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littlebeethings · 3 years

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I Wish That I Was Frankie's Girl

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Reader Word count: 3101 Warnings: None Summary: You had been in love with him since high school. Now you watch him marry and start a family with someone else. Masterlist | Ao3

You’ll never forget the pain you felt, sitting in a pew of a catholic church, watching your best friend marry someone who wasn’t you. A hot tear fell down your cheek as they kissed. You disappeared out the door before they walked back down the aisle. First looking back and then leaving out the large wooden door. Frankie was smiling down at his new wife and a sob filled your lungs. His large hand resting on her round stomach. How did this become your life?

Frankie was and always had been the love of your life. You remember quite clearly the day you met him. He had sat next to you in chemistry senior year of high school. You were always a shy person and the crush you had didn’t help. It took weeks for you to pull yourself together and talk to him about something other than the periodic table. Then you asked him about a movie that had just come out. He hadn’t seen it so you asked him if he wanted to go with you to see it. And he did.

You picked him up in your tiny beat-up car and went to get burgers and see the movie. It was a perfect night, that was until you realized he didn’t know that this was a date. You don’t know how you shrugged it off, but you did.

“Oh, no. I didn’t. . . I don’t have time for relationships,” you remembered yourself saying.

“Okay, good,” Frankie had said. “Because I’m joining the Air Force as soon as I graduate.”

Your heart broke a little hearing that he was leaving but you quickly reminded yourself that so were you. You had gotten into your dream college and were going to study the things you loved most. You would graduate, get the job you always wanted, and then settle down.

After almost nine years and many failed relationships, you had the degree and dream job. Having watched the love of your life marry someone else you wonder if it had all been worth it.

You decided that the best way to clear your head was a long drive. So you pulled out of the church parking lot and drove until you reached rolling hills and farmlands. You rolled down the windows letting the wind roar around you and blasting the radio. Rick Springfield came through the speakers and the tears just started falling. Your jaw clenched as you held back the scream that bubbled inside you.

Frankie used to take you fishing when he was home. You would both get in his old pick-up truck and drive down country roads until you reached a secluded lake that was hardly ever used. During the drive, you would have the radio playing 80s songs and Frankie would tell you stories of the people he’s met and the good things he’s seen. You knew he often held back on some of the stories he had experienced in the service. You hoped one day he would be able to sit and talk to you about them. Not because you needed or wanted to know them but because you wanted him to be able to find trust and comfort with you.

At one point during the drive, you reached over and grabbed his ratty old oil hat from his head.

“When was the last time you washed this?” You asked, getting a hard whiff of sweat mixed with his shampoo. It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t bad either.

“Give that back.”

He reached over, trying to snatch it back but you leaned away and pulled it on over your head. You pulled down the visor and looked in the mirror. The person staring back at you was foreign. She was happy. A smile shined brightly across her face and the hat. . .

“Looks good on you,” you heard Frankie whisper.

“You think?” You found him looking at you, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. You looked back at your reflection and the idea of being Frankie’s girl, wearing his hat, going home with him every night, sleeping beside him, loving him in ways friends don’t. . . it made your heart flutter and break all at once.

“Yeah.”

You smiled at him and flipped the visor up. The hat remained on your head for the rest of the day. When Frankie pulled up to your apartment that evening with you sound asleep, you still had his hat on. He gently woke you and after saying goodnight, you went inside and fell right back asleep. The hat, unbeknownst to you, was still on your head.

You wiped the tears from your cheeks and pressed a bit harder on the gas. You were being reckless, you knew. But you wanted to feel something other than anger and heartbreak.

You remembered a few years ago when Frankie showed up at your apartment one night. You had a guy that you were getting serious with over. You answered the door and found him leaning against the doorframe, eyes rimmed red and the heavy smell of alcohol on his breath.

“Frankie?” You asked, stepping out onto the porch and closing the door. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

“Don’t marry him,” Frankie said. “Please, don’t marry him.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Frankie, go home. You're drunk.”

“I mean it,” he said, adding your name to the end. “Don’t marry him.”

“Marriage hasn’t even been put on the table. Why. . . why are you doing this?’

Frankie fidgeted a bit with his pockets, mumbling something under his breath.

“What?”

He looked up at you, his brown eyes, large and soft, staring down into yours. “I love you. I’ve been in love with you since. . .”

You shook your head, tears burning your eyes.

“No,” you said. “No. You don’t get to do that, Francisco. You don’t get to come here after all this time. . . I’ve loved you since the beginning and I waited for you. I waited so long for you. And now that I’ve finally found someone who treats me right. . . No. You can’t come in here and ruin it for me, Frankie. I can’t.”

You held a finger to your lips as you took in a shaky, thick breath.

“Go home. Go home, Frankie.”

Your name fell from his lips but you stopped him with a shake of your head. He left, like a sad puppy with his tail between his legs and your heart broken. You didn’t know if this was the right thing to do for you and Frankie, but you knew it was the right thing to do for you.

What you didn’t know, standing there watching Frankie leave, was that your boyfriend was actually planning a proposal that night. You went back inside after wiping your face free of tears and sat down at your little table. He had offered to cook dinner and have a quiet night in, something you were very grateful for. After dinner, he brought out dessert with a ring sitting on the plate.

“It’s because of him, isn’t it?” He had said when you turned down the proposal.

You bit your lip and ran your finger up the stem of your wine glass.

“You still love him.” “I will always love him.”

“So what, now that he’s confessed his love on your doorstep, drunk, you’re just going to run to him.” “No,” you said, your eyes finally meeting your boyfriends. “I can’t do that. I will always love Frankie. It is why I will never be able to marry you or anyone else. It wouldn’t be fair to you. But loving him doesn’t stop me from caring about you, loving you.”

“Then say yes. Marry me.”

“I can’t,” you cried. “I can’t. I just can’t.”

Your boyfriend nodded. His jaw was clenched tight. How many hearts had to be broken tonight?

“I’m going to pack my stuff and go.”

You sat at the table in silence while he packed. He stopped beside you and you thought maybe he would say something, but then he was gone. You went to bed that night, hoping that it all had been a dream. Then you woke up, cold, alone, and heartbroken.

You released the scream that had been sitting at the bottom of your throat. The car sped up and then you slowly pressed your foot to the break. The car came to a stop in the middle of nowhere. You pulled off onto a grassy bank, moved the gear shift into park, and sat there. Forehead against the steering wheel, sobbing.

Your whole body shook with each sob. You had fucked up and now Frankie was lost to you, forever.

Something vibrated and reached over and grabbed your phone, wiping the tears from your face.

“Hello?” The word was more of a hiccup than an actual word.

Santiago’s voice said your name, soft and sad. “Do you need me to come to sit with you?”

“No, I’m fine. I’m fine. I got a call and I’m needed back home.”

“Frankie was wondering where you went. I’ll. . . I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m so sorry,” Santi said.

You bit your tongue and looked out at the horses in the field outside your wind. There were three of them racing along the fence.

“I want. . .” Santi trailed off. “I really thought it would be the two of you in the end.”

“I did too,” your voice broke at the end.

“I’ll come to check on you in a few days.” “You don’t have to do that, Santi.”

“Yes, I do. Take care of yourself, okay?”

You nodded, “I will.”

You and Santi exchanged goodbyes and then you were throwing your phone at the passenger seat. You knew he was just trying to help but knowing that Frankie’s best friend from his time in the military was rooting for you to be the one he was marrying today hurt so much worse.

FIVE YEARS LATER

You were at work, enjoying your life free of the responsibilities of men, kids, and others. It was a busy day and you were running around helping your coworkers as well as doing your own things. You were helping someone out when you got a call.

“Hello?” You asked, not bothering to look at the caller ID.

Will’s voice came through the speaker.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “But I thought you would want to know.” “Know what?” You asked.

“There’s been an accident.”

Everything around you seemed to slow and then stop. You grabbed onto the desk as your legs went numb beneath you. The room you were in was spinning and your coworker helped you to the ground.

“Is everything okay? What’s wrong?” Your coworker asked.

“He was drinking and got behind the wheel.” “Oh god,” you murmured.

“He’s in the hospital now. No one else was hurt. The police think he saw something in the road and swerved. Wrapped the car around a tree.”

“What hospital?” You asked.

He gave you the name of the hospital and you left. You grabbed your purse, told your boss that you had an emergency, and left.

The drive to the hospital was long but you didn’t remember it. Everything around you blurred and all you could think of was getting to Frankie.

When you got there, Benny was in the waiting room. He led you to the ICU and to Frankie’s little glass room. Will sat in one of the chairs by the window, his knee bouncing up and down. Frankie was hooked up to so many machines. A giant tube was pushed down his throat.

“Where’s his wife?” You asked.

“You didn’t hear?” Will asked.

“Hear what?”

“She cheated on him. They’ve been going through a divorce for almost a year now.”

“She cheated?”

“Since before they even met,” Will said.

“She doesn’t even know if Katie is his,” Benny added.

You moved towards the bed, gently taking Frankie’s hand in yours. Will got up and moved one of the chairs behind you.

“Thank you.”

Will nodded.

“They found something,” Will said, grabbing the clear plastic bag with Frankie’s belongings.

You watched as he pulled out Frankie’s old oil hat. He passed it to you, upside down. Inside the front of his hat was a little wallet-sized photo of you in that very hat. You were out on the lake, sitting on the dock with a fishing pole in your hands. You were laughing at something Frankie had said. The golden rays of the sunset hit your face and the water perfectly. He took this photo and he kept it in his hat. Through missions, through his marriage, through his life. He kept you close.

“He only married her because of Katie. He didn’t want her growing up with a distant father,” Benny said. “But he always loved you.

“He was going to call it off the night before. Tom talked him out of it, said he had to be there for the kid. Funny how he and Molly married because they found out she was pregnant all those years ago. Now, look at them. Divorced too.

“Thing is, Frankie was going to call it off because he only wanted to watch one person walk down the aisle. You.”

You swallowed the thick ball of salt sitting at the bottom of your throat.

“Can I…. Can I have a moment alone with him?”

“Of course,” Will said.

He and Benny left and you turned to Frankie. You gripped his hand tighter and brushed some of his hair from his face.

“I gave this back to you before you were deployed. Your good luck charm. It had brought you back to me all the times before, and it brought you back to me after that one. Just not in the way I always wanted.

“I wish I never yelled at you that night. I wish I had gone after you. I wish I had gone to you the day after I broke things off. I wish I had a thousand things, Frankie, all hoping that the one change would bring us together. I am so sorry.”

You stayed in the hospital until they kicked you out. You went home, showered, ate a little, slept less, and then went back to the hospital. You did that for days. He woke when you were sitting beside his bed, hand around his and slowly dozing off. The nurse rushed in with a doctor at her heels. They carefully removed the intubation tube.

You don’t know how you stayed calm, standing at the head of the bed rubbing Frankies head. His eyes burned into yours. He was scared, you knew.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “You are okay now.”

The doctor and nurse stepped out after, giving you both a few minutes.

“What happened?” Frankie asked, his voice raw and dry.

“You were in an accident.”

“Shit,” he groaned. “I was drinking, wasn’t I?”

You nodded, continuing to brush your hand over his hair.

“Did I hurt anyone?”

“No,” you said. “You were the only one injured. You scared the shit out of me, Benny, and Will. But no, you didn’t hurt anyone else.”

“Thank god.”

Frankie closed his eyes and leaned into your touch. He squeezed your hand and you squeezed back.

“Shit.” “What?”

“Katie. I’m never going to get joint custody now.”

“We will cross that bridge when we come to it. Right now I’m just happy that you’re awake.”

Everything grew quiet and you leaned down and gently rested your cheek against his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“I’m sorry,” Frankie said at the same time.

You both chuckled.

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” Frankie said. “I never thought it would be like this.”

“I know,” you said. “I know.”

“I wanted it to be you. I always wanted it to be you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“I want that too,” you said.

Frankie pulled away from you a bit and you sat up, looking at him.

“Really?”

“Really.”

You leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his chapped lips.

“It’s always been you, Frankie. Always.”

TWO YEARS LATER

Frankie was driving his pick up to the lake. You and Katie are sitting beside him on the bench seat. You had your arm around Katie, your hand running along his shoulder. Slowly you inched closer and closer. He could feel the cold metal of your wedding band against his neck. Finally, you struck, grabbing his hat.

“Hey,” Frankie said, trying to grab it back.

Katie was lost in a fit of giggles. You glanced inside and found your photo still in there. You smiled, sliding it on.

“How do I look, Kitty Kat?” You asked.

“Good,” she said.

You smiled down at her then up at Frankie.

“What do you think, love?”

“It looks good on you, Hermosa.”

You loved it when he called you that. It made your heart skip beats, but then again, your heart was always skipping beats when you were around Frankie.

When you arrived at the lake, Katie jumped out and ran to the beach. You grabbed the picnic basket from the bed of the truck while Frankie took the fishing rods and bait box. You walked hand in hand to the dock. You laid out a blanket at the end of the dock and sat down.

“Come on, Kitty Kat, time for dinner.”

Katie ran down the dock as Frankie cast the lines and sat the ends of the poles in little holders. He sat down beside you and pulled out the bottle of wine. You grabbed the sandwiches while Frankie poured. Katie peeked into the basket and smiled.

“Chocolate?”

“After you eat your sandwich,” Frankie said.

Her face fell but quickly turned into a smile as you broke off a small piece and handed it to her. You pressed a finger to your lips and she giggled.

“You are horrible,” Frankie said.

You shrugged. “It’s my job. I’m the good cop, your. . . mediocre cop.”

“Mediocre cop?”

You smiled under the brim of his hat. Katie had taken a few bites of her sandwich and then stood up. She muttered something about skipping stones and ran back to the beach. Frankie shook his head but he was smiling nonetheless.

“What?”

“How did I end up with someone so perfect?”

“I thought I was horrible?”

Frankie leaned in close, “No. You’re perfect.”

The setting sun lit up Frankie’s warm brown eyes. Katie laughed as she threw stones. Frankie kissed you slowly and finally, you were his girl.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #frankie morales #frankie morales x reader

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idiotcurls · 1 year

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For Auld Long Syne, My Dear

Chapter Two: Dinner

Chapter one is here. The whole thing on AO3 is here. After Steve finally arrived to the New Year’s Party at the Byers-Hopper house, the gang is sitting at the dinner table, bantering, eating and drinking. Nancy and Robin are forcing Hopper into a speech, which he hates but reluctantly accepts. Mike and Will have some sort of issue with eachother and are making it everyones problem. When emotions boil over, Steve goes into mum mode and Eddie finds himself as a bigger brother figure to Mike. Pairing: StevexEddie but they are idiots, WillxMike but they don’t know that yet, established NancyxRobin, platonic Stobin d’uh

Tags: slow burn, found family, post vecna world, dealing with trauma, coming of age, hurt/comfort, eddie is alive obviously The kitchen is filled with laughter and conversation. Plates are empty, bellies are full. Steve is sat next to Joyce and Jonathan, his thumb in a brand new band-aid, provided by Joyce. He had gotten his glasses from the car earlier too, to avoid more mishaps like this.

During dinner, Steve politely reminded Hopper that he wasn't becoming a teacher, but a guidance councilor again, when he asked how the studying was coming along.

That concept was foreign to Hop, but Steve had no problem explaining it all over, every time they met, even though he knew Hop would keep on calling him 'Teach'. The kids were bickering, Dustin screeched about something Max had said. Steve rolls his eyes but was in all good spirits. He was happy to see them laugh. Glances between him and Eddie were exchanged during the dinner.

Eddie basically inhaled Joyce's Lasagne. When she got up to put a third load of Lasagne on his dish he almost didn't dare to decline.

„You will make the boy explode, Joyce.“ Hopper intervened. „Oh well, they're still growing.“, she deflected. „That is a grown man.“, he pointed at Eddie with his fork. „I once arrested him.“ Eddie seemed to flinch. „That was a long time ago!“ Eddie added quickly, looking between Steve and Joyce. “That's probably like... statue-barred or something.”

Eddie being so damn lovely with Joyce and Hopper made Steve's heart feel warm. He acted like a polite son in law, trying really hard to impress some girl's parents. Steve swallowed hard.

“Well, I think by now you can say, he redeemed himself, don't you think?“ Joyce reached across the table to give Eddie's hand a quick, affectionate squeeze and he froze for a second there. He just nodded. “Th-thanks, yeah.”Jonathan sighed.

„I think we all suffered 3 times worth all of our respective sins.“ Nancy gave Jonathan a serious side eye.

„Since when do you believe in the concept of sin?“, she asked.Jonathan shrugged. „Argyle's mum is italian catholic. It comes up in conversation.“ Robin made a 'uh huh?' sound, while she looked into her glass of orange juice, but didn't dig deeper into the topic.

“Speaking of, where is Argyle?”Jonathan apparently just came back from a short holiday in California, where he stayed with Argyle, his mum and his abuelita. Steve noticed he was tan. For Jonathan at least. He looked happy and healthy.

“They would kill him, if he wasn't at home for the holidays.”, Jonathan explained. “But he doesn't seem to mind that, at all. He likes being molly coddled by them.” Jonathan looked into the middle distance. Steve couldn't help but wonder, what Argyle's family dynamics were like. And why they made Jonathan weary.

Speaking of sins, Steve looked over to Eddie. He looked down on his band-aided finger and back at him. He watched him smile while listening to conversations on the table. He didn't talk too much, almost seemed shy. Steve would have never thought, that a family dinner (of sorts) was the one thing that made Eddie shut up.

Steve's eyes got stuck on Eddies lips, on his dimples, that appeared when he smiled like that. There was Eddie's sharp jaw line, in contrast to his big brown eyes, that searched everybody's faces with curiosity. Sometimes he added insightful comments. This time about Catholicism. How can one person be so smart and so bad at school at the same time?

But the school system made Steve feel less than as well. He still sometimes thought he was dumb. And in Eddie's case, maybe the teachers just didn't like him, or had preconceived notions. He wore being an outcast well. But Steve sometimes wondered, if it came to him that easy. The snarky comments, the no fucks given attitude.

It must have been lonely behind that mask in school. But it was a mask and a loneliness Steve knew too. The mask just had a different colour. Steve promised to himself, that he would never treat any of his kids like this. Once he got through the course. Once he was a guidance councilor. It was either that, or becoming a hairdresser. He chuckled to himself, imagining doing Eddie's hair in a salon.

On the other side of the table, Nancy and Robin whispered something, they seemed to hatch out some sort of scheme, he saw it in their eyes. That always rang an alarm bell in Steve's head, so he tried to take his eyes off Eddie and watch out for those two agents of chaos.

For some reason Robin brought out a more playful, joyous side in Nancy. He loved their dynamics, even thought, truth be told, sometimes they got on his nerves. But this light-hearted Nancy, he hasn't seen that version of her since before Barb died. Not with him and not with Jonathan. So he was grateful.

Mike seemed to chew El's ears off about a topic she didn't seem to be interested in. Will and Dustin talked about that 60s movie they watched before. He had a feeling Robin also talked about it before. She wanted to watch it with him, to broaden his horizon.

He saw Will for the first time this evening at the dinner table. Will didn't seem to be in a very chatty mood, so Steve decided not to pester him with too many questions. Will was stabbing his food with the fork and provided short answers, when someone talked to him. Max was in a chatty mood today, but Steve learned not to disrupt her quiet phases aswell. It was a time where she intently listened to what was going on around her. He saw her quietly smile into herself sometimes, when one of the boys said some stupid shit.

Robin and Nancy's whispering turned into a giggle and then into a chant, far away from quiet. “Speech! Speech! Speech!” They looked at Hopper, starting to bang their fists on the table. Hop rolled his eyes and mouthed a stern 'No!' Nancy seemed to have sobered up a bit, still red cheeks, but she had this determination in her eyes, that Steve loved so much about her. El watched the girls chant and bang on the table for a second, before she chimed in, ignoring Mike's monologue. The more Hopper refused, which he did, the louder everyone got. Max was quietly smiling to herself. She put her hands on the table, like she tried to feel the vibration of the bangs on her hands. “Okay, okay, okay.“, Hop finally said. He got up, taking his glass of scotch into his right hand and put his left hand gently on Joyce's shoulder. Clapping and whoo-ing ensued. Well, from almost the whole table. Eddie didn't shout as loud as the other participants, but clapped. Apparently he still had a lot of respect, or maybe some sort of god's fear of Hop, which Steve found hilarious in a way. Mr. „Fuck the rules“ in awe of a cop. Steve smiled. He wondered why Hop arrested Eddie back then and how it all went down. He had a faint idea, since he sometimes bought weed off of him, back in high school. But that is a story for a different time. „Y'people are cruel, you know that, right? Y'know I'm bad with words.” He cleared his throat. “But uh, I will try my best.“ He seemed like he didn't quite know what to do with his hands or face. Joyce looked up to him, a sparkle in her eyes. She patted Hopper's hand on her shoulder and whispered „You can do this.“ Hopper was wearing a nice shirt and Steve was 200% sure it was a gift from one of the girls. It was very colourful, so he figured El gave it to him and it mattered so much to him, he wore it anyway, like a proud dad. A proud dad. Steve had a bitter sweet feeling in his stomach. But he couldn't imagine anyone other, that deserved a proud dad as much as El and Max. „I want to thank you all for coming here. It's uh... nice to have a full house. I guess we're still making this house a home...“ He looked around the table at all the eyes fixed on him and seemed to get honestly emotional. As if he felt...touched. „I never reckoned, that I would have a wife and four children to boss me 'round.“, he looked at the kids intently. His voice broke a little, Steve was sure about it, he heard it! “And...-“ „She's not your wife yet!“, Max interrupted with a smug smile on her lips. Hopper sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. „Yeah, well. That is a fact. A fact that I was going to get into, if you would let me finish...” „They are getting married in spring!!“ El blurted out. „That is why Robin and Nancy wanted to hear a speech.“ El was proud. Mike next to her, seemed somewhat disconnected from the ruckus on the table. Will, who was sitting next to Mike, just watched the burning candle in front of him intently. Joyce laughed. „Don't steal his thunder! Come on now, go on, now.“ Her smile was wide and genuine. Something clicked in Steve's head. He looked at Joyce's hand and saw a new ring which she didn't wear the last time he visited. Joyce seemed to notice him connecting the dots and winked at him. He raised his eyebrows in disbelieve and shot Robin a look. She winked at Steve too, she knew already, but didn't say a word to him. Wow. Steve was surprised, Robin could shut up that long. Especially in front of him. Good for her. All the times they spoke on the phone and yet. He was almost proud.

If there hasn't been the conversation he had with Joyce when he came in, one could have thought everything was alright. Just a happy, big family celebrating new year's. Steve wished it could at least be true for the evening. He had a feeling they all shared that wish.

„Who's gonna be your best man? Can I be your best man?“ Dustin piped up. Mike punched his shoulder.

„You can't be a best man, you're way to young! You have to be like, 30 to be a best man.“ „Ow, dude, that is so disrespectful.“ Dustin shot back. „I'm allowed to ask!?“„As a matter of fact-“ Hopper raised his voice to interrupt the fighting, looking between Mike and Dustin. „We are getting married in spring. And uh I... we! We wanted to inform you, that you're all invited. We want you to be there.” Dustin looked at Hopper with big eyes, waiting for an answer. „I'm sorry kid, but Jonathan is going to be my best man.“, he said, not unkind. Dustin frowned. “Damn it.“ „See, I told you!“, Mike hissed at him under his breath across the table. “I am allowed to ask!!!”, Dustin hissed back.Jonathan who was just watching the back and forth between the kids, raised his hands in defense and shook his head. „First of all, I'm not 30? And you are very welcome to help me prepare stuff.” Dustin nodded enthusiastically, ignoring Mike's sour expression. It was the first wedding he was invited to, so Dustin thought, he had every right to be excited.He could practice wedding stuff, for when Suzie and him would get married, once they were old enough. Even though he didn't really know if Mormons married differently. He only knew weddings only from TV anyway, so this was a good place to start. El searched for Steve's attention. „I'm going to be a flower girl.“, she said unable to contain her excitement. „Me and Max both. That means we will go down the isle and throw flower petals on the ground.“, she explained. „Before Joyce walks down to get married.“ She was so proud. Her cheeks turned a rosy hue.Steve nodded. „That is very nice, I love that.“, he said sincerity in his voice. He looked over at Eddie. He had his hand on his chin, leaning on the table, just listening. If he wouldn't have known better, Steve thought, he was moved. But he couldn't read his face, since Eddie hid half of it and avoided eye-contact with Steve. Maybe he felt embarrassed about earlier. „So, please remember the date. 7th of may. I want us all to be together. It's important to celebrate, even during hard times.“, Joyce added. „You will get the invitations later. Oh, and thank you Robin for helping us make them!“ „Hear, hear!“ Robin raised her glass, putting her arm around Nancy. “I'm happy I could help.“, she smiled her beautiful, broad smile. Nancy looked up to her, studying her profile, flustered. Steve knew that look, but hasn't seen it in a while. Apparently Robin had helped them craft beautiful typography and added some flowers into their design.Hopper was so concentrated to provide a speech, he couldn't be annoyed by their blatant flirting. Steve knew, it wasn't because they were both young women. It was just because it was...them. „So now that that is out of the way...“, Hopper said after he kissed Joyce's head. „Let's have a nice evening together, but let's not get over board.“, Hopper continued, looking at Nancy. Steve couldn't help but laugh. Nancy shot him a look. Neither Will nor Mike had any emotional reaction to the situation, that was appropriate. Steve was wondering what was going on behind the scenes on this one. He had a little suspicion. “To Hopper and Joyce!” Nancy raised her cup. Everyone followed her. Even so Mike, who seemed to watch Will from the corner of his eyes the whole time. The only person who didn't raise his glass to the happy occasion, was Will. Steve was surprised. „This is not right.“, he said quietly still staring at the candle. The table grew quiet all of a sudden and everybody looked at Will. Raised hands sank back down. Mike rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.Maybe Will had been in a mood all day. Which was unusual, because that role was solely Mike's, commonly. „Honey, let's talk about this again later...“, Joyce said, reaching out to her son. „No, I don't want to talk. I'm so sick of everyone pretending everything is fine, when it's clearly not!“ Joyce couldn't speak for a second, she was taken aback. And hurt, Steve figured. She opened her mouth to say something but closed it again, afraid of saying something to make it worse. “Will....”, Jonathan started. „I can't take this talk of us all being together, when people are missing from 'together' and everyone is just, like, ignoring the truth.“ „Do you want to talk about this truth? Now?“ Hoppers voice was not unkind, but stern. „Enlighten us?“ Steve didn't think it was possible for the room to get even more silent but somehow it did. Dustin put his glass of sunny D down quietly, as if he was afraid to be noticed. “We're just playing pretend. Lucas and Erica are gone and Max-“ He stopped. His voice broke. The sound of his chair grinding back on the kitchen floor seemed to ripple through the room. „I have to go.“ He looked at the shocked faces around him and seemed to grow smaller. Will walked out of the kitchen. They could hear his steps ascending up the stairs into his room, followed by a door closing.Max lowered her head. Nobody dared to say anything. Joyce let her head sink into her hands, rubbing her forehead. “I'm sorry” she said softly to no one in particular. „He is going through a lot.“ “Puberty.”, Dustin nodded knowingly. Steve shot him a look and mouthed 'not now', shaking his head slightly. Dustin folded and shut up. Hopper laid his hand on Max's and whispered something to her. She nodded, but her expression seemed conflicted, still. Everyone missed Lucas and Erica the way Will did, but they were all faced with the same helplessness in the situation. Steve's stomach turned. It reminded him of the helplessness he felt, when Nancy was grieving Barbara. And he was a shit boyfriend back then. But also a teenager facing impossible situations. Not knowing where they are, made him lose sleep as well. He looked at Eddie. He seemed to want to add something to the conversation, but didn't dare to. He loved Lucas and had grown more fond of Erica ever since she called him a long haired freak. Everyone looked hurt, staring down at the table. Except for Mike. Mike seemed furious, like he could barely swallow his rage. Not annoyed, like he usually was. A more common sight, but fire burning furiously. Steve had a feeling, Max blamed herself partly for them leaving. Even though none of them had confirmation on how the situation took place and it surely wasn't Max's fault. He knew Max was smart. Smart beyond her years. But knowing something doesn't immediately mean, you know how to deal with your emotions. He knew that for sure.Jonathan cleared is throat and put down his bottle of beer. „I'm going to talk to him.“, he uttered under his breath and got up to follow his little brother upstairs. Mike watched Jonathan go after Will and something in him was about to snap. He shook his head. You could see the white on his knuckles, he was balling his fists so hard on the table. El looked at his fist and back up to him. But before she could say anything, Mike finally snapped. „This is so stupid.“, he spit out. „He should be happy he has all of this!“, he waved across the room. “Mike! Stop it!”, Nancy snapped at him. Mike shot his sister an angry look across the table, before the second time a chair grinned the kitchen floor. “Don't act like you know whats going on at home!” He left the room, put on his shoes and slammed the front door behind him, without grabbing a coat on the way out. El didn't follow him. She looked the other way and grabbed Max's hand. Max seemed relieved. Everyone else was looking at the table, perplexed on how fast a general mood can switch.Nancy shook her head and furrowed her brows. “Just ...let him calm down.”, she said, defeated and waved her hand. Robin put an arm around her. Just being there, a silent support. “They are always angry, lately.”, Max said quietly. El nodded, knowingly. “They are.”, she said with a lowered tone. “Something is changing.“, she added. Steve couldn't make out if Hopper was extremely angry or extremely sad. He did work a lot on his anger lately, he knew that from Joyce. So maybe it was somehow both.

„Sometimes people are angry when things change.“, Joyce offered them softly. The candles were flickering on the table and the TV had since started broadcasting the New Year's eve celebrations on times square. 1988. Almost a new era. “Let's just clean up a bit. We'll give you guys some time.” Robin said towards Joyce and Hopper, as she got up. Nancy seemed to snap out of a trance and got up too. Steve knew, Hop wanted the best for his new family. Steve respected that. But it also must be a lot of work and “new territory” so to say. “I'll go out to check on the fire.”, Hopper said, getting off the table.Joyce got up too, to frantically put plates together. “Come on let's all help. Dustin! Grab a tea towel. I wash, you dry.”, Steve announced. Dustin groaned. “Do I have to?” “Yes. You do.” Steve said with a stern voice and gestured towards him. In reality Dustin was probably relieved. He didn't seem to know what to do with his hands, or the Situation as a whole, if we were perfectly honest. “Go be with Hopper. We got this”, Nancy said softly, touching Joyce's arm. She sighed and laughed thinly. “Thank you. I'm sorry about this.” “Don't be.” Nancy was serious. Steve saw Joyce grab a packet of cigarettes out of one of the kitchen drawers, before she grabbed a coat and left into the night to talk to Jim. El pushed Max's wheelchair out of the kitchen, towards her room. El nodded to Nancy before they left. Nancy nodded back and touched El's shoulder affectionately before they left. It wasn't close to midnight yet, but still a good time to have a little festive fight, Steve figured. Nancy and Robin were clearing off the table, bringing used plates and cutlery to Steve and Dustin. Eddie had gotten up from the table and stood in the room awkwardly, not knowing what his role in this was exactly. He looked towards Steve, helplessly. Crisis-mode Steve was pretty good at diffusing situations and just reacting to problems. So he did. Steve turned on the water and plugged the drain, before looking over his shoulder at Eddie, nodding towards the door, raising his eyebrows. He seemed to have forgotten that Eddie doesn't really have a code to follow in “family situations” like that.“I think I, uh... I want to go smoke a cigarette?”, Eddie asked

“Yes. Yes you want to do that.” Steve answered and nodded towards the door again. Someone should check on Mike. “Right. Got it.” Eddie snapped his fingers and walked out the kitchen towards the front door, grabbing the ear warmers and his coat, following to where ever Mike Wheeler turned to hide himself. Steve sighed, already feeling bad for being bossy. But he knew Mike looked up to Eddie. Mike grew his hair out, despite his father threatening, that he would somehow end up in prison with a haircut like that or worse, unemployed. The kid was a sucker for Eddie. Even today, he wore his Hellfire shirt, hanging on every word Eddie uttered, all evening. When he wasn't sulky or angry. If he didn't know it any better, he thought Mike had a crush on Eddie. Nancy for one, didn't quite get the infatuation her brother had, but decided, there were worse role models to pick. At least Eddie was someone who tried to make high school a tolerable place for kids like them. He basically ran around high school adopting kids. Which was cute. She remembered wanting to look out for Jonathan, when they were in school. And he had proven himself to Nancy Wheeler since. She put a stack of used plates next to Steve and sighed, watching him scrub away on the dirty plates, brows furrowed. He loved to stress-clean. He used to stress-clean a lot, when they were dating. Back then, she found it endearing. Now it's just comedy relieve. Also, Robin was a slob and she already got used to that. But it was Steve's way of helping and dealing with complicated situations. “You know he had a hard time, since Robin and me got together.”, Nancy's big dark eyes seemed still seemed a bit clouded. Steve listened to her, keeping his eyes on the warm water and bubbles. “He is so fucking angry all the time, we don't know what to do.”, she said, sighing again. “I don't know what to do and he is not talking about it, like, at all.” Dustin shook his head and scoffed. “We have been talking, aaall the time! But nobody can fucking tell me what's wrong.” Dustin sounded defeated drying another plate, Steve put into his hands. „Maybe, they just need a little bit more time. To figure things out.“ Robin's voice was quiet, and soft like velvet, her eyes rested on Steve. Then she leaned over to Dustin and gave him a little nudge. “Don't worry too much about it, Dusty-Bun.” Dusty-Bun groaned loudly.“Yes! But we know Will is gay. We don't care! The party does not care!”, Dustin was obviously annoyed by the whole Situation. “Eddie had this one gay character in DnD and we all decided we loved her!” he almost screamed. “It is just FINE. So what else could it possibly be?” Robin decided to ignore him. She remembered Sapphire the Sapphic all to well. When Eddie told her about Sapphire, she knew, that motherfucker wasn't totally straight. How else would he know the word sapphic and why else would he tell that to her. They had a silent agreement since. But Robin was happy he seemed to try to teach the kids something.Robin had seen Eddie with girls around Hawkins High. But she had a suspicion. The same suspicion she held with Steve. Not all that easy to read, but the moment Eddie appeared in their lives, she could smell something was off with Steve too. Since they knew each other, she had never seen Steve look at a girl the way he looked at Eddie. Steve never looked at her that way, when he thought he was in love with her too. “Is he angry about you and Robin?”, Steve asked Nancy and gave Dustin yet another wet plate to shush him, lovingly. “He seemed to take it fine. When we told him. Together. ” Nancy said. “But then, all of a sudden he decided to be a huge dick. To everyone.” “More than before?” Steve couldn't hide his undertone. Which was fine in that situation, he figured.“Uh, Yes. A lot more.”, Dustin said, swinging his towel. “I would have told you, if you'd pick up your phone more often. Instead of, uh, I don't know, going on hot dates with lots of girls or whatever.” Robin poured herself a cup of mulled wine from the stove and laughed out loud, leaning on the counter.“How are those hot dates going, Harrington?” Steve dropped a plate back into the foamy water, to look at her, eyebrows raised. “Okay, ouch. I don't like either of you two very much, right now. I'm actually studying and working. Trying to become my own man, you know?” Steve shrugged. “I'm trying to become a better man.” He nodded to himself. He wasn't quite sure if he believed it, or what it meant, exactly. His glasses fogged up from the hot water, so he took them off and placed them on his head. “Jeez, that shouldn't distract you from being a good older male role model for me, Steve.” Dustin threw the tea towel over his shoulder, like an old lady, perfectly mimicing the way Steve did it. Steve didn't say anything to that. He just looked at Dustin and shook his head.„What do you think about it, Buckley? I mean, about Mike and Will.”, Steve finally asked, going on to investigate his suspicion. She sighed deeply, taking a sip of the hot wine, contemplating.„I think they are teenagers. We weren't any better, were we? Figuring stuff out. Fighting, being mad. There IS a lot of change happening right now. We're still trying to cope too. And their brains aren't really fully developed yet. You should know that, Mr. Councilor? The prefrontal cortex and everything? Do you have yours?”Steve scoffed and nodded. “Yeah, haven't taken that class yet. Next semester. Too busy being a rolemodle.”, he looked at Dustin theatrically, who sighed.The warm water in the sink felt good on his hands. In the beginning he tried not to get his band-aid wet, but aborted the mission half way through. Scrubbing plates gave him something productive to do. From the kitchen window, he saw Joyce and Hopper standing by the fire. Hop was shaking his head while Joyce was talking and blowing blue smoke into the cold winter air. „What are we figuring out though?“ Dustin put a salad bowl on top of the pile of clean plates. „Stuff. Teenager Stuff.“, Steve said. „I want to be included. I can't trust you to figure the case out by yourself. You need me. You know, to connect the dots.“ “I don't know man. I am still not sleeping well either. At least sometimes. So I guess that?” Dustin nodded. He seemed to understand that. “I talk to Suzie a lot when I can't sleep.”, his voice went a little bit more quiet. “Some teenagers have to figure stuff out, other teenagers don't have to.” Steve pondered, thinking of Mike and Will. „Also, you can't put a half dry bowl to the dry dishes! Jesus!“ Steve took the tea towel from Dustin's shoulder and put it on his own. Robin smiled kindly. “That is actually true. You know you can still figure things out even though you're not a teenager anymore, right Steve?” Steve and Robin locked eyes. Nancy looked between them, confused about the tension in the room. Outside the house, Eddie stomped through the crisp snow, silently hating himself for jumping on whatever Steve tells him to. He could imagine a thousand things that were better than running after an angry teenager on a night he looked forward to for weeks. Could he say no to Steve though? Not exactly. Would he do anything for that rag-tag family type situation going on in there? Yeah, probably. He figured it was safe to feel that way. They did that for each other all the time, he knew. Eddie did actually know a thing or two about being a teenager and being an angry one, so.

Steve knew that. That's why he sent him out to talk to Mike, he figured. It made him feel a little proud. Steve knew the kids longer than he had. So Eddie loved, that Steve trusted him with looking after one of the difficult ones.

They both cared about the little shrimps. He felt included. It warmed Eddie's heart, something to examine later, after the mission.And Eddie also knew very well, that he could have used someone in situations like that. Needed someone to understand him. Dads and uncles sometimes couldn't do that in a way that actually helped.

Even though, he regarded himself lucky, to even have an uncle, to go after him when he stormed out into the dark of night. Which he did frequently, back in the day. Why he never got eaten by a Demogorgon or something like that, in hindsight, he couldn't explain. The fool's luck.

„Shit.“ He rubbed his hands together, looking around to find any sign of Mike. He looked up to the sky. The moon was a very thin sickle. Only sparse clouds in the sky. Which made sense. It's to cold for much clouds if it's too cold for snow. And there wasn't any snow in a while. It made sense, because of the lack of moisture. He really liked the colour of the sky though.

The footsteps in the snow he followed, led him behind his own Van. Mike was crouched down, leaning on a dirty front tire. He angrily wiped away a tear or two in an hectic movement, when he heard Eddie's footsteps approach. Little Idiot, Eddie thought. He looked younger.

„Hey there. It's a bit cold to hang around out here.“, Eddie said.

„What else is new.“ Mike's tone was cold. He clearly didn't want any company. Yet, there Eddie was. Feeling like he was in a different dimensions, where the roles were reversed and he was the one to strike up a meaningful conversation. No biggie, though. The van's door was cold on Eddies back, as he leaned against it, while crouching down next to Mike. He reached into the pocket of his too big jacket and produced a packet of cigarettes and a zippo lighter, with an intricate design on it. There was only a zzsk, zzsk noise abd a small orange flame from the lighter, as he lit his cigarette.

He casually blew the smoke into the cold December air, like he didn't just got sent out into the cold to retrieve a teenager. He offered the package over to Mike, who raised his hand to take one out, but Eddie pulled back in a quick motion. “Gotcha. I know you smoked before. Don't start it.” Mike shook his head, defeated. He knew he earned that. “I had to throw up after.”, he confessed quietly. Eddie nodded. “I thought that much.“, he said ashing into the snow.When he saw Mike the first time, he got bullied by some jock from Mike's English class. The perfect victim for becoming a new member of Hellfire. But that was why Eddie started Hellfire for. A refuge for nerds, freaks and outcasts. And they flocked to him.Now the situation was a different one. The “shared trauma” as Robin and Steve called it, was a bit more than some assholes in a cafeteria calling you a name. It was new for him, he barely survived. Thinking that those kids have done this since they were so small, blew his mind. Made him feel small in comparison.Since then a lot changed, times changed and the kids grew up a lot. But hell, so did he.

If somebody would have traveled back in time and told him, that he would spend New Year's with Steve Harrington, Nancy Wheeler and a Cop in 3 years time, he would have spat into the time traveler's face, despite being impressed by, you know, the time traveling.Once you graduate and leave the small little bubble of high school, get thrown into real life, a lot of important things seemed silly. It almost made Eddie feel nostalgic.

Like he yearned for easier times with less at stake. Jocks against Nerds. Nothing more. Black and White. Not all of this greyish hues that bloomed in front of him, like boring but insightful flowers of early adulthood.He wondered if the little spark he had with Chrissy could have bloomed into a friendship too after high school, if... if things happened differently.

Their friendship would have have had pink and yellow petals, he thought. Eddie imagined her at college. He imagined her having fun with her friends and grow up to become a woman. He saw her smiling. She would have been so amazing. It stung.But despite all of it, Mike was still partly in this bubble, with his stupid views on the stupid world and his big anxieties, that were very real. The kids were pushing 18, learning and growing and being dumb.

„So... what was that all about?“ Eddie tried to swallow his teasing tone. „What do you mean?“, Mike spat, looking at the cigarettes tip glistening in Eddie's hand.

„Come on.“ Eddie leaned into Mike's space. „You're going to tell me, Baby-Byers storming off and then you storming off are not in perfect correlation?“ „I know you think of me as this wise old man, but I'm actually not too unfamiliar with the teenage drama.“ Mike shook his head and rolled his eyes. "It's not that." Mike said. “It's not drama... It's just... I'm just...Will got all of this attention from being 'out' and everyone is walking on eggshells around him. He gets to start over at a new place and Joyce and Hopper are madly in love with each other, it's gross.“, it bubbled out of him. Ding, Ding, Ding. Jackpot, Eddie thought, but let the kid continue.„He is living with El and Max and Jonathan is there a lot. Everyone loves him, despite... you know? But he runs around being depressed and angry and anxious. What does he have to be angry about all the time?!“ Mike was angry, too.

Eddie took the last drag off the cigarette and flipped it into the snow. They both watched the little light go out. Eddie decided to not follow up the 'despite', not yet. He also swallowed the 'what are you so angry about?' question. That was for another time.

„Are you jealous?.“, Eddie said, breathing out smoke. Mike was hesitant, breathing out through his nose, like a child that got caught. He seemed to gather his thoughts together, so Eddie let him.

„I'm alone a lot. Everyone is here. Lucas is gone. I barely get to see them.“ Mike's voices cracked.

„What about Dustin?“ „He is in a total nerd mode. Only cares about finishing school. And talking to Suzie.“ He scoffed. "He wants to marry her?" Eddie nodded. "That's young." He knew about that. Not feeling included, being alone. Except Mike gets to do it from a nice home with a family around him. He did not know a lot about his parents, despite the fact, that they don't seem to love eachother .„And El and you...“, Eddie started. „We're taking a break!“, the answer shot out of him. „It's just a matter of time. We'll be together again soon.“ 'We will be happy again', Mike wanted to say but didn't. Eddie had a feeling that this wasn't exactly true on what he had observed that evening. But the boy needed something to hang on to, so he wouldn't drown. Eddie wasn't going to be the one to take the straw away from him.

The first heart break was always the worst one. But he'll get over it, Eddie knew that too. „I can't say anything about you and El. But you guys all love each other. And you won't live in your parent's place forever. You can all venture out into the world together one day.“, Eddie mused, gesturing towards the sky.„I know, but what if...“ Mike's voice gave out completely. „What if they forget me? Just move on?“ He turned to look at Eddie with genuine sadness and fear in his eyes. A tear on the brink of rolling over his pale cheek. Oh god. Genuine emotions made Eddie feel weird. Who could blame him, when he had to swallow all of his own grievances and hurt for so long, just to survive. Those kids were emotionally so much more in tune with themselves than he was at their age. He swallowed. Don't mess this up, Munson. „Well...I for one, haven't been a part of what ever this is for a long time.“ He nodded towards the house. „But I can assure you, those people in there love you as much as you love them, man.“ Eddie chuckled. „I'm just a sort of bystander and I have felt sick all evening from all of this love and understanding going on in there.“ Mike laughed a little. „It's pretty bad.“, he admitted.„Yeah it is. And I think nobody would like, shoot you if you talked to them about it. You could even say, that you uh, miss them or something.“ Mike nodded. He knew Eddie was right. There was a small pause. Far away, there was the noise of fireworks going off, prematurely. And the cracking of the fire in the backyard. „You're not a bystander, Eddie...“, Mike said after that long pause, looking at his shoes. The tables have turned, Eddie thought. But that was the way those kids worked.„Sshh. I wasn't the one storming out of a family event just now.”, Eddie deflected. “Try to swallow your pride. You think you can do that?“ Mike nodded, bated. “And maybe you can work up some understanding for Will? Doing what he is doing, isn't that easy either.“, Eddie said with a stern voice. “And doing what you're doing is hard aswell. Be soft.” Mike nodded. He didn't quite know what Eddie meant, but he liked to feel acknowledged. He wondered what 'being soft' meant. „Okay. Good. So let's get up and go back inside. Your sister is going to skin me alive if you get sick because of me. “Mike seemed to understand those worries and reluctantly got up to walk back inside the house. For a second Eddie stopped in front of Steve's Beemer, looked at the leather seats and his bags neatly put together in the back.

When he raised his head, he took in the sight of a house filled with light and love and smelled the burnt wood from the backyard. There was some sort of commotion coming from the kitchen, a crash, like broken glass and something that could be a cat dying or Dustin. Eddie and Mike shared an amused look, before they entered the patio, to walk back inside. Eddie put one Hand on Mike's back, ushering him inside. He looked over his shoulder to check the woods, before he closed the door behind them. Old habits die hard. Maybe there was a slight chance for a nice evening, after all. People were still scattered around the house. When Eddie walked in, he immediately loved the warmth. He seemed to melt into it. Steve and Dustin were still cleaning and arguing. Apparently Dustin had dropped a plate and Steve was ushering him around to get out of the way, for Steve to sweep up the shards. In case any one of them went downstairs to get a cheeky sandwich, barefoot in the middle of the night, so nobody would get hurt. Seeing Steve, wearing his glasses on his head, a tea towel over his shoulder, bossing around a kid, Eddie felt a strange sense of longing for domesticity. Not that he ever had the nuclear family, mum-dad-kid holy trinity of the American dream at his disposal, but he liked evenings in, when him and Wayne would cook a proper meal together and watch a sitcom on TV. When he was younger, Wayne let him stay up longer and watch things that, in hindsight were not appropriate for 12 year old kids, but it was what it was. And Eddie was thankful for every minute of it. Bonding time. After they made their way back into the kitchen, Eddie noticed, Dustin also put his tea towel on his shoulder, the way Steve did. It was so absurdly cute how much Dustin looked up to Steve. One time Eddie asked him, if he'd share the secret of Steve's perfect hair, if he knew it. As a joke. Dustin got this really serious expression and told him, “I am not at liberty to discuss that with you, or anyone as a matter of fact.” and shut down the conversation. It took quite a lot out of Eddie not to laugh out loud. But that meant, he did share his sacred hair regimen with Dustin. And Dustin guarded it like it was the declaration of independence. In that moment, Eddie had a vision of him and Steve in an imaginary shared flat, where Steve was at the stove, in the middle of making dinner, on a random Tuesday night and Eddie hugged him from behind, to kiss his neck and smell his hair. He imagined them making out between chopped vegetables and bubbling sauce. Greetings from the kitchen, or whatever rich people called it. Maybe it started with something benign like Steve letting Eddie taste test his homemade tomato sauce, excuse him, Sugo, the one with the fresh basilico and authentic grana padano. But it ended with him whispering into Steve's ear, how much he loved him and his Sugo. The three course menu for Eddie was Steve, Steve, Steve. He immediately felt bad after imagining that. He had fever dreams like this all the time. He felt double bad, because Steve was obviously straight and it made his gut turn, that he imagined stuff like this about a friend. He felt like a stupid horny teenager, when there was more pressing matters to attend to.Eddie's eyes were glazed over, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Mike, whom Eddie forgot about for a second there, didn't seem to want to disrupt whatever was happening with Eddie. He cleared his throat semi-politely and announced he was going to sit with Nancy and Robin to watch the festivities as they unfolded on TV for a bit. Nancy and Robin were graceful and didn't make a big deal of the disgruntled teenager returning back to the mothership. Bless them. Eddie's and Steve's glance met, when Steve put away the last pieces of broken china. Eddie immediately looked away, a pink shimmer on his cheeks. Steve sighed and washed his hands. “Can you go sit with Mike?”, he said towards Dustin. “I want to talk to Eddie.” “There's a lot of talking going on today, that's for sure.”, Dustin grumbled passive aggressively, walking out of the kitchen. Steve felt a bit bad about it, but he was going to make up for it later on, he figured.

When Eddie sat down at the table, he had a beautiful smile on his face, that also seemed sad or embarrassed, Steve could not tell. The cold from outside must have turned his cheeks a rosy hue. There were some candles still burning, other ones were already out.Steve swung the tea towel over his shoulder yet again and put some little bowles of chips and other snacks on the table. “So...What's up?” Eddie shook his head. “Angsty teenager stuff.” Steve laughed. Eddie patted on the empty chair beside him. Steve followed, pulling up the chair, using it backwards, leaning his arms on the back rest. “Thanks for talking to him.” He nodded towards the living room, where Mike awkwardly sat on the rest of the couch, while Dustin joined them, immediately diving into the popcorn. “Yeah, no problem. He's just, you know, Mike.”

Steve snorted. “Yeah, he is.” “And I think. They're still having a hard time.”, Eddie continued. Steve sighed and leaned his chin on his forearms. “They miss them. A lot. Hell, even I miss that snarky little Erica voice.”, Eddie continued. “Who could blame them?”, Steve said more to himself.

“I think Mike feels lonely in Hawkins.”, Eddie said quietly, tilting his head towards the living room. Steve didn't say anything for a bit. The kitchen felt weirdly quiet after all that noise before. “Do you feel lonely in Hawkins?” Eddie scoffed. “Got lots to do. M'shifts at the mechanic. People don't have money to buy new tractors and cars. I'm in the back, so nobody gets to me.” He sighed. “Uncle Wayne is giving me a hard fucking time about that government housing. Constantly wants me to help him fix shit, or change shit. He hates it there.” “Move.”, Steve said, simply. Eddies eyebrows furrowed. “What?” “Move away. Doesn't Wayne have friends from the army somewhere?” Eddie was surprised, that Steve remembered that. “Yeah, but they live somewhere secluded, in east Jesus nowhere.”Some of the vets were not happy how they were treated after serving. And they did not get the assistance they needed to get back into civilian life. They lived somewhat self organized, somewhere in the desert. Wayne sometimes got letters from them, Eddie remembered Wayne chuckling to himself, while reading. And the only time he saw him writing was when he had to do tax returns or write back to his friends.

“It's not that easy, Steve... I can't just leave Uncle Wayne and the money...” “But we did get a good amount. You could start off somewhere new.” Steve offered.Eddies eyes got darker. He felt a little burning pit in his belly. “I don't have the same opportunities you do.” What he wanted to say was, I only have Uncle Wayne left. Where was he supposed to go? With whom?“I'm just saying-” Eddie sighed loudly, interrupted Steve with it. “I don't really think, you understand my situation here, Harrington.”Steve sat up in his chair. The 'Harrington' stung. Eddie hasn't called him that since before. It was a reminder of their past roles and Steve's status from before. Even if before didn't exist anymore and Steve was sure they let that part of the past behind them. Because it wasn't relevant anymore, not to him, at least. El and Max entered the kitchen again, Max's hands full of fire crackers and small fire works. Not the big ones, because no one liked loud noises at this point. “Do you guys want to go out and cause some chaos?”Steve looked at Eddie and raised his eyebrows. Eddie nodded. “Sure, why not. Get dressed.”, Steve said to the girls. Eddie watched Steve get up to get coats and shoes ready for outside. A tiny voice in him shouted derogatory terms. He didn't quiet know why he was so defensive right then. Defensive and a little bit mean. But he got up to follow them, anyway, cursing under his breath.

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brooklynislandgirl · 2 years

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Advent Calendar: Day 4 @kit-just-kit

Somewhere in the hustle and bustle of the week leading up to Christmas, Beth has to wonder how comfortable Kit really is. She has an open invitation to drop in for all the traditional activities; carols, food, fellowship, and ~the one that made Beth wince~ invited to join the clan at St Patrick’s Cathedral for Midnight Mass. She hadn’t made the face when Andy invited Kit via phone, trying to pencil in the plans he had in his head because she disliked the woman or didn’t want her to be part of the festivities. If anything, the more the merrier and maybe if Kit got to see what the family was like beneath the press photos and publicity junkets, then maybe she’d understand why the siblings were the way they were. The face came as part of her hindsight. Kit’s English and to the core. So maybe she’s not Catholic and doesn’t esteem Mother Church as much as they do. Still, she’s remarkably surprised that Kit shows up precisely at eight, four hours before they’re due to walk in through the doors. Beth is not inclined to be struck dumb by anyone, though she knows her friend is beautiful, and even she can’t help her mouth falling open just a little. The red sweater dress ~Chanel, she knows, she’d seen it on the runway~ hugs her figure without being overtly sexual in nature. Her hair looks so soft that it takes all of her willpower not to pet it, or lean in and smell it, because that’s weird and even she knows it. She does hug her though. Andy pauses what he’s doing to come around from the kitchen island to brush a kiss to her cheek and the pair of them chitchat for a few minutes while Beth goes and pours her a cup of coffee, just finished brewing. She then pours one for her brother and finally for herself. She takes their cups over to the living area and puts them on the coffee table to line up on either end of the couch. For a moment Beth is actually proud of her home; standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows is the twelve foot tree, gleaming with lights and tinsel, all sorts of bulbs from the different places and countries they’ve lived in. There are candles amidst the holly and ivy on the mantle, itself alight with gorgeously fragrant logs. There’s softly instrumental holiday music playing on the stereo system. It looks almost like a movie set but warm and cosy. They make small talk and the open space is filled with their laughter and the occasional glance over at Andy who also adds in pithy little comments now and again despite wearing an apron and baking. There’s a tray of golden brown crusted mince tartlets on the counter, and Beth encourages Kit to come along and steal one each. “Is pretty common f’ not eat until aftah Mass, a late night breakfast. Combine wi’ da aerobic exercise of standin’, sittin’ an’ kneelin’...I’m tellin’ ya sistah might as well carb load right now. An’ he made dis bourbon cream sauce t’ drizzle ovah dem. I been smellin’ all dem spice an’ sugar an’ jus…trus’ me. Every kine my braddah make jus’ broke da mout’. So ono, is like heaven.” Nothing escapes under said brother’s eagle eye or even his super human hearing because by the time she pulls Kit up off the couch, he’s got two little plates, both of them equal with one tart each, a drizzle of the sauce, and each one perfectly warm. “Just don’t tell Dad that I let you get away with this. He’ll rip me a new one.” Beth makes a sour face but doesn’t say anything about the Admiral, though Lord knows Kit’s heard enough to form her own opinion, and knows all things are vastly unequal between the siblings. “Don’ worry, I’ll let you sit next to me on the pew.”

#Mahalo!Sarah <333 #Girls will be Girls|Kit and Beth #Sibling Rivalry|Andrew Riley #Christmas with the Rileys #Christmas 2022

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katherine-traylor · 2 years

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Belated review: 'Midnight Mass'

My partner and I often have trouble choosing what to watch. She’s seen almost everything, for one thing, and I hate making her rewatch things. The overlap in our tastes also isn’t that wide, so it can be difficult finding something we both enjoy. Last week I randomly picked Midnight Mass, though, and it turned out to be a very good choice.

To make it clear: we are not horror fans. I walked out of IT about ten minutes in, and my attempt at watching Ju-On ended after ten seconds. We’ve both been curious about The Haunting of Hill House, also by Mike Flanagan, but we weren’t together when it came out and neither of us wanted to watch it alone. (Maybe now we’ll try.) Jump scares are the real issue, at least for me. I feel them like a physical assault, and that’s not a feeling I want in my entertainment media. Fortunately, Midnight Mass doesn’t have too many,, and the ones it has are for dramatic effect, so I didn’t mind them too much. Overall, it’s a beautiful series, with great acting, wonderful music, and gorgeous cinematography.

SPOILERS below, for obvious reasons.

We start with Riley Flynn. While driving drunk, he causes an accident that kills a teenage girl and is sent to prison for four years. The story begins when he comes home to the dying fishing community of Crockett Island. At the same time, Erin Greene, Riley’s childhood friend and sweetheart, has come home pregnant from a bad marriage. She’s settling into life as a single mom-to-be, taking her own mother’s place as the island’s only teacher. At the same time, Sheriff Hassan, one of two Muslims on the island and a recent transfer from New York City, is trying to build a meaningful life in a small, hostile town where there’s nothing much to do. His son resents him for bringing him here, and both are generally made to feel like outsiders. Meanwhile, the island’s few teenagers do their best to keep themselves sane in a place where nothing interesting has happened in years.

Then something does happen: to the shock of everyone in the congregation of St. Patrick’s, the local Catholic church, a new priest has come to fill in for the old priest, Monsignor Pruitt, who supposedly fell ill on his return from a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. The new priest, Father Paul, is very good at his job: kind, charismatic, and a talented preacher. Everyone seems to like him, and attendance at mass is going up. Good things are happening, relationships are forming, upswing, and the community as a whole seems to be on an upswing.

At the same time, though, some pretty nasty things are happening, too. (Content warning, if you’re thinking of watching this show: there are lots of animal deaths, including one very graphic one that’s extremely awful.) Father Paul seems to know more than he should, and in general there seem to be lots of secrets for an island with 127 people on it.

Then a genuine miracle happens at St. Patrick’s, and suddenly the mood changes.

I won’t completely spoil the rest, but I will say we were just a hair disappointed by the revelation of what’s actually happening in town: the truth wasn’t quite as mysterious and strange as the first episodes suggested. But it was a really neat twist on the trope.

The priest (played by Hamish Linklater) was a cool character: earnest, devoted, well-meaning, and tragically misguided. The congregation was also mostly devoted and well-meaning (though, critically, not all of them were) and I thought the director did a good job showing the positives and negatives of deep religious faith. Mike Flanagan apparently grew up Catholic and is now atheist, and you can definitely see that in this series. The incorporation of religious music is very effective, and it’s neat how key moments of the story are set at key points during Holy Week, building up to a catastrophic midnight mass on the eve of Easter Sunday where everything finally goes down.

The final scene of the show is really beautiful, and it’s a great callback/final summation of all those religious themes, with what felt like a reenactment of some of the earliest days of Christianity. It was clearly very deeply thought through, and really effective. Addiction, the show’s other main theme, was really well dealt with, treating the subject with both honesty and compassion. The series also has things to say about life in a small, traditional, dying community. The depiction was really strong, but if it had been possible, I would have liked to see just a tiny bit more of Crockett Island before everything went to pieces. I’m not even sure what state it’s supposed to be–Maine, maybe? It’s not important, I guess, but it would have been nice to know a little more about some of the extras who died horrifically during the course of the show.

One of the strongest points of the series was Bev Keane, played by Samantha Sloyan. She was a fantastic villain in that I absolutely hated her from moment one. Well done. She’s a kind of person who feels very familiar, though I can’t think of specific examples: a judgmental zealot who resents all the sinners around her for having a good time, and who can’t understand why everyone seems to be happier than her when she’s following all the rules and they’re not. There was some interesting little-girl imagery her portrayal (hair in a single braid down her back, Peter Pan collars, a high-necked white dress for mass, and a general air of “malicious tattletale” attitude”) that shows you she’s always been like this. Having never matured emotionally past “teacher’s pet,” she has no real depth of soul and isn’t able to understand genuine human relationships. There’s a brief moment at the end where she seems to have gained a hint of maturity, but (spoiler) it doesn’t last. It was a really compelling performance and added a lot to the show.

Sheriff Hassan (Rahul Kohli) was another strong performance, though I would have liked to see just a little more of him throughout the series. I loved his relationship with his son and the way the show dealt with the issue of religious conversion and intergenerational culture gaps, plus the irony of Hassan bringing his son to Crockett Island for safety in the context of what actually happened. I would have liked to have gotten a bit more backstory earlier in the series, because I felt like his big monologue (episode 6, I think?) tried to push too much info into too little space, but Kohli is a great actor and did an excellent job.

Riley (Zach Gilford) was probably my favorite performance. I absolutely loved him. Remorse shone through every moment, every gesture, and every word he said, and the dream images of Tara Beth were incredibly vivid and effective. I absolutely understood what he had gone through, where he was coming from emotionally, and why–after being gutted by the guilt of accidentally killing an innocent human being–he would make the choice he did rather than live through that again. The AA meetings between him and Father Paul were some of my favorite scenes. Another of my favorite characters was Joe Collie, a distorted reflection of Riley, who was also incredibly well acted (I would like to see more of Robert Longstreet).

Erin Greene, probably the main female character, was not my favorite. She was… fine… but her line delivery was a little too theatrical for me, and her big final monologue went on for WAY too long. But the actress, Kate Siegel, is apparently the director’s wife, so I guess I should get used to her if I’m going to keep watching Flanagan shows. I did love the relationship between Erin and Riley, though (from the beginning to the end). Another strong note was how Riley and his parents kept trying and and half-succeeding at reconnecting with each other throughout the story after the physical and emotional rift caused by what Riley did.

The show did have a few downsides. My main pet peeve was the lighting: though the show was set during early spring, the constant darkness and general color palette kept making me think it was October. There really is a difference between spring and autumn light, and in a series where so much of the action happens outdoors, I think that should have been taken into account. (Just looked it up and apparently it was filmed in fall because of COVID, which is understandable but unfortunate. I think it would have been better to wait a few more months.) I also felt that the last two episodes of the show were weaker than the first five (possibly because of who was missing). Overall, though, it was a really good series and I definitely recommend it.

I’d like to watch other shows and films by Mike Flanagan, but I’m worried they’ll be too scary. The Haunting of Hill House is one of my favorite books (I reread it almost every autumn), so I’m definitely interested in that adaptation. I’d also like to see The Fall of the House of Usher when it comes out, since we read that story in high school. I’d like to read The Turn of the Screw before I tackle The Haunting of Bly Manor (which is based on that book), so I’ll put that one off for a while. What spooky, creepy, pretty, and not-too-scary horror shows and movies would you recommend?

Image source here. Original blog post here.

#midnight mass #flanaverse #mike flanagan #horror #religion #vampires

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jamie4370 · 9 months

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I think Christmas was okay.

This Christmas was the first that I was the only son that had come home for Christmas. It’s not all bad though. My father’s retirement party is in a few days so they will be home for that. Still….. it is wild to think about. I’ve spent almost every Christmas with them. It’s hard to have that time with them as most of the past memories were filled with stress and negativity. I never really liked Christmas because of what it had done to people. What it had done to me. To make people feel like they need to show worth through gift giving. To show love. Love to me only felt like when I had a roof over my head or a warm meal to sit down to. That was more often than not, and I think I also took it for granted a lot of the times. I think it was still a good time with my parents.

Over the holiday I had thought a lot about A and what Christmas might look like if we were together. I would get her the biggest pack of slim Jims and a nice big plant from a nursery she could adopt. I’ve never spent a Christmas with them. I know that they used to tell me that she went to a catholic school. She told me that she never agreed with their ways, but respected them. Whatever the hell that meant. I was always curious of how she felt about Christmas. I don’t think they would have thought much about it. I think it would be really sweet to build a pillow fort. Watch movies, have sex. Love each other. Feel each other’s warmth. *sigh* I do miss us so much.

I’m at work currently and haven’t seemed to have much motivation with anything lately. Could that be the holiday season? Could it be how much I have been thinking about A lately? Nah. I’m only lazy and without gumption. Although, I feel productive about blogging.

Loneliness has been my enemy as of late. Every time I see someone that I am attracted to, I try to snap out of it and remember how untrustworthy people are. I don’t know if I ever want to date again, but I feel like I really don’t want to right now. I’ve been turned on, let down, spat out, and betrayed. It’s hard to have this many scars and feel beautiful about yourself, or to be even dream of dating others. Some how, being liberated from this whole confinement of a relationship has taught me this: I’ll never find someone perfect for me. Finding a prince or princess will never be in the cards. Love is the accepting of indifferences of others, not being perfect for other parties. My partner will never be perfect. Maybe that’s the mistake I’ve been looking for in someone else this whole time. Perfection. Is that what I thought A was for me? Maybe. Even when we got back together I could still count some of the things that they did that I didn’t like. I’m sure they did the same. I still think they’re perfect. Such strong feelings for a fraction of time spent together. Everything about them makes me want to jump in front of a train for them. Maybe that’s what you call a fantasy. The amount of love and support I’ve had through all of this is reassuring that everything will be alright.

I spend my days trying to get sober from alcohol and getting back in shape. Trying to have a more socially acceptable body has been reason for motivation to keep my personal health up. I want to get larger hips but a skinnier waist. Smaller arms. A feminine look. I’ve always wondered what A had thought of me as a female. I think I would be crushed more if they didn’t find me attractive as such. Maybe that would also be a good thing so I don’t have to keep thinking about them. It’s like every other sentence in a journal or blog entry.

The important thing to think about is that I am on the road to recovery and I’m feeling okay. I’ve been on an energy drink kick lately and I think it’s because I’m craving sugar. It’s been helping me get through the days because of how tired I feel. I think that’s the major depression I’ve felt trying to move out. It’s heavier than a lazy fat cat that doesn’t want to get off of you for affection.

Well, here’s to the new year and new beginnings. Here’s to change and that we might weather her ever shifting ocean. Here’s to the new friends that we meet, the acquaintances we rekindle, and the relationships that may fade. Here’s to the success’ of today and the failures of tomorrow, but more to the success. Here is to the peaceful longevity that life has to offer and the ever looming presence of death and violence we cannot live without. With the future bright, our whits sharp, we can live forever. And that’s a night long time.

-Jamie

#trans positivity #transgender #transgirl #transisbeautiful #mtf trans #trans pride #transfem #life #life series #relationship #christmas #i love her #lovers #love #i miss you #i miss her #romance #romantic

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subtletruamadumping · 2 years

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I Used to Hate Coffee

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Yet another short form work trying to fix the damage done to me by the Catholic Church via my mom. I wanted to try and write from a more hopeful view, even though I have a hard time seeing my mom grow as a person any time soon.

TW: Religious Imagery and Concepts

Date Written: January 29, 2022

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I used to hate coffee.

The smell itself could make my stomach churn. Once, in Religion Class, I thought I was setting myself apart from my peers by pretending I did like it. I took a swig out of the teacher’s cup of nothing but black and swallowed it. I tried my best to keep from gagging as the hot and angry taste coated my tongue, but I don’t think I hid it well enough. I probably made a terrible face as I claimed over and over again that I loved it, that I was grown up enough to enjoy the drink that the church had reserved only for adults. He was a family friend, which was probably the only reason he let me get away with this, and eventually stopped trying to get the truth out of me. He left the cup with me, occasionally bringing it up during class when he noticed it had been a while since I had forced myself to take a sip. My pride was on the line. I wasn’t going to admit that I was lying. I faked another mouthful each time he asked, then bolted out of the classroom as soon as we were dismissed to dispose of the cup before he could peek into it and see I was lying. I didn’t like coffee. I didn’t have the palate of an adult.

I used to like going to religion class.

The Word of God had been sewn into every second of my day. My mom had taught me to constantly be thinking about how my actions would offend God. About how he was constantly watching. How he was inside my head, reading my thoughts. God knows when you’re thinking mean things about your brother. God knows when you didn’t flush the toilet after you were done. God knows when you lied about how much you liked coffee. God knows you struggle with homosexual tendensies. When I was young, I knew the answers to every question they could possibly ask in religion class. Mom had drilled it into my head. My hand shot up like a firework so often I would specifically be told not to answer questions in class anymore. I was the assistant teacher by 5th grade. I was brought along every Sunday to church when most kids in the classes were allowed to skip whenever they wanted. We were given supplementary education at home. I was completely and totally indoctrinated. The idea that we had to be perfect for God and that we were, in fact, superior that the other kids at church because we knew more about Him was passed down to me by my mother.

She also doesn’t like coffee.

She turns up her nose or rolls her eyes at those who drink coffee while bouncing a tea bag up and down in her mug. It’s almost like she’s offended by the idea that she might have to smell it. Her mother, my grandmother, drinks coffee. She brings it with her when she comes to visit and uses the same hot water heater to make the coffee that mom uses to make her tea. As soon as she’s gone, mom always complains how she can catch the remnant whiffs of coffee for days after. She goes on and on about how much caffeine there is in coffee as if there isn’t any in tea at all. She moans how so many people are addicted to coffee when she snaps at everyone and everything if she doesn’t have her mug of tea in hand. The trash bags bleed sepia if torn because of the soaked tea bags she fills it with. She drinks black tea with nothing in it and side-eyed my sister and I when we would shovel in spoonfuls of sugar and fill half the cup with milk. I never grew out of that part. I still use sugar and milk. Only now it’s 2 spoonfuls of sugar and a splash of coconut milk in my coffee.

I grew up.

I grew up and when I did, I learned things. About myself, the world, God. I remember when I was young she began homeschooling me because she was afraid the schools were going to take away my ability to think for myself. Yet, when I did start thinking for myself, she actively discouraged it, called it a sin, and drove to church for me to confess to the priest. The world is not sinners against the pure. People need actual love and support to grow, not a pretty mask of sympathetic smiles and feigned forgiveness that you’re damning them to hell behind everytime they disagree with you. I was always told Hell was so terrible because you would be separated from God for all eternity. He sounds like an asshole. I’d be happy to never have to meet him. I think you need to come up with a better threat to try to get me to come back to the church. I stopped being excited about going to religion class, but I knew I had to pretend. I continued to raise my hand, parrot back the answers that had been drilled into me. I danced my way around having to talk about things I didn’t agree with until I could safely get away. I escaped the entrapment of the church and was finally allowed to be myself.

Now I drink coffee.

I have no desire to be like my mom anymore. I’ve learned the things she does, the way she behaves, how she speaks to people, is horrible. I’ve learned of the terrible, daily atrocities committed by people who claim to ‘love the sinner, hate the sin’. I have worked hard to scrub the idea of self-importance from my brain. I am no better than my neighbor, no matter if I know something that they don’t. Surely, they know something that I don’t. What’s the point of always learning, of having discussions, and talking about hard topics if you’re sardined together with other yes-men to God. The stained glass echo chamber makes it impossible to see the people right outside the window. I sip my coffee and think about how I truly stopped judging people after I stopped thinking it was a sin to do so. I think about all the times I belittled people, prayed for them when they asked me not to, tried to convince them to come to church with me. The times I tried to follow in my mom’s footsteps. When I thought I was so important I should tell others how to live. I grew out of the fantasy that the church offers and into the real world. My mom is still trapped in thinking that only she can be right.

Coffee’s not that bad, Mom.

Maybe give it a try.

#writing #my writing #poetry #spilled thoughts #writers on tumblr #triggering content #possibly triggering #religious trauma #mommy issues

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jackrrabbit · 3 years

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Adversary /// Overhaul x f!Reader (18+)

Summary: You make a deal with the devil to save your life, but it turns out Overhaul’s not interested in your soul.

A/N: Remember when I said I was going to do a fantasy collab and then dipped for like 9 months? Hahaha…anyway…

@pleasantanathema @ present-mel @shadowworks—if it’s not too late, here’s my part for the Pleasant & Strider Fantasy AU Writing Collab from a million years ago. Go check out the masterlist and gorge yourself on these amazing pieces!!

Tags/Warnings: dubcon, demon fuckery & occult things, big heresy/sacrilege/perversion of religion, sex in a church ft. Catholic sex guilt, other than that it’s not that bad lol, inexperienced reader, mild degradation, shameless camp and demon-fucking clichés, Overhaul calls you “little girl” 👉👈

He doesn’t look like a demon.

Not that you really know what demons are supposed to look like. But…red skin, right? Fangs and claws and swirling masses of bad energy. Maybe cloven hooves for feet. Yes, that’s the Disney version—but even if you didn’t expect a cartoon personification of evil, you didn’t expect this.

He looks like a doctor, you think. Lab coat hanging open, surgery mask pushed down under his jaw, stethoscope draped over his shoulders. No, he’s a little young to really look like a doctor…an intern, you amend, shifting back in your hospital bed. He looks like he fits right in here, not a hair out of place. Except for, you know, the polished black horns curling out of the sides of his skull.

Overhaul. It was written in the book. That’s the only thing you have to call him in your head.

He’s standing in the center of the sigil you drew at the foot of your bed before midnight, surveying the room critically without meeting your gaze. He looks annoyed—that’s not a good sign, is it?—but then again, of course he’s annoyed. You’d be annoyed too if you got summoned out of your cozy hell dimension in the middle of the night. According to the book, you’re lucky he even showed up…although ‘lucky’ isn’t really how you’d describe yourself most days.

“So,” Overhaul says after a long moment of silence in which you question every choice you’ve made in your relatively short life. “You’re dying.”

You nod.

“And you don’t want to be.”

You nod again, wondering if you’re supposed to be contributing more to this conversation. It’s a bit difficult when your mouth is so dry it feels like you’ve been eating dirt, but you suppose being in the presence of an unholy servant of Satan will do that to a person.

“Fine.” He sighs, frowns, and then finally lowers his gaze onto yours—and you shiver.

Those eyes. No human has eyes like that.

“Make me an offer,” Overhaul tells you, and through his open mouth you catch a flash of sharp white teeth.

Okay. Okay. The chirping of the heart monitor speeds up (as if it weren’t obvious enough that you’re terrified) and you fold your knees up to your chest and fidget with your ring and think. He’s giving you a chance to establish parameters. You’re supposed to start with his end of the deal, the thing you want from him. That’s what it said to do in the grimoire, aka the 19th century demonology volume your creepy cousin brought back from her pagan anthropology research trip in rural France. The one you keep hidden under your bed because your mother would burn it if she knew you were reading about summoning demons.

Offer nothing to a hell creature without first telling him your price. You know the words by heart, both the winding calligraphy of the original French from the grimoire and the rushed scrawl of the English translation your cousin left for you in sheets of lined paper layered between the pages of the book for you to read. Really, this is her fault. She was the one who slipped you the book, who told you that it worked, who snuck you the ingredients for the summoning. She was the one who left a bookmark at the chapter on this particular demon, one that specializes in ‘Contrat pour Remédier au Déséquilibre des Quatre Humeurs’, which she said meant a contract to cure any illness. Even his ‘name’ is translated in her hand, practically an afterthought in the margins of the page.

‘Le Malin qui Ravage et Rebâtit’— Overhaul?

You looked up the literal meaning of this phrase on your own. It did not reassure you.

“Girl.” His voice is cold, irate. Your eyes snap back up to his and it feels like that burning gaze is laser-beaming into your skull. “Do not test me. My time is limited…as is yours.”

You swallow. “How long do I have left?”

“Less than a single human year,” he tells you without a trace of sympathy. “Seven months, twelve days, three hours. Or so. You’ll be too exhausted to leave this bed in four months, and the pain will become intolerable in six… By the end, you’ll wish—“

“Stop,” you breathe out. The heart monitor is beeping wildly and you squeeze your knees into your chest, trying to calm down your breathing. “Stop, I—I want to live.”

“Of course you do.” Overhaul’s lip curls. “How very predictable.”

Be specific, you remind yourself, doing your best to ignore the stifling disapproval from the man—the demon—in front of you. Something about him (maybe how clean-cut he looks, maybe the indisputable authority in his demeanor) makes you want to impress him. But you didn’t turn your back on your religion—you didn’t draw pagan symbols on the floor in chalk, fill silver cups with various questionable substances (including your own virgin blood), and turn the crucifix your mother hung over your bed upside-down so you could let a demon make you feel guilty for wanting to survive. “I want to be cured. I’m okay with whatever natural death I have instead when I’m older, I just don’t want to die of this illness. I want you to make me healthy.”

“Simple enough. What else?”

‘Simple’? Your heart surges with something you’ve felt very little of since your initial diagnosis—hope. “T-That’s it. Just the cure.”

Overhaul glares at you. “Humans… Every vice in the world available to you, and you limit yourselves to the basest priority of survival.”

“But you can do it? You can cure me?” you persist.

Overhaul steps forward (quiet, so quiet you wonder if he really moved) and holds a hand out to you past the foot of your bed—you hesitate, and a second later you can see the muscles in his hand flex, stretching the latex of his plastic gloves tight over his knuckles.

Just do it. You give him your hand. Carefully. Like you’re scared the contact will burn you. It doesn’t (although his skin feels warmer than yours), but after a moment his grip tightens, sliding down past your hand to circle the fragile bones of your wrist and squeeze.

“Ow?” You wince.

The demon’s eyes flicker closed for a second, lips moving silently like he’s talking to himself—and then he drops your hand unceremoniously back onto your lap. “You could be cured before the sun rises this morning. I doubt your stay in the hospital will extend past the end of the week.”

He sounds bored, voice as flat and passionless as it was earlier, but your heart is soaring. Cured. You’ve lived with this illness for so many years, you can’t remember the last time someone told you you could be cured. And getting out of the hospital that soon? You can just imagine taking down all the decorations from the walls of your room here and setting them up in your old bedroom at home. You could see friends on the weekend and not take an oxygen bag, you could get a job or—or apply to college, you could have a life—

“That is…assuming you have something to offer me in exchange for the cure.”

Your stomach drops. You’d almost forgotten about the other half of the deal.

“Don’t tell me I came all this way for nothing.” Overhaul steps back, and the orange light of the candles you set sends strange shadows over his arrogant face. The fires look brighter now, and you find yourself tracing the lines of those shining black horns. In an odd way, they look natural—so organically framing his temples that you can’t imagine him without them.

“N-No, of course not. I have some money—I mean, my mom has some, and I can get it for you…” Which is half the truth. If you know anything, it’s that your mother’s spent most of her savings on your treatment and care. You probably have more debt than you have money in the bank right now—you’d try to get rid of that, too, if you hadn’t read in the book how important it is to keep your request as simple and straightforward as possible.

…Although it’s apparently not enough. Overhaul’s eyes narrow, molten gold irises carved into slits. “Even if I had a use for human money, do you really believe your life is worth so little?”

“No—no,” you say quickly. “I just thought—in case you were interested—”

The air crackles with energy, the candle flames spark bright blood-red, and the hair on your arms stands straight up. “I am not.”

“Okay! I get it.” You wave your hands back and forth, pulling your IV line from side to side with the motion. The book was very clear about staying calm and rational while you work out the terms of the deal, but that’s easier said than done when you have a real live (live?) hell creature in front of you. You always knew this was going to be the hard part—all the stories say there’s only one thing that a demon would be interested in, and no matter how inviting the prospect of living past this illness is, you know you’d rather die than sell your immortal soul to the devil. “I’ll give you anything except my soul! And—and don’t hurt anyone I care about, or— just don’t hurt anyone, okay? Other than that, if there’s anything I can give you, I will.”

Overhaul’s lip curls, baring a thin strip of those unnaturally sharp canines. “And is your soul really so valuable?”

This throws you for a loop. Isn’t that the standard deal? A soul for a wish? That’s how it’s supposed to work—at least in this twisted version of reality where you can summon a demon to perform unholy miracles for you. But if you think about it, it doesn’t really make sense, does it? Why would your soul be valuable to him? You can’t form an argument, especially since you’re not willing to barter it away in the first place.

Your mouth is pursed open as you search for a response, but Overhaul doesn’t seem willing to wait. A gloved hand wraps its way around the railing at the side of your bed, and he leans in closer. “Little girl…what makes you think you possess anything I desire?”

Little girl. You’re not a little girl, you’re a grown woman—and yet there’s no untruth in the statement. In front of him you feel insignificant, immature, weak. You have nothing real to offer, and something tells you that you’re not going to get rid of the demon you summoned without a sacrifice you’re not willing to make.

You twist your ring around your finger—the nervous habit you haven’t bothered to break because you’ve always had more important things to worry about—and the glint of silver in the candlelight must catch Overhaul’s eye because before you even notice him moving, your delicate hand is trapped in his larger one to give him a better view of the tiny piece of jewelry. “What is this?”

“It’s—um, a ring. A purity ring.” Has he never seen one before? Well…actually, that makes sense.

Overhaul turns your hand over in his without touching the band of silver. He’s looking at it closely, inspecting the lovingly engraved cross in the design and the inscription on the other side. “Matthew 5:8,” he reads out.

“…Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God,” you recite cautiously. It feels wrong to speak the words in front of him, but somehow you can’t help yourself.

Overhaul’s hand doesn’t leave yours. “This ring is important to you.”

“It’s a symbol of a—a promise I made to God. To save myself for my future husband.”

“To ‘save yourself’? To save what?”

You can’t believe you’re explaining this to a literal demon. You close your eyes and inhale slowly and taste smoke. “My…virginity. It’s a promise that I won’t have sex until I enter into a biblical marriage.”

At this, Overhaul is quiet. You give him a moment to answer, half expecting him to question why you think God cares about your sexual status (honestly, you’d be lying if you said you haven’t wondered this yourself), but he stays quiet until you peek up at him to try and gauge the look on his coldly handsome face.

He’s still staring at the ring. He hasn’t touched it—maybe he can’t, because of the cross?—and through the latex, his skin feels hotter than a human’s is supposed to be.

“Is there…” you start, but you trail off when you realize you have nothing to ask. You give a little tug to try and take your hand away and you’re surprised when your wrist actually slides out of his grip to fall back on the nest of sheets in your lap. You didn’t think he’d let you go so easily.

Overhaul turns his head to the side, eyes drilling into you so you feel like you should lower your gaze. The candlelight flickers in strange shadows over his horns. “This will do,” he says quietly.

“What?”

“In exchange for your cure.” The demon taps his own left ring finger, the place where the purity ring sits on your hand, and your heart soars. He actually wants that? It’s just a simple silver band, not worth much, but you’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe it has some special significance because of the religious connotation. Your mother will be angry you’ve lost it, but you’re happy to cope with that if it means living to actually get married!

“Yes!” you blurt out before he has a chance to rethink his offer. Sure, you’ll miss the purity ring—you’ve had it since you were a kid, after all—but there’s no question you’re getting the better end of this deal. At least in your opinion.

Something flashes through his yellow eyes, something you don’t even want to try and identify. “The contract, then.”

You barely have time to notice that his voice has gentled, that it’s practically silken in comparison to before, when the candlelight flickers again and suddenly the contract is everywhere. Everywhere. Writing appears on every surface in the room, covering the walls, stretching over the ceiling, coiling around the sides of the hospital equipment and decorating your bedsheets until you and Overhaul are the only untouched surfaces in sight. The characters are inscribed in red, dark red like—don’t think about that, you tell yourself squeamishly. You can make out some of the letters, even a word here or there—French, you recognize, mixed with what looks like Latin and interspersed with what you can only guess are runes.

“I can’t read this,” you tell him, fidgeting with your ring for what you now realize will be the last time.

“I only need your name,” he purrs, and then you feel a fragile weight in your hand: a feather, pearl-black and glossy and too large to belong to any bird you can think of, its angled tip glistening with wet ink. There’s an empty space in the writing before you, and Overhaul’s gloved hand comes to yours again to guide you into place.

This feels wrong…then again, of course it does. Even if you’re getting off relatively easy and just losing your ring rather than your soul, you’re still making a deal with a demon. You sign your name, forcing yourself to think about the future you have ahead of you rather than a disapproving white-bearded caricature of The Man Upstairs wagging his finger at you for haggling with a literal servant of Satan. People have done worse things to survive, haven’t they? It’s just a ring.

You set the feather down and Overhaul sighs, thick black eyelashes obscuring his intense gaze for a moment—and then the contract is gone, leaving your hospital room as blank and sterile as it’s supposed to be (well, aside from the candles and all the other ritual stuff you threw together to summon a demon in the first place).

“Are you going to cure—heal me now?” you ask.

“…Patience, little girl.” He’s pulling his glove off, peeling it down his fingers to bare the pale skin of his hand. You catch your breath and wonder what this is going to feel like, and then the tips of his fingers meet your cheek and—

you stop breathing.

It doesn’t hurt.

Or if it does, you don’t remember the pain a second later when breath floods back into your lungs. What you do feel is energy. Strength in your muscles, blood pumping through your veins, every inhale and exhale as light as a bird and freer. You feel healthy. You’re surprised you even remember what health feels like but you do: it’s like you’ve only been half alive, and now life is surging into you and through you and around you, bubbling up in your core like a spring overflowing. You blink rapidly, thinking you might cry from the sheer pleasure of it, but when you open your mouth it’s laughter that comes out. You’re healthy. You’re alive. You barely notice the IV line literally falling off of your skin because the hole where it entered your vein is sealed shut and healed perfectly.

No more needles. No more hospitals. Even without all the monitors beeping out your heart rate and measuring your vitals, there’s not a shred of doubt in your mind that you’re cured.

“Thank you!” you laugh, looking up at Overhaul and for the first time, not caring that he’s evil incarnate. “I feel—I’m okay! It worked!”

“Of course it did.” His expression is inscrutable, but he lets you have a few moments to enjoy your newfound health.

You roll your shoulders back, flex each muscle you can isolate one by one to test, make fists with your fingers and then run them over your hair, which is already thicker and shinier than it was a moment ago. Your body thrums with energy—you want to run, to feel the ground against your bare feet and the cold night air on your face, and you think you could do it! Your legs are already swinging over the side of your cot, ready to run barefoot out of the hospital if that’s what it takes, but before you can stand up Overhaul’s pushing you back down onto the bed.

“Have you forgotten your end of the bargain already?”

Honestly you did forget, but only for a second, only because you were so excited to just be outside again. “Oh, yeah. Of course.” Your hand goes to your left ring finger, ready to slip the ring off and hand it over, but Overhaul shakes his head.

“Not here.”

“What—?”

You’re falling. Your hospital room is disappearing, the image of your walls and your window and your bed disintegrating into yawning black, and you’re falling through it into nothing, into emptiness, and Overhaul’s still-bare hand in yours is the only anchor you have so you clutch onto it and squeeze your eyes shut. You want to scream—that’s the sane thing to do when you’re falling through miles and miles of empty space, right?—but when you open your throat the sound is swallowed up just like the light was…

Overhaul’s hand burns into yours, an improbable lifeline that you pull closer more out of terror than conscious thought. The slick, empty air rushes around you and you think I am going to die like this and then, incredibly, as soon as you’ve accepted your imminent demise, you feel your back mold onto a chilled, flat surface, vertebra by vertebra up to the back of your head, as if you’ve been lain down onto it.

Your heart thuds in your ears and you brace for an impact because your body hasn’t quite accepted yet that it’s not falling anymore—but at the same time, you know you’re lying down on something. You pry your fingers away from their vice-grip on Overhaul’s arm and feel around blindly for what’s underneath you, and when it seems reasonably tangible you let yourself open your eyes.

Way above, vaulted dozens of feet over your head, is a ceiling studded with gilt-edged frescoes and stained glass. It’s raining (even though it wasn’t in the hospital, you think) but through the massive panes of colored glass there’s enough oily blue light to make out that you’re in a church.

You’re in a church, with a demon. Isn’t that against the rules?

You sit up stiffly and look over at Overhaul, who’s standing at your side and looking down at you…which is how you realize the soft, cold surface you’ve been deposited onto is the blanket on top of the altar in the sanctuary. “Where...did you take me?”

“You should know this place.”

And you do, when you look around. It’s empty now and you’ve never been here at night, but this is a church your mother would bring you to when you were little, back before the disease got so bad you couldn’t risk traveling to it anymore. This is where you took your purity vow…the ring feels heavy on your hand. “Why—why—“

“I can’t stand human hospitals. Filthy places… How that reek of illness and death doesn’t bother your kind, I’ll never understand.” Overhaul pulls his latex glove back on. He’s dressed differently now, no longer impersonating a doctor—black shirt, black pants, and a…bird mask in red leather and gold. So are you, as a matter of fact. Instead of your hospital gown, you’re in a gauzy white dress that’s already been pushed up to pool around the tops of your thighs.

The slip is too thin for the cold, and you can feel your nipples standing up under the cloth so you fold your arms over your chest and hug yourself. “Why did you take me here?” The sound of your voice echoes off the walls eerily and you wish you hadn’t spoken so loudly. The reflection of your words sounds girlish, nervous.

“I told you. Your side of our contract.” Even in this dark, the angular features of his face are clearly concentrating—on you. “Are you already having second thoughts? Such a fickle little thing…”

“You mean the ring?” You reach for it again, ready to tear it off and throw it at him if that’s what it takes to see your deal through, but Overhaul snatches your hand away, pinning it above you.

“Not the ring,” he says. “The promise.”

The…promise?

A chill makes its way down your spine despite the heat radiating off the demon’s body and onto yours. “I don’t understand.”

“The promise,” Overhaul repeats—and you hear a sound almost like wings flapping and then he’s on the altar with you, knees straddling your hips as a single hand holds both your wrists above your head. “To remain a virgin until marriage. Your promise to God.”

A streak of lightning cracks down on the other side of the stained glass window behind the altar, illuminating the room briefly in spectacular pits of red and orange and yellow…and then it’s dark again, and the only color you can make out is the gold in Overhaul’s eyes.

“I’m going to break it,” he murmurs, lowering his head toward your ear right as the answering thunder rolls through the sanctuary, up through the altar, up into you.

///

Méfiez-vous de son piège, the grimoire said. Beware of the catch.

Of course it wasn’t just a ring.

Overhaul’s fingers are in—inside you, his middle and ring finger pumping through the length of your cunt like they belong there, like you were made to be touched this way. A mixture of your juices and your own spit cling to the latex because he made you suck his fingers before he put them in you and he hasn’t bothered to take his gloves off—not that you asked. You’ve been too busy biting your lip to try and muffle the moans that he keeps forcing out of you. He’s bracing himself on top of you with one hand and fingering you with the other, so your own hands are free to push into your eyes and hide your face…until he yanks your arm back and stops.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes are screwed shut and you shake your head back and forth, the movement shuddering your whole body right down to your pussy wrapped around Overhaul’s fingers. He slows the movement and kneels back, pushing one of your thighs up into your chest as he does it.

“Look at me.”

And you’re not sure whether it’s some unearthly power he has over you or the plain old deterioration of your willpower, but you can’t refuse him. You crack your eyes open and he’s glaring down at you, skin pale as ice in the blue light. Once he’s satisfied that you’re watching, the demon leans back in to fuck your cunt with his fingers, slowly at first and then quicker when he hits something inside of you—a spot, a place on the inner wall of your pussy that makes you feel like you’ve been shocked— heat blooms through you like blood in water and you gasp and he curls his fingers up to pet over that spot again.

“Wait—wait, that’s—it feels—weird!” You’ve never felt like this before. You’re not supposed to feel like this, it’s wrong.

“I understand you’ve never touched yourself, but don’t pretend you don’t like it.” Overhaul says, voice as indifferent and calm as ever even though your cunt is dripping clear sticky liquid over the plastic of his glove.

He pushes back in and grinds his palm over the little button on the top of your pussy—your clit?—and you want to scream. “No, I—I don’t—nnhh...”

Do you like it? The demon’s body is so hot next to yours, like he’s running a fever except you’re the one going out of your mind… You’ve heard metaphors for sexual pleasure before (that it’s like having something to drink when you’re dying of thirst; or that it’s the ultimate act of intimacy, love in physical form) but all of that’s a fucking lie. There’s nothing to compare it to, no reference that makes sense, because it doesn’t make sense—you don’t even want him to keep going, do you? You’re only doing this because you signed your name on a devil’s contract, because you don’t want to die and there’s no alternative…but that doesn’t explain why you feel so warm from the inside out, why you’re squirming and your hips are rocking involuntarily no matter how much you try to keep still. This isn’t right. You feel like you’ve been lied to.

A good girl wouldn’t like this.

Overhaul isn’t going to let you close your eyes, so you don’t—but the sounds coming out of your mouth are so…indecent (and how can you think these things about yourself? the word feels like someone else is saying it when you hear it in your head) that your hand is drifting up to your mouth before you can stop yourself, trying to stifle all of it…

“Let your voice out. I want you to hear yourself moan.”

Long fingers slide their way out of your pussy and then move up to rub quick little circles around your clit and you moan, like a whore, like a girl getting her cunt rubbed by a demon— “Oh, uhhhn—something, it’s—coming—“ There’s something building up in your core—a peak, a climax, something that makes you fist your hands in the nightgown he put you in (so tight you’re surprised the thin fabric hasn’t torn) and tilt your hips up into him, begging without words because you don’t have any to express what your body is asking for…

But he doesn’t give it to you. Overhaul takes his hand away from your pussy and the shock of the cool air after his too-hot touch is almost enough to send you over that edge—almost. Not quite. And without it, you’re left shivering and quaking, thighs twitching as your baser instincts beg you to just put your hand between your legs for once and hump your fingers to completion if the demon won’t do it.

You’re not going to risk that, though. Not when Overhaul’s dragging your body closer, bunching up the blanket on the altar under your spine, so your pelvis is angled to his… He’s already shirtless and you hear him unzipping his pants but you can’t bring yourself to actually look at him, even when you feel something hard and hot nudging up against your inner thigh and then aligning to your sticky wet slit.

“This will hurt a bit, but I want you to look,” he says, and you don’t even understand at first until you make yourself feel it—his cock, pushing up against your tight cunt to finish this, this perversion of what your first time was supposed to be…

And what was it supposed to be? Roses and candles and soft kisses? A nameless, faceless husband unzipping your wedding dress and making love to you with the lights off? The way the demon touches you should be cruel in comparison but it isn’t, it’s lighting fires under your skin and turning your brains to mush, so how is your body supposed to tell the difference?

It’ll hurt, you know that, you’ve heard enough about sex to know that it always hurts the first time for girls…women. It was already a stretch to fit his fingers in your virgin pussy, so of course his cock is going to hurt. You turn your head toward the window at your side and try on look out at the rain drawing rivulets like veins over the glass, something to focus on instead of him.

“I said look,” the demon hisses, and his hips push forward a bit and you bite off a whimper of pain. “Watch me take your virginity…look at your tight little cunt swallowing me up just like it was made to.”

“N-No—“ you whine, even though it’s not like you can ignore it. “Don’t make me, don’t make me look, I can’t—“

“Then look at me.”

It’s what he wants, some kind of wicked satisfaction he gets off on, but you’re lucky enough to even get an option so you choose that one, shifting your gaze up into his face instead of the place where his cock is pressing deeper and deeper inside you. Overhaul’s eyes are half-lidded and it’s hard to tell from behind the mask but the look on his face is…pleasure? No, that would be too human. Restraint, at least. He could just thrust up into your body in one stroke, but he wants you to feel it for some reason.

Maybe because it’s a worse betrayal of your chastity if you want to get fucked.

Lucky for you, though, you can barely feel anything aside from the pain. The heat you felt building earlier is draining out of you even as Overhaul tilts deeper, layering his chest over yours. You’re almost grateful for the modest barrier the dress provides between your torso and the solid muscle of his abdomen. His cock in your pussy feels like it’s too big too deep too much and it’s the first time you’ve felt like your body wasn’t created specifically for this purpose so you hold it tight.

“Does it hurt?”

A second of clarity makes you want to snarl (of course it fucking hurts, I’m losing my virginity to a demon I summoned from hell) and you dig your fingernails into your palms to stop yourself from saying it out loud. Overhaul pulls out a fraction of an inch and then pushes back in and you feel like the breath’s being pushed out of your lungs. “Yes! Yes, it—it hurts—“

“I can make you enjoy it…for a price,” he sighs, settling into a slow rocking motion of his hips pushing into yours.

And you want to, every sore muscle in your cunt is telling you to give in and give up, give him what he wants so you can enjoy it like he says—but you’d rather hate every second of this than make another deal. You shake your head quickly and because you’re still too afraid to look away from him, you don’t miss the look of surprise that flits across his face before he tamps it down. “I don’t—I don’t want to—like it,” you gasp out between thrusts. “It’s better if—if it h-hurts…”

This time it’s obvious—his eyes really do widen, and you feel some petty triumph at having caught him off guard like this. Who’s predictable now? you think—and then he’s lifting one hand off the altar at the side of your head and tugging his glove off with his teeth, and you don’t even have time to be afraid of what he’s going to do to you because it’s too late, his bare fingers are already stroking over your mound and onto your core, massaging into the flesh of your stomach so he can feel his own cock sliding in and out of you—

and it doesn’t hurt anymore?

You only have a second to try and understand—he cured you, he healed the pain from your first time just like he healed your illness?—before he hooks his grip under your thigh and folds your legs into your chest so he can fuck into you harder than before. His cock slaps into your pussy and you can hear it, hear how wet your filthy little cunt is, smeared through with your juices. It’s sick—the sound of skin against skin, and the moaning you can’t hold back, you sound like a woman in a porno and you wish the pain would come back just so you could keep hating what he’s doing to you. “What—what did you do—“

The demon ignores you. “It feels good, doesn’t it.”

“Nn—“ It’s deeper like this…deeper and rougher and you can feel it. Now that the pain’s been reduced to the dull ache of a stretched muscle, you can feel everything—his cock sliding against that same spot in your cunt that makes you want to squeal, the friction of his body moving against your clit, all of it, everything you wanted to block out— he pumps into you and you hear your breath sobbing out a moan a second out of rhythm, the sounds of you bouncing on demon cock echoing over the walls. “Please—ah, ahhh…”

“‘Please?’ Are you begging—me, little girl?” Overhaul pushes your thigh up and drags his cock through you, excruciatingly slow, forcing you to feel the thick head slide over every gummy wall in your slick pussy.

You shake your head, mewl, try to force your hips to stop rocking back into his and grinding your clit against him. But you can’t. You’re a—you were a virgin, for fuck’s sake! Overhaul’s immortal. Probably thousands of years of experience on how to make you feel like you want this, like you’re only alive in the places he touches you… You’re at his mercy, if he has any. You never stood a chance.

“Then are you begging your god?” His body lowers directly onto yours and like you’re being controlled by puppet strings your arms fold around him and rake your fingernails uselessly into the smooth skin of his back. You can feel the vibration of his mirthless laughter through his chest. “It must hurt terribly…to know he isn’t listening.”

“Don’t—stop, please,” you sob. “Don’t say—don’t stop—please!”

“Listen to yourself, girl—“ Overhaul’s breath is faster now, but you don’t have time to question it because you feel your peak coming again, the tension rising up through your cunt and your abdomen, harsher and crueler than when his fingers were in you but you want it just as much. More. “Has he ever answered your prayers? Has he...ahh, fuck—who’s the one giving you what you need?”

“No— please, please just let me let me, please—“ You’re talking nonsense now, begging for the release—at least then it’ll be over, and you need it, you need it so badly you feel your muscles locking up, cramping, your ankles crossing each other behind Overhaul’s back.

“Good girl,” the demon breathes, and then he lifts off you so he’s kneeling upright with the two of you still connected, his thick, heavy cock still speared in your pussy, and his fingers come down again to rub at your clit. Everything’s so wet you can hear the motion of his fingers slicking themselves through your juices, sliding up and down the little button over and over and it feels so good that a tiny part of you almost wants to drag it out, to savor it, but the rest of your body is going to die, is going to go crazy if the demon doesn’t let you cum right now, right now, right now!

And he does. Praise the Lord. The pads of Overhaul’s fingers pass over your clit one last time and your head rolls back, your throat moves but you can’t even make a sound, your legs shake and you cum.

You didn’t know it was like this.

Your cunt squeezes down on his cock, throbbing and pulsing and your toes literally curl (you didn’t think that was a real thing!) and your vision goes black for a moment and—oh fuck oh fuck i want this i want more how is it possible that i’ve never felt like this—you understand, more intimately than ever, why sex is wrong:

because nothing that makes you feel this good could possibly come without a cost, could it?

///

It must take longer than you thought for you to come back to your senses, because when you regain awareness of your body you’re in your hospital bed. You’re clean, too, and you wonder for a second if Overhaul bothered to clean you up? Or no…he probably just snapped his fingers and transported you back to your room. You’re not really sure how it works.

What you are sure of, however, is that you just got fucked by a demon. You’re sore in places that you didn’t know it was possible to be sore, and there are already bruises forming on the flesh of your thighs from how tight he was holding you. You don’t really have time to inspect these, though, because apparently your…ordeal (if you can call it that) isn’t over.

Overhaul’s still here.

He’s facing the hints of sunrise through the east window, dressed again in the immaculate lab coat and surgeon’s mask. “You’re awake,” he says without looking at you.

You nod hesitantly. You’re not really sure what the protocol is in this situation, but at least you’ve finally held up your side of the contract, right? And so has he. Despite having been up all night doing sinful things, you’re still itching to get out of this bed and test the limits of your healthy body. “You’re…going to leave, right?”

“Yes—”

At that, you sigh in relief and settle back into your starched bedsheets.

“But there’s one more thing you owe me.”

“Goddamnit,” you swear for the very first time in your life. After what you just did, taking the Lord’s name in vain seems like a relatively minor sin.

Overhaul’s mildly irritated expression doesn’t change, but he holds his hand out to you, palm up, the way you imagine someone would if they were helping you out of a car or requesting a dance at an old-fashioned ball. And really, you want all of this to be over—you want to get out of this hospital, you want to taste what the air outside is like, you want to distract yourself from what you just gave up in exchange for a future. At this point you’re just going to have to hope God isn’t as picky about the whole premarital sex thing as you grew up believing.

So you put your hand in Overhaul’s.

Slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid it’ll burn him, he slides your purity ring down your finger and balances it in the palm of his bare hand. It sizzles when he touches it, glowing orange until it eventually burns down into a ash-black circle in the center of his palm. Once he’s satisfied that your pretty little ring has been reduced to nothing more than a scorch mark, he closes his hand around yours and you feel something sharp, painfully hot, etching onto your finger.

It’s over in a second, but you still yelp and yank your hand away from him as soon as he lets you. “Ah—ow, what was that?”

He burned you, he literally burned you! He’s already healed it, but there’s still a thin, pale scar, an intentional one left wrapping around the skin at the base of your left ring finger. Like a wedding ring.

When you look close, you can make out a symbol on the back of your finger where the cross used to sit—and even though your conscious mind doesn’t recognize it, the sight of it rings out something inside your ribcage, deeper and truer than flesh and blood. It’s the devil’s mark, you think. It’s his.

“…A promise,” Overhaul says softly, and even though it’s a chilly morning, you can feel the heat of his hands on yours a long time after he vanishes back into the dark.

#overhaul x reader #chisaki kai x reader #bnha x reader #bnha imagines #mha imagines #tw dubcon #tw sacrilege #tw christianity #overhaul #chisaki kai #bnha #mha #boku no hero academia x reader #boku no hero imagines #my hero academia x reader #my hero imagines #boku no hero fanfic #smut

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lucifer-is-a-bag-of-dicks · 3 years

Text

Grabbing Smoke

As much time as Sam spent with her best friends, sometimes she enjoyed a little bit of time alone.

Tucker was helping his mother bake cookies for some kind of fundraiser for the hospital, and Danny was busy visiting Pandora for fighting lessons. Apparently they were using swords today.

As fun as it sounded, Sam opted to stay behind, it had been a while since she'd been down to the park to feed the ducks. She didn't get quiet moments like that very often any more.

There was an uncharacteristic skip to her gait as she walked to the park, a canvas tote bag swinging from her arm.

Living in Amity Park, and especially hanging around with Danny, gave her an eerie sense to when something was amiss. Nothing quite like Danny's ghost sense, but she'd learned to detect a particular chill to the air, a prickling at the back of her neck. It could easily be mistaken for a chilly breeze, but Sam knew better. The crunch of gravel under Sam's boots was the only sound permeating the still air, not even the trees were rustling.

She continued her walk through the park, past the wishing fountain and through a trail where the trees grew slightly more dense.

The trail opened up to a large pond, it wasn't anything especially picturesque, the reeds were a little overgrown, the ground was muddy, but there were a few simple weather worn benches by the path that looped around the water.

Sam took a seat, pulling out a bag of frozen peas. She opened it, tipped a few into her hand and tossed them into the water.

The ducks immediately sped across the pond toward her, fighting for the peas that the turtles hadn't already gotten to.

Instead of grabbing another handful, she held the bag out to the empty seat to her left, waiting for a moment before shaking the bag impatiently.

A green hand slipped into the bag, pulling out a handful of peas before tossing them into the water.

"How'd you know I was here?" Kitty asked, now sitting visibly on the other end of the bench as Sam poured out more peas for both of them.

"I have my ways." Sam smirked. "What I want to know is why you've been following me all week."

"You knew for that long and you didn't say nothin'?" Kitty huffed. "Damn, I gotta up my game."

A duck waddled up and nibbled on her boot.

"Alright alright, ya hungry little doofus." Kitty lowered a hand full of peas and cooed as the duck happily ate from her palm. "Aww these guys aren't shy at all, do you come here a lot?"

"When I can." Sam tossed a few more peas into the water for the turtles. "So why are you following me?"

Kitty sat back and pressed her lips together, thinking.

"Look it's just... I don't remember much from when I was livin', you know? It's all sorta grey and fuzzy, I can't remember what anyone looked like, except Johnny." she tossed some peas to a smaller duck at the back of the group. "But as soon as I showed up here in town and I saw your face, I thought I felt... I dunno, somethin'. Like I'd seen you before, or maybe you just reminded me of someone, but I can't remember who, it's like grabbing smoke."

She lobbed a few peas a little harder than was necessary at the water. The turtles sucked them up greedily.

"So you've just been following me hoping you might remember something else?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Kitty sighed. "But it's not working."

Sam swung her foot idly between a pair of scuffling ducks, splitting them up before tossing out some more peas.

"Maybe I'm related to someone you knew. Where did you grow up?"

Kitty frowned down at the water.

"I... I don't know." she said, deflating somewhat. "I didn't even realise I forgot that."

Sam couldn't help but feel for her, Danny had told her that ghosts would often forget things from their past, especially once they'd been dead for longer than they'd been alive. Somehow she had never really considered how terrifying that must be.

"You know..." Sam started carefully. "I could show you some old family photos. Maybe you'll recognise someone?"

Kitty looked up, eyes shining brightly.

"Really? You'd do that for me?"

"Why not?" Sam shrugged. "If you were here to cause trouble you would have done it by now."

"Aw, I never thought you'd wanna do something like that for me." said Kitty, smiling brightly. "You always seemed like such a bitch."

Sam laughed.

"If you'd spent a week being someone that wasn't Paulina, I would probably have seemed like less of a bitch."

"So you guys are big rivals or somethin'?" Kitty asked, grabbing some more peas and giggling as three ducks tried to eat from her hand at once.

"It's more that we have... conflicting ideologies. She thinks that appearances and reputation are the most important things in life, just like my parents." Sam lobbed some more peas into the water, they both watched them disappear as the turtles quickly snapped them up. "It's shallow and stupid, and I don't get why they have to push that shit on everyone. I don't care what people think, I just want to be whoever the hell I wanna be without having to fight for it all the time."

Kitty's face turned contemplative as she tapped her nails on the back of the bench.

"I think... I was like that." she said, slowly. "I wanted to feel fun and exciting, but my parents..."

She trailed off, frowning.

"My parents... I didn't like them. They didn't like me bein' the way I was, I can't really remember why."

Sam emptied out the last of the peas and scattered them over the ground, she scrunched up the empty packet and shoved it back into her tote bag.

"You know, if we went to school together we would probably have gotten along." said Sam as she stood up, gesturing toward the path. "Let's go check out those photos."

Instead of floating invisibly behind, Kitty walked by Sam's side as they headed back to her house. She idly waved at people as they drove past, grinning when someone stared a little too long and almost ran a red light.

"You know, it's nice bein' able to walk around in the day." Kitty said, skipping a little. "Wish I could do it more often."

"What's stopping you?"

"What do you think?" Kitty's lip pulled up in disgust. "Any time I show up your dumb friend sucks me up in his stupid thermos. Only reason I can walk around right now is because I got you as my get out of jail free card."

"Danny doesn't care if you just want to walk around." Sam scoffed. "He lets ghosts wander around town all the time, he only gets involved when you start breaking things."

"Uggghhh but just walking around is so boring." Kitty pouted. "I mean yeah it's nice and I like it but it gets old real quick."

"Then you'll have to get used to getting tossed back in the ghost zone. Do not pass go, do not collect $200."

"Don't you ever get sick of his goody goody attitude?" Kitty asked. "I mean you and I aren't so different right? You're all about the rebel gig, don't you ever feel like keyin' some asshole's car, or takin' a baseball bat to some mail boxes?"

"Only if they deserve it." said Sam with a smirk. "But I feel like you aren't especially picky about whose stuff you're breaking."

They approached the door to the Manson mansion, Sam hopped up the steps and stuck the key in the lock. She touched the mezuzah on the doorpost without a second thought before opening the door and standing aside to invite Kitty in.

The ghost stared up at her warily.

"I can't get past it."

"Past what?" Sam asked.

"The mezuzah, it keeps me out."

"What?" Sam frowned. "It hasn't stopped other ghosts from getting in."

"Well it stops me." Kitty insisted. "I think it's got somethin' to do with what we believed in when we were alive. I haven't got a problem with churches but when Johnny tried to ride his bike through one he couldn't get in. His mom raised him Catholic, he says he doesn't believe in any of that stuff, but I think he still does, deep down."

"So does that mean you were Jewish?" Sam asked, smiling curiously.

"I AM Jewish." Kitty crossed her arms. "Bein' a ghost hasn't changed that, it just... means that we got a few things a little wrong."

Sam thought about that for a moment, before stepping aside and gesturing toward the door again.

"Well, if you've been invited and you're not going to cause any trouble, then I don't see why you shouldn't be able to come in."

Kitty climbed the steps slowly, fingers reaching out and cautiously brushing over the mezuzah, she didn't feel anything unusual, no zap or burn or pain. She took a step through the doorway and passed the threshold without issue, no invisible force or barrier like the last time she tried to follow Sam inside.

"Well, what do you know." she said, grinning.

Sam lead her into a large, open planned kitchen and dining area, the tiles were bright white save for the specks of mud Sam's boots tracked through the room. The decor was minimalist, the atmosphere bland and sterile, she could smell some kind of citrus surface cleaner.

The back wall was all windows, leading to a patio surrounded by perfectly trimmed grass. As they approached, Sam turned, heading towards a door to their right.

The next room felt a lot more friendly, it was full of bookshelves and red tones. The lounges looked soft and inviting, a fireplace sat cold and empty against the back wall, but Kitty didn't have to try hard to imagine it roaring to life, filling the room with its warm glow.

"This is basically my Grandma's part of the house." Sam informed her, voice low. "Her bedroom is just through there, she's usually napping around this time of day so try not to make too much noise."

Kitty slipped off her jacket and laid it over the back of the lounge, already feeling at home in the cosy little room. She looked over the books as Sam fussed around some kind of large ornate chest.

"Here it is." She hefted a large photo album from the chest, carefully closing and latching it again. "Let's see if you recognise anyone in here."

Kitty sat down beside Sam as she opened up the pristine book, the outer cover was beige with the name Manson inscribed in golden cursive on the front. The first page was full of old faded photos, in greyscale or sepia tones.

"Ugh, I'm not that old." said Kitty, flicking ahead a few pages.

The pictures were colourful now, but still grainy, there was a young blonde boy in seventies style jeans leaning casually against a Chevrolet.

"Wait hold up," Kitty pointed at the boy. "Him, I feel like I've seen him before."

"That's my dad." said Sam, surprised. "His name is Jeremy, did you know him?"

Kitty hummed a little, gently tracing a finger over the picture.

"Jeremy... Jeremy, I'm not sure," she frowned. "But he definitely looks familiar."

They continued through the book, when suddenly Kitty slapped her hand down roughly on a photo of a pair of young women.

"Her! I know her! She was a mega bitch!"

"Shhh keep it down." Sam hissed.

"Sorry," Kitty pointed to the blonde girl in the photo. "That one! I don't know how I knew her, but I definitely knew her. She was a total brat."

Sam slipped the photo out of its sleeve and read the neat cursive on the back.

"This is... my Aunt Caroline, in 1985. She's my dad's sister." Sam looked up at Kitty, amused. "I can't believe you had beef with my family."

"Your family are snobs." Kitty sniffed. "Carrie was such a ditz, she thought she was sooo bitchin' because her daddy bought her a Mercedes."

"Yeah, that sounds about right." Sam grimaced. "Did you guys go to school together or something?"

"Maybe..." Kitty took the photo from Sam's hand, staring intently. "I'm pretty sure I skipped school a lot, I hated it there. It was a private school, we had to wear uniforms, barf."

"I would never have guessed you were a private school kid." Sam shook her head. "But most people would say that about me so it's not like I can judge."

"You went to private school?" Kitty asked, "How'd you end up in that Casper High dump?"

"Got myself expelled." said Sam, voice thick with pride. "Elementary, middle and high school, got kicked out of all three."

"Damn, you're good."

Sam grinned, slipping the photo back in its sleeve and continuing to the next page.

Kitty pointed to a few other photos, remarking on their familiarity, but not quite able to grasp how she knew them, the memories only flickered in her periphery.

"Wait," Kitty whispered, fingers brushing over a polaroid containing three people. "This is..."

The picture looked as though it were taken at some kind of party, a man and a woman faced the camera, each with a glass of champagne raised in their hands. The woman's other hand rested on the shoulder of a teenage girl with auburn hair, pulled into a tidy braid. She stared glumly at the camera.

"That's Katherine." Sam said, pointing to the girl. "She was my dad's cousin, but she got hit by a car when she was-"

Sam paused, looking over at Kitty's wide eyes and then back to the photo.

"Noooo way." Sam pulled the photo out of the sleeve. "Is this you?"

Kitty took the photo in trembling hands.

"I... I forgot I used to look like that." she fiddled with a lock of her green, teased hair. "I remember this party, I didn't want to go but mom and dad threatened to take away all my records and cassettes if I didn't."

Sam stared at Kitty, mouth agape.

"You're Car Crash Katherine?! My dad talks about you all the time! He always told me about the shit you used to get up to, he'd tell me that any kind of 'rebellious behaviour' was a slippery slope to 'dying on the back of some delinquent's motorcycle'." Sam put a hand on Kitty's shoulder. "You were my bad influence role model."

Kitty's red eyes shone with tears, photo still in hand, she wrapped her arms around Sam.

"This is majorly wicked! My legacy lives on! Corrupting the youth from beyond the grave!" Kitty laughed. "My parents would go totally mental."

She stopped laughing, her face turning forlorn as she drew back from Sam and stared down at the picture.

"Are they still alive?" she asked, a tremble in her voice.

"Yeah..." said Sam. "They live in a retirement home in Florida. They don't come around very often."

Kitty traced a finger over their faces.

"I wonder if they miss me." she said quietly. "Or if they were glad to be rid of the family embarrassment."

Sam didn't answer, she had wondered the same thing herself, if her parents would even care if she died. They hadn't given her a lot of reason to think they would.

She rested a sympathetic hand on Kitty's arm.

"Oh, you have a friend over bubbeleh?" a croaky voice spoke from the bedroom doorway.

Sam and Kitty both turned to see Ida Manson shuffling into the room, cleaning her glasses with her sleeve.

"Sorry Grandma, we didn't mean to be too loud." Sam apologised. "This is my... um, friend, Kitty. Kitty this is my Grandma Ida-"

"Ida?!" Kitty shot to her feet, staring in shock at the old woman. "Aunt Ida?!"

Ida squinted at Kitty, before quickly setting her glasses back on her face.

"Well as I live and breath, is that you Kathy?"

"Oh my god this is getting super weird." Sam whispered.

Kitty leapt over the ottoman to wrap Ida up in a tight hug, the old woman was surprised for a moment, but held her warmly in return.

"It's me Aunt Ida! Not really living or breathing but it's me!" Kitty laughed breathlessly.

"Oh my goodness, when all the ghosts started showing up all over town I wondered if I would ever see someone I knew." She rubbed comforting circles on Kitty's back as the ghost choked on a few sobs. "It's good to see you again Kathy."

Ida pulled away and wiped a tear from Kitty's face.

"And I'm so glad you aren't stuck wearing what your parents buried you in."

Kitty couldn't help but laugh through her tears.

"Let me guess, it was that putrid blue dress, wasn't it?"

"The dress wasn't nearly as bad as what they did to your hair." Ida snickered, patting Kitty's hand. "It had little ribbons in it and everything."

"I almost forgot you." Kitty placed her palm gently against Ida's face. "You were the only one in the family who ever loved me for being me, and I almost forgot you. I'm so sorry, I should have come to find you sooner but I just-"

"Shhhh, it's okay bubbeleh." Ida grasped her hand tight. "I think being dead is a pretty good excuse for forgetting a few things."

Sam stood beside the lounge, watching the two in shock, she wasn't entirely certain whether or not to intrude. Whatever she had been expecting to discover with Kitty today, it certainly hadn't been this.

Though in hindsight, it did explain Kitty's familiarity with Sam, people always said she had taken after her Grandma.

Ida let go of Kitty and hobbled over to the photo album still sitting on the lounge.

"Oh you don't want to look at that album." she said, as she shoved it onto the coffee table. She wandered to the other side of the room and began rummaging around in a small cupboard. "You want this one."

She pulled out a book with well worn, peeling edges. Pieces of the plastic sleeves had cracked off and crumbled away. It was old, and weatherbeaten, it was obvious that Ida had looked through it many many times.

"Here we go." she sat down in the middle of the lounge, gesturing for the two girls to come sit beside her. "These are the forbidden photos."

She opened the pages, the photos inside were entirely different from the 'official' album, there were no perfectly poised, prim and proper photos of people in nice, presentable clothes. They were all candid shots, people in the middle of eating or laughing, some were stumbling around blind drunk, a few were smoking joints. There were pictures from parties and protest rallies, in backyards and drive ins.

There was a picture of Jeremy as a young boy, grinning with one of his front teeth missing and grass in his hair.

"Only in this family would losing your baby teeth make a photo 'unsavoury'." Ida grizzled as she continued through the album. "I saved so many pictures that my husband would have thrown out otherwise."

"Ugh, Uncle Peter was such a prude, he wouldn't even let me in the house if I didn't have my shoulders covered up." Kitty rolled her eyes.

"He used to be so much more relaxed when we were young." Ida sighed. "He changed when he inherited his father's business, he forgot how to have fun."

A few pages later Kitty squealed in excitement.

"Oh my god! That's Frankie! She was my best friend, we used to do everything together!"

The Kitty in the photo looked far more like the Kitty Sam knew. Her hair was teased up, and she was wearing a crop top and a miniskirt. The other girl, Frankie, had short curled hair and a leather jacket. They each had an arm around the others' shoulder and grinned wildly.

"I love this one." Ida smiled as she pulled the picture out of the sleeve. "That was the night I gave you a lift to that concert."

"Oh that show was sooo good! I got my nose pierced there! It got so infected, Mom grounded me for a month." Kitty laughed.

"Man, and I thought I was cool for skipping school to go see Circus Gothica." Sam grinned. "I'm gonna have to come home with a tattoo next time."

"I can't believe I forgot about Frankie, I can't believe I forgot about all of this." Kitty held the photo close to her chest, a few tears running down her face. "I'm so glad it's not gone for good."

She kept the photo in hand as they looked through the rest of the album. There were many pictures of Ida, all of them with other people of all walks of life.

"Oh this was when you took us to that pride parade!" Kitty smiled. "You made Frankie so happy, and you knew a lot of the drag queens there, like a LOT."

"Grandma took me to a drag show when I was 10," said Sam. "Even took me backstage to meet them all, my parents thought we went to the theatre to see Romeo and Juliet."

"Oh I have photos from that." Ida flipped through the pages, getting closer to the end of the album. "Here we are, oh Evelyn just LOVED you."

Sam looked at the picture of Evelyn, frowning slightly.

"Oh weird, she kinda looks like Mr Lancer's sister, he keeps her photo on his desk..." Sam paused as she processed what she just said. "That's not his sister is it?"

"You probably shouldn't bring it up." said Ida gently. "Teachers can get in trouble for associating with this sort of thing."

"That's so bogus!" Kitty cried. "I really thought this kinda stuff would be better in the future!"

"It is," Ida assured her. "But we're a long way from perfect."

Ida flipped back through the album, searching for more pictures of Kitty and Frankie. There were a good few of them, each one Ida pulled out and passed over for Kitty to look at and hold onto.

"Oh woah, is that Johnny?" Sam pointed to a picture of Kitty sitting on the back of a motorcycle with a blonde boy. "He looks exactly the same, just a little less pale."

"Oh, did Johnny come back as a ghost too?" Ida asked.

"Yeah! We've been together all this time, in sickness and in death." Kitty beamed. "Mom and dad blamed him for everything I did, even if he wasn't around when I did it. They said him and Frankie were 'corrupting' me."

She rolled her eyes.

"I bet they blamed him for my death too. They'd be so mad if they knew we were still together."

"Just goes to show they had no chance of keeping you two apart." Ida said. "Not even death could do that."

Kitty held the photo tight in both hands, her shoulders began to shake slightly.

"It was my fault you know." she said with a trembling little giggle. "Funny huh? My parents always blamed him for everything, but in the end it was my fault we got hit. We were havin' a fight over somethin' stupid and I distracted him-"

Ida wrapped an arm around Kitty, patting her head comfortingly as she laid it against the old woman's shoulder.

"I think you're being too hard on yourself bubbeleh." Ida whispered gently into her hair. "It was raining, the truck that hit you was running a red light, the driver was charged for both your deaths. Even if you did distract him, you weren't the only card at play that night."

She gave Kitty a light shake.

"And don't think I didn't see the way Johnny used to drive that thing, he was reckless. I have no doubt that he wasn't paying as much attention as he should have been." She placed a kiss on the girl's forehead and squeezed her tight. "It's not fair to hold all of that responsibility on yourself, even if you both did everything right, that truck still would have run that red light, it still would have been raining. It was just pure rotten luck."

Sam had never heard a ghost talk about their death before, even Danny didn't like talking about his accident, and asking about it was incredibly taboo. Sam had been pushing her luck earlier just by mentioning the car crash.

It said a lot about Kitty's love for Ida that she chose to open up about it. Sam couldn't say she was surprised, her Grandma had always been like that. Never anything but an endless well of love and support, and the occasional kick in the pants if you needed it.

"Johnny's always had rotten luck." Kitty sniffed. "Follows him like a shadow."

"Literally." Sam snorted.

After a few more moments, Ida pulled herself away from Kitty, she got up and began rooting through the cupboards, muttering to herself.

"Aha, here it is."

She brought over an empty photo album, it was roughly the size of a small pocketbook, containing only one photo sleeve per page.

"I meant to fill this with photos for Sam to keep." Ida admitted as she shuffled back over to the girls. "But I don't think she'll mind donating it to a good cause."

She winked at Sam, who nodded back.

"Here," Ida pressed the little album into Kitty's hands. "Memories are a fickle thing, but photos are forever."

"I can't take these!" Kitty insisted, pushing the album back. "They're your memories too!"

"Oh my god you're both so old." Sam laughed, "Dad has a printer/scanner. I can make copies."

As Sam took the polaroids to her dad's office, Ida and Kitty pored over the rest of the album, Kitty picking out more photos to copy. She chose a few of Ida and Sam, and even one of Carrie.

"She was a total loser and I hated her but I don't hate remembering her, you know? I want to remember everything, even the bad stuff."

She took a photo of her parents, just one.

When Sam came back with the last batch of photos, Ida finished slipping them into the little album.

"There's still a few sleeves left." Sam pointed out, holding up her phone with a smile. "We've got room for a couple of family reunion pics."

The two girls squished up against Ida as Sam snapped as many shots as she could. Ones where they smiled, ones where they laughed, ones where they laid haphazardly across the lounge together.

Then Sam took a few candids of just Kitty and Ida, as they looked through the new album they'd just made together. Capturing Kitty laughing at something as Ida looked at her with a soft, loving smile.

Kitty clutched the album to her chest as she gave Ida a long, drawn out hug.

"Thank you so much." she said, her voice thick with gratitude. "It's like I can see my life in colour again."

She left the house with the assurance that she would always be welcome back, at any time, and a promise that she would always be looking out for her 'new favourite cousin'.

Sam flicked through the photos she took on her phone, she would have to make sure to have copies printed by the time Kitty returned to visit.

She knew Kitty coming over regularly was going to make things complicated, her apparent newfound protectiveness over Sam could potentially backfire in many spectacular ways, she was petty and troublesome when in the right mood.

But then again, so was Ida, and so was Sam.

At least she had better things to do now than beat up strangers' mail boxes, Danny was certainly going to be glad to hear that.

#lula's fanfics #danny phantom #danny phantom fanfiction #kitty #sam manson #ida manson

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englishstrawbie · 2 years

Text

Serendipity (38/?)

Fandom: Station 19, Grey’s Anatomy

Characters: Maya Bishop & Carina DeLuca

Summary: A chance meeting at a bar leads to these two idiots falling in love. Follows canon and fills in the gaps of their relationship that we didn’t get to see on screen.

Also @ AO3.

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Fratellino

But in all the sadness, when you’re feeling that your heart is empty, and lacking, You’ve got to remember that grief isn’t the absence of love. Grief is the proof that love is still there. - Tessa Shaffer

The room is pitch black, as one would expect at almost four o’clock in the morning. Not even a sliver of light from the outside world makes its way into the bedroom. Carina lies on her back, staring up into the darkness. Her head hasn’t stopped pounding since Owen and Teddy delivered the news of her brother’s death, despite the double dose of Tylenol she took when they got home. It is not just her head that hurts: her shoulders ache from being so tense; her back is sore from sitting around for most of the day – in the car, at the hospital, by his bed; her legs have that weird restless leg syndrome, like she could run for miles even though she is zapped of energy; and there is a tingling in her hands and feet that won’t go away no matter how many times she curls her fists and toes.

She sighs heavily into the silence. Beside her, Maya sleeps peacefully, a soft snore escaping from her every now and again. Carina is envious that she is able to sleep so easily when it evades her.

Andrew has been dead for five hours.

She keeps thinking about how she has to live the rest of her life without him, hundreds of thousands of hours without her baby brother in the world.

It can’t be real, and yet the pain in her heart tells her that it is true.

She waits for another hour to pass before she gives up on sleeping and slides out of the bed, pulling a sweater over her head and padding out into the apartment. She sits on one of the chairs, her feet curled up beneath her, and pulls a blanket over her legs. She turns on the television and flicks through the channels. She has never watched tv at this time of the morning and settles on a home renovation show. Not that she is really watching it; she is too tired to concentrate and her vision keeps blurring as her eyes grow tired from the glare of the screen.

She drifts off for ten, maybe twenty minutes. It is an uncomfortable sleep, her chin resting on her shoulder, and when she wakes her neck hurts from the funny angle. She rubs it gently, but it provides little relief.

She should make a list, she thinks, of all the things that need to be done. Bailey promised that he would stay in the hospital morgue until a funeral home could collect him, sparing him the indignity of being just another body in the make-shift morgue they had to build for their Covid victims. There would be no service, except for her and Maya perhaps, to say goodbye.

He wants to be cremated, she knows that. He hates the fuss of a traditional Catholic funeral, finds them long and tedious and too sad.

“I want to go out with a party, where everyone smiles and laughs because I lived instead of crying because I died,” he said once, not long after they buried Mama.

He wants Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here played instead of the usual hymns. Carina thinks she should do a reading of the same poem that she read at Mama’s funeral. She will have to organise for it to be streamed online so that Papa and their family in Italy can watch it, which means making sure she gets the time difference right.

There will be no wake to organise, no memories will be shared. She will mourn alone.

A light at the other end of the hallway captures her attention and she looks up just as Maya emerges, pulling a robe around her body as she walks towards her.

“Hey,” Maya says softly, leaning down and pressing her lips against Carina’s hair before sitting in the empty chair next to her. “Did you manage to sleep at all?”

“A little,” Carina lies, twisting her body towards her. “I was just thinking about all the things I need to do to plan his funeral.”

Her voice shakes, full of disbelief that she even has to say these words out loud.

“I can help you with that,” Maya says. “You don’t have to do it all by yourself.”

Carina musters up a small smile, grateful to have Maya by her side in all this. Maya reaches into her pocket and pulls out Carina’s cell phone, holding it out to her.

“It started buzzing about ten minutes ago,” she says. “I think people have started to hear about Andrew.”

Carina takes it from her and looks down at the sea of familiar names on the screen. Jackson, Jo, Maggie, Link, Schmitt. She doesn’t bother to open them, she knows what they will say.

She still needs to tell Papa but that is a conversation she isn’t ready to have right now.

“Shall I make you some breakfast?” Maya says.

Carina shakes her head. “I’m not hungry,” she says, even though it has been twenty-four hours since her last meal. “I could do with some more Tylenol though.”

She watches as Maya goes into the kitchen to pour her a fresh glass of water and retrieve the packet of pills from the counter. Carina pops two into her mouth and swallows them, then gulps down the rest of the water. She knows her body is dehydrated, which probably isn’t helping her headache.

“How about we curl up on the couch, see if you’ll sleep a bit more?” Maya suggests.

Carina doesn’t have the energy to object. She doesn’t really know what to do with herself anyway, so she nods, letting Maya take her hand and lead her to the couch. Maya plumps the cushions – not that they need it – and brings over a selection of berries and pastries on a plate.

“Just in case your appetite comes back,” she says, and Carina knows it is her way of taking care of her.

Maya stretches out on the sofa and Carina curls up beside her, wedged under Maya’s arm against the back of the couch. Maya pulls a blanket over them, thick and fluffy to keep them warm. The newly plumped cushions are soft and Carina feels herself becoming drowsy. Maya’s hand strokes her hair, the slow rhythm lulling her towards sleep.

It is somewhere between being awake and being asleep that her brain turns off its defence mechanism and her body and mind are hit with pain and loss all over again.

‘Stop,’ she wants to say. ‘Please don’t.’

But there is nothing she can do to stop the wave of grief from crashing over her. She doesn’t get the words out before her body convulses and a sob escapes from deep in her chest, echoing around the apartment. It takes Maya by surprise and she jolts awake from the near slumber she was in.

“Oh Carina,” she says, her voice oozing sympathy.

She tightens her arm around her, her other hand stroking her face, wiping the tears that cascade down her cheeks.

“I know.”

She doesn’t know. She still has her brother. They might be estranged, but he is out there somewhere and she has hundreds of thousands of hours left of her life to get to know him again. Carina doesn’t have that any more.

She cries until her eyes run dry and her chest hurts. Every part of her body is screaming out in pain and she needs it to subside, just for a little while so that she can get some rest but her head betrays her the moment she gets too comfortable.

Maya’s embrace is too warm, too comfortable, too soft, so she extracts herself from under her arm.

“I’m going to shower,” she announces abruptly.

“Okay,” Maya says, sitting up and dropping her feet to the floor so that Carina can shuffle around her.

She leaves her cell phone behind, already annoyed by the constant messages. She knows she should be touched by the outpouring of sympathy but she can’t cope with other people’s grief on top of her own right now.

Once in the shower, she washes yesterday’s trauma from her body, removing every trace of blood and sweat that may have lingered. She dresses in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, letting her wet hair hang limply around her shoulders, not caring about her appearance.

When she finally emerges, Maya is at the stove, scrambling eggs in a pan. Two pieces of bread pop from the toaster and she puts the simple meal together, placing it on the table and looking expectantly at Carina, hoping she will eat something.

Carina feels a child-like petulance growing inside of her, unwilling to do what she is told, but she knows that if – no, when – the roles were reversed, she did the same for Maya. She sits obediently at the table and tucks into the food. The toast is dry and the eggs are too salty (or so she tells herself) but she swallows a few mouthfuls to appease her girlfriend.

Maya’s own empty plate sits on the side and she grabs two mugs of coffee, placing them on the table and sitting down beside her.

“Is there anything you want to do today?” she asks.

Carina’s shoulders drop. “I should call my dad, but I… I don’t know what to say.”

“What if we went for a walk?” Maya says. “Get some fresh air, it might help clear your head and help you sleep?”

“Maybe,” Carina says non-committedly.

She doesn’t like the thought of bumping into anyone they know, of someone asking how they are in polite conversation and having to tell them that her brother is dead.

Murdered.

“I really should call the funeral home and make plans,” Carina says, a small frown on her face. “They’re busy and I don’t want him to have to wait.”

Her voice catches in her throat as she talks and she feels the few mouthfuls of eggs she has just eaten threatening to make their way back up. It is stupid, it is not like Andrew is going to know, but she knows and she wants to do right by him in his death, even if she couldn’t do right by him in his life.

Because that is what she keeps thinking. She failed him, she didn’t keep him safe like a big sister should do.

“Okay,” Maya says, reaching into the cupboard behind her and pulling out a notepad and pen. “Let’s make a list.”

Maya jots down all the things that Carina has thought about – the songs to play, the poems to read, and the memories for his eulogy. She writes down the names of all the people who need to be told and their contact details so that a link to the live stream can be shared at the right time. Maya scans her phone for the names of some local funeral homes, Carina picking out the ones she knows are good.

Carina picks up her cell phone to call the one at the top of the list, but her hands are shaking too much and tears prick her eyes. Maya places her hand over hers.

“You don’t have to do this today, it can wait until tomorrow.”

Carina nods dumbly. She knows she won’t be able to get the words out today, it is hard enough to think it let alone say it out loud.

“Maybe a walk would be a good idea,” she concedes.

Before they can make a plan, there is a knock on the door. Maya squeezes her hand, then stands and grabs a face mask from the pile they keep on the console table, hooking it over her ears. She opens the door just a little so that Carina can’t see who it is.

Carina hears the murmur of voices and eventually Maya steps back to let their visitor into the apartment. Amelia steps inside, a bag of junk food from the grocery store in each hand. She walks straight over to the table and drops them unceremoniously on the table.

“I know we’re in the middle of a pandemic and I’m not supposed to hug you, but I took a Covid test and it was negative, so I’m going to anyway,” she says.

Her short stature means she doesn’t have to lean down too far to envelope Carina in a hug. She smells of baby powder and it brings a small smile to Carina’s face. She responds by putting her arms around Amelia, letting her hold on for longer than either of them would normally allow before pulling back.

“I’m gonna go take a shower,” Maya says.

She looks at Carina for assurance that she will be okay with Amelia and Carina gives her a small nod. Amelia starts to empty the grocery bags on to the table, while Carina gathers up the two mugs.

“I’ll make a fresh pot,” she says. “Maya… I love her, but she still hasn’t learned how to make a decent coffee.”

With two steaming hot mugs in front of them, Carina surveys the mountains of sugar-filled treats the cover her table, her eyebrows arching.

“Whenever bad things have happened in my life, I usually go for the stronger stuff,” Amelia says. “But it never ended well and I don’t want that to happen to you.”

She pushes a box of Twinkies towards Carina and leans back in her chair.

“It sucks, losing a brother,” she says. Her eyes glaze over as she thinks about Derek. “They’re supposed to always be there, to be our partners in crime until we get old. And when they’re gone, there’s a loneliness to that which doesn’t come when you lose a parent or a grandparent.”

Carina is reminded of all the loss that Amelia has suffered in her own life. There is an odd sense of camaraderie in knowing that she is not the only one to have lost a sibling so suddenly, so tragically, even though she wouldn’t wish this on anyone else – friend or foe.

Amelia takes the box of Reese’s peanut butter cups and tears open a packet, taking one and offering the other to Carina.

“Derek hated peanut butter,” she says, looking at the confectionary in her hand and taking a bite. “He hated the way it stuck to the roof of your mouth. But he was always that kid that would say yes to a peanut butter and jelly sandwich if it was offered to him, because he didn’t want to be rude.”

She rolls her eyes at Carina, who smiles as she takes a bite into her own cup. It is not the kind of thing she usually eats, even though Maya always has a box in the cupboard. It is sticky and sweet.

“I remember when Andrea came to America with Mama, the first thing he sent to me was a packet of these,” Carina remembers fondly. “He said they were the best thing he’d ever tasted – which of course upset the family, because they pride themselves in making the best cannoli in Sicily.”

Amelia chuckles.

“The first time I came to visit them, he snuck a box into my room before dinner and we ate them all. Mama didn’t understand why we weren’t hungry when she took us out for pizza a couple of hours later.”

She feels tears welling up in the corners of her eyes and blinks them back.

“Scusa.”

Amelia waves her apology away. “Don’t be sorry about being sad,” she says. “You’re allowed to be sad for as long as you want. There’s no timeline on this.” She grows wistful. “I miss him even more now that Scout is here. That kid is so much like Link, but sometimes when he cries, he screws up his nose and he looks just like Derek.”

Carina lets the tears fall down her cheeks. “I feel…” She shakes her head. “I don’t even know how I feel, just numb.”

“That’s normal,” Amelia says. “It’s normal to be sad and upset, it’s normal to be smile and laugh at the memories, it’s normal to rage about all the things he’ll miss. Because there is no normal, not really.”

She leans forward and grasps Carina’s hand in hers.

“There is a light at the end of this very dark tunnel,” she says. “You just can’t see it yet. And it might be a while before you do. But it’s there, I promise.”

Carina nods. “Thank you, Amelia.”

“Well, you’ve done enough for me,” Amelia reminds her with a smile. “I just wish this wasn’t the reason for me returning the favour.”

“Me too.”

Amelia’s visit does her some good. She stays for an hour and they talk and cry and laugh, and it helps to forget about the shock of the last twenty-four hours for a while. It is still there, the grief, bubbling under the surface. It doesn’t go far, but she makes the most of the respite while she can.

She skips lunch, blaming the sweets and chocolate that Amelia brought round, and they go for a walk around the park in the afternoon. Carina doesn’t say much, too caught up in all the thoughts in her head. Still, Maya was right, the fresh air does her some good and she sleeps for an hour on the sofa when she gets home before the bad dreams come.

As she comes to, she hears Maya on the phone.

“A week at least. I spoke to the Chief, we agreed that, with Covid protocols, it wasn’t a good idea to bring someone else into the bubble. Will you cover for me while I’m off?”

Carina frowns. Maya wasn’t going to work this week?

She sits up and lifts her hands above her head, stretching her aching limbs. The movement catches Maya’s attention and she looks over her shoulder.

“I gotta go, Andy,” she says. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

She ends the call quickly and grabs a glass of water, walking over to the couch and giving it to Carina, who gladly accepts it and takes a large gulp. Maya perches on the table in front of her.

“You’re not going to work tomorrow?”

Maya shakes her head, no. “The Chief’s letting me taking a week’s bereavement leave,” Maya says.

“You don’t have to do that…” Carina starts to say, but Maya is quick to cut her off.

“Yes, I do,” Maya says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

It is the same promise she made yesterday and she hasn’t broken it yet, always there when Carina needs her.

“Thank you,” Carina says quietly.

Maya offers her a small smile. “I still have take-out from yesterday, do you think you could eat some?”

The thought of food is not appealing and Carina’s stomach feels twisted into knots, but it is practically empty and she knows she should eat something.

“Sure,” she says.

She manages half a plate, which is more than either of them expected, followed by two more Tylenol and an early night at Maya’s insistence, hoping that sleep will come easier tonight.

It doesn’t. Maybe it is because, this time, it is Carina evading sleep instead of sleep evading her. The wave of emotions that hit when she gets too comfortable, too soft, is overwhelming. She wants to sleep but doesn’t know how or where, so she stares into the darkness again, her only company her memories of their childhood in Italy.

Her limbs become restless in the early hours. She doesn’t know what time it is, but the urge to get out of bed and move is too big to ignore. She slips out from under the covers, careful not to wake Maya, and creeps into the apartment. She doesn’t bother with the television this time, but instead tunes the radio to some generic station that plays pop music she doesn’t usually listen to. The lyrics are about falling in love and breaking up; some are about unrequited love, some are about lost loves. None are about dead brothers and she is grateful about that.

The couch is too soft, so she lies on the floor of the hallway, wishing for sleep that never comes. It is where Maya finds her a little while later.

“I’m just trying to sleep,” Carina says before Maya can ask her what she is doing.

After a beat, Maya lies on the floor, her head next to Carina’s with her feet pointing in the opposite direction.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to sleep too,” Maya says plainly.

Carina sighs. “You should go back to bed.”

Maya doesn’t speak, but her hand scrambles around in the dark until it finds Carina’s. She links their fingers together, giving them a gentle squeeze.

They stay there for an hour, maybe two – Carina has stopped counting time by now – until she drags Maya back to bed. Even if she can’t sleep, Maya should.

Maya tries to fight sleep, to stay awake until Carina sleeps too, but she falls into a slumber around six o’clock. Carina drifts off too, for twenty minutes or so and only a light sleep. Still, it is better than nothing.

They have another slow day at home. Carina avoids calling her dad, but does call her Zia Alice to tell her. It is a hard phone call to make and she doesn’t know how she gets through it, but Maya stays by her side, holding her hand, as she tells her about what happened. It is another loss in their family and she wonders if they should be hardened to it by now, but Alice wails down the phone at her and it takes all of her strength to keep it together. At least Alice agrees not to tell Papa, not yet, not until Carina has spoken to him.

She feels drained afterwards and pushes the notebook away when Maya asks if she wants to call the funeral home. She knows she should, but there is finality to his death that comes with making those kinds of plans that she isn’t ready to face just yet.

Her cell phone is still alight with messages of love and sympathy. She hasn’t read them yet. At one point, she threatens to delete them, but Maya persuades her to keep them.

“You’ll want to read them one day,” she says. “To know how much people loved him.”

She is right, of course. Instead, she leaves her phone behind when they go for another walk, taking the same route around the park as yesterday. The sun shines and it feels weird, wrong almost, that it should be so warm and sunny when everything about her life feels so bleak. She hides her eyes behind her sunglasses so that no-one can see the dark circles and red rims that give away her trauma.

“When we were little, our grandparents used to take us to the park near their house. It had this swing with a big round seat… I don’t know what they’re called,” Carina says. “It was big enough for both us and we would sit on it side-by-side with our arms linked together in case one of us started to slip.”

She smiles sadly at the memory.

“I can still hear Andrea’s squeals of joy as Nonno would push us. Nonna used to scold him, tell him that he was pushing us too high, but we loved it. It was the first thing that Andrea would beg to do whenever we visited.”

She stops walking suddenly. Her chest rumbles and she chokes back her tears, not wanting to fall apart in public.

“I just… I can’t believe I’m not going to hear him laugh any more. He had such a beautiful laugh, like Mama’s.”

Maya slips her hand around her waist and steps closer.

“You want to take the short cut home?”

Carina shakes her head. “No. I’m okay. I just need a minute.”

“Take as many minutes as you want,” Maya says.

Carina dips her head and rests it on Maya’s shoulder, taking a deep breath to steady herself and recognising a familiar scent. Her lips twitch, threatening to smile.

“You’ve been using my shampoo again?”

“Why else do you think I asked you to move in with me?” Maya teases.

The smile breaks through, lighting up her face briefly.

They finish their loop of the park and head home. Carina feels drained again and lets Maya cover her in blankets on the couch. She sleeps for a little over an hour this time, woken up by shrill ringing of her cell phone. She jolts awake, blinking a few times as her blurred vision clears, and looks towards the source of the noise.

Her cell phone stops ringing just as she reaches for it. Next to it is a note from Maya, letting her know that she has just popped to the shops for some fresh ingredients for dinner. Her cell phone starts to ring again and she looks down, a surprise name staring back at her.

“Arizona, ciao,” she says when she answers.

She rubs her eyes. Her voice is still a little sluggish from her nap and Arizona picks up on it.

“Sorry, did I wake you?”

“It’s okay,” Carina says dismissively. She doesn’t know what to say next, she knows why Arizona is calling and she falls silent, waiting for Arizona to offer her condolences.

“I heard about Andrew. I’m so sorry, Carina,” Arizona says.

“Thank you,” Carina says.

“He meant a lot to me, I hope you know that,” Arizona continues. “I hope he knew that too. He helped me so much when he moved in. I was so lost after Callie and Sofia left and he stopped me from wallowing, just by being there, by making dinner and watching trashy television with me.”

Carina smiles. “He always had a soft spot for The Bachelorette. He made me promise not to tell anyone.”

Arizona chuckles. “He was a special one. To me and so many.”

“I know,” Carina says softly.

“You know, when my brother died, my heart was broken into pieces. Timothy was my ally in so many ways and I didn’t know how I was gonna live the rest of my life without him as my cheerleader,” Arizona says. “I know you know how that feels.”

Her words make Carina’s heart ache, her eyes filling with tears.

“And it never goes away, not completely. When Sofia was born, when I got married, the plane crash, my divorce – I missed him so much. I mean, I always miss him but there are moments still when he’s the first person I want to call and I hate that I can’t.”

The tears fall down Carina’s cheeks and she can’t stop them.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t call to make you feel worse,” Arizona apologises.

“I don’t think that’s possible right now,” Carina says through her sniffles.

“Yeah, I know that feeling,” Arizona says. “I guess my point is, don’t be afraid of those feelings. They’ll hurt, some days more than others, and sometimes it will feel unbearable, like you’re right back here in the worst of your grief. Don’t be afraid to feel it, Carina, because pushing it away will only make it come bouncing back harder.”

Carina wipes the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand.

“Thank you, Arizona,” she says. She takes a deep, shaky breath to regain her composure. “How is New York, are you happy?”

“I am,” Arizona says. “Sofia loves being back here, and…”

She trails off, leaving an awkward silence between them.

“And Callie?” Carina prompts.

She already knows that Arizona and Callie are back together, happier than ever according to Jo, who heard it from Alex – before his sudden disappearance.

“We’re good,” Arizona says. “And you? Do you have… someone?”

Carina smiles when she thinks about Maya. “I do,” she says. “She’s a firefighter – the captain, in fact.”

“And she’s taking care of you?”

There is a protectiveness to her voice that Carina can’t help but find endearing.

“She is, very much,” Carina says. She hasn’t stopped taking care of her since the aid car rolled up outside the hospital.

“Good, I’m glad,” Arizona says.

From her end of the phone, Carina hears the familiar beeping of a pager.

“Shoot, I have to go,” Arizona says. “Look, I know you have people in your life who will take care of you. But if you ever wanna talk, I’ll listen.”

It is a sweet gesture, even if Carina knows she will never take her up on it. They haven’t spoken since Arizona left for New York and they probably never would have if it hadn’t been for this tragedy. It would be an odd friendship, built on her brother’s death, and Carina doesn’t want that.

“Thank you, Arizona.”

She hits the red button to end the call and keeps her cell phone in her hand, pulling up the messages that have been flooding in over the last two days. There are forty, maybe fifty messages from her friends and colleagues – some numbers she recognises and some she doesn’t – all offering words of sympathy and support. She reads them one by one, each message making the tears fall harder and faster. He was so loved and cherished by so many. It makes her happy and sad all at once, and it is too much for her.

Maya finds her curled up in a ball on the couch, her face buried in her knees as she sobs uncontrollably. She drops the groceries on the floor and rushes to her side, scooping her up in a hug, her arms strong around her.

“He’s gone,” Carina murmurs through her tears. “He’s really gone.”

She feels Maya’s hold tighten.

“I’m here, I’ve got you,” Maya soothes in her ear, letting her tears soak into her shirt.

Carina wonders how long it will take before she cries all of her tears. She is a doctor, a scientist, she knows that she will never run out of tears – that’s not the way a body works. But there has to be a point when the tears don’t come. With Mama, it was many weeks later before she had got through a day without crying – which only made the tears come back when she realised it, because she felt so guilty at not remembering to be sad.

“Did the bad dreams come back?” Maya asks.

Carina shakes her head. “No, I was reading the messages on my phone. Everyone was being so lovely.”

“People being nice made you cry?” Maya says.

Carina smiles ruefully. “It feels like everything makes me cry at the moment.”

Maya tucks Carina’s hair behind her ears. Carina leans into her touch, closing her eyes and pressing her cheek into the palm of her hand, taking comfort from her warm skin.

“You wanna help me make dinner? It might help to have something else to focus on for a while,” Maya suggests.

“That sounds like a good idea,” Carina says.

Maya doesn’t force her to make conversation as they prep the food and it is a welcome relief to have nothing to think about except chopping vegetables. She pours them both a large glass of Chardonnay as Maya stands in front of the stove making dinner. Her shoulders feel so tight that it feels like someone is pressing all of their body weight on top of her and she hopes that the wine will help her relax. Despite being one of her favourite bottles, it tastes acidic and burns her tongue, as if her taste buds are betraying her.

She helps herself to a small amount of the risotto that Maya has made and it tastes good, but sits heavy in her stomach. Still, she clears her plate and she knows that it makes Maya happy to see her eating.

“Is there anything you wanna do tonight?” Maya asks. “A movie, perhaps?”

“Sure,” Carina says. She doesn’t really care, but at least a movie will fill the silent apartment.

Maya insists that they watch it on her laptop in bed, hoping that if Carina finally succumbs to sleep then at least she will be somewhere comfortable. She chooses something light, a romantic comedy set in London, and Carina distracts them from the happy ending by telling her about her travels there just after medical school.

The glare of the screen was probably a bad idea because, despite the exhaustion she feels, she still can’t sleep. She tries the kitchen floor that night, the oak flooring harder and more uncomfortable than the soft rug in the hallway. It is where Maya finds her in the morning, staring up at the pots and pans that hang above the small island. She doesn’t say anything about it, just accepts it, like it is becoming the new normal, leaving Carina to wonder if she will ever sleep properly again.

The numbness is starting to fade and she is overwhelmed by the guilt she carries instead. She should have stopped him from getting on that train, she should have insisted they wait for the police. She should have stayed with him as he made his way through the train station, she should have got to him sooner. She should have been able to save him, instead of freezing and panicking when she saw the stab wound. All these things she should have done, but didn’t, and because of that her sweet baby brother is dead.

The guilt makes her angry. The sound of Maya’s footsteps, echoing between her ears, irritates her. The pounding from her treadmill as she exercises reverberates through the apartment and she wants to tell her to go out for a run if she wants, but she doesn’t because she selfishly needs Maya near her right now.

She moves before Maya turns on her blender to make her morning smoothie, knowing the loud whirring will aggravate her even more and she doesn’t want to snap at Maya, when she has been so lovely these last couple of days.

“I’m going to shower,” she announces, hauling herself up to standing.

“Do you want me to make you break…”

Carina doesn’t hang around to answer her question. She heads into the bedroom and closes the door behind her, exhaling deep and long. She is so exhausted, she doesn’t know what to do with herself, like a child who refuses to nap and is on the verge of a meltdown.

The tiles of the shower are cold and strangely inviting, and she sits down in the corner, resting her head on one wall and closing her eyes. It’s too uncomfortable though and doesn’t help her sleep any easier.

Maya comes looking for her when she doesn’t hear the water running.

“Hey,” she says softly, leaning against the door frame.

Carina doesn’t lift her eyes, knowing that Maya will be looking at her with love and empathy. “I know this looks crazy.”

“Not any crazier than finding you lying in the hallway at three a.m.,” Maya says.

“I can't get comfortable anywhere.”

Maya wanders into the bathroom and leans against the shower door. “You want to give the bed or the couch another shot?”

“Too soft.”

She can feel Maya looking at her, bemused. She lifts her head off the wall and glances up at her.

“When something is too soft and nice and comfortable right now, it makes me want to cry,” she explains, “and I can't cry anymore because it's exhausting and it gives me a headache; and I'm already so tired, but I can't fall asleep, and sleeping is the only thing that will turn off the crazy guilt screaming in my brain.” She sighs. “So, I'm in the shower to try to fall asleep.”

“Carina…” Maya scolds her lightly as she crouches down near her. “None of this is your fault.”

The voices in her head tell her otherwise. There were so many things she did wrong that day, that she knows will haunt her for the rest of her life.

“You want to scream?” Maya asks. “Would that make you feel better?”

Carina read an article once about how screaming releases the tension you carry in your body and that the endorphins that follow will mask any pain you are feeling. She would do anything right now for the pain to go away.

She nods.

“Okay, then scream.”

She leans back, but she is too tired and can’t summon the energy to do it.

“Your brother died, Carina,” Maya says. “You’re allowed to wake up the neighbours.”

She doesn’t care about the neighbours. She would wake the whole apartment block with her cries if she could.

“He didn't die,” Carina reminds her. “He was murdered.”

The words make her feel nauseous and she swallows the thick bile that rises to the back of her throat.

“Scream,” Maya encourages her.

She tries, hitting her head against the solid tiles behind her a few times to garner the energy, but her throat is dry and her chest aches from all the sobbing, and she just can’t do it. All she can do is cry – again.

Maya comes into the shower and sits beside her, wrapping her arms around her. Carina indulges her for a moment, letting the comfort wash over her, until she feels the familiar throbbing in her chest.

“Too soft, too soft,” she says, rejecting Maya’s help and training her eyes on the wall in front of her.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” Maya says.

She walks away and Carina knows it is because she doesn’t want to make her feel worse. If only she understood that she is the only thing making her feel better right now. Carina closes her eyes and leans back against the wall behind her. It is cold and hard, just like she feels inside, but still sleep doesn’t come easily. She can hear Maya moving around in the kitchen and gets up slowly, her back sore from too much time on the hard floors of their apartment. She wanders out into the kitchen where Maya is making eggs again.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. It doesn’t feel like enough, but it is all she has to give right now.

Maya pauses on the way to deliver her breakfast to the table, leaving a soft kiss on her cheek.

“It’s okay to not be okay,” she says kindly.

It has only been three days, after all. Carina sits at the table and pushes the eggs around the plate, her stomach churning at their smell. She takes a bite of dry toast. She thought she was getting her appetite back a little yesterday, but today her stomach is twisted into knots and the food doesn’t settle well. She notices the notebook on the shelf, the one that lists all the things she hasn’t done to give her brother a funeral. It serves as another reminder of how she is failing him.

“I’m gonna go change the bed, maybe some fresh sheets will help,” Maya says. She is running out of ideas of how to help. “You okay here?”

Carina nods absentmindedly, her eyes moving away from the notebook but not meeting Maya’s. Her phone chimes and she pulls it out of her pocket. It is a message from her cousin, offering his condolences. It beeps a few more times as a series of photos come through and she opens them, curious, only to have her breath taken away by the image of her brother’s smiling face looking up at her. They are photos from the last time they were all together as a family, her cousin’s wedding four years ago. There are candid photos of Andrew chatting to family and dancing with friends, his eyes bright and his smile wide across his face. There are photos of her Nonna and uncles she will never see again, and they bring tears to her eyes. The last one is a photo of the three of them – Papa, Andrew and her – laughing during the after-dinner speeches.

Her heart drops.

She still hasn’t told Papa. She doesn’t know how she is going to tell him, how to even begin to explain what happened and how his child ended up dead.

He was away at a conference when Mama died. He got home a few days later and Carina went to his house to tell him. She thought he had taken it okay, he was upset but they had been divorced for ten years by then. Except it had triggered an episode and the next day the police had turned up on her doorstep with him in tow, incoherent and manic. He had passed the alcohol test, so they didn’t want him taking up space in a station cell, and he had been able to tell them where his daughter lived.

What if that happens when she tells him about Andrew? What if, this time, the police don’t pull him over and he gets into an accident? What if he hurts himself or someone else? She can’t have that on her conscience as well.

Panic flares up inside of her and she rushes to the spare room, pulling out a suitcase and heading into the bedroom, where Maya is in the middle of changing the bed sheets.

“I have to go to Italy,” Carina announces, flinging the suitcase onto the half-made bed.

Maya looks up at her, confusion across her face. “What?”

“I have to tell my dad and I think the best way to do it is in person,” Carina says.

She walks towards the dresser to pull out some clothes, not paying attention to what she is choosing.

“Carina, take a breath. Let’s talk this through,” Maya says calmly, but Carina isn’t really listening.

“…because I don’t know how he’s gonna react to the news and I just need to be there in case he goes crazy or something.”

All she can see in her head is the image of her dad, hanging limply in the arms of two police officers. She drops the clothes haphazardly into the case, then goes to find more.

“Okay, there are no flights to Italy right now,” Maya points out. “The border is closed there and here. And even if you could get there, we're in a pandemic, remember?”

Carina stares at her as she starts to make sense of what Maya is saying. But if she doesn’t go to Italy, how is she going to escape all that haunts her?

“Okay, yeah, I have... ahhh! Okay, I feel like there's so much that I have to do, and I don't even know how.”

It overwhelms her and she marches out into the hallway, with Maya close behind her.

“Okay, what do you want? What do you need? What can I do?”

“I have to organize the funeral, I have to contact his landlord,” Carina says as she paces up and down the hallway, unable to keep still. “I have to call the bank to sort out all the details and paperwork. I have…” She sighs. “I have to tell my dad. But what I want to do right now is scream. I want to scream until my throat hurts more than my head and my stomach and my chest. I just want to scream so that some of this pressure goes away.”

“So scream,” Maya says. “Do it, let it out.”

“I can't,” Carina cries. She has tried so many times and every time she fails, and she doesn’t need to feel like any more of a failure.

She knows that Maya is trying to help her but everything feels too hard and she craves the solitude of their bathroom, brushing past Maya and making her way back into the shower.

“I can't, I can't, I can't,” she mutters.

She sits on the cool tiles, her brain buzzing and her heart thumping in her chest. She tries to control her breathing, a long inhale and a slow exhale.

‘Five things you can see,’ she thinks to herself.

The tiles, the bottle of shampoo, the crumpled towel on the floor, the mirror, the trash can.

Four things you can touch.

She goes through the steps, the calming technique helping reduce her stress and anxiety. She drops her head to one side, resting against the wall and closing her eyes, willing herself to sleep. She just wants to sleep but the floor of a shower isn’t exactly conducive to it.

That is the point, being somewhere uncomfortable to stop the warmth and cosiness of her bed from lulling her back into her grief. She tries to sleep for an hour, eventually giving up.

When she wanders back into the apartment, Maya is in the kitchen again, making a sandwich.

“Did you sleep?” she asks.

“No, but I tried in the shower, like a lunatic,” Carina says, sitting down.

“Well, I got everything sorted out with the funeral home,” Maya says, as she delivers the sandwich to her seat at the table.

It takes Carina by surprise. “You called them?”

“I called everyone,” Maya says. “I did the whole list. I did all the things.”

She says it so simply, like it’s not a big deal but it is. Carina feels her heart flip, in a good way for the first time in days. Because as strong as she wishes she was, this loss more than any other has shaken her foundations and when she wonders how she is still standing, she always comes back to the same answer.

Maya.

And every time Carina thinks she is as much in love as she will ever be, Maya does something else that takes her breath away.

“Thank you,” she says, fighting back her tears. “No-one has ever done that for me.”

She sees a small frown crinkle Maya’s forehead.

“Any chance you could call my dad for me too?”

She knows it is cruel not to have told him yet. She tries to tell herself that it is because she is worried about him, and that’s not a lie, but she knows the real reason why she hasn’t done it yet. She’s afraid of what he will say, she’s afraid that he will blame her as much as she blames herself.

She watches as Maya walks over to her, grabbing a spare stool and sitting beside her, leaning her arms on the table.

“I wish I could,” she says.

Carina wishes that too.

“That's one you got to do on your own.”

“I know,” Carina says. “I'm so scared to tell him.”

Saying it out loud doesn’t lighten the burden at all.

“I know,” Maya says softly.

The smell of the sandwich makes Carina’s stomach turn. Or maybe it is the thought of telling her dad that makes her feel sick.

“I'm gonna try again,” she says, standing up from her seat.

“To sleep?”

“To scream.”

She walks into the bedroom. She doesn’t bother with the shower floor this time, instead she sits on the edge of the bed and grabs a pillow. She holds her body tight and takes a deep breath, opening opens her mouth and pressing her face against the soft pillow.

All that escapes is a pathetic whimper.

Her pent-up grief and sadness and frustration sits heavy on her chest but she doesn’t have the energy to expel it.

She can’t sleep, she can’t scream, she can’t find the courage to call her dad.

She puffs out her cheeks and exhales, running her hand through her hair and noticing how greasy and full of knots it is. She stands up, the exhaustion making her a little dizzy, and she reaches out to rest her hands on the bedside table to steady herself until her head stops spinning.

She strips herself of her clothes, dropping them on the floor, not caring for once about the wrinkles it will cause. She steps into the shower and ducks under the running hot water, washing away some of the tension in her limbs. She rolls her head in her neck, immersing her face in the water, letting it cleanse her skin of the tear stains on her cheeks.

She thinks about that morning when she bumped into Andrew in the parking lot, how he had given her that typical DeLuca stubborn glare when he told her about Opal and his plan to follow her. She kept telling herself that she couldn’t stop him, that he was too wilful, but maybe that was just an excuse because she was too afraid to upset him, to make him feel unsupported just like before.

She forgets about all the times she told him to wait for the police and all the times he pushed on anyway. All she remembers is driving him around the city, chasing a woman they knew could be dangerous and leading him to his death.

She doesn’t know what is worse, the grief or the guilt. It is like they are conspiring against her, battling to see which one can weigh her down more.

She turns the shower up to its hottest setting, letting the water burn her skin until it is bright red as a way of distracting herself from the thoughts in her head. She stays in the shower for as long as her body will tolerate, then steps out in the cool air of the apartment. Her skin prickles with goosebumps, her fine hairs standing on end, and pulls a towel around her to stay warm.

Once she is dry, she covers herself with moisturiser to soothe her dry skin. The massaging motion helps her to relax a little. She dries her hair and dresses, pulling on a pair of jeans and comfortable sweater, before heading out into the apartment.

Maya is at the far end of the apartment doing push ups in the living room. Apart from a couple of gentle walks, she hasn’t been able to indulge in her normal exercise routine lately and Carina knows that she is probably feeling claustrophobic being stuck indoors all day.

She hears Carina coming and looks up, stopping her workout and rising to her feet.

“You showered.”

“Mmm. I was already there and I couldn't sleep, so, um...” She sits on the edge of the couch. “I didn't want to call you when I was in the car with Andrea because I knew you would talk me out of it and tell me to make my brother stop. Tell me that it was dangerous. And you did…”

She takes a shaky breath.

“And you were right. And I still think…” She can feel herself getting worked up, becoming breathless as she talks. “I feel like this is… Why? Why didn't I stop him?”

She stands up, feeling boxed in as Maya walks towards her and she backs away from her. “This is… this is all my fault. This is… I…” She struggles to find the right words until they spill out of her mouth. “My brother is dead because I'm an idiot.”

“Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey. Listen to me,” Maya says sternly. “None of this is your fault.”

“Whose fault is it then? Who am I supposed to blame?”

She needs to blame someone, to be the focus of her anger – and she convinces herself that she deserves it.

“Blame me!” Maya says out of nowhere. “We have to get some of this off of you. I will take it. Blame me. I should have gotten to you sooner, I should have been there. Blame me.”

It is the most ridiculous thing Carina has ever heard.

“Maya, this is not your fault,” she says, walking past her.

“Then why is it yours?”

Carina spins to face her. “Because I let him on that train! I did that.”

What can’t Maya see that?

Maya grabs her arms and guides her to sit on the couch. “Give me the guilt, okay? Give me the blame. Give me the part that stings the most. Okay, let me hold on to it for a little while.” She looks up at Carina with her bright blue eyes. “And when you're feeling a little stronger, you can have it all back, I promise.”

Carina can’t see it for the beautiful gesture that it is. It is too soft and the grief threatens to consume her once again. Her body turns rigid and she trains her eyes on the fireplace in front of her, refusing to look at Maya.

“Too soft, I’m sorry,” Maya says, standing up and walking back into the kitchen.

Carina focuses on her breath, in and out, in and out, willing herself not to cry. She hears Maya clearing away the sandwich she didn’t eat at lunch time and focuses on the clanging of plates and cutlery as she fills the dishwasher.

She can feel herself pushing Maya away. Too nice, too kind, too soft.

She doesn’t want to, she wants to cling to Maya so hard because she is the only thing that is keeping her hanging on right now.

She gets up from her seat and wanders over to the kitchen, her shoes light on the floor. She sidles up behind her, resting her hands on Maya’s hips and her chin on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry.”

Maya twists her head a little, glancing over her shoulder.

“Maybe you should let yourself feel soft for a while?”

“I can’t,” Carina says. “It hurts too much and I can’t figure out how to get it all out. So it’s better to not feel anything at all.”

Maya spins, staying in her embrace, and rests her hands at the top of her arms.

“You wanna go for another walk?”

Carina shakes her head.

“I need to call Papa,” she says slowly. “I don’t want to, I’m still scared about what he’s going to say. But it’s not fair that he doesn’t know.”

She knows it is not helping, having it hanging over her head. At least it will be one thing ticked off the list.

Maya nods. “You want some space?”

“No,” Carina is quick to say. “I… Can you stay close?”

Her voice is flooded with vulnerability and she blinks back tears.

“Of course,” Maya says. “Whatever you need.”

Carina takes a deep breath and pulls her cell phone out of her pocket, scrolling through her contact list. Her finger hovers over Papa’s name and her leg jiggles nervously.

“You can do this,” Maya says softly.

Standing still feels unnatural so she walks through the apartment, pacing up and down near the couch as she finally hits the call button and raises the phone to her ear, listening to it ring. It is almost eleven o’clock in the evening in Italy but she knows he never goes to bed early.

“Carina,” he answers his phone with her name, his voice flat. Not cold, but not warm either.

“Papa, ciao,” Carina says, but before she can get the words out, he launches into story about his current research project and the success he is seeing in his experiments. He sounds a little manic, which makes her heart drop, but she perseveres, trying to interrupt him. He talks over her, like he does so often, and it takes a while for her to get the words out.

“Papa, Andrea è morto.”

Her voice cracks when she says it. The line falls silent for a moment before he says something that hits her like a punch in the gut.

“I know, Carina. Someone at the hospital called me a couple of days ago, I guess my name is on his emergency contacts list.”

Carina is stunned. He already knew?

She waits for him to ask her about what happened, to know what it was like for Andrew in his last moments on this earth. She wants him to ask her if she is okay, to tell her that he loves her. He rarely says it, not since she was a little girl, and these days it comes with an emotional manipulation. Still, it is all she needs to hear right now.

What she gets is a kick in the gut.

“Look, I have to go, I’m in the middle of writing an article and I don’t want to lose my train of thought.”

“Okay, okay,” Carina says despondently.

“Just tell me how much the funeral costs and I’ll pay it.”

Like that is all she needs from him.

“Si, ciao.”

She hangs up, still in shock, and turns to look at Maya.

“He heard.”

“What?”

“He heard that Andrea died two days ago and he didn't call me.”

She turns away from Maya, feeling the anger growing inside of her. She has been living in her grief for the last three days when it could have been shared with her father. She has spent hours worrying about how to tell him, what to tell him, and how he might react – all for nothing, because he already knew and he didn’t bother to call her to make sure she was okay.

The rational part of her brain knows that his Bipolar is affecting the way he reacts to his grief, but Carina isn’t feeling very rational right now. She feels angry and frustrated, like she wants to break something, like she wants to scream.

She opens her mouth and tries again but still nothing comes out. Instead, she thumps her fist against the wall, and again, and again.

“Hey, hey!” Maya says, coming up beside her and grabbing her wrist to stop her from hurting herself.

Carina struggles against her but Maya is stronger. Her other hand slips around Carina’s waist.

“He left me to grieve alone,” Carina cries.

“You’re not alone,” Maya reminds her. “I’m here.”

Carina sighs, her body deflating. “That… That’s not…” she struggles to find her words. “I know.”

She doesn’t know how she would have got through the last few days without Maya’s constant presence. But Maya didn’t know Andrew, not like Papa and her family, and she needs someone who can share that grief with her.

“I just don’t know how to make it go away.”

“What?” Maya asks.

“All of it. The pain, the guilt. It’s too much in my head, in my heart.”

She taps her chest with her hand as tears run down her face and she wipes them away with the sleeve of her sweater. Her body sags and she leans into Maya’s body.

“I’m so tired.”

“I know you are,” Maya says softly, kissing her temple. “Why don’t we go out? Being cooped up in here probably isn’t helping.”

Carina starts to shake her head. All she wants is to cocoon herself away from the outside world.

“Please? I have an idea that might help.”

Carina can hear the concern in her voice and relents. She will try anything that might help her sleep. So she nods, slowly, as Maya grabs her car keys and insists on driving them somewhere else.

Carina sits in the passenger seat, staring out of the window and watching the world go about its daily business. She doesn’t pay attention to where they are going, her focus on the people living their lives like normal. She doesn’t know what normal looks like any more, because a world without her little brother – the other half to her whole – isn’t normal.

They haven’t gone far when Maya pulls into an empty space outside of the fire station.

“What are we doing here?”

“You’ll see,” is all Maya says.

Leaving Carina confused, Maya gets out of the car first and walks round to the passenger side, opening the door and holding out her hand. Carina is too tired to object, so she takes it and lets Maya lead her into the station, pulling on a mask as she walks. It is quiet; the reception desk is empty, so is the captain’s office; the ladder truck and aid car both out on a call.

Maya leads her into the barn and around the back of the engine.

“What? What are we doing?” Carina asks wearily.

Maya doesn’t answer as she opens the door and climbs into the driver’s seat. Carina’s eyes roll.

“Okay, Maya, I'm not a child,” she grumbles, removing her mask. “I don't need a fire truck ride to feel…”

Better, is what she is about to say when, all of a sudden, the siren wails. Carina has never heard it up close before and it pierces her ears, making her wince.

“Maya!” she cries out, covering her ears with her hands to shield her from the noise.

“Scream” Maya says.

“What?”

“Scream!” she repeats.

Carina looks at her dumbly. “I can’t.”

She has been trying for days but it never comes.

“Do it!”

“No, I can't,” Carina says. She is holding back, she knows that. Keeping the grief inside, wallowing in the guilt, it is like a punishment. The moment she lets it all out is the moment she will have to accept what happened and start to forgive herself.

Suddenly, Maya lets out a loud, long scream.

“I can’t do it,” Carina says, defeated. She is not ready to accept it just yet.

She turns and starts to walk away from her, but Maya keeps screaming. She feels a rumble in her chest, as if all of the grief and anger and frustration and sadness is about to force its way out of her. She takes a deep breath and clenches her fists, and lets out the fiercest scream she can muster. The tears come as she screams again and now they are both screaming, drowned out by the siren. She screams louder, like she is trying to match it. Her chest burns but it is a good pain this time because she feels the pressure releasing with every breath, every cry. She hits the palms of her hands against the fire engine, letting the tears fall.

Maya opens her arms and she collapses into them, letting the warmth of her embrace swallow her. Maya may not have known Andrew very well, but she knows her, and she knows exactly what she needs to let the grief out. She loves Maya completely in this moment and it feels like the light at the end of the tunnel is cracking through just a little bit.

She sobs into Maya’s sweater, holding on to her so tightly, only soothed by the quiet murmurings in her ear. They sway until Carina stops trembling and even then Carina refuses to let go.

The siren brings Ben to barn to find out what is going on and Maya waves him away, but not before he climbs into the engine to turn off the siren. Silence falls around them.

“The team’s on their way back, ten minutes out,” Ben says quietly, before slipping away.

Carina pulls back, her eyes flaring with panic. “I don’t want to see anyone.”

“You don’t have to,” Maya says, taking her hand again. “Home?”

Carina nods, takes a step forward and, with her free hand, cups Maya’s face and draws her in for a soft, light kiss. Salty tears trickle down her cheek and onto her top lip.

“Thank you,” she says in barely a whisper, resting her forehead against Maya’s. “Thank you.”

“I love you,” Maya says.

Carina feels herself smile. “I love you, too.”

The car ride home is quiet. Carina feels exhaustion wash over her, her eyelids drooping. Her body craves the soft mattress of their bed for the first time in days.

“Are you hungry?” Maya asks as they step inside the apartment. “You didn’t eat lunch, you must be starving.”

Carina shakes her head. “No, I just want to try to rest.”

“Why don’t you curl up in bed?” Maya suggests. “I’ll bring you some tea, maybe that will help you fall asleep?”

Carina leans forward and kisses her cheek, then wanders down the hallway. The bed is freshly made from this morning and looks inviting. She kicks off her shoes, but doesn’t bother to undress before crawling under the duvet. She curls up on her right side, buries her face in Maya’s pillow and hugs the edge of the duvet. She feels warm and comfortable, and she feels herself drifting into a slumber.

The memories don’t come this time, the nightmares kept at bay as she finally lets the softness back in and succumbs to sleep.

#station 19 #grey's anatomy #carina deluca #maya bishop #station 19 fanfiction #my fanfiction #serendipity #*takes a deep breath*

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gothicwidowsworld · 3 years

Text

What are We going to do? D.D

Part 1 Part 2

“It will be alright, don’t worry.” David mumbled softly against Y/N’s locks squeezing her thigh reassuringly. “They took the initial new’s somewhat well eh?” the dark haired boy added flicking his eyes over to the younger Quinn sat across from the pair glaring. David wasn’t sure if it was directed at him or not and to be quite honest he didn’t want to know. Laughing sadly Y/N shrugged “As well as they could have.” she replied quietly. After the name reveal of who’d dared to get her into this situation and the half an hour needed to absorb the news Mary had practically frogmarched the girl to the telephone to invite the boy over.

“I love your daughter Mr & Mrs Quinn, I apologise we’re meeting under these circumstances.” David stated awkwardly from his spot next to the girl accepting the mug of tea Mary offered him. It was interesting to see David nervous, he’d gone all out to impress Y/N’s family, he’d ditched the flannel and scuffed sneakers, removed the infamous cigarette usually tucked precariously behind his ear and even brushed his normally messy hair.

“And I guess I should be thankful for that?” Mary replied sharply before returning to her perfect hostess smile. “Mammy please, he's making an effort.” Y/N groaned at her mother quickly defending the boy she’d grown to deeply love. The silence was painful, nothing but the old grandfather clock ticking filling the air. Y/N had never noticed how noisy the clock could be before now, the wooden object seemed arrogant, almost ecstatic and enjoying revelling in the stillness. “Look at the positive Mary, he's not from Dublin.” Granda Joe declared roughly yet again sliding in a dig at his poor son-in-law. “And he’s a Catholic!” Y/N added hoping the fact would win David some extra brownie points before the intense questioning occurred. Y/N Quinn had never brought a boy home to meet the family, mainly due to the fear of embarrassment and either her Mother or sometimes psychotic sister Erin causing the boy in hypothetical question to run screaming from the family home never to be seen again so was struggling to read the look on her parents faces.

Clearing his throat David tried to hide his growing anxiety he’d managed to eliminate standing at the front door of the Quinn residence. “I know you might not like me now but I promise I’m going to look after her.” David said assertively locking eyes with Gerry. “In fact I only came out of politeness.” The older boy said boldly standing from the sofa nervously dropping to his knee. “Y/N Quinn I love you and I want to be there for you every step of the way. So if you’ll have me, would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

Tilting her head in confusion Y/N wondered for a second if she was hallucinating, but no there was David on one knee in her family’s front room ring in hand. The sight of the dark haired man seemed to be a surprise for everyone. “Yes! David Donnelly, I would love to marry you.” Y/N whispered happily brushing the escaping tears making paths down her face. “An autumn wedding, how beautiful. It will have to be an autumn wedding before hiding it becomes impossible.” Mary interrupted, the blonde woman starting to ramble out loud. Some say a situation is only as bad as you make it, maybe they’re right. Gerry hadn’t planned to walk his daughter down the aisle at 17 or pregnant but here they were, Mary hadn’t planned on orchestrating a wedding at such short notice. But nobody could have foreseen Erin. “No! He can’t marry you!” Erin yelled spitefully, still slouched in her chair as a scowl sat on her pale face. “You don’t deserve him! He was mine and you knew that!” Erin continued shooting daggers at her older sister before storming off.

#gothicwidow #imagines #au imagines #derry girls imagines #derry girls x reader #erin quinn x sister!reader #David Donnelly imagines #David Donnelly x reader #David Donnelly x Quinn Reader #channel 4 imagines #channel 4 x reader #british tv imagines #tv imagines

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danniburgh · 3 years

Text

Sins of the Flesh (priest!Dave York x f!reader)

Pairing: priest!Dave York x f!reader

Summary: His mind shouldn’t be on the new catechesis teacher as he cleaned the chalice after handing communion. His thoughts shouldn’t be on the young girl he knew for so long as he blessed the congregation and finished mass.

But you were different now. Something in you had changed. “Lord, have mercy on me.”

Word count: +10.9k

Warnings: religion! catholic religion to be precise, a lot A LOT of religious references and undertones (shot every time you find one lmao), age gap (around 15 years, reader is legal), smut, unprotected p in v, oral sex, breaking of celibacy vows!, catholic guilt, me making divine metaphors... i think thats it.

A/N: first of all this is all @asta-lily’s fault, she asked why no one had turned this man into a priest and i said “ok ill do it” so i did it, she is to blame. also i wanna say thanks to the pocket wives that encouraged this creation, sorry my loves, this isnt as slutty as yall thought lmao, and thanks to @alliterative-albatross who gave me all the bible verses that shaped this story as well. and i wanna thank the creator of this playlist that i listened over and over while writing this, and yeah, sorry for this monstrosity, love you <3

Masterlist // Read on ao3 // ko-fi

comments and reblogs are eternally appreciated 💓

moodboard by @asta-lily

“So whoever knows the right thing to do and fails to do it, for him it is sin.”–James 4:12.

Sunday 1.

Like a piece in a puzzle.

That’s how you fit in.

There, sitting in the middle of a ten people polished wood bench, eyes on the four feet tall crucified Jesus on the wall above the altar, ready for the first sermon you were to hear after coming back home.

Home. That was the name.

That church felt like home.

You were enjoying sitting there, among the children you met a couple of hours earlier when you were introduced to them as their new catechesis teacher, breathing in and out the myrrh incense burning and invading the navel and your lungs, filling them with new energy, getting them ready to feel the love that you were sure was about to pour over you.

You heard your name behind you and you turned around to see Mrs. Stevens, one of your mother’s friends waving at you from two rows behind.

“Hi, honey!” she smiled at you and immediately you reciprocated “I heard you were in town, are you staying this time?”

You drowned a chuckle inside your chest and bit your lip, nodding. Just realizing you even had missed the venomous messages hidden behind the kind words mouthed by old catholic moms.

“Yes, Mrs. Stevens, I’m staying this time.” you replied, the woman lifted her hand a bit to the sky and you smirked to her.

“God bless, I bet your mom is delighted you’re here!” she muttered “I know she missed you terribly all those years you were in that school.”

“It’s called college, Mrs. Stevens,” you reminded the woman, and she rolled her eyes, making you chuckle softly again “but do not worry for my mama anymore, I graduated, I’m staying for good.” you told her, amused at the way she acted as if you staying at home was some godsend blessing.

The organ began to play on the upper balcony behind everyone and you saw two altar boys, carbon copy of each other, almost rushing their way to the altar, and behind them… Father Dave.

You smiled softly at the sight of him as he walked solemnly to the altar, his green chasuble flowing with the air and the movement, there was a thought you had all those years you were away from home because of school, always coming back to Father Dave York: the young priest that decided to stay in the first congregation he was sent to, the one that became a pillar to the community, the holy man that held the direct link to God and that gave you your first communion, the one you missed when you went to attend mass at the church near campus because no one gave the sermons like he did. For some reason, whenever you least expected, you thought of him.

You saw him putting his bible on top of the pressed cloth over the altar, kneel and kiss the center of it and cross himself. And then, after he closed his eyes and muttered a prayer to himself and to God, he opened his deep brown eyes and he looked at you.

“Let us pray.”

Your mouth dried when his deep timbered voice, with the help of a small microphone on his altar, wrapped the entire navel and you with it, he looked at you as he cleared his throat and he opened his arms to the sky, breaking eye contact with you.

“Lord, have mercy.” he murmured, and the congregation replied to his prayer as you struggled to find the air that had escaped your lungs.

As Father Dave guided the congregation through the sermon and through the prayers, all you could see was him.

In some way, there was something different about him you hadn’t noticed the last time you were there; you didn’t know if it was something about his deep voice as he recited the credo by muscle memory, the way he walked from one side of the sanctuarium to the other as he talked about the scripture or the way his hands wrapped around the chalice when one of the altar boys handed it to him as the organ echoed all around the navel, announcing the communion.

You stood up and walked to the back of the line and sighed as he lifted the wafer to the sky, and your eyes closed by themselves when he lifted the chalice and took a sip from the sacramental wine and locked your eyes on him as the line moved.

As soon as you were in front of him your lips parted and he smiled at you softly.

“The body of Christ.” he murmured, his deep brown eyes on yours as they filled with tears.

“Amen” and you opened your mouth.

He put the wined wafer between your lips and his thumb brushed with your chin, making your skin burn as you brought it inside of your mouth with your tongue and forced yourself to walk away from him.

As you returned to your seat with the gold cross that hung from your neck between your fingers and kneeled to pray for the forgiving of your sins, all you could think of was brown, deep eyes, and a soft, brief touch on your chin that burned more than the wax of a burning taper.

Dave felt it.

The way you looked at him throughout the entire service.

And it made him feel different.

When you rose from your seat to walk to the communion line, he saw the way your body moved, almost as if you were floating instead of walking.

He knew you were back, and his heart was happy you were finally home.

But he didn’t expect to see you so changed.

And he didn’t expect the way your eyes had made him feel.

Then you were in front of him, and he smiled because he remembered the first time he handed the body of Christ to you, years and years before.

And your eyes filled with tears as his breath hitched when your lips parted for him as he fed you the sacred soul of the savior.

God, have mercy.

His mind shouldn’t be on the new catechesis teacher as he cleaned the chalice after handing communion. His thoughts shouldn’t be on the young girl he knew for so long as he blessed the congregation and finished mass.

But you were different now. Something in you had changed.

Lord, have mercy on me. He thought as he entered the sacristy.

“Whoever conceals his transgressions will not prosper, but he who confesses and forsakes them will obtain mercy.”–Proverbs 28:13.

Sunday 2.

“Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.” Dave heard your voice next to him and felt the air leave from his lungs. Not you, please God, not you.

You had been avoiding Father Dave for almost the entire week.

And you felt guilty about it.

You couldn’t even look at him in the eyes and not think about those dreams you were having about him.

If God was all love and perfection, why was he tempting you with dreams of Father Dave, his own servant, touching you in places you got shivers from, warming your body with his own, putting his mouth on your skin as you repeated his name like it was the sanctus?

Holy, holy, holy.

Why was God putting inside your head the sins of the flesh you had already asked forgiveness for? Why was he making you desire a forbidden man? A man that was not to be perceived as a man but as the representation of him on earth.

That morning, when you walked into the church to impart the catechesis class, you saw Jesus on the cross and you saw him look at you. And you knew he knew.

All omnipresent, all omniscient, all omnipotent.

You couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Almighty God why were you thinking about him so much?

And the resolution in your mind was asking for forgiveness, you needed to pay penitence for those thoughts you knew you did.

But were you really about to confess to the man you had been dreaming about that he was invading your every thought?

“It has been two weeks since my last confession.” you mumbled, playing with your cross over your neck, Dave breathed in deeply and intertwined his hands on his lap.

“What are your sins?” he asked, closing his eyes as he remembered his own.

Dave was always a man of faith. It was in him from birth. He had been taught and trained to not fall into any temptations and so far his life had been devoted and dedicated to God and only to God.

But your eyes and the way you saw him, and the way your eyes made him feel when they locked on his, had him spiraling down into decadence.

Sometimes, dedicating his life to the word of the Lord made him forget he was still a human, he was still a man.

He had needs.

And he was alright before your eyes. Before your holy eyes were on him.

He had dreamed of them; he had thought of them; he had imagined them when he was in the limbo between sleep and awakeness.

He had dreamed of your lips, of your lips on his skin, he had thought of those lips that just looked like they needed someone to wet them and bring them back to life; he had imagined those lips of yours in places of his body he swore never to use.

He had prayed for them to disappear; he had begged to his God to erase those thoughts of his mind and free them from the temptation that was incarnated in you, in your body, in your eyes that denied to see him when you were in the same room, in your hands as you moved them to teach the children, in your legs trapped in the tight denim of your jeans, in your lips as you smiled to everyone but him, in your entire being, just by existing.

But they had increased, like a tamed flame sprayed with gasoline. He had a fire in his chest, one that was spreading through him as he was closer to you.

He needed them gone; he had sworn to never look at a woman as an object of desire; he had sworn on his life and he had vowed his commitment.

But you were there, kneeling next to him, separated by the thinnest patterned panel, holding the matches and the fuel.

“I’ve been having… improper thoughts, father,” you whispered, closing your eyes and left your necklace alone, clutching your hands together as tight as you could, you felt the aura change and the air grow thicker between him and you, “about a man.”

Dave opened his eyes at your confession and frowned. A man?

He knew you could tell him whatever you wanted; he knew he wasn’t allowed to ask in for details; he knew he was only there functioning as a link for you to get absolved from your sins and you were a young woman granted of free will and enough time to ask for absolution but he wanted to know; he needed to know who that man was.

“He is ol–older than me,” he heard you mumble and his hands tightened their grip on each other “and I can’t have him, father, I–I’ve been having these thoughts about a forbidden man.”

Dave’s mind went reeling, and he didn’t understand why. He didn’t like to assume about the life of his congregation members, he never did, but you were talking to him, after he had been dreaming about you for days, after you two shared something about desiring another man. And he was angry. He wanted to know who. He wanted to know who was keeping your mind the same way you were keeping his.

“He keeps me up at night, thinking of him, that is,” you whispered “I’ve–Jesus,” you let out the air of your lungs and Dave breathed in deeply once more “I’ve touched myself thinking of him.” you said under your breath and Dave felt his chest tug and turn.

“Does this man… know what he is causing in you?” he muttered with a frown and heard you sigh.

“No, I don’t want him to.”

“Alright, child,” he replied after a few seconds, and made a grimace of disgust at the pet name. It felt wrong, and he felt dirty with the word on his mouth, “do you repent these sins?”

“Yes, father, I do.” you closed your eyes at his words and wanted, for once, to be brave and tell him he was the one roaming around your mind. But it wasn’t fair.

“Please, recite in silence the act of contrition,” he muttered to you and you obeyed, feeling your eyes fill with tears.

As he waited for you to finish, he did the same on his side of the confession box

I’m choosing to sin and failing to do good.

“Amen.” you said, and he murmured the word to the ceiling.

“I think the word you do for the church,” he started, and you wrinkled your nose at the thought of him knowing it was you “the devotion you have, and how you repent, you don’t need to pay penance,” he muttered separating his hands and putting two fingers on the edge of the patterned panel that separated the two of you “through the ministry of the church,” your breath hitched as he whispered the words to you, and you saw with teary eyes the shadow of his fingers on the panel “man God give you pardon and peace,” you bit your lip and unclutched your hands, lifting your fingers and pressing it to his as two heavy tears fell from your eyes.

Dave felt the pressure of your touch and felt his hand tremble.

“And I ab–absolve you from your sin.” he said under his breath, pressing back.

“Thank you, father.” you whispered, not moving your fingers. You could feel the warmth of his through it and for a few seconds, you could also feel his eyes on your face.

Dave was the one to break the contact first. Absentmindedly brushing his fingers on his stole as he saw the shadow of you move and get out of the confession box.

He sat there, thankful you were the only one that morning and thinking about what you had told him.

A man of God, a man of hope. He had hoped, even if it was a sin and even if it was forbidden by pure creed and vow, that you were feeling the same as he was.

For a moment, he wondered about those thoughts… Were you thinking about that lucky old man touching you? Were you thinking about that man kissing you? What did that man look like? He wanted to be that man; he wanted to be the one whose touch you desired; he wanted to be that man you thought of as you sneaked your hand inside your underwear at night and brought yourself to pleasure. He wanted to be the one whose kiss you yearned for as your sex ached for attention; he wanted to be the one whose fingers you imagined as your own were buried deep inside you.

He fisted the flesh of his thigh over his dress pants and forced himself to stop thinking of you like that.

Dave stayed inside the confession box for twenty minutes more, praying for forgiveness, as he had done every night since you had been back.

At service, he saw you further back on the benches and he tried not to sneak glances at you as you sat there with your precious eyes on the crucifix above him, avoiding him at all costs.

And at communion, he tried not to brush your soft skin with his fingers as he fed you the wined wafer, failing when his knuckle brushed your cheek, his chest deflating when he noticed the way your face quirked in pain when you muttered Amen at him. Dave tried not to make anything of the fact that you kneeled more time than anyone else on the congregation after receiving the communion.

And when the service was over and he was alone in the sacristy, he tried and failed to not think about your skin, your eyes, your hands and your lips all over his neglected body.

That sunday night Father Dave masturbated in the shower thinking about you with your fingers deep inside you as his mind imagined it was him you thought of when you touched yourself in the darkness of the night and prayed for forgiveness.

He shouldn’t be thinking about you like that.

“Beloved, I urge you as sojourners and exiles to abstain from the passions of the flesh, which wage war against your soul.”–1 Peter 2:11.

Sunday 3.

“Father, sh–shit,” you bit your lip to stop yourself from moaning as your pointer and middle fingers circled your wet clit under the covers of your bed, your legs spread open, the soft cotton of the sheets grazing softly at your inner thighs as you imagined your fingers being one of Father Dave’s, as you imagined him next to you, with his arm above your head as he whispered sweet nothings in your ear and nibbled at your neck while his other hand played your clit like a master pianist. You imagined the hardness of his erection pressing patiently on the skin of your hip, wetting it with pre-semen, making your body burn with the feeling of his warm naked body beside you.

As your other hand played with your nipple you imagined his eyes taking you in, you imagined his lips on your skin, were they soft? you bet they were, and you bet as well his hand would be surprisingly rough for a priest.

“Jesus, fu–fuck.” the knot inside your lower belly exploded with the thought of him and his hand and his body and his lips and his priesthood and you came with a silent scream that made your ears ring for a few seconds and your legs tremble on the bed.

As you hazed out, ready to fall asleep again before your alarm went off to go to work at the church, you felt that familiar guilt cripple inside you and settle in your chest, warming up and leaning against your heart.

Dave was panting, he fisted his hand as he leaned on the tiled wall of his shower and his other hand moved desperately on his cock. The water was still warm, and he closed his eyes shut as he imagined it was your hand on him, giving him the pleasure he was seeking, as he imagined you were behind him, your lips brushing against the wet skin of his back, your free hand around his chest, gliding softly at his skin, making him whimper with your touch.

It was so early for him to be so hot over you again; it wasn’t good for him to give into these desires he had and had been praying so hard and so much to get rid of.

He didn't want to keep doing it and he surely didn’t feel good after it, but his body ached for you, his chest turned every time he thought about you, every time he saw you around the church, he felt the deepest, hottest desire for you and your hands and your body and he just couldn’t help it.

His hand gripped and pumped as fast as he could and he came with a silent groan, opening his eyes as he finished milking every drop of his seed and watched it mix with the shower water and go down the drain. Along with the decency and morality that was left inside him.

You heard your name being said, and you turned around as you finished picking up your things from the small desk you used to teach the catechism; you saw Mrs. Vega, the church custodian, a small, old lady that had known you forever, walking towards you.

“I’m sorry dear, but I want to ask you for something.” she said when you smiled at her.

“Of course, Mrs. Vega, what is it?” you put your small book inside your bag and hung it from your shoulders.

“You see, the little twins that help Father Dave are sick today,” you frowned at the mention of Father’s Dave name but let out a sad sigh at her statement, “and they can’t come help with the service, you’re the youngest of the teachers, could you do it?”

You raised your eyebrows in surprise and felt your stomach churn inside you at the thought of standing next to the altar for a whole service.

“Me?” you asked, your voice in a high pitch as Mrs. Vega reached for your arm and tugged you to walk out of the chapel and into the navel of the church.

“Yes, dear, remember only the youngest get to do it.” she obviated, pulling you with her to the transept and up two steps to the sanctuarium “you only need to hand him the communion things and the holy water, I will prepare everything for you.”

“Why don’t you do it?” you asked in a whisper, not daring to take a step further closer to the altar. Mrs. Vega turned to look at you, and she narrowed her eyes.

“Since when are you shy, girl?” she asked with a teasing smile “I remember you singing in that kiddie choir we used to have and doing it terribly,” you chuckled at the memory and bit your lip “it’s only until the boys get that bug they got out of them.” she palmed your arm, and you breathed in deeply.

You looked up at the crucified Jesus above the altar and silently begged him for anticipated forgiveness.

Dave almost cursed when he saw you standing next to the altar as he walked across the navel.

The thought of who would replace Bobby and Chris on their altar duties didn’t even cross his mind as he was more worried about praying for the boys and sending them some sweets and pleading for the cleansing of his soul after the incident on his shower earlier that morning.

As he stepped up to the sanctuarium your eyes locked on his and he noticed you lips parting when he nodded his chin once at you, he noticed the way you swallowed as you nodded back and for a brief second, his imagination ran wild and made him believe you felt the same way as he did about you.

Even if it was the wrongest thing to think about.

It was like torture.

An hour of torture.

You got to see him kneel behind the altar and kiss the white pressed cloth softly as he stood, as you wanted and wished to be the altar’s cloth he pressed his plump lips on, he crossed himself and you mimicked his movements. And for a brief fraction of a second, as he opened his arms to the sky, you saw him looking at you out of the corner of his eye. And his eyes burned in your skin, they made you feel like your chest was aflame.

The communion time arrived, and he turned to you as you grabbed the chalice with the wine, his eyes locked with yours and you felt them weigh heavy on your body.

Dave couldn't concentrate, he felt on his side the way you were looking at him. It was heavily distracting for him to have you there, in his space, so close to him.

His hands brushed yours when he took the chalice from you and he stood there for less than a second, his fingers on yours. His soft touch and warm skin made your lips tremble with the emotion that touching him gave you. You felt a shiver go up and down your spine and the small hairs of your nape rose as his hands trapped yours.

You caught your lip between your teeth as he broke the contact and you knew he noticed; he looked at your lip as you bit it, and you blushed under his and God’s gaze.

You watched him and he felt you observing him as he prepared the wafers and wined them inside the chalice.

Your throat knotted when he lifted the cup to the sky and you felt your mouth dry as he brought the rim to his lip and his neck strained while he took a sip of the sacramental wine.

Because of the closeness you could see the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed the wine, you noticed a small drop of the crimson red liquid escape from his lips and the way he trapped it with his tongue settled deep inside your belly and leaked through your sex.

The pain of the greatest guilt you’ve ever felt in your short life appeared again and clawed its way inside your chest and to its now usual spot right next to your heart, you were struggling to keep your thoughts at bay; you were looking at Father Dave, right in front of you, doing what he dedicated his life to, and you were imagining him using his hands on your body instead of handling the instruments of the church.

Would he touch you like that? would he treat you with the same delicacy as he treated the body of Christ? would he caress you as softly as he did the chalice? would his mouth be warmed with your taste as it was by the wine he drank?

Dave turned to you and he saw you clutching your hands together, you walked towards him slowly, and he couldn’t stop thinking about the way you moved, almost as if air went through you, as if instead of giving steps your feet barely touched the floor because you were floating.

Everything slowed down, the music of the organ in the balcony, the prayers of the congregation, even the way he moved slowed down so he could focus on your face; on your sweet eyes, those that had brought into him the feeling of humanity, on your soft skin that had scorched his hand when he dared brushed his fingers on it, on your lips, those lips that he couldn’t pray out of his head.

He lifted his hand with the wined wafer, and even the way those holy lips of yours parted was slowed down.

Your eyes connected with his and Dave felt it in his body, deep inside his stomach, the temptation, the whispers of his mortal body as it reacted to your actions; he put the wafer between your lips delicately and pushed it inside your mouth, and then, as if by the grace of God in the heavens, you closed your mouth while he did it, and your lips wrapped softly around the pad of his finger as he pulled them away from you.

And just like that, the world started moving at its usual pace.

His skin tasted sweet. And you spent the rest of the service thinking about what other parts of him would taste like that.

Would his neck taste the same if you kissed it? would his chest feel like that if you nibbled on it? would his lips be that warm or would they be warmer?

Dave’s finger was burning.

He wanted to chop it off his hand just to stop feeling that flesh-eating guilt of enjoying your lips, your soft, warm lips around it, touching his skin, wetting it with the slick of your mouth.

After the service ended and Dave blessed the congregation, he saw you rush to the exit and he felt the sting of the guilt and the sadness. He wanted to talk to you and offer his apologies before you went home.

Sunday 4.

You weren’t there.

And Dave missed your eyes on him.

“I appeal to you therefore, brothers, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship.”–Romans 12:1.

Sunday 5.

As soon as you walked into the church you felt the eyes of all omnipresent beings on your body. As if the desire that burned deep inside your body left marks all over your skin, that could be visible for all those that looked carefully enough.

You heard your name behind you and jumped slightly, startled. You turned around and felt your blood fall to your feet.

“Father Dave,” you muttered, more to help yourself acknowledge the fact that there he was, standing in front of you, out of habit, his white tab collar was the only piece of his attire that hinted the fact that he was a priest. You tried to control your body as you felt instantly that flame inside your chest beginning to spread.

“You weren’t here last week,” he said, hesitating to step closer to you “are you okay?”

You nodded a few times and bit your lip to stop it from trembling.

“Are you sure?” Father Dave asked, and you dropped your eyes to the floor and saw him give a couple of steps towards you, your breath hitched and your entire body began to shiver when you felt his hand on your arm “I’m sorry.” he whispered.

“What?” you looked up to see him and you could notice his pained quirk, his brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed and his lips… those lips you had spent all but two weeks imagining printing themselves and making marks on your skin, on a sad, downwards line.

“Can I please talk to you?” he said again in a whisper and you opened your mouth to reply, but only air came out, “please?”

His deep brown eyes were on yours and you felt your chest turn by the feeling of having him so close. You nodded, and he turned to the sides, as if he was making sure there was no one there, and guided you to the sacristy.

“What are you doing?” you asked, a bit altered when he opened the door and let you in first, followed you and closed the door behind him.

“I just needed to be alone with you for a minute,” he clarified, you let your eyes wander around the small space where he got ready every day for the services instead of letting them settle on him, because you knew being that close to him wouldn’t help your situation at all “I wanted to apologize.”

You frowned and looked at him. He had his back almost glued to the door and his hands together, his thumbs fidgeting with each other.

“Apologize for what?” you muttered, and he sighed.

“I’m–I make you uncomfortable, and I’m sorry.”

Dave felt stupid telling you that, but it was his truth; he spent every free moment of his days when you weren’t near him thinking maybe it was because of him. It would make sense, that you didn’t want to be there because you didn’t like his closeness, that you didn’t want to be there because he was taking advantage of his position to steal glances and give furtive touches.

He understood, but you were an excellent woman, devoted and committed to the congregation, and he knew he needed to stop or you would leave and he would never see you again. And he couldn’t have that.

“You aren–you…” you babbled, and then the look he gave you made you lose your words.

His eyes were all over you. And you could feel them on your skin, how they took you in, how they navigated through your body and every inch of you was immediately on fire.

Then he looked at your face and you swore you could see in his brown eyes the deepest form of devotion there was. And your mouth was agape and your eyes filled with tears and suddenly he was in front of you and his hands were orbiting your face.

“Can I touch you?” he said, and you nodded.

He cupped your face, and you felt his warm, rough hands scorching your skin as you closed your eyes. His warmth started mixing with your own and you could feel him inside you already. It was as if everything you needed in life was already there.

“You don’t make me uncomfortable,” you whispered, closing your eyes as his fingers started caressing the skin of your face, tracing your features “I swear you don’t”

Dave let out a sigh when his thumb traced the edge of your lips and he so wanted to lean down and take them in his. There had been so long since he last kissed someone and he, for a split second, forgot everything about him and the only thought in his mind was you.

“I don’t?” he asked under his breath as a tear rolled down your cheek and he brushed it off with his knuckles, you shook your head and opened your eyes and he felt his heart fill with the purest love he had ever felt in his life “you swear?” you curled your lips up and nodded twice.

“Can I tell you something?” you muttered, looking up at him and losing yourself in the depths of his brown eyes.

“Always.”

You allowed your hands to slide to his shoulders and you let out a relieved sigh. They fit perfectly.

“Yo–you are…” he nodded his chin, his hands still cupping your face softly as his eyes studied your face, you let out a trembling sigh and grabbed as much courage as you had left within you “you are the man I’ve been thinking of all this time.”

Dave widened his eyes and the movements of his hands stopped, he looked at you, searching for any hint of mischief or lie, searching for something that could tell him you were lying, that you were playing with him. But there was none.

“That’s why I wasn’t here last week,” he heard you say as he felt his heart burn with the flames of his desire and love “I was embarrassed after what happened at the communion.”

You looked at him for a second, waiting for the rejection, waiting for him to tell you what you already know, that he can’t for you what you wanted him to be, that he can’t give you what you wanted as his duty was with God and not with the mortals, let alone with a woman.

Father Dave had resigned to the pleasures of the mundane world; you knew that, but you also knew he deserved to know, even if nothing would happen.

“Am I?” he asked you, bewildered after such confession, you nodded and moved your hands to cup his face, a gesture that made him close his eyes. You wondered when was the last time, if ever, he had been touched like that “we can’t” he replied, opening his eyes and leaning in to you.

You could feel his breathing mixing with yours as the implications of his words fell on you.

“We can’t” he repeated, pushing his forehead to yours as you trembled under his touch.

“You want to?” you asked him and Dave asked for guidance in his mind as you started crying and wetting his hands. He nodded, and you sobbed.

“I can’t” he whispered, and you shook your head as he looked at you pouring your feelings from your eyes.

“Kiss me.” you pleaded, looking into his brown, deep eyes. Making him frown.

“What?”

“If you’re not gonna give me anything, at least kiss me.”

His face quirked from confusion to pain in an instant, and you gripped the hold on his face.

“Please, Dave.”

Dave sighed at the way you whispered his name without calling him a father, and deep inside him he was grateful. With you he didn’t feel like a man of god, with you, letting him touch you and touching him back, he only felt like a man. Like the man he never got the chance to be.

“I–I” he started, and you shook your head. Dave looked into your eyes and all the air he had stored in his lungs left his body in a hurry, you were the most precious being he had ever seen, and for a second, he wanted nothing but to make worth the fact he had you in his hands “shit.” he said under his breath.

Dave brought your face up to him and printed his lips on yours, stealing the little air and the close to no coherence you still had in you. You let out a soft moan out of the surprise and out of the feeling of your entire body warming up to his temperature.

His lips were as soft and as wars and better than you had imagined, they were a bit dry and hesitant on yours, but the contact of them with yours made you feel like you were floating away from the realm of the living.

Dave didn’t want to stop kissing you. He didn’t remember the last time he had kissed a woman, and in that moment he wasn’t kissing any woman he was kissing you; the precious being that had been in his mind for weeks and that had never left.

Unsure of his movements, he let you take control of the contact and soon enough you were sliding the tip of your tongue along the seam of his lips, Dave let out a surprised grunt and opened his mouth slightly of you, and you took his lower lip with your mouth. And he let you kiss him all you wanted, enjoying the contact of your slow, wet, warm lips on his less experienced ones until he was sure his lungs were screaming from the lack of air.

When he broke the kiss, he left a small one on your forehead and pressed his lips there and you closed your eyes to feel him settle inside you

“I’m sorry.” you whispered to his neck. And he nodded slightly.

“Me too.”

“But I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lustful intent has already committed adultery with her in his heart.”–Matthew 5:28.

Sunday 6.

Your knuckles grazed softly with the sacristy door and you heard the muffled noise of the latch and the door opened.

“Hi,” you smiled and Dave looked at you up and down “got your text.”

“Come in.” he motioned his hand for you to hurry and you turned your head to both sides and walked into the sacristy, closed the door behind you and slid the latch.

Immediately after the door was locked, you felt his hands on your waist and his chin on your shoulder.

“This is why you texted me?” you teased and he moved to let a kiss on your jaw.

“I missed you.” he muttered and turned your body around for you to face him.

“You didn’t.” you smiled at him and wrapped your hands around his neck, grateful for the apparently deliberate choice of him to take off his tab collar.

“Yes, I did, I missed you all day.” Dave leaned towards you and took your lips in his, already knowing, after less than a week’s practice, how you loved being kissed.

His lips were as warm as they always were, his tongue barely present if not just to taste the sweetness of your lipstick, his hands always steady on your waist, and at the end, his forehead on yours, just taking in your breaths with his.

“Mass starts soon.” you said, and he nodded, sliding his hands to your middle back to wrap you closer to him.

“I know.” he left another brief kiss on your lips.

“You gotta get dressed.” you murmured against his lips.

“I know.” he muttered back and kissed you again.

“Want me to help?” you asked under your breath, just for him, as if you saying it as low as you could would stop God from listening.

“Yes, I would love that.” Dave replied and gave into another deep kiss that stole both your breath and made you want to stop the time so you could kiss until your lips fused together.

“C’mon you need to get ready.” you broke the kiss and stepped away from him, making him smile. You wandered around the sacristy and found his tab collar. You sighed and took it in your hands.

Dave looked at you and noticed the way you looked at the soft plastic piece, he walked towards you and raised his hand to grab yours. As you felt his hand on yours; you turned your head to look at him and smiled softly, and you moved your hands, raising them to carefully lift the collar of his shirt and clasp the piece around his neck.

“You okay?” he asked in a whisper, you nodded and bit your lip at the sight of him in front of you.

Dave moved and walked to the small table against a wall with a large bowl of water and you gazed at him as he washed his hands and whispered a few words. You leaned onto the wall just looking at him go to a small cabinet near the opposite corner and took a white, folded linen garment, which he unfolded and you recognized as the long robe he used under all his attire.

He slid it off and whispered another prayer again as he let it fall and graze his ankles. His eyes went to you and you smiled at him, he next grabbed a green square that you also recognized and you walked to him and took it out of his hands.

“Let me do it” you whispered, and he nodded, you unfolded the long stripe that was the stole and found its middle, Dave crouched a bit to help you and you let it fall around his neck over his shoulders.

“Return to me the stole of immortality,” he whispered, looking at your eyes, your throat dried at the deepness of his voice “which I have lost in the sin of my first parent and although I, unworthy,” he continued and took your hand in his “approach thy sacred mystery grant to me everlasting joy.”

You gripped his hands and felt your throat knotting around itself.

“Why are you praying to me?” you asked under your breath. He cupped your chin with one hand and brought you close to his face.

“You’re holy.” he whispered and left a soft kiss on your lips.

“Stop it.” you chastised him and he shook his head, giving you a soft smile that you reciprocated immediately.

You turned to the table and saw a long, golden cord and you took it.

“Not that one.” he muttered, and you frowned.

“Why not?” you saw him taking a deep breath as he took it from your hand and left it back on the table.

“The cincture… it means chastity and continence.” he replied under his breath and you let out all the air of your lungs as he took his chasuble and put it on without looking at you.

“Dave.” you called, and he lifted a hand to you as he said the last prayer. When he finished, he looked at you and as if he read your mind, he smiled at you and shook his head.

“Don’t,” he whispered, taking you again in his hands and pulling softly so your head rested on his shoulders “don’t apologize please.”

“I need to,” you mumbled against the light fabric of the green chasuble “I’m keeping you from your vow.”

Dave grabbed your shoulders and pulled you away from his body, his hands slid to your face and you gripped his wrists as he brought your face to his.

“You’re not doing anything, my love,” he muttered the last words directly on your lips as he stole a few kisses from your trembling mouth “you’re perfect,” he panted out and you shook your head “I’m doing this because I want to, please understand it,” he kissed you again, a bit more desperately “you’re the most divine creation I’ve ever laid my eyes and hands upon,” he whispered rapidly on your lips “and I want you to be mine.”

You gasped as the words left his mouth, and he gazed at you.

“Dave...” you started, but he didn’t let you finish, he wrapped his arms around you and brought your body to his, tightening the embrace as he thought of the implications of what he just asked.

Dave lifted his eyes to the ceiling and for the first time in years, with you slowly wrapping your arms around his waist, exactly over the place the cincture was supposed to go around, and the sweet aroma of your perfume inundating his senses, he felt really close to heaven.

“I want you to be mine too.” you whispered into his ear, and he smiled, leaving a kiss on top of your head.

“How beautiful and pleasant you are, O loved one, with all your delights!”–Song of Solomon 7:6.

Sunday 7.

You stirred on your seat again, the organ was playing the latest song before Dave would bless the congregation and wrap up the service and you were nervous.

You glanced at the crucified Jesus above him and you felt his eyes on yours; you felt him shove his holy hand on your chest and as the last notes of the song inundated the navel, you felt your throat sting with the green tint of your deep guilt, but at the same time, the rest of your body drown with the red warmth of your love and desire for Dave.

Is it worth it? you heard inside your head and your immediate response was yes.

Eternal damnation in exchange for a few hours of love. It was condemnedly worth it.

The service was over and you stood up with the rest of the congregation; you talked with a few people on your way out of the church and slowly and patiently you waited for everyone to disperse.

You walked around the gardens outside the church and slid between the gate that marked the beginning of Dave’s small house inside the church grounds. You rummaged around your small bag and pulled out the key he had given you earlier and with nervousness and the familiar guilt settled next to your heart; you let yourself into his house.

You turned on the lights. The space wasn’t big, but it wasn’t small and everything around smelled like him. For a priest’s home, the place lacked religious imagery, and you automatically chastised yourself for thinking about his priesthood again.

You sat on the loveseat next to the door as you waited for him and got dragged inside your head again; you talked about doing that throughout the week and you had agreed it was something you both wanted. But your head sent you through an unwanted train of thought and you sat there, thinking about the future. Something you hadn’t talked about.

After all, he would still be a priest and you would still be a young member of his congregation. You could spend time with him and let you love him and let him love you as much as you two wanted, but in the future… what else was there for you?

You could never ask him to leave his habit for you, you could never ask him to leave his life for you, you could never do something like that to him. But you were unsure if something like that had any other path but failure.

The door opened and there he was, unclasping his tab collar and dropping it on the end table as you rose from your seat and walked to him. He smiled at you and his hands found his place on your waist.

“You’re here.” he said, not surprised but relieved.

As he took off his attire in the sacristy and walked to his house from the church, he had a few minutes to think about what he was about to do. He didn’t allow himself to overthink it because if there was something he knew was that he wanted it; he wanted it more than he had wanted anything in his life. He couldn’t explain it even if he tried, but he knew there was something about you that made him feel human, there was something about you that made him feel like he belonged somewhere, maybe the way you talked to him, maybe the way you kissed him, maybe the way you always seemed to understand the moral and spiritual dilemma he was in. He didn’t know, but he knew that he loved you, even if he wasn’t supposed to, even when he wasn’t allowed.

And as he thought of it, love was one of the laws of the God he represented, and he felt it deeply.

“I’m here.” he pulled you to him as you wrapped your arms around his neck and nodded.

“Thank you.” you closed your eyes and bit your lip, shaking your head at him.

You felt his lips on yours as they re-discovered your kisses and his hands roamed to your middle back to press your chest to his.

You were amazed by how fast he had learned how you liked to be touched, how you liked to be kissed and caressed, as if he was just trying to commit to memory everything you ever wanted and he wanted to do it to you to please you.

Dave slid his hands from your back down to your hips and moved you softly to the side, without breaking the kiss he snaked his hands to the back of your thighs and lifted you. You smiled in his mouth and wrapped your legs around his waist as he walked to his bedroom.

When you crossed the doorframe you started leaving small kisses on the skin of his neck and he sat on the edge of his bed with you in his lap, you were already feeling the hardness growing inside his pants and his hands started grazing up and down your thighs as he let you taste his neck how you best pleased.

Dave was in a haze. He understood then the power of physical touch combined with deep love; it enhanced the sensations, the flame inside his chest was burning him from the inside out with a deep desire he was sure he had never felt before, and you were there, moving slowly on his lap as you devoured the skin of his neck and kissed slowly around his jaw.

“Dave,” you whispered as you licked his earlobe and pulled out a shiver from him, he hummed in question “touch me.”

He didn’t hesitate on questioning where, his hands roamed all around your body, they were big and warm and they were rough; you cupped his jaw with both hands and took his lips in yours with a wet, open-mouthed kiss that he followed as his hands snuck inside your shirt and you moaned softly at the feeling of skin to skin.

You moved out of his lap and stood up in front of him, Dave let out a soft whine at the sudden loss of your weight on his body but stopped when you moved his legs open and stood between them.

“Take off my shirt, please.” you told him, not in an order but he obeyed, he grabbed the hem of it and lifted it, you raised your arms and felt his lips on your rib side as you finished taking it off and dropped it on the floor behind you.

Dave put his hands around your torso and licked your skin experimentally, which made you gasp at the feeling of his wet tongue against your skin and he smiled to himself, doing it again and nibbling on the same spot softly.

His hands slid to your waist and without being told to he unbuttoned your jeans and dragged them down slowly, his eyes directly on yours. You smiled at him with your reddened, kiss-swollen lips and he felt your smile settling inside his lower belly, his cock twitching inside his pants.

You put your hands on his shoulders as he helped you out of your shoes and jeans and when you were there, standing in front of him only in your underwear, he swore there wasn’t anything more divine than your body.

You sank on your knees and your hands landed on his thighs, Dave’s throat clutched and his chest turned as you smiled at him and your hands slid to his belt, you raised your eyebrows as if asking for permission and he nodded a few times, leaning backward into his hands to give you space for you to do whatever you wanted to him.

You unbuckled his belt and opened his pants, his breath hitched when your fingers hooked to the hem of both his pants and his boxers, and then he lifted his hips for you to pull them off him. Dave smiled when he saw you bite your lip at the sight of his hard cock resting on his abdomen. It did something unexpected on what he thought was his dead ego, but he loved the way you looked at it.

“Take off your shirt.” you said and again, without it being an order, he obeyed. Unbuttoned it as quickly as he could and slid it off his shoulders as you leaned over his lap and took his erection on your hand, your thumb grazing softly the tip and he threw his head back between his shoulders.

“Oh, my love.” he sighed out as you started pumping slowly and when he closed his eyes, you licked the underside and wrapped your lips around the tip, making him gasp.

You took it slowly, enjoying the taste of his pre-cum as it came out of him, pumping the rest you couldn’t fit inside your mouth with your hand.

Dave forced his eyes open and moved his head down to watch you, he shivered when he found you already looking at him; he moved his hand to your face and with his knuckles caressed your cheek, making you smile with his cock inside your mouth.

For him, looking at you on your knees between his legs was like looking at a sacrosanct painting; your lips around him taking as much of his length as you could, your saliva dripping from his dick to your hand, bobbing your head up and down as your eyes, those holy eyes that never left his, it was a pleasure he never thought he would get in his earthly life.

He felt himself close to cumming, and he pushed your head softly upwards, you rose from your knees and clashed your messy lips onto his and he wrapped his arms around your waist, his large hands roaming around the skin of your back. His fingers played with the back of your bra and he broke the kiss for a few seconds to unhook it and help you slide it off, you smiled when he sighed at the sight of your breasts in front of his face and he pulled you flush against his head, taking a nipple in his mouth.

The warmth of his mouth and the wetness of his tongue around the soft skin of your nipple made you cry out his name softly and arousal gathered between your legs. One of his hands rested on your other boob and kneaded delicately as you fisted his hair in your hand. Dave moved his mouth to your other nipple and lapped at it before trapping it inside his mouth, you pressed his head to your chest and let out a moan when his teeth grazed your nipple as he released it.

“I wanna taste you.” he muttered against your boob and you smiled at him, nodding.

He moved you softly to lie down on the bed; the sheets were cool and soft and he stood on the edge, taking you in again, studying your body.

He leaned down to you and you opened your legs to make space for him; he hovered over your body and kissed you again, softly, as if you were back in time to the first kiss he gave you in the sacristy, as if he wasn’t about to devour your body.

His kisses traveled from your mouth to your neck and your chest, he left one in each nipple, making you laugh, he left a trail of them over your belly and one over your belly button. As he kissed your abdomen and your thighs, you looked at the ceiling and you smiled at whoever was watching.

Dave took the hem of your panties on his fingers and you lifted your hips for him to slip them off you, you lifted your legs and he unhooked them from your ankles, grabbing your calves and opening your legs again. He gulped when he saw your wet, expectant pussy right in front of him and looked at your flushed face. He leaned down and left kisses around your thighs without breaking eye contact.

“Guide me.” he whispered and left a kiss right over the hood of your clit, making you moan.

You nodded once, and he looked at your pussy, opened the lips gently with his fingers and blew on your slick folds, making you shiver. He flattened his tongue and licked from your slit to your clit, tasting your arousal, moaning at the richness of it.

You slid your hand to your clit and looked at him.

“Here.” you mumbled, circling a few times to show him how. He had told you he had sex before his ordination, because he didn’t want to go into his holy orders without having experienced it and wondering for the rest of his life what he had missed, but he said it wasn’t as good as he thought it would be and before you, he thought he would never know. So you had to show him what you wanted and what you liked because his experience wasn’t vast.

Dave did as you showed and you moaned out loud, the pads of his fingers were warmer and bigger than yours and he was handling you so delicately you were already on edge.

He kept licking and circling your clit and then, without a second thought, he moved his fingers away and started circling your clit with his tongue.

“Oh m–my god,” you fisted his hair, pushing his face into your pussy and he pressed your hips onto the mattress, looking at your face with your mouth opened in pleasure and your eyes closed shut “Dave ke–keep doing that baby,” you pleaded and he did it, and started playing the pad of one of his fingers on your slit, making your hips buck slightly he saw you pant and smiled when you slid your free hand to play with your nipple so he added a second one to play with your entrance “inside, put them inside.” you said under your breath and he pushed his fingers slowly inside your cunt, making you let out a long moan of his name, he started pumping and curling his fingers inside as he had imagined you doing it all those weeks ago while touching himself in the shower and closed his eyes to hear you moan his name as he brought you closer and closer to pleasure.

He moved his fingers faster inside of you and hand fisted and pulled his hair as your moans became tamed screams and he thought of them as the most pious symphony that he and only him had the sacred pleasure to hear.

You wrapped a leg around his shoulders as you felt the knot inside your belly explode from his ministrations and you chanted his name over and over as he worked you through your orgasm. You panted for a few seconds and opened your eyes to the sight of Dave licking his fingers clean. You smiled at him and released his hair to motion him to come to you; he hovered over your body again and you put your hand on his nape to bring him to you; you moaned softly at your own taste and you felt it smile on your lips.

“What?” you asked in a whisper.

“Did you like it?” he asked back on your lips, you nodded and cupped his clean-shaven jaw, leaving a deep kiss on his lips.

“I loved it,” he smiled, and you wrapped your legs around his waist and felt his cock brushing lightly against your folds. “make love to me, Dave.”

You saw his smile widen, and it was his turn to nod to you, he kissed you again while his hand worked on aligning himself to you; he slid the tip through your folds and you gasped on his mouth when he found your entrance and started pushing in.

He did it slowly, no rush; he wanted to feel you in every inch of his cock; he wanted you to feel him and every ridge and vein of him as he found his home in you.

You nipped at his lip as he bottomed up and smiled when he stayed there, inside you, enjoying the wait for your body to acclimate to his, you looked into his eyes and you felt it.

You felt how you two fit together like pieces of a puzzle.

As if his body was made for you and your body was made for him.

It felt right.

It felt sacred.

Dave started moving at a calmed pace and you with him, quickly finding a rhythm where your hips moved almost in unison and he thrusted into you deeply every time he moved. He was supporting his weight on one arm next to you while the other gripped your hip and helped you with the tantalizing dance you both were having.

He hid his face in the crook of your neck when your hands moved to his back and you pulled his body down to yours, his chest gliding yours and his hips circling as he thrusted faster into you.

Dave moaned into your neck when you scratched his back as his thrusts became pounds.

“Harder, please, baby, harder.” you whispered into his ear and he listened, driving into you as fast as his body allowed, the noise of his skin clashing with yours and the wetness of you leaking around his cock flooded the room and his moans grew louder and you dug your nails into his skin chanting his name as you got closer and closer to your second release.

“Yo–you’re a goddess,” he muttered into the skin of your neck as his cock grazed your cervix, his hand wrapped around your hips and he lifted your ass for him to thrust deeper, making you moan his name loudly “you’re m–my go–goddess.”

You slid your hands to his ass and fisted his buttcheeks, pushing him further into you.

Dave felt his orgasm closer and closer every time he drove into you and your warm walls started to clench around him with the closeness of your orgasm, he nibbled the skin of your neck and clutched his eyes shut tighter when his body started to stiffen as he pounded into you; he muttered your name a few times like a prayer he never knew he needed to make, and it sounded right, your name in his voice as he drove himself and you to climax, his own name on your sweet voice as you begged him for everything he had in himself, it was all right, it was all correct, there was nothing wrong, how could he had felt so guilty about it when it was the most perfect, most righteous, most sacred, most heavenly action he could do.

You in his arms, your hands on his body, his cock inside your cunt, you wrapped around him begging him to cum inside you, everything about it was all he could have asked for to feel like he was in heaven. He had almost said no to feel it, and he bursted inside you at the same time as you broke in pieces around him, thinking that he would rather live his life with you around him than his afterlife in heaven.

“I love you.” he muttered against the skin of your neck and you opened your eyes after riding the high of your orgasm and looked at the ceiling.

You frowned when you heard his words and when you remembered what he said to you before he came, and as you turned to the side to see him that red warmth you had felt earlier disappeared almost completely and the bright green taint of the deep guilt inside you washed over your body and your soul.

He looked at you and narrowed his eyes. His expression changed as he realized you weren’t going to answer his confession.

“Dave,” you whispered and his face changed, his brow furrowed and you saw his jaw tighten “what did we just do?”

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strawberry--bride · 3 years

Text

DIABOLIK LOVERS Haunted Dark Bridal ー Sharon’s Route [PROLOGUE]

Monologue

The most painful thing in this world,

is losing your home. Your place-to-be.

No matter how dire the situation,

if you are surrounded by people who love and care for you.

No obstacle is invincible.

Then ーー Where do I belong?

Having long lost the place I once considered home.

I spent many years in a place which would provide for me.

I had food, a roof above my head, a warm bed to sleep in at night.

But could I truly call this my home?

Those doubts would lurk in the back of my mind, keeping me up at night.

Until one day, I was made a special offer.

If I complied, I would be given the thing my heart longs for the most.

ーー A new home.

Location: Sakamaki Manor ;; Outside

Sharon: This is the place, right...?

( Woah...Amazing. I’ve never seen a house quite this big. They even have a garden! )

*Knock knock*

Sharon: Excuse meー! My name’s Sharon. I’m supposed to move in here today!

...

( No response...? How strange. They should have been informed through the Church. )

*Knock knock*

Sharon: Hello...? Anybody home...!?

Sharon: ( What to do...? There doesn’t seem to be anyone home right now. It’s already getting dark. I can’t just stand here all night either. )

*Creaaaaak*

Sharon: ...Huh? Did the...door just open by itself?

( Does that mean I can go inside? I feel a little hesitant just entering someone else’s home butーー I was told I could live here so it should be fine, right? )

She enters the manor.

Location: Sakamaki Manor ;; Entrance Hall

Sharon: Just as I thought, the inside is equally spacious. I can’t imagine just one person living in such a large house all by themselves. Cleaning must take quite some time as well.

She puts down her suitcase.

*Thud*

Sharon: Phew...

( ...It’s so quiet. Almost as if the house is deserted. I wonder if the owner is out at the moment? In that case, I should probably wait in the living room. )

Sharon looks around.

Sharon: I guess it’s...that way?

*Rustle*

Sharon: ...!!

( I...Did I just...step on something? It felt...strangely soft and... )

???: ーー Oi.

Sharon: ...Kyah!

Sharon: ( A person...!? Oh my gosh. I just arrived here and the first thing I do is step on someone! )

???: ...

Sharon: I’m terribly sorry! I didn’t think there would be someone lying on the floor and...!

( ...Speaking of which, what were they doing down there anyway!? ...Sleeping? No way, right? When you have a house this large, you definitely don’t need to use the floor as a bed... )

???: Haah...

Sharon: Oh no! Are you feeling ill, perhaps? In that case, I shall call a doctor right away!

???: ...You’re loud. How am I supposed to enjoy my Rachmaninov when you’re screaming the place down?

Sharon: Rach...mani...? ...E-Either way, if you’re not feeling sick, then what were you doing on the floor?

???: Wasting his time away listening to music rather than making himself useful, per usual, I would assume. Well, I suppose it is best not to have any expectations of this man in the first place, as he will only let you down in the end.

Sharon: ...!?

( A voice...? Out of nowhere...!? )

Sharon: ...Wah!!

( Where did he come from...? )

???: Now, who might you be?

Sharon: Ah...I’m sorry! My name’s Sharon. I’m an orphan at the Catholic orphanage downtown. I was told by our related Church that the resident of this manor has been so kind to take me in. Are you...perhaps the owner?

???: ...I see. It seems you are the next...sacrifice.

Sharon: Excuse me?

???: Nothing. I was simply talking to myself. ...Ahem. My name is Sakamaki Reiji. The second eldest son of this family and one of the residents here. ...The man you had the ‘honor’ of meeting earlier is Shuu. While you may not suspect so given his deplorable behavior, he is - quite unfortunately - my elder brother.

Sharon: Reiji-san...and Shuu-san, was it? It’s a pleasure meeting you both!

Shuu: ...

Reiji: I assume that is your luggage over there? A room has been prepared for you. We will have one of our servants bring everything upstairs.

Sharon: Thank you very much!

( Thank god...So there wasn’t any mistake after all. )

Sharon: Oh! Right! I actually brought a little gift with me! They’re homemade muffins I made this morーー

*CRASH*

Sharon: ーー ning...!?

Startled by the loud noise, she drops the box with muffins.

*Thud*

???: YOU FUCKIN’ BASTARD!! I swear once I get my hands on youーー!

???: Ahaha! I can’t believe you actually fell for that one! Lame-o!

Reiji: ...

Shuu: Haah...

Sharon: ( H-Hold on, hold on, hold on! Eh? Eeeeh!? I’m not dreaming, right!? That person just punched a hole through the wall!? )

Reiji: Ahem. ...Allow me to introduce. The one who destroyed the wall is the youngest son, Sakamaki Subaru. Next to him is Sakamaki Ayato, the eldest of the triplets.

ーー You two, explain this situation at once!

Ayato: ...Che. Reiji. I didn’t do anythin’! Not my fault that Subaru ate those prank chocolates I left out on the kitchen counter.

Subaru: Fuck off! You definitely did that on purpose! ...I can still feel my mouth burnin’...!!

Sharon: ( ...Prank chocolates? I guess he means those filled with mustard and other spicy condiments, right? I didn’t know people actually bought those. )

Ayato: Of course! I was hopin’ to catch Kanato. Can you imagine what kinda face he would make when poppin’ one of those bad boys in his mouth?

???: ...Say, did you hear that, Teddy? ...I hope Ayato sleeps with one eye open tonight. He might just run into...unfortunate accident.

Sharon: ...Eh!?

( Another person just appeared out of thin air!? )

Ayato: Keh. The lunatic’s here.

Reiji: Sakamaki Kanato, the middle triplet.

...Kanato, If you wish to commit a homicide, please do so outside of the walls of this manor. It takes forever to remove blood stains from the carpet.

Kanato: I don’t recall having to take orders from you.

ーー However, you’re lucky as I happen to be in a good mood right now. I believe I heard someone mention muffins?

Sharon: ...Ah, yes! I made these myse...Huh? ...Oh.

Shuu: It’s not blood, but I think the carpet will need some cleaning regardless.

Reiji: Good grief...

Sharon: Oh no...! The box must have slipped from my fingertips when I heard the sudden crash and...

Ayato: Ah-ahー Look what you did, Subaru. It’s always the youngest child causin’ trouble.

Subaru: HAAH!? All of this started ‘cause you left those stupid chocolates out!

Sharon: ...They turned out really good too. What a shame.

Subaru: ...!! ...O-Oi...You...Um...My bad.

Kanato: ...Unforgivable.

Sharon: Eh?

Kanato: ...HOW WILL YOU MAKE THIS UP TO ME!?

Sharon: ( W-Why is he getting upset at me all of a sudden!? It was obviously just an accident!? )

Um...I’m not sure...I could make some new ones later?

???: There, there, Kanato-kun~ Relax! Even if the muffins were wasted, there’s a delicious snack just waiting to be devoured...

*Rustle*

Sharon: ...!

( Someone wrapped their arms around me from behind!? )

???: ...Right here~ ...Nfu~

Sharon: ...Eh!?

( I-Is he talking about me!? )

Reiji: ...And finally, the youngest triplet, Sakamaki Laito.

Ayato: Oi, Laito! No way you’re gettin’ the first taste again! I still haven’t forgotten last time!

Laito: Eeeh~? It’s not my fault you’re so slow, Ayato-kun~ However, if you’re so insistent on taking a bite out of her, I wouldn’t mind sharing, you know? I’m sure it’d make for a refreshing and thrilling experience~

Ayato: Geh! In your dreams, you perv!

Sharon: ( Taste? Bite...? Why are they talking as if I’m their food!? )

Excusーー

Shuu: ...Strawberries.

Sharon: Eh?

Kanato: What are you talking about? I don’t see any strawberries around.

Reiji: Shuu. Explain yourself.

Shuu: Your panties. They had strawberries on them.

Sharon: ...!!

( When did he...!? Ah! When I stepped on him...! )

Ayato: Pfftー!! Strawberries! How old are you, five? That’s hella lame!

Laito: Hm...~ Strawberries are not bad but with such a lovely body, I’m sure you could pull off something a little more erotic~

Subaru: ...

Laito: Oh, my bad~ I forgot baby bro was in the room. I suppose talking about a woman’s underwear is still a little too much for him to handle.

Subaru: S-Shut up...!!

Reiji: ...Enough! No more on this topic! ...Haah. Is it really that much to ask for you lot to behave? Just for one day?

Ayato: ーー Anyway, Reiji. Who’s this chick anyway? Tonight’s dinner?

Sharon: D-Dinner...!? I’m sorry but...Why are you all talking as if I’m food or something!?

Ayato: Shut it! Nobody asked for your opinion, Ichigo Pantsu.

Sharon: I-Ichigo paーー!? I have a name...! ...It’s Sharon.

Ayato: Yeah, yeah. I-chi-go Pa-n-tsu.

Laito: Hm~ This Bitch-chan does smell sweet just like strawberries. Perhaps I should call you ‘Ichigo-chan’ instead~?

Kanato: She really does. I’m sure her blood would taste just as sweet...Oh? What’s that, Teddy? You’d like to have a taste? Fufu...Good idea. I was just feeling a little peckish myself.

Reiji: Haah...I shall be in my study room. ...Ayato, Kanato, Laito. Please treat our new resident with some respect. It would be a shame to lose another one so soon.

Sharon: ...Wait, please! I’m afraid I don’t quite grasp the situation yet!

Reiji: Haah...Good grief. You must not be very smart, are you? Did you truly believe you would be allowed to stay here for free?

Sharon: ...Eh?

Laito: Nfu~ He’s right, Ichigo-chan. Everything in this world comes at a price. In your case...That would be the delicious blood pumping through your veins...

Sharon: M-My blood...?

Ayato: Heh. You seriously haven’t realized?

Kanato: Teddy...Humans are truly so foolish, aren’t they?

Subaru: Che...Stop beatin’ ‘round the bush already and just tell her.

Shuu: We are Vampires. So the only thing a human such as yourself would have to offer, is your blood.

Reiji: In return, you will be allowed to stay here in this manor. Food, clothes and all other daily necessities willl be provided as well.

Sharon: Vam...pires? That must be some sort of joke, right? It was the Church who arranged this place for me! They would neverーー!

Besides...Vampires only exist in fairytales!

Reiji: Good grief. This is why I simply cannot deal with humans. Not only are they incredibly foolish, they are horribly naive and trusting as well.

Subaru: In other words, you were set up. Just deal with it.

Sharon: ...

( No way, right...? This has to be some sort of mistake? Or a bad dream...? )

Shuu: Pwaah...Anyway, you guys do as you please. I’m going to my room to nap.

Subaru: I’m leaving too.

Reiji: Well then, if you’d excuse me now.

The three of them leave.

Sharon: ...

Laito: Oh dear~? Is that despair I see in your eyes? You poor little thing! Don’t worry, Laito-kun wil make sure to comfort you. After all, there is no better cure for betrayal than pleasure.

Ayato: Don’t be so down, Ichigo Pantsu! It’s not that bad of a deal! You get to offer your blood to Yours Truly after all!

Kanato: Fufu...I’m sure we’ll get along just fine. If you’re lucky, you might even make it into my precious collection one day~

Sharon: ...!!

She suddenly pushes them away.

*THUD*

Ayato: ...Woah!?

Laito: ...Aah~ Not bad, Ichigo-chan! I like myself a feisty girl at times!

Kanato: Ugh! ...What are you doing!? I nearly dropped Teddy just now.

Sharon: ...

She runs upstairs.

Location: Sakamaki Manor ;; Hallway

Sharon: Haah, haah, haah...

( Say, God...? )

( Is this my penalty...? )

( Are you punishing me for my crimes of the past...? )

Monologue

I just kept on running and running.

As said question repeated itself inside my head.

That must be it.

Those guys were exactly right.

Humans are foolish. I was foolish.

Foolish to believe I would be given a new home.

After all, people like me.

ーー They don’t deserve a happy ending.

ーー PROLOGUE: END ーー

[ Dark Prologue ] ->

#diabolik lovers #diabolik lovers oc #sharon's route #(( aaaah it's starting !! ))#(( feedback is welcome and encouraged <33 ))#(( this general prologue focuses on her arrival at the S manor and her first meeting with the boys ))#(( dark prologue will touch upon her backstory a little and her first time attending the academy ))#(( then the other dark scenarios will develop her relationship with all 6 brothers through different scenarios ))#(( if there's a specific idea you have for a fun scenario idea ))#(( please let me know!! ))

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spencers-renaissance · 3 years

Text

let him be soft (and let him be mine) p2

Summary: After Derek pulls another self-sacrificing stunt at the culmination of their most recent case, Spencer runs out of their apartment as he desperately grapples with how it makes him feel

or; Derek's self-sacrificing tendencies meet Spencer's abandonment issues. It gets messy before it gets better

Tags: hurt/comfort, crying, abandonment issues, injured!derek, hurt!spencer, miscommunication, angst with a happy ending, fluff, protective!derek

TW: abadonment issues, allusions to grief/loss, some religious imagery (a catholic church and a priest have a small role in the plot)

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Spencer Reid

Word Count: 2.1k Total Word Count: 4.5k

Part One // Masterlist // Read on AO3 // Emily's Edit 1 2 3

Emily (@criminalmindsvibez) and I have worked together on a project based on this poem. Her edits and my fic go hand in hand, so go and check hers out! She posted part two yesterday and just posted part three! It's been so fun to work together, so please go and reblog her beautiful edit <3

Spencer smiles, feeling a little bit lighter after getting everything off his chest. “Thank you.”

As he watches the priest walk out of the nave and into what Spencer suspects is the Sanctuary, he hears something that simultaneously warms his heart and twists his stomach in anxiety.

Derek, calling his name.

“Oh, God,” Derek cries as soon as he’s rushed over to sit next to Spencer, wrapping him up in a tight hug, “baby, I was so worried. I was trying to give you the benefit of the doubt and let you come back to me but I just couldn’t do it. I had to get Pen to track your phone in the end.”

“I’m sorry, Der,” Spencer says, pulling away and blinking tearily at the anxiety mixed with relief written across his boyfriend’s face. Guilt floods his stomach as he thinks about the terror he’s just put Derek through: the exact same feeling he’s been lamenting over Derek inflicting upon him. How is he any better? If anything, he’s only worse; Derek does what he does to serve others, Spencer’s been nothing but selfish all evening.

“No, baby,” Derek protests, lifting a hand to his face and brushing away a falling tear, “you don’t need to apologise, just… talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”

Spencer doesn’t waste any time in agreeing. It’s the least his boyfriend deserves. “Can we go home? I want to eat that Thai food in bed while I tell you. I’ve already cried one too many times in a church for the day”

Derek chuckles at that. “Of course, pretty boy. Come on. Let’s get you home.” He takes Spencer’s hand gently and leads him towards the exit, and when Spencer turns back briefly before walking out of the building, he doesn’t miss the smiling priest lingering near the altar.

⭐️

Derek doesn’t let go of his hand the whole drive home, clinging tightly even on the elevator up to their apartment, and it only serves to make Spencer feel guiltier. How had this not clicked earlier? He never stopped to think about the worry his boyfriend was going through back home, only prioritising himself and his own selfish feelings.

He starts to wonder whether he should actually tell Derek after all. His boyfriend is so endlessly kind and selfless and wonderful and Spencer wants to point out his one flaw? After he’s left him panicked and concerned for his well being all evening?

He anxiously gnaws on his bottom lip as Derek tucks him into bed, seemingly oblivious to his distress as he kisses his head gently before making light work of reheating the take out he’d ordered earlier. Spencer’s stomach spins and turns with anxiety as he burrows himself under the covers, desperate to hide from all that’s to come, unable to escape the helter-skelter of emotions consuming his mind.

Soon enough, Derek makes his way into the bedroom, turning off the main light in favour of their various cosy lamps and flicks on the TV, setting it on reruns of Fawlty Towers with the volume turned down before arranging the takeout on trays before finally slipping under the duvet himself.

“Baby, I know that for whatever reason you don’t want to tell me what’s really going on,” Derek says softly, turning Spencer’s chin to face him and gazing imploringly into his eyes, “that poor lip of yours will be bitten off by the morning. But I want you to know you can trust me with whatever this is. I promise that there is no problem, no issue, no stressor that we couldn’t overcome together. Me and you, we’re a dream team, aren’t we? We can solve this, but not if you’re not completely honest with me.”

Damn it, now Spencer’s going to feel guilty no matter what path he chooses. He either lies and breaks Derek’s trust, or he tells the truth and breaks his heart.

But the priest’s words from earlier flash through his mind, and he takes a deep breath, knowing what he has to do. “I’m scared,” he admits, tentatively. It feels like a good place to start.

“Okay,” Derek replies soothingly, eyebrows knitted in concern as his thumb traces the side of Spencer’s face. “What are you scared of, Spence?”

“I’m scared… I’m scared of losing you,” he whispers, casting his eyes downward.

He feels Derek tense next to him, but he doesn’t know whether it’s because he’s confused or something worse. “Baby boy, you have to understand that you’re it for me, I’m never going anywhere—”

“No,” Spencer interrupts, meeting his boyfriend’s eyes again, “not like that. I know you love me, I’ve never doubted that for a second. I’m scared of losing you to something worse than another person. I’m scared of losing you to a gunshot, a stab wound, a bomb blast. I’m scared of losing you to the job, Derek.”

“Oh.” His thumb falters in its soothing movements against Spencer’s cheek before it retracts completely.

“You’re a hero, Der,” he says tearily, not bothering to try and fight them this time, “you’re an inspiration. You’re strong and powerful and the kindest, most selfless man I’ve ever met, but I— I’m gonna need you to start being a little more selfish.”

“I don’t… What do you mean?”

“Remember back in 2007 when that woman was trapped in her car with a bomb under her seat? You stayed right next to her the whole time, even though you knew that if that bomb went off, it was taking you with it. Because in that moment, looking after that woman was all that mattered.”

Derek nods hesitantly, his brows knit even tighter.

“Well, I could deal with that. I accepted it. We were newly in a relationship, and I knew the kind of man you were when I started dating you. I didn’t think you’d give that up for me so soon. But, Derek, it’s been seven years now. We’ve been together for almost a decade, and you’re still the same man. You run headlong into danger with no regard for how it will affect you. And I love your selflessness and generosity, I really do, but I need you to know how that makes me feel.

“It makes me feel like I’m not important to you, Der.”

“Oh, baby, no,” Derek says, distraught as he wraps Spencer in a tight, urgent hug, hand flying to run his fingers through his curls.

“But, no, it does, Derek. Because it feels like one of these days, you won’t be as lucky as you always have been, and I’ll be alone again. You’re all I have, and I can’t lose you, I just can’t.” The tears are joined by heaving, desperate sobs as he cries into Derek’s shoulder, both of them holding onto one another with clawing fingers, impossibly close as emotions fill the room.

When Spencer finally calms down enough, he pulls away to find Derek’s eyes red and his cheeks wet, too. “I— I had no idea you felt like this, baby boy,” he says earnestly, looking deeply into his eyes as his devastated emotions play across his open expression. “I’m sorry that I ever made you feel like you were anything less than the most important person in the whole world to me, because you are, Spencer.”

“It’s okay,” Spencer whispers sadly. “You didn’t know.”

“No, but I do now. I never stopped to think how this was affecting you, and I’m so deeply sorry for that.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence as they fall against one another, both accepting that the Thai is going to go cold again and they’ll probably end up with a greasy 2am pizza instead.

“It’s because of my dad,” Derek admits eventually, breaking the silence. “When I watched him bleed out in front of me, I swore I would never let that happen to another person. I would never let another person die on my watch, not unless I was going down with them. And that was an easy principle to live by when I was a cop, it translated well to the FBI, and it worked great when I was single. But now… I have you. And you’re more important than a promise I made to myself when I was ten.

“The thing is, though, that I don’t know how to override an instinct that I’ve built and enforced for my entire career. Spencer, you’re everything to me, and you’re more important than this, but I… I don’t know how to change.”

Another tear slides down Spencer’s tired, puffy face at Derek’s words, mostly because they were exactly what he was expecting. The only reason he’s kept this to himself for so long is because he knew that no possible resolution could make this okay.

“It’s okay, Der,” he says sadly, “I get it—”

“I think I should leave the BAU.”

Spencer sits bolt upright at that, turning to his boyfriend with shock written in every line of his face. “What?”

“Listen, I’m 43. I’ve been on the job for twenty-one years, and I’m getting tired, Spencer. I was planning to bring this up at a much better moment, but I’ve just finished that house on the Mount Pleasant border, and I think we should move in there. I’m ready for a quieter life, Spencer. I want to do things that make me happy, focus on the future of our family, me, you, and Clooney — kids, too, if we decide that’s the way we want to go — and leave this life revolving around death and crime and the bad in the world behind.”

“You’re serious?” Spencer asks, completely in disbelief as he stares at Derek like he’s grown an extra head. This was never a possibility he considered. Not even a little bit.

“I am,” Derek promises. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and this just seals the deal, really. I don’t want you to be feeling this scared all the time, especially not if it’s set off even by a couple of bruised ribs. Diving in front of a bullet when wearing a vest is hardly the most dangerous thing I’ve done.”

Derek chuckles but Spencer just smiles sadly at just how true that statement is. “No, it isn’t.”

“I’d love to focus on the property business full time, renovate more houses and really make a career out of it. Build a proper business, live in the suburbs, be happy and safe and alive with the love of my life for as long as possible,” Derek says, eyes warm and serious as he brushes his hand against Spencer’s face again. “I’m so in love with you it hurts.”

Spencer’s heart melts and he presses into Derek’s side, burying in as close as he can get. The tears that leak from his eyes this time are at least happy ones. “If you leave,” he says, after considering it for a moment, “I think I want to leave, too.”

“Really? You don’t have to, Spencer. You can stay at the BAU if you want to.”

“I know. But I’ve given over a third of my life to this job, and it’s given me all it can, I think. Before Gideon recruited me, I always thought I’d end up teaching, and I always knew I’d love it. Researching and teaching others what I’ve found out for a living sounds like a dream, and the thought of coming home to you, knowing that you’re safe every night as we sit down for dinner and chat about our normal, civilian lives… well, it’s everything I didn’t know I’d been longing for.”

A kind of peace that Spencer hasn’t felt in years settles over his chest as he basks in the thought of a safe and happy future with Derek, one not plagued by the trauma they’ve faced willingly for far too vast proportions of their lives, and he knows it’s the right decision.

“Wow,” Derek says, and woven in with the shock in his voice is relief, clear as day, “we’re leaving the BAU.”

“We’re leaving the BAU.”

Spencer eventually packs the Thai away and orders an extra large pepperoni pizza for delivery, letting Derek rest in bed as he takes over the beavering around. Fawlty Towers continues to play across the TV screen throughout the course of the night, Spencer resting his head on the top of Derek’s chest, careful to avoid his injuries. In that moment, with his favourite TV show playing, and an empty pizza box on the floor of their bedroom, cuddled up safely with the man he knows he’s going to spend forever with, Spencer thanks a God he’s not sure he believes in that Derek, right now, is soft, happy, and most importantly, his.

Let him be soft, and let him be mine.

— Please, let him be happy.

If you haven't already - check out Emily's post, and give some love to the original poem source here!

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @doctorenby @suburban--gothic@strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @negativefouriq @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @livrere-blue @hotchseyebrows @jellejareau @reidology @i-like-buttons @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @hotchedyke @tobias-hankel @goobzoop @marsjareau @garcias-bitch (taglist form)

#criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds writing #cm fic #moreid #moreid angst #moreid fluff #moreid fic #derek morgan #jennifer jareau #derek morgan/spencer reid #derek morgan x spencer reid #spencer reid x derek morgan #spencer reid/derek morgan #my writing

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spine-buster · 4 years

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The President Wears Prada (William Nylander) | Epilogue 2: A Queen’s Crown

A/N: I know this one is a bit short. One more epilogue to go, and if you missed my update, it will be posted THIS WEDNESDAY at 7:30pm. We’re ending the disaster that was 2020 with Aberdeen and Willy!

January 2023

Aberdeen Bloom was freaking the fuck out.

Anna Wintour just walked into the room.

“Miss Bloom! Hello,” she greeted, her signature accent filling the room as her dress swayed back and forth. Every stylish, her boots clacked against the floor as she approached the photographer and set where Aberdeen was about to pose on a beautifully crafted, eccentrically pink upholstered couch in front of styled bookcases holding hundred-year-old editions of books.

“Hello Ms. Wintour,” Aberdeen said as confidently as she could, shaking Anna’s hand. Her own dress – a black, high-neck midi-length dress with sheer long sleeves and hand applied golden crystals she was styled in that morning – sparkled in the light of the room. “It’s an honour to meet you. Thank you for the profile.”

“It’s not every day a woman sets a record in the writing world,” Anna said. “I would be a fool not to profile the youngest person to ever receive a Booker Prize for fiction.”

Aberdeen smiled. Every time she heard that – the youngest person to ever receive a Booker Prize for fiction – she had to pinch herself. She truly believed her life wasn’t real over these past few years. Most authors dreamt of being nominated for awards. Her first book was longlisted for the two biggest literary awards in Canada. Her second book, published by Coach House again but then picked up by Knopf and published internationally, had won the two biggest literary awards in Canada and had just won the Booker Prize for Fiction, the most prestigious literary award in the world. She was living in a dream world.

“And you must be the new fiancé,” Anna said, motioning over to where William was standing just out of shot, watching the photoshoot about to begin. “Pleasure to meet you. You must be in town to face the Rangers.”

“You as well,” William approached her to shake her hand. “You made my fiancée’s dream come true with this profile.”

“Well considering how fashionable she’d been on the book tour,” Anna shrugged her shoulders, as if to say it was so obvious to have her in the pages of Vogue. “I know some of the editors here kept tabs on it. Did you employ a stylist?”

“No ma’am,” Aberdeen giggled slightly. If Anna Wintour was about to compliment her on her style, she was going to drop dead.

“Impressive,” Anna nodded. “Now let’s see the ring.”

Aberdeen held out her left hand. Anna inspected the ring like a gemologist. When William proposed with it, Aberdeen was blown away. He’d designed it himself. A 4 carat round diamond in a twisted halo design and pavé band. It quite literally looked like a flower in bloom. And for Aberdeen’s eyes only, an inscription on the inside of the band in the most delicate handwriting. “Stunning,” she said, turning to the photographer. “Make sure you get it.”

“Of course, Ms. Wintour.”

Anna side-stepped to inspect the set. She took one last look at Aberdeen in her dress and high heels and perfectly waved hair and perfectly applied makeup. Anna gave her an up-down and suddenly Aberdeen became nervous. Anna looked towards the stylist. “We need a crown. Crowns.”

“Crown? Crowns? Multiple?”

“Her novel is titled A Queen’s Crown. She’s the youngest woman – person – to win the Booker Prize for fiction. Surely she should wear a crown in her photoshoot.”

“I—I’ll go into the closet,” the stylist nodded, hurrying out of the room.

Anna turned once more to Aberdeen. “Enjoy.”

***

March 2023

“I’m not about to be murdered by Orla Bloom for not having our wedding in a Catholic Church,” William said as he stuffed pasta into his mouth at the dinner table.

“But you’re not Catholic,” Aberdeen tried to explain to him, again. “You don’t understand what we’ll have to go through to get married in a Catholic Church. There are classes – like legit marriage classes we have to take. And we have to get, like, permission from the diocese to enter into the marriage and follow a Catholic wedding forma—”

“Listen to me,” William said, interrupting her. He grabbed her hand from across the table to calm her down. He knew how stressed she was getting about getting married, if only because there was Toronto and Sweden and Northern Ireland and Scotland to deal with. That didn’t even factor in hockey, making them only really able to have the wedding within a twelve-week span of the year. That also didn’t factor in her job, which, between book tours and interviews and appearances and writing her next, also created limited time and availability for their wedding date. But when she felt his hand wrap around hers, he saw her visibly relax. “I love you. We could go down to the courthouse right now to get married. But this means a lot to Orla. And I know you won’t say it, but I know how much this means to you, to be married in the same church you went to as a kid in Etobicoke,” he said softly. “So we’re doing it there. No ifs, and, or buts. I’ll take any class I have to in order to marry you. I’ll donate. Give my blood. Whatever. We’re getting married there.”

Aberdeen couldn’t take it. She got up from her seat and moved to sit in William’s lap. She didn’t care that they were at the dinner table, and she didn’t care that William had to push back his chair really quickly to accommodate her. All she wanted to do was melt into him completely. “Thank you so much,” she whispered against his lips as she kissed him. “I love you. You know that, right?”

William smiled. “I do. And I love you too. That’s why I gave you that ring.”

***

TALK OF THE TOWN: Booker Prize-winning and Toronto-based author Aberdeen Bloom and William Nylander (you know, of the Toronto Maple Leafs) just bought “the last lot on the Kingsway” – an old 1970s style bungalow empty for some time now. Sources say the couple plan to tear it down (of course) and build their dream home, a Scandinavian-inspired house where Bloom will no doubt produce her next great novels. Bloom and Nylander will be two blocks away from her former and his current boss, Brendan Shanahan, President of the Toronto Maple Leafs. Bloom has always said in interviews that she will never leave Toronto, so it’s fitting that the girl who was born and raised in Etobicoke would buy on one of the city’s most exclusive and coveted streets.

***

May 2023

“Vogue is coming to the wedding? Vogue?! Like…Vogue magazine?!” Aleida asked as she fed a now two-year-old Helena sitting in a high chair. Aberdeen smiled wryly before nodding her head. Aleida was still dumbfounded. “Like…Anna Wintour Vogue magazine. That Vogue magazine.”

“That Vogue magazine,” Aberdeen nodded. “They’re profiling it for an issue, along with my dress fitting. And then when the house is done, they’re going to do a feature on that too.”

Aleida looked towards Bee, who was just as shocked as Aleida was. “We need to go shopping for new dresses.”

“We definitely need to go shopping for new dresses,” Bee agreed. “I better let Aryne know too.”

“Guys, it’s still like, two years away. We set the date for August 23rd, 2025,” Aberdeen smiled as she reminded them. “You will have plenty of time. Plenty.”

“I don’t know about that. Weddings creep up on you quick,” Bee joked. Aberdeen completely understood where she was coming from. Bee and Morgan were getting married in July. William and Aberdeen were invited, of course, and would be going. Bee spoke a lot about the planning the past few months and always gave updates whenever the girls were all together. “I mean, I thought a year would be plenty of time for the wedding. And it is, don’t get me wrong…but it definitely came sooner than I thought!”

“You need to get the venue sorted now before anything else,” Aleida offered. “You’re two years out so you should honestly have your choice in place. But I don’t think there’s any venue in this city that would turn you down.”

“We’ve already booked,” Aberdeen smiled wryly. She was just full of surprises for the girls today. They looked at her, waiting for a response. “The Aria ballroom at the Four Seasons,” she revealed.

“Ooooooooooh,” both women cooed simultaneously at the revelation. Even Helena join in on the sound. “That will look stunning,” Aleida commented. “I can see it now – those floor-to-ceiling windows with flowers hanging and—”

“—don’t forget the drapery over the dancefloor—” Bee offered.

“—the drapery over the dancefloor—”

“—and the centrepieces…big, tall arrangements that stretch up—”

“Ladies, ladies, ladies,” Aberdeen held her hands up gently, causing Bee and Aleida to stop momentarily. Aberdeen paused for dramatic effect. “We’ve gotta write all this stuff down.”

The girls smiled and wiggled in their seats excitedly. “I’m giving you Rachel’s number,” Bee said, immediately mentioning her florist. “Your last name’s Bloom. There’s gotta be a shit ton of flowers at this wedding.”

***

July 2023

Aberdeen had tears in her eyes as she watched Morgan and Bee say “I do”. William had been holding her hand throughout the entire ceremony, rubbing the back of it gently with his own thumb. When they finally had their first kiss, it was the only point he let go so he could whistle loudly and clap and cheer. Bee looked extraordinary in her lace dress. Aberdeen could only imagine what would be in store for her when she went wedding dress shopping.

When the reception began, Aberdeen couldn’t help but get even more emotional. Knowing what Bee had gone through in her life, and seeing her dance with Morgan for their first dance made some tears fall down her cheeks. William noticed almost immediately, even though he was behind her; he wrapped his arms around her waist tightly and nestled his head onto her shoulder. “That’ll be us soon,” he whispered.

Aberdeen nodded her head. “I know. I’m so excited.”

“I love you so much. I can’t wait for you to be my wife.”

“And I can’t wait for you to be my husband.”

“And baby daddy. Don’t forget baby daddy,” he joked.

Aberdeen giggled. She knew he said that to make her laugh, because even though these were tears of joy, he didn’t like to see her cry. “Baby daddy too,” she nodded. “I can’t wait to have a thousand more little Nylanders running around Etobicoke.”

“We’re going to take over the world.”

***

August 23rd, 2025

Aberdeen looked at her dad as he held his arm out for her to grab. He looked so spiffy in his suit, and every time she saw him today, he had a giant smile on his face. It hadn’t left since their early morning wake up call to get hair and makeup done. He’d cried when he saw her in her dress for the first time. Now, if it was even possible, his smile was even wider. “Ready, sweetheart?” he asked.

Aberdeen nodded, linking her arm with her father’s. “I love you so much, dad.”

“I love you too, Aberdeen. Every day I thank my lucky stars for you and Siena and Camden. You’ve brought so much light to my life.”

Aberdeen’s bridesmaids had already walked out – Jacquie, Stephanie, Daniella, Kasha, and Siena as her maid of honour. She knew Alex would be standing beside William at the front of the aisle, with Camden (now a smart-as-a-whip-16 year old) and some of his cousins there too. The music began playing. She took a deep breath. The doors opened.

As she walked down the aisle with her father, she saw a lot of familiar faces. Morgan and Bee, of course, cradling a six-month-old Andy. Fred and Aleida, with a four-year-old Helena in the cutest little tutu-style dress. Auston, John and Aryne, Zach and Alannah, Joe with his wife and kids, Pierre, Rasmus, Mitch and Steph, Jake, Courtney, and Luna, Justin and Audrey – so many of the Leafs. Beth Zadakis. Her editor from Coach House Books. Her editor from Knopf. Jason, Jennifer, and their four girls. Brendan and his wife. Her grandparents, who came in all the way from Northern Ireland. Michael and Camilla. Her mom.

And of course, William. William, who was wiping tears away from his eyes. William, who looked so dapper in his tux. William.

Her William.

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