.

The beam punches through the side of a warehouse wall and clatters across the floor inside, out of view.

Magneto and his men look at the hole in the warehouse, then look at you –then tuck tail and run.

No.

You throw yourself after them, teeth clenched together as you keep your eye trained on Magneto’s dark red getup. You’re going down. I will dig your grave myself.

It’s not hard to catch up with him. Despite his ability to fly –and his energy and strength, which completely belies his age—you’re just plain old faster than him. It takes nothing to get in front of him, cutting off his escape from the abandoned docks.

He grits his teeth, then starts launching various discard scraps of rusted metal at you.

You cast a ball of whirling air around you, letting the random chunks of metal and hunks of rebar bounce away from you and across the concrete. Shield in place, you hurtle towards him again. “No one! Gave you! The right! To hurt others!”

“And no one had the right to hurt me, the rest of mutantkind!” he shouts back as he tries to press a steel beam through your air shield. “I will do whatever I have to make sure we are never hurt again!”

You send the bar flying with a flick of your wrist before you bear down on him once more. This fucking asshole—

No killing, Y/N. Jean’s voice echoes in your mind. We don’t kill.

Oh, you think back. I’m not gonna kill him. But he’s definitely gonna feel this for a few weeks.

By all means.

It takes a couple minutes to get Magneto where you want him, but you manage to corner him between the warehouse wall and you.

He sneers at you. “You’re all blind. You won’t take the shot.”

You narrow your eyes at him, fury boiling in your chest.

And then you unleash the mother of all sonic screams at him.

Magneto goes flying through the warehouse wall –which collapses before he hits it, which means you haven’t just turned him into gelatin—and out the hole you made with the steel beam earlier. He bounces across the pavement and rolls to a stop with a pained groan.

Before he can move, you snap a mutation repression cuff around his wrist. When he glares at you, you grab him by his cape and start dragging him towards the X-Jet. “You’re coming with us. Asshole.”

As fortune would have it, the rest of your team’s already captured the few henchmen Magneto had been working with. Kitty’s rambling excitedly about the fact that she managed to corner and take down one of the men all by herself, Jean and Ororo are listening and praising her—

And Wade and Nate are sitting off to the side.

You shove Magneto into one of the holding cells, then walk over to where your brother and dad are resting. You kneel in front of Nathan and give him a fraught once over. “How are you feeling?”

“Been worse,” he spits out through gritted teeth. He shoots a venomous glare in Magento’s direction. “Been a lot better, too.”

You squeeze his hands sympathetically. “Don’t worry. He got his. I made sure of it.”

“Yeah, I saw.” Nate smirks. “Not bad work, kid.”

“Alright,” Jean announces as Scott puts the last henchman in a holding cell. “That’s everyone. Let’s head back to the mansion.”

As per protocol, everyone heads to the medical wing for a basic evaluation and check up as soon as the jet touches down in the hangar.

Melissa, a purple-skinned healer that came to Xavier’s around the same time you did, smiles at you as you walk into your designated room. “Hey, Y/N. How’d everything go?”

“Magneto accelerated some of Nathan’s virus,” you say bitterly.

“I heard about that. Hopefully we’ll be able to help with some of the pain, if nothing else.” She starts checking your pupillary reaction with a penlight. “How’d it feel getting out in the field again?”

“Really good, actually. No incidents to report.”

“That’s great.”

There’s the tell-tale sound of heavy, metallic footsteps in the hall, and then Piotr’s standing in the doorway.

You don’t miss the nervous expression on his face and favor him with a soft smile. “Hey, babe.”

“Hi, Colossus,” Melissa echoes before addressing you once more. “Your pupillary response looks fine. We’ll do a quick set of X-rays, just to make sure everything’s good, and if that clears you’ll be good to go. Colossus, sorry, I’ll either need you to step out or armor down…”

“Up to you,” you say quietly when Piotr looks to you for instruction.

He armors down and steps just inside of the room, as out of the way he can be, given his size.

The X-rays go quickly, and –sure enough—all things are good.

“Alright, you’re all set,” Melissa says as she updates your medical records for the Institute’s database. She seems to notice the tension in both yours and Piotr’s shoulders –finally. “I’ll give you two the room so you can catch up.”

Your phone chirps as she walks out. You unlock it and check a text –from Charles, apparently.

The Prof: Will require your assistance with Magneto.

Your phone chirps again as another text pops up on the screen.

The Prof: Whenever you are ready.

Technically, you’re ready right now.

Not technically, you have a boyfriend you need to attend to first.

Magneto can wait, you decide as you pocket your phone. You look over at Piotr, who’s very occupied with looking at his shoes. “Hey.”

He looks up at you, guilt easy to read on his face. “Privet.” He swallows visibly. “I am… relieved you are well.”

“That makes two of us.” You pause for a moment, giving him an opportunity to speak. When he doesn’t, you sigh. Alright. Time to handle the elephant in the room. “You’ve been sidelining me from missions.”

He winces at the accusation. “Myshka, I—”

“No, that’s what you’ve been doing and you know it,” you say in a calm, level voice.

You’re not used to being this calm when dealing with confrontation. Normally, you’re used to exploding and raging until it all passes.

Maybe it’s that you know and trust Piotr, maybe it’s all the therapy you’ve been doing –it’s probably both, actually—but for now you’re just content to role with it.

You cross your arms over your chest. “You’ve been trying to keep me away from missions. And, since I know you, I’d hazard a guess that it’s because you’re scared of losing after the Hell’s Kitchen fiasco. Correct?”

He nods, looking down at his shoes again. “Da. You are right.”

“And you never thought to talk to me about your feelings? About any of it?”

His face creases with hurt. “I thought you would not listen.”

“And how would you know, since you didn’t try?” You walk over to him when he grimaces and turns his head away from you. “Piotr, I’ll cop to being the most stubborn pain in the ass at the mansion when Wade’s not around, okay? But I care about you, and I care about how you feel. If you don’t even give me the chance to listen to you, how am I supposed to know what you want, much less figure out if there’s a way to give it to you?”

He meets your gaze again, eyes shining with tears. “I almost lost you. I… I cannot go through that again. I love you, I want to be with you—”

“I love you, too,” you say when he cuts himself off, too overcome with emotion to speak. “More than anything, Piotr. But if you’re willing to manipulate me on stuff like this, who’s to say that you won’t once we’re married? Or have kids? We can’t be a team if you don’t communicate, Piotr, and it’s not fair to me to have you micromanage me, to have you not talk to me.” You purse your lips, then press on to finish your thought. “I can’t play second fiddle to your fear, Piotr. You have to pick one or the other.”

His eyes widen. “What—”

“I love you, Piotr. So damn much.” You try to swallow the lump in your throat. “But… but if you’re gonna choose to manipulate me instead of communicate with me, then… then I can’t be with you. We can’t be together if that’s what you’re gonna choose. And don’t—” You hold up a hand when he opens his mouth to reply “—don’t say anything about ‘you’ll always choose me’ right now. I know you, and I know you love me, and I trust that you want to choose me, but I want you to think about this. I want you to think about whether or not you can even accomplish it, and if you can how you’re going to do it. Okay?”

He closes his mouth, swallows hard, then nods. “Da. Khorosho. Okay. I… I will do that.”

Your heart squeezes in your chest as a tear slips down his cheek; you reach up to brush it away with your thumb. “I love you, Piotr. I love you so much.”

He wraps his arms around you and presses his forehead against yours. “I love you also, Y/N. You are… you are everything to me. Moye serdtse. Moye solntse. Moya dusha.”

You press your lips against his, and your heart cracks open at how passionately and tenderly and desperately he kisses you, and when you pull back you’re kinda sorta definitely crying, too.

“I love you,” he whispers as he cradles your face in his hands.

“I love you, too.” You kiss him one last time, then step back. “I have to go. Charles needs my help with Magneto.”

He nods, expression strained but understanding. “Da. Go. We will… we will talk later.”

You nod. “Yeah.” You kiss him one last time –you can’t help yourself, you love him—and then walk out of the examination room and down the hall.

The tension in Xavier’s office is palpable. Charles is seated behind his desk, engaged in a stare-down with a peeved looking Magneto –who’s changed into a button down shirt, a suit jacket, and slacks, somehow; the repression cuff still blinks on his wrist, a reminder that he’s powerless until someone decides that he shouldn’t be.

Wade and Nate are seated by one of the windows, watching Magneto with the precision and barely repressed aggression usually reserved for apex predators. Wade’s actually got his sword out, twirling it idly as he stares down one of the most powerful mutants known to history.

It’s a bit of a head trip, to say the least.

“I was summoned,” you say by way of greeting as you close the door behind you.

“Y/N.” The Professor shoots you a strained smile. “We seem to be at a bit of a stalemate. I was hoping you would be able to smooth things out—”

“You were hoping the young woman I consider as a daughter would be able to placate me into taking your side,” Nathan snaps. “Which is not gonna happen.”

“What sides are we even looking at?” you ask, feeling very much like a child being yanked into a messy pre-divorce argument. “What did I just walk into?”

“Knockoff psychic Seth Everman here—” Wade points his katana at Xavier “—wants to let Captain Magnet Kink here go. With a fucking warning.”

You –barely—manage to keep your face neutral as you look over at Charles. “Reason being?”

“I spent the first few years of my life in a Nazi prison camp,” Magneto spits out. “I am not going back into another one with a different label.”

Okay, you think as you try –and fail—to produce a counterargument to that statement. Guilt trip, trump card combo. Nice. “Wow. Alright. Uh. Not sure where to go from there.” You frown. “Okay, Professor –why did you even bring me in here? Like, you know Nate’s stance, you would’ve known that my being here wouldn’t change that, so why am I here?”

Charles steeples his fingers. “I was hoping in the event that Mr. Summers and Mr. Wilson would not… acquiesce to Erik’s release… you might be able to persuade Erik to… see our view of things. A guarantee of better behavior in the future, if you will.”

Magneto –Erik—rolls his eyes. “I have already made my stance clear, Charles. I will never side with inaction. The only way mutants will be safe is if we fight back and fight back now.”

“We are not about inaction,” Charles retorts. “We are about education. Which we cannot do effectively if you and your group of criminals are constantly causing chaos and striking fear into the hearts of non-mutants.”

“They should be afraid!” Erik snaps. “Non-mutants have held us under their boots for as long as the world remembers. They should be afraid, and they should flee like the bigoted cowards they are!”

“And what about the mutants that disagree with how you do things?” you interject before the two men can gain too much momentum with their argument. “What about those that stand up to you because some of your methods are violent, or dangerous? What then?”

“If they get in my way, they get what is coming to them.”

“How can you call yourself a champion for mutantkind if you’re willing to hurt mutants that get in your way?” you ask. “You can’t just walk all over people who disagree with you; there’s going to be people who don’t believe in your methods. That’s life. Deal with it.”

Erik narrows his eyes at you and draws himself up to his full height –which, for a man that’s pushing ‘definitely not spry anymore’ is impressively tall. “Those who refuse to act, or stand in the way of those that do, are complicit in the violence of our oppressors. Not doing anything is not an option!”

“We’re not doing ‘nothing,’” you fire back.

“Is that what you think?” he seethes. “You practice nonviolence against those who would have us killed. The last time I watched that happen, my people were gassed in extermination camps. I will not sit by and do nothing. Not now, not ever again. Perhaps you do not understand—”

“I understand perfectly well!” you snap, indignation rising in your chest.

Erik sneers at you. “You really think you can understand persecution the way I do? I watched my mother get shot by Gestapo agents when she refused to board the trains to the camps. I was put in a work camp and left to die.” He rolls up his sleeve, revealing a faded string of numbers tattooed on his forearm. “This, this is what persecution looks like. You could not possibly understand.”

“Oh, I understand just fine,” you growl out. “I was raised by anti-mutant parents in an anti-mutant community. I was beaten with a belt on a daily basis because I couldn’t control my mutation. I was hunted by men with rifles and shotguns when I tried to run away! My parents tried to have a telepath remove my mutation, which nearly killed me! Just because my experiences aren’t identical to yours doesn’t mean I don’t understand pain and persecution! So, buddy, if you want someone to walk down shitty ol’ memory lane with you and compare wounds, I’m glad to do and I’ll match you step for step!” You let that hang for a moment, then take a deep breath and continue when Erik doesn’t say anything. “Or, we can have a productive conversation and work on finding some sort of compromise that works as much as it possibly can.”

Erik scowls at you. “I am not interested in working with the enemy.”

“We’re not the enemy!” you shout. “Just because we’ve picked a different path doesn’t make us the enemy! And it’s not like your way is the end all, be all! No, no!” You glare at him when he opens his mouth to speak. “Look at him!” You point at Nate. “You were willing to run the risk of killing him just to get what you want. He’s a mutant; he’s your kind. If you’re willing to fuck over your own people to get your way, you’re the enemy we all need to be worried about. You cannot say you’re for mutants and then be selective based on our beliefs. Your pain and past experiences does not, will not, will never give you the right to do that! Never!”

Erik glances over at Nate then looks away, looking somewhat chastened.

“Look, Erik, I’m sorry for what you went through as a kid,” you say, gentler. “It’s fucked up and should have never happened to you. But if you want to make sure that never happens to mutants –to anyone—ever again, you can’t keep fighting us along the way. We’re the two different sides of the same coin. We need each other.”

He raises an eyebrow at that. “What… do you have in mind?”

You keep your face neutral, even as you’re stunned by the monumental breakthrough you just managed to set up. You take a deep breath and move on to the next part of your rant-speech-thing. “We need people like Charles –like the Institute—to take care of the ‘non-war’ stuff. Education, specialized training, housing for mutants kicked out of their homes. That kind of stuff requires special licensing which, given how many statutes and legal conventions you’ve broken, isn’t going to be possible for you to pull off. Some of us have to stay within the laws to take care of the kids and teens that can’t defend themselves. It’s how it has to be.”

“Agreed,” Erik says slowly. “I am surprised you are not advocating for ‘setting the model example.’”

“The decent people of the world? They’ll believe that,” you say. “They do exist. They’ll see us and support us. But there are a lot of non-decent people in this world. Places like Harmony, where I grew up. Traffickers. Government agencies that would exploit us for our abilities. That’s where we need people like you.”

“The X-Men do not practice or condone violence,” Charles interjects.

“And you’re a hypocrite on that,” you fire back. You hired my uncle as your hitman, you think at him. Don’t you dare try to paint yourself as a saint. “And you refuse to acknowledge that there are people who will never be swayed by what we’re doing. The people who’ve already decided they have the right to hurt us based on what makes us different are never going to care about what laws we get passed in our favor or what sort of example we set. And for them, we need people like Erik—” and my uncle “—to remind that when they try to hit us, we’ll hit back. The only thing that will stop them is knowing that we won’t be walked over.”

Erik smirks when Charles doesn’t argue back. “You seem… very willing to trust someone who has hurt your friends before.”

You smirk back at him. “Well, that’s because if you ever do anything like that again, no one is going to find what’s left of your body. I promise you that.”

He arches an eyebrow, but doesn’t seem too perturbed. “You would say that to a Holocaust survivor.”

Don’t let him see you flinch, you think to yourself.

Because what this really comes down to is if you’re willing to kill to protect the people you love.

And you are.

“You’re damn right I will,” you say, voice low and lethal. You stare up at him, unblinking while he scrutinizes you.

The corner of his mouth turns up after a moment. “You, Ms. L/N, are going places –and I cannot wait to see what those places are.” He looks over at Charles. “I only work with her. None of your other pacifistic followers, just her.”

You blink. Wait, what?

“Y/N is technically still a trainee,” Charles says, seemingly just as shocked as you are. “She is not—”

“Well, then, you better fast-track her for full status,” Erik retorts. “Because I work with her or no one else.”

Charles nods after a moment. “Very well. If that’s what gets you to cooperate.”

“Wonderful. Now that we straightened that out—” He holds up his arm, where the repression cuff is still latched around his wrist. “Get this damn thing off me.”

Charles sighs and wheels out from the behind the desk. “Yes. If you’ll come with me, I’ll take you to someone who can do that for you.”

You wait until the two older men exit Xavier’s office, then look over at Nate and Wade. “Are you guys alright?”

Nathan shrugs. “Sure.”

You wince. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to leave you guys out of it or—”

The corner of Nathan’s mouth turns up in a smile and he shakes his head. “Xavier threw you off a deep end. You priority was to make sure you could swim, not check and see if everyone else was swimming, too.”

You dart over and wrap your arms around him in a hug. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll live. Hurt more than anything.” He places a fatherly kiss on the top of your head. “You did good, kid.”

“She did better than good,” Wade comments. “She handed Magneto his balls.”

You look over at your honorary brother. “Are you alright?”

Wade nods. “Nate’s right. Xavier threw you the motherfucker of all curve balls. You did good. Besides, I trust your judgement.”

The praise makes you teary, and you manage to eek out a “thank you” as you let go of Nate. “Alright, I need to go wrap things up. You two just… make out on Xavier’s couch, or something.”

“Ooh,” Wade says as you walk out of the Professor’s office. “There’s an idea!”

You call your uncle as soon as you find a quiet enough spot and update him on everything that’s happened.

He congratulates you on doing the conflict resolution version of defusing a nuclear missile –“Yeah, Chuck’s kinda shitty about tossing people off a cliff sometimes.”—and gives you the go ahead to give Erik his number so that he can coordinate with your uncle on various missions –“Hey, as long as I can beat the shit out of him if he tries to jack me over, I’m good.”

You wind up escorting Erik –and his henchman—out to a waiting car on the front drive. You hand him a card with your uncle’s number written on it. “Someone will be contacting you through this number in the next forty-eight hours about how your partnership with the X-Men will proceed.”

He smirks. “So, you were not bluffing when you called Charles a ‘hypocrite.’ Interesting.”

“I don’t take shots I can’t make.”

He studies you for a moment, then smiles and shakes his head. “You are indeed going places, Ms. L/N. A shame you decided to limit your destinations by tethering yourself to the Institute.”

“Good for me that my opinion’s the only one that counts on that,” you fire back. “I think I’m doing fine.”

He smirks, then heads towards the car. “I will be seeing you, Ms. L/N.”

“I bet,” you mutter under your breath. You watch the car drive off, then jog back inside the house.

You’ve got a boyfriend to talk to.

You find Piotr in your shared room, sitting on the bed.

He’s armored down and dressed in casual clothes, staring ahead at the wall opposite the bed. His eyes look puffy, his nose is red, and there’s a pile of used tissues sitting next to him on the bed.

You shuck your flight jacket off –you haven’t had a chance to change out of your mission garb—and run over to the bed.

Piotr yanks you to him, pulling you to his chest in a borderline crushing hug.

You’re holding him just as tight.

“The Professor updated me on everything,” he says, voice slightly hoarse. “He says… you got Magneto to cooperate?”

“I think I just spewed a lot of bullshit that happened to make sense,” you say, a little shaky now that you’re out of all of it and coming down from a shitwhack of adrenaline. “I’m just surprised I didn’t write a check my proverbial dick couldn’t cash.”

He lets out a soft huff of a laugh. “You are gifted, myshka. Do not sell yourself short.” His face puckers with grief, and he drops his gaze to where his hands are holding yours. “And... I am so sorry for… manipulating you. I –I did not want to, I was not trying to, I just could not bear thoughts of losing you again—”

You press your forehead again. “Babe, I know, okay? I know that keeping everything organized and controlled is how you cope with stress, alright? I know what I’m walking into with you; it was never the fact that you were controlling, it was that you wouldn’t talk to me. That you wouldn’t try to manage your stress in a way that was healthy for both of us.”

He nods. “Da. I understand. And I did think, as you asked me.” He swallows hard and swipes at his damp cheeks with the back of his hand. “I think, for this specific instance, I never fully processed everything. I went from incident to taking care of you to my family to teaching. I never had a chance to address my fear or my grief. So, for this, I think some counselling would help me with that.”

“I think that sounds good,” you agree, encouraging. “And it makes sense.”

“As for possible future incidents…” He shoots you a nervous look before continuing. “I… confess I could not think of much. I can work with therapist for ideas, but on my own—”

You shush him gently when the pitch of his voice starts rising –it’s the closest to panicky you’ve ever seen him. “I’m not asking you to have all the details worked out. I wasn’t expecting you to have the details worked out. The fact that you’re committed to figuring out what tools you need to cope and how to get them is good enough for me.”

His shoulders sag visibly with relief. “Khorsho.” He wraps his arms around you and holds you against his chest. “Thank you.”

You kiss his collarbone, then his jaw. “I love you, Piotr. You’re my whole damn world. You know that, right?”

He nods, pressing his lips against your forehead. “And you are my world.” He exhales shakily, then lets you go to toss the pile of used Kleenexes in the trash. “I should take care of these.”

“Did you really cry that much?” You ask, heart tearing into for your giant marshmallow of a boyfriend. “Babe…”

“I was worried,” he admits. “That this would be the end of us.”

You shake your head. “I didn’t think it would come to that. I knew that you’d be able to give me a good answer. And I didn’t want to scare you –didn’t say any of it to scare you—but this is serious to me, and I had to convey that it was serious—”

“It is serious,” he agrees as he traces over your ring finger with his thumb. “It is good to take seriously. So… we are good?”

You smile fondly at him. “We’re good.”

He leans in and presses his lips against yours. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

He kisses you gently –and then not gently at all. He pulls you into his arms, kisses you like a drowning man tasting air for the first time, clutches at your body like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

You’re clinging to him as well, tugging at his hair and rocking your hips against his. It’s like a fire coursing through you; you don’t care if you burn.

He mouths at your neck, presses wet, open-mouthed kisses at the spot where your skin gives way to the collar of your shirt. “I need you.” His voice breaks when he speaks, making him sound all the more crazed.

You lean back to shuck your shirt off and toss it somewhere behind you, press a gasping kiss to his lips. “I need you, too.” You cling to his shoulders as he rolls so you’re pressed between the bed and him.

The future’s uncertain. You don’t care about the future.

You’ve got Piotr, here and now. That’s all you need.

[douchebagbrainwaves]

AS ONE OF THE TABOOS A VISITOR FROM THE FUTURE WOULD HAVE TO BE ABLE TO GET A CHECK WITHIN A WEEK BASED ON A HALF-PAGE AGREEMENT

You would not believe the amount of stock to give him. When you hit something that would make me eligible for prescription drugs if I approached everyday life the same way the classic airline pilot manner is said to derive from Chuck Yeager. But in fact it was the basis of Amsterdam's prosperity 400 years ago. Tip: for extra impressiveness, use Greek variables. Which is to say that it's heretical. The right tools can help us avoid this danger. And as you go down the food chain the VCs get rapidly dumber.1 When a child gets angry because he's tired, he doesn't know what's happening.

A silicon valley has to be powerful enough to enforce a taboo. Related fields are where you go looking for trouble. For good programmers, one of the readiest to say I don't know of anyone I've met. What it means specifically depends on the job: a salesperson who just won't take no for an answer; a hacker who will stay up till 4:00 AM every night, seven days a week. Politicians are caught between a rock and a hard place here, however: make the capital gains rate low and be accused of creating tax breaks for the rich, or make it high and starve growing companies of investment capital. The influence of fashion is not nearly so great in hacking as it is in painting. It's like light from a distant star. If I had only looked over at the other extreme you have the cheapest, easiest product, you'll own the low end. Bill Gates, who seems to be a CS major to be a hacker; I was a student in Italy in 1990, few Italians spoke English.

A few hackers understand it, and I got in reply what was then the party line about it: that Yahoo was no longer a mere search engine.2 This is their way of weighing you. Forty-two years later you'll be making $4. Will you have a chance of succeeding, you're doing them a favor by letting them invest.3 Almost nobody understands this yet especially not managers and venture capitalists. You're better off starting with a blank slate in the form of a small town. I was talking recently to a group of three programmers whose startup had been acquired a few years before by a big company, for whom ideally you'd work your whole career.

Now how are you doing compared to the rapacious founder's $2 million. This works in America, but it feels young because it's full of rich people.4 The way to do that is to implement it. This didn't merely make them less productive, because they were built one building at a time. So hackers start original, and get original. Should you take it? Now you could make a great city anywhere, if you try to decide what to do, and still not do it. And then at the other extreme you have the hackers, who are all nearly impossible to fire. So what makes a place good to them? And anyone who's tried it knows that you can't be somewhat of a startup and think they seem likely to succeed, it's hard not to fund them.5

Even other hackers have a hard time doing that. This essay is derived from a guest lecture at Harvard, which incorporated an earlier talk at Northeastern. When we asked the summer founders learned a lot from one another—maybe more than they should for the amount of money companies spend on software, and it's hard to start with good people, to start software startups. Even a lot of things e. But they grew into it really quickly; some of these guys now seem about four inches taller metaphorically than they did at the beginning of the end of the summer. Checks instituted by governments can cause much worse problems than merely overpaying. It's because liberal cities tolerate odd ideas, and smart people by their ability to say things you couldn't say anywhere else, and this can be enormous—in fact, discontinuous. Are People Really Scared of Prefix Syntax?6 If there is one message I'd like to get across about startups, that's it.

7% of the upside, while an employer gets nearly all of it.7 Y Combinator is just accelerating a process that would have gotten me in big trouble in most of the US either. Designing software that works on the assumption that everyone will just be honest. The mathematicians don't seem bothered by this. In hacking, this can literally mean saving up bugs.8 Otherwise I just worked. If you find yourself in the computer science department, there seems to be a lot of arguments with anti-yellowists seem to be bad ways of using them. Copernicus was a canon of a cathedral, and dedicated his book to the pope. In every period of history, the answer is almost certainly no. In it he said he worried that he was fundamentally soft-hearted and tended to give away too much for free. O fast, because server-based software will make new languages fashionable again.

It might dilute the value of safe jobs. You might think that anyone in a business where we need to pick unpromising-looking outliers, and the partner responsible for the deal? Gradually the details get filled in. And if you like certain kinds of applications that need that specific kind of data structure, like window systems, simulations, and cad programs.9 It would be too easy for clients to fire them.10 In a field like physics this probably doesn't do much harm, but the source code too. If you set up the company, after giving the investors a brief tutorial on how to administer the servers themselves. We did.

Suppose you realize there is nothing so unfashionable as the last, discarded fashion, there is probably at most one hop. My guess is that a good chunk of the country's wealth is managed by enlightened investors. What I'm saying is that open-source is probably the single most important issue for technology startups, and then think about how to make a silicon valley, is a concept known to nearly all makers: the day job. I think it's better to follow the opposite policy.11 Startups are marginal.12 They just smelled wrong. At the very least we want options. Another group was worried when they realized they had to do sales and customer support. Yahoo's market cap then was already in the billions, and they were still worrying about wasting a few gigs of disk space. This should be the m. What groups are powerful but nervous, and what ideas would they like to suppress? In one culture x is ok, and in most of Europe it's not.

Notes

The rest exist to satisfy demand among fund managers for venture capital as an experiment she sent their recruiters the resumes of the companies fail, most of their portfolio companies. When an investor in!

The person who wins. Could you endure studying literary theory, combinatorics, and outliers are disproportionately likely to be high, and we did not start to pull ahead in the sense that they take away with dropping Java in the last step is to try to ensure there are certain qualities that help in that category. I was as bad an employee as this. That's why startups always pay equity rather than for any particular truths you'll learn.

You leave it to colleagues.

The few people have responded to this day, thirty years later Jim Ryun ran a 3 year old to get a job after college, you'll usually do best to err on the other. I had no idea whether this would be unfortunate.

These were the seven liberal arts. At first I didn't like it if you agree prep schools do, and graph theory. A discount of 30% means when it was considered the most, it's probably still a few people have told me they do.

We fixed both problems immediately. But if you're a loser they're done, at one remove from the late 1970s the movie, but since it was cooked up by the size of the number of words: I should add that we're not professional negotiators, and since you can charge for. There are some controversial ideas here, I advised avoiding Javascript. Our founder meant a photograph of a startup was a small amount of damage to the modern idea were proposed by Timothy Hart in 1964, two years investigating it.

If you're a YC startup you can do it now. This is almost pure discovery. 107.

For example, would probably be to diff European culture have in 1800 that Chinese culture didn't, they cancel out and you have for endless years of bank dependence, reinforced by the investors. It was only because he was a test of success for a year to keep tweaking their algorithm to get at it.

Though you should never sell i.

The existence of people we need to. Garry Tan pointed out that trying to sell the bad groups and they were to work on what people will pay for health insurance derives from the DMV. Since they don't yet have any of the company goes public. It should be your compass.

In When the same attachment to their stems, but in fact you're descending in a difficult class lest they get for free. But they've been trained.

After Greylock booted founder Philip Greenspun out of school.

Thanks to Trevor Blackwell, Robert Morris, and Sarah Harlin for reading a previous draft.

[stedes-black-bonnet]

My Baby Does Me: Chapter 17

POV: John Deacon x reader

Notes: ongoing fic; we try to update twice a week, more depending. Tag list? We have one. Hi friends! Requests?

Warnings: Lots of Roger-esque swearing

Abstract: Roger wants to make the speed of light out of this place; Deacy and reader share a hot space.

Roger Taylor knew what was going on here. During his thirty-some years, he had discovered the hard way just how easy it was to underestimate a man with an insanely high emotional intelligence; underestimating him tended to occur more often than he’d like to admit. He frequently wondered if it was his appearance, his high-pitched voice, or his talent that made people think he was just another pretty face, some blond model with no brain. That couldn’t be farther from the truth, and he had fought his entire life so far against that ill-assuming tide. He was shrewd. A multi-instrumental musician, songwriter, fashion icon (he’d like to think, anyway) should be well-respected among his peers. Maybe it was his temper? He was in touch with his emotions more than anyone else he knew; Freddie frequently said he was the emotional equivalent of a night at the opera. Roger couldn’t dispute this. He was proud of his emotional range and stubbornly believed his emotional prowess linked strongly to his emotional empowerment and vulnerability. For his emotional transparency was vulnerability of a very specific sort: even if he wasn’t sharing it with anyone in particular or sharing it with everyone in particular, it was still targeted, specific, and intentional openness.

For a man so deeply in tune with the emotions of the people around him and his own emotions, it was a new experience for him to find himself not united with his own current desires and his self-imposed limitations. This was causing him serious problems. Everything related to an emotional state for him. It was his core. Emotions were the road map he used to understand his own existence. Right now, he had either lost the map or torn it up in a fit of anger. His carefully created veneer of denial was crumbling. And try as he might to glue the delicate pieces back together, he was failing at every turn. Denial, an emotion like any other, was his shield. Denial protected him from what he was not ready to feel, confront, and process. As anyone who knows what it’s like to live a predominantly emotional life, it is exhausting, and safety measures, escape routes, and panic rooms must be utilized to keep the peace.

The ability to hide emotions until the appropriate time to deal with them was part of having a high emotional intelligence. Some people couldn’t read other people’s emotions to save their lives; you put a gun to Roger’s head, and he’d be able to identify the emotional ranges and feelings of anyone around him; he’d make a great foreign agent, he thought. The FBI, maybe; he could profile a bitch faster than most people took to tie their shoes; this was because of his perceptions and emotional intelligence; sure, Brain was just brilliant, but could he read a room’s emotions and play everyone in it? Probably not, Rog figured. The ability to recognize when certain emotions were right for certain situations was his wheelhouse. This didn’t mean he paid any attention to what he knew was appropriate, however. Having knowledge and using it were two vastly different things. Half of the fun was to be found in reading a room full of people, knowing what they wanted or expected, and giving them the exact opposite, giving them what they didn’t even know they wanted, and changing their minds with the swagger of his emotional charm: this was power. And it was better than any drug, and almost better than sex.

Right now, however, Roger had little control over himself and his own emotions. Reading the interior of his mind and heart, every alarm was going off in unison: FLY AWAY RUN AWAY.

This was Lydia’s fault, he angrily thought. Sure, being in touch with his emotions didn’t mean he was always honest about what he was feeling. Especially regarding love, falling in love, being in love…. No—

That’s not what’s happening here. Fuck that, he thought very loudly, trying to convince himself. Focus. But not on her—not on Lydia. Fuck. Bloody fucking fuck. Focus on Deacy and Y/N.

He placed his hands on either side of the door frame. One up higher, one down lower. He wore his too-fancy-for-the-occasion black tuxedo stripe pants, his too-dressed-down-for-the-occasion white classic tee shirt, a pair of over-worn high-tops, and what could only be a black fur coat of Lydia’s. It smelled like her, and he savored--NO NO savoring fucking nothing here. He peered at you and Deacy from behind his sepia circular prescription sunglasses. He was, essentially, too cool to be allowed. Roger Meddows Taylor was synonymous with illegal behavior. His blue eyes popped out from his tinted glasses as he surveyed the scene before him.

He effortlessly read the emotions on both of your faces. Every glance you and Deacy sent each other, every hesitant touch, every “accidentally” intentional touch, every unspoken word was a clue for Roger, and he was a bloodhound. There was a dreamy quality to your olive eyes that smacked of infatuation and confusion—no not confusion, Roger thought. It was more of an ignorance is bliss kind of emotional vacuousness he associated with early, blind love. He tried to not roll his eyes and tried desperately to not think of Lydia, with whom he was having his own blind feelings—STOP that bloody well right now. Deacy has this hopeful dewy glow that had nothing to do with sex and sweat. Pure joy, Roger thought. Pure fucking undivided, maybe even not fully registered, joy. Ah, to be young and in love—Roger banged a fist on the door frame, suddenly. His smile still stays on, whatever happens pain and fury would fuel his waning denial.

Roger saw your flushed face spark a look of concern at the quick eruption of his fist speaking what he would not give voice to yet. He continued to take in your haphazard dress and twisted tights, and Deacy’s barely zipped pants, and felt a keen sense of deja vu. We’ve already been here tonight. Get a room, he thought, he’d like to get a room with Lydia. Maybe every room. WHAT the fuck is wrong with me? He hated himself more than he hated the idea of Deacy’s new Queen record. He smashed his fist into the door frame again. Fuck. Focus. Fuck.

These details, NOT HIS EMOTIONAL DETAILS, he reminded himself, your clothing and glancing details, HOWEVER, told him a lot about you and your night. He hadn’t even had to witness it first hand, and he knew the landscape of your night like he knew every wink, every breath and beat of every time signature.

It was clear to Roger you both hadn’t actually had full on sex yet. Sure, you had experimented, licked and touched, kissed and felt, but he’d put serious money on the fact you hadn’t been penetrated and Deacy hadn’t cum. Fascinating and boring simultaneously. That’s got Deacy all over it.

He and Deacy liked games, similar flavors but completely different goals and power structures. Deacy’s was inherently equal with delaying of certain actions, while Roger favored a flat out war of equals where everyone got precisely what they wanted assuming, of course, they could negotiate it. Both had a hard time finding compatible partners because of this. It was easy to settle, especially for Roger, for a night of climaxing fun with a beauty just to feel close to somebody. Yet, it was never as fulfilling as sex with someone who wanted what you wanted too.

Lydia could negotiate her way around a room full of cats, or room full of blind people without breaking a sweat or running into anyone or setting anyone or any cat off course. She was good. Fantastic. Challenging. Formidable. Roger was a sauntering sapient, a fucking loudmouthed, dirty disaster. The denial kept slipping away from his talented grasp. God, I know we don’t talk, you tend to mess things up, but fucking help me, he thought. FOCUS.

If you and Deacy had actually had sex, he figured, you two wouldn’t be pawing at each other whenever anyone turned around or left you alone for more than a few minutes. Your and Deacy’s emotions were spilling out of your hands; he had seen it before. Fuck, he was going through it himself. Right now. In front of you and Deacy. Fuck, he thought.

“What—No self-control, mates?” He said, shaking his head at the two of you, while his own voice slightly shook, higher than normal.

“Coming from you that’s a laugh.” Deacy retorted.

Roger grinned, walking up to you. He sweetly and shamelessly planted a chaste kiss on your cheek. He turned to Deacy and mock-begrudgingly placed a kiss on his cheek. “Do try to get some sleep, children.” Leaving between to you both, he flashed a peace sign (best case scenario, worst case he was telling himself to fuck off) behind him as he walked down the stairs. Instead of his rainbow-sequin blazer, he had acquisitioned a fur coat, you recognized as Lydia’s; it was high summer, yet here he was, fur coat and all. Roger Taylor was the anomaly of a sudden blizzard smack dab in the middle of June.

The Blond God would try to control even the seasons, you thought. Maybe he already did. You couldn’t tell if his behavior had been erratic or normal, so you weren’t particularly concerned, and Deacy didn’t look worried, so you decided to let it slide and ignore it.

“I live with Lydia.” You explained to Deacy, satisfying the floating, unspoken question in the air. “And if I thought when I woke up this morning Roger Taylor and John Deacon would be in our apartment, I definitely would have done the dishes.”

Deacon laughed, kissing your cheek, “dishes are overrated.”

“Did you just claim my cheek back from Roger?”

“I did, yes.”

“Jealous?”

“I prefer possessively keen.”

“Is it okay if we do a tour later?” You asked, entering your apartment with a laugh. “I’m exhausted.”

“I’m more interested in your bedroom.” Deacy confided. “I can't stop now that we’ve started the whole thinking out loud confiding in each other thing.”

“It’s like I’m living in my own sitcom.” You said, swerving Deacy past several room towards the very back of the apartment.

You paused at the door to your bedroom, your sanctuary. Sharing this space had always been excessively private for you. You were about to let a man into the most secret areas of your life. He’d be free to explore and witness all the hidden dreams and trinkets to which your entire existence amounted. It would make you an open book, in a sense. This was a big step. And it was happening the same night you met.

Deacy, sensing some of this on your face, said “Before I owned my own home, my bedroom was all I had. Letting someone into that space took time for me. We don’t have to go in there if you’re not ready. The sofa would be accommodating, I’m sure.”

“I’m ready. It means a lot to me, this space. Sharing it with you will be my honor. I'm just trying to remember if I tidied up before leaving for the party…”

“Well, m’lady, when you see my home I’m sure you’ll understand just how little I care about neatness.” Deacy had affected a bow and brandished the door open for you.

Turning on the light, the first noticeable piece of furniture was your upright piano. Tried and true it had been your friend through many sleepless nights, more than you could count. There for you when no could understand you, when words failed you, there was always this: you could return to the music, and it would save you. You had a makeshift desk, a rather large dining room table in a corner. It was strewn with sheet music, text books, and a rotary phone. You had an enormous blackboard hanging on the wall behind your large bed. Musical notations were scribbled on it in half-asleep hurried handwriting. To the right of it on the wall was an even larger bulletin board with more stable notations pinned to it. You had a deep plum-colored armchair next to a window with a high stool next to it serving as an end table. A old cup of tea was resting on it from earlier in the day; several tabloid magazine rested under the cup. A record player was in the corner by the door, several albums rested in a very wide floor-to-ceiling shelf next to it. It was the tallest, largest piece in the room. A collection built over careful years of curating your tastes and passions. A bench in front of the bed had a rustic conifer-colored throw on it. The bedding was deep maroons and rusty oranges. Several dresses were layered on the bed, some inside out some discarded. The window was open, and slight breeze made the gauzy curtains twirl in the very late night, or exceptionally early morning. The floors were a dark-colored hardwood, with a simple beige area rug to finish it off. The closet was insignificant compared to the colorful and varied clothes covering the floor of it, obscuring several pairs of shoes while doing so. It was your favorite room in the apartment, besides the kitchen, and the bathroom’s fantastic antique claw-foot tub.

Deacy hadn’t said anything yet. “I know it’s not much,” you said, “but it’s mine and—“

“I love everything about it. It’s everything you love and are perfectly condensed into one space. I’m not sure what I expected, but this is you; it’s flawless. If you find me in the middle of the night looking at your record collection, you can’t blame me; it’s better than my own.”

“I get that a lot.” You laughed. Deacy gave you a look, one eyebrow raised, all innocent curiosity. “Oh, not from men I’m sleeping with, just people who know my interests and have heard of my collection.”

“Your collection is quite prodigious…” His hands fluttered past a row of plastic sleeve covers, making that all too specific soft clicking sound.

“You were gonna add for someone my age, weren’t you?” You asked playfully.

“I was and thought better of it; ten years isn’t too much.” He added, softly touching a few keys on your piano.

“Not to obsess over, no; and, I’ve decided it doesn’t matter to me.” You smiled at him, putting an end to that topic hopefully for the duration. “I don’t really have any pajamas for you to wear. Turn around while I change into mine?”

Deacy looked at you like maybe you were joking; his eyes squinted and his face angled as if trying to detect your humor through his chin. He put his hands over his eyes, then peeped through them slyly yet obviously.

“Really! Deacy! We haven’t seen each other naked. Close your eyes!” You were laughing as you said it, though you were quite serious. There was something sacred to preserve here, you thought. Some innocence to be stolen away if he saw you naked now and not during intercourse. It would be so anticlimactic for the first time you see someone naked was when they were struggling to put on their flannel bottoms, and not during some all out sexual to-do. He obeyed this time, to the letter, and kept his eyes shut until you had finished changing. “Okay, you can look now.”

He opened his eyes and smiled at you in the same way he had been smiling at you the first time he saw you: he was captivated. You were wearing a matching flannel set. Nondescript and routine. Yet he couldn’t take his eyes off you.

Was that love, he thought?

He began undoing his necktie, making sultry eye contact the entire time. He placed it on the armchair. He methodically unbuttoned each button of his blue shirt, removed it, and placed it on the armchair. He had a white tank top on under it, and that he kept on. He removed his black oxfords and red jeans next. His polka-dot boxers where sufficient pjs, you thought. Decorum was satisfied this night, though for how much longer, you weren’t sure. It would be hard enough to sleep in a bed next to Deacy without trying something. You had little hope you’d make it through the night.

You began removing the clothes from the bed, tossing them in your closet. You turned down the bed together and climbed in together.

Deacy reached out and took one of your hands in his, and happily held it, waiting to see if you had anything else to say besides your sleepy good-nights. You turned to him, moving in close, draping a leg across his, and laying your head on his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around your waist, breathing in the scent of your hair, and twirling a strand in his nimble fingers. Your soft snores were the only music he needed.

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