#so far its been fine but its only been one train since the ticket ran out. aka the one i am on currently

[faaun]

my interrail ran out im hoping no one notices the interrail ticket ive been giving them is no longer really valid . also im on a 29+ hr journey so. very very much hoping they dont notice

[nationalharryleague]

Two for the Show

Summary: Jeff plans for Harry’s new opening act to be more than that. 

Genre: Famous Fake Dating! 

Word Count: 17.1k!

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A/N: Hey babes!! This is something I’ve been working on since December now and I’m so fucking proud of it and how it turned out!!! It’s the longest thing I’ve ever written and I’m so so so excited to hear what everyone has to say!! Giant thank you’s go out to the incredible soph (@theharriediaries​) and Lu (@meetmymouth​) bc this never would have come to fruition without them and their help!! Please let me know what you think!! More of my writing can be found in my masterlist!! Happy reading y’all :)

***

Keeping appearances in the public eye is a delicate balance.

If Y/N was being honest with herself, everything Full Stop Management had ever suggested to her had worked, and very well. When they suggested her music took a more pop direction, they set her up with a team of fantastic producers and her music sales and popularity skyrocketed. And when they set up an appointment with a celebrity stylist to figure out her signature style, it worked; they turned her into the 1970’s inspired goddess she had always dreamed of being. Even the hours of media training that she had been put through worked, helping her learn how to bob and weave even the most intrusive of interview questions.

But this time, she thought they might be going too far.

“Jeff,” she began with a sigh and a doubtful shake of her head, “I don’t know about this one.”

“It’s just a few months before and during the tour,” explained the man sitting across from her at the long conference table. “You’ll be seen in public a few times to drum up publicity for the tour and your album, maybe do an interview or two together, and some light PDA.”

His expression was honest and earnest. In the time he had represented her, he had never done anything to her that didn’t help her succeed. It was not hard for her to believe that he just wanted what was best for her and her career.

But something kept holding her back.

“I just got my heart broken in the most public way,” she said softly, absentmindedly fiddling with the base of her ring finger where an engagement ring once sat. “Isn’t it a little too soon to be seen jumping back into a whirlwind romance?”

“I don’t think so. If anything, it will make James look even worse than he already does after what he did to you.” She had to admit the idea of a little revenge did perk her ears up a bit. “And it doesn’t hurt that Harry is so universally loved and known for being such a good guy.”

That was another reason she was skeptical of this entire plot. This was Harry Styles they were talking about; Harry fucking Styles. She had only met him once or twice while working out details for her to be the opening act for his upcoming tour, but she had been a big fan of his and idolized him since she was a teen. Just meeting him threw her inner 16 year old self for a loop, let alone trying to pretend she was in love with him.

In all honesty, it probably wouldn’t be too hard on her end once she got over being starstruck; she wasn’t so sure she still wasn’t kind of in love with him, or at least the version the public saw.

“Listen,” Jeff began again, his voice taking on a bluntness, “no one cares about the opening act. No one bought tickets to see you; they’re there to see Harry.” His words stung but she knew it was the truth. “But if they think you are a part of Harry’s life, they care about you too. And they will keep on caring about you after they leave the show.” Her apprehensiveness must have been clear on her face when he put on a gentle smile. “He’s a really nice person. I promise.”

“I know,” she breathed, a small pout finding its way to her lips. “Fine,” she conceded after a moment, throwing her hands up in the air dramatically to signal surrender. “I’m in.”

A triumphant grin spread across his face. “Thank you. I’ll go call Harry and tell him you’re down.” She watched as he got up from his chair and came towards her, pressing a brief and friendly kiss to the top of her head. “You won’t regret this, Y/N.”

“I better not, Azoff,” she chuckled while shaking her head slightly.

Soon she was alone in the conference room, basking in the light from the floor to ceiling windows that sat before her.

“What did I just get myself into?” she mumbled quietly to herself.

***

The answer to that question came two weeks later when she was sitting across a table from the Harry Styles at a small outdoor brunch spot in LA. Their meeting place was strategic, a small restaurant, not too flashy so it didn’t look like they were seeking attention, but outdoors where anyone could see. It was only a matter of time before he was recognized, and the sighting was almost guaranteed to be trending on Twitter only minutes later.

She couldn’t say that she wasn’t nervous. The inside of her mouth had been chewed raw and the bags under her eyes showed she had been having trouble sleeping in the nights leading up to their first appearance together. By the end of the day, she would most likely have countless articles written about her and possibly have millions of angry fangirls coming after her; even though their “relationship” wouldn’t be officially confirmed for a few weeks.

If all went to Jeff’s plan, she would become an A-lister overnight.

She stood in front of her closet for over an hour, trying on and taking off outfits before finally settling on her favorite pair of bright red corduroy flares and a crisp white textured halter top. She paired the outfit with a new pair of heeled leather boots. They were a flashy pair that were split down the middle, bright yellow on one side and white with yellow stars on the other, hoping Harry would appreciate the bold colors.

She meticulously did her makeup, sure to match her lipstick color exactly to the shade of her pants; and spent far too long in front of the mirror fussing with her hair, praying it would lay the way she wanted it to.

She knew that she was going to be photographed in some way shape or form, and with the fashion icon himself. She had to look good. He had been on the cover of Vogue for god’s sake.

When she finally arrived at the cafe, Harry sat quietly across from her. He looked casual, or as casual as Harry Styles gets. A yellow t-shirt, that was tight enough to look as if it was painted on, showed off his muscular chest and arms. His iconic tattoos illustrated his arms and she hoped he wouldn’t notice as she covertly tried to examine closely. He uncomfortably ran his palms down the legs of his high waisted denim flares that had been paired with his signature pearl necklace and ratty, but well loved, white vans.

And she couldn’t forget his rings. His signature gold ‘H’ and ‘S’ looked back at her as he gently grasped his flute filled to the brim with a mimosa, bringing it to his pink lips that were surrounded by the short stubble he had been wearing lately.

The pair sat in a slightly awkward silence, both seeming to down their mimosas quickly just because it was something to do with their hands and could occupy their lips so they didn’t have to talk.

To say she was panicking, wouldn’t be too much of an over exaggeration. She was sitting across from one of the world’s biggest stars, and as one of his biggest closeted fans. The things he could do for her career were astronomical and it was hard to ignore that, but she also had a hard time getting over the way his hair seemed to fall into perfect tousled curls and his dreamy green eyes.

She had been in love with him (or at least the idea of him) since she was 16. She couldn’t help it.

But the bottomless mimosas helped to break her anxiety, and apparently his as well, as they both began to feel a slight buzz.

“So how did Jeff end up talking you into this?” Harry eventually broke the silence, the alcohol lowering his naturally shy inhibitions just enough to kick off their conversation.

She let a playful eye roll take over her face before she began. “Oh Jeff,” she said jokingly, letting out a long sigh. “I was convinced somewhere in between ‘it’ll make your ex look bad’ and a stern ‘no one ever cares about the opening act,’” she chuckled, while sarcastically wagging her finger in the air, dramatically re-enacting his scolds.

He sucked in a breath through his teeth, letting out a dramatic ‘ouch.’ “He’s not always gentle, is he?” matching her chuckle.

“He knows where to hit you where it hurts,” she laughed, while nodding in agreement. “How did he convince you?”

“Coincidently, he also took a low blow involving my ex. I believe his words were ‘You wrote an entire album about her and haven’t dated anyone since and it makes you look kind of pathetic.’” He dramatically used air quotes and did his best impression of Jeff’s American accent. She couldn’t hold back the giggles that erupted from her.

“Oh my goodness,” she let out through slightly buzzed giggles, “you definitely win.”

From that point, their conversation began to flow more easily, easing her anxiety as she learned he was generally easy to talk to. He laughed at her jokes, and she laughed at his. He really did have the calming and disarming quality that people always said he had, like could melt down any walls and convince you to be honest with him, even if you didn’t really want to be. She was shocked to find that she wanted him to genuinely be a friend to her so badly. He was just so nice and such a good listener.

Their conversation took a turn when Harry’s super power of knowing when his picture was being taken kicked in. “Give me your hand,” he said to her, diverting from the pleasant conversation they had been having about their families. “Don’t look but there’s someone across the street taking photos of us.”

His instructions brought her back to the reality that they weren’t really friends and that all of this was for show.

She brought her hand up to meet his, strategically resting on the side of the table that faced the street, giving the camera the best view. The cool metal of his hand full of rings felt good against her skin that had been baking in the hot LA sun and he passed his thumb over her knuckles with faux affection.

She couldn’t help but feel a dishonest weight pulling on her heart. She knew everything was going to plan and this was all for the best, but it also felt slightly wrong. She played with her small heart shaped earring to distract herself from the sinking feeling.

“Harry,” she began, knowing the people across the street were out of ear shot. Her voice brought his attention from her hand back up to her eyes. “Does this feel wrong to you at all?”

“How so?”

“It just feels dishonest, like we’re lying to millions of people, our–well, mostly your fans.” She couldn’t help but correct herself.

His eyes softened at her words, like he was taking in the innocence she still held onto after only being in the industry for a short time, compared to his decade in the spotlight.

“I try not to think of it as lying,” he spoke slowly after a moment of thinking. He nodded along softly to punctuate his words. “When you think about all this as lying, it starts to weigh pretty heavy on you as a person. I try to be as honest as possible in my music and daily life, but that’s not always what people want to see. They want a show that will entertain them, and it is our job to give it to them.”

“I see,” she mused.

They sat together for another hour or so, allowing their small mimosa buzz to wear off enough for them to drive the short distances to their homes. The pair eventually found their way back to a comfortable conversation, but Harry’s comment about being in the public eye still weighed on her.

Suddenly, she wasn’t sure if all of this was worth it. Y/N was a master at dodging a question and turning the charm to 10 when it was needed, but she wasn’t a liar and she definitely wasn’t an actress. She hoped she (or Jeff) hadn’t bitten off more than she could chew with all of this.

Harry eventually walked her back to her car that was parked a few blocks away, and while she was sure he was doing it for the cameras, she didn’t doubt that he would have done it even if they weren’t there. He just seemed like that kind of guy to her; caring and trustworthy.

“Thank you for a very nice date, Harry,” she said, winking and chuckling along with the extra emphasis she put on the last word.

“My pleasure,” he smiled down at her. He moved along with her as she walked to the driver's side door, opening it for her like a perfect gentleman. The two stood close, his body hovering over her’s as they stood inside the open door. Her heart rose to her throat as he leaned down to her and pressed a gentle kiss to her burning cheek.

Y/N  looked back up at him with rosy cheeks and a tightlipped bashful smile. She watched as he walked backward carefully, taking her hand that had been locked with his until he was too far and let it fall back to her body.

She situated herself in her drivers seat and was ready to leave when she heard a knocking on the passenger side window that startled her. Harry had bent himself over and was motioning for her to roll the window down. When she did, he leaned himself in, an honest look in his eyes.

“Before you go,” he said gently. “A word of advice from someone who had been in the public eye for a long time,” he spoke with a tender yet serious tone, eyes locking with hers. “When you go home today, don’t go on social media. People are mean, and it’s just going to hurt.” She nodded along with his words and watched as he pinched his bottom lip. “And when you inevitably can’t resist, text me if you need to talk about it.”

***

They must have done a good job putting on their show because within an hour of her returning home to her apartment, they were all anyone was talking about. Their names were trending worldwide #1 on Twitter. Streams of Y/N’s debut album were up by 800%, and even Harry’s streams had taken a considerable jump. Y/N had gained 40,ooo new followers and views on every interview she had ever done were steadily rising.

All was going according to Jeff’s plan.

Harry’s words circled her brain for hours. “Don’t go on social media,” she heard him say over and over again as she paced her apartment, only stopping to look at the phone sitting on the kitchen counter every so often.

She had taken a shower, done her hair, tried to watch TV, cooked herself dinner, and even tried to sit down and write a song; it all got her nowhere fast. The unknown was eating at her inside.

Y/N broke when she heard the small ding signaling she had gotten a text message. She had all but sprinted to see who it was, reunited with the outside world through her touch screen. Unsurprisingly, it was from Jeff; the message sent to her and an unknown number she assumed to be Harry’s.

Good job, kiddos., was all it read but there was a photo attached to the message. Her heart stopped while she waited for the photo to load, cursing her slow wifi in the process. After a few breathless moments, the photo came through.

It was a screenshot from the website of one of the biggest entertainment magazines in the country. A picture of him kissing her cheek was the front page of the website.

Harry Styles and Y/N Y/L/N Rumored To Be Music’s New Power Couple Ahead of Tour

She was honestly speechless. This was huge.

She would like to say the sheer shock blurred her judgement, but the curiosity just got the better of her. Harry’s words repeated over and over again in her head, telling her not to, even as her finger connected with the icon of the little blue bird.

She was the most talked about topic in the entire world, her name hovering in bold letters on the trending page. She did everything she could to not click on her name, but her fingers did it all on her own.

The first few tweets were nice. Someone said they liked her style and that they looked cute together as a couple. Another said that they had always enjoyed her music and that they were happy for them.

But as she scrolled, it became harsher and just mean. People commented on her weight, said she couldn’t sing, and criticized her personality as seeming fake and forced. Her eyes were locked on the screen, unable to look away, as her heart began to break and few tears began to roll.

It took one final, and the most painful, tweet for her to consider deleting her account completely. She swiped out of the app fast, but the words were still burned into her brain.

Y/N is using Harry, just like she used James before he got rid of her and found someone better.

The words knocked the wind out of her, pouring salt on an open wound that had yet to heal.

She also had the little blue bird for that heartbreak as well. When she opened the app two months ago, the first thing she saw was pictures of her (former) fiance, James, with his tongue down some girl’s throat. At the time she had been devastated, her heart broken beyond repair.

It felt like no one else in the world could understand the way she was feeling. If she was in this position because of another person, they must get it too. The text to Harry was already sent before she had time to think it over.

I looked and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry that I didn’t listen.

His response came only seconds later.

Don’t be sorry. It’s hard not to. Are you alright?

She had to think about his question, unsure if she knew the answer. Tears were still running down her face and she felt like she was a target the entire world had decided it was open season on. Logically, she knew these people never thought she would see these awful things, but it didn’t excuse the hurt she felt when she did.

I don’t know. I just don’t understand how people can be so cruel.

She felt like she was bothering him, even though he had offered to be there for her. He wasn’t her best friend, or a close confidant; he was her fake publicity boyfriend. He had real friends he wanted to talk to or maybe even a real girlfriend underwraps somewhere. Her body was wracked with guilt as she thought it over.

People are just mean on the internet, okay? They think they can say whatever they want without repercussions. I’m so sorry that you are being targeted because of me.

Before she got a chance to think through a proper response to him, her phone dinged with another text. It was from Jeff again.

Really good job, kiddos.

Y/N was confused. They hadn’t done anything else but be seen together today. Her sick sense of curiosity got her again before she opened Twitter again and looked up Harry’s name. He had tweeted for the first time in six months only a few moments ago.

@Harry_Styles: We treat people with kindness.

***

The next time she saw him was two days later at yet another public meet up Jeff had arranged for them. Unfortunately this time, she had become just as famous as Harry seemingly overnight, the flames of her new found fame growing even larger after he had sent that tweet.

While the fame had grown, the hate had calmed since his statement, which most had taken as an official declaration of their relationship. Now, that was not to Jeff’s plans.

She had to fight her way out of her apartment complex, wearing a pair of massive dark sunglasses with circular lenses and shielding her face with her hands the best she could. But she did have to admit that the electric orange fabric of her jumpsuit probably didn’t do much to help her blend in and avoid the attention of the paparazzi that had now found out where she lived.

Harry was sitting at the table by himself facing the back of the cafe when she arrived, two cups of coffee waiting before him to be drank together placed delicately on the table. He had his head down, buried in a book, before she startled him with a hug from behind. Her cheek connected with his warm neck where she buried her head into him and she took in his dizzying cologne.

She felt him jump beneath her as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pressing a dramatic and cheesy kiss to his cheek, feeling his light stubble prick her chapsticked lips. “My hero,” she joked, trying to bring at least a little humor to the man who had just about jumped out of his skin at her touch.

It felt like she was crossing a boundary, and she was pretty sure she was, but she just needed to thank him and a hug felt like the best way to do that while in a semi-crowded coffee shop. Also, playing up that they were madly in love didn’t hurt.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, a hand flying over his chest in surprise to feel his racing heartbeat. “You scared the shit out of me.” Once he settled for a moment, his arm moved across his chest to rest on her arm. His touch was gentle and soft, holding her there gently like he didn’t want her to release him from her grasp. She tried not to think about it too much as she slipped her arms off of him, making her way to the seat that was clearly meant for her across from him.

“I’m sorry that I scared you. A little jumpy today?” she teasingly questioned.

“Hey, watch it,” he playfully threatened. “I believe you called me your hero about thirty seconds ago.”

“I guess I did,” she quipped over the mug she was bringing to her lips. It was sweet but not too sweet, with cream but not too much, and still piping hot; just the way she liked it. “I don’t think it’s too far off,” she smiled before turning back to the coffee. “Good coffee,” she mused. “Just the way I like it.”

“Good. I texted Jeff for your order,” he informed her, the gesture being so thoughtful and sweet she could have melted into a puddle right there and then. “And I think ‘hero’ might be a bit much,” he tacked on.

“Don’t be humble, Harry.” While her voice was still light and held a jesting tone, she meant her words. “You made the entire internet leave me alone, for the most part,” she clarified as there were definitely some nasty messages still floating around Twitter, “in five words.”

“It was the least I could do,” he said while shaking his head slightly, seeming to deflect her words.

“You could have done absolutely nothing.” She reached across the table and grabbed his hand in hers like they had staged at the cafe a few days earlier; but this time, it was an honest gesture, not one for a role they were both meant to be playing. Her words were serious, punctuating each with a gentle nod of her head. “I mean it. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” His eyes held the same truthfulness and honesty she hoped she was mirroring in her own. “I know all of this,” he paused and gestured between them with his free hand, “is for publicity, but I consider you a friend. It was hard to watch it all go down like that. You’re a good person and you didn’t deserve all that. I had to do something.”

There was a warmth that flooded her chest. He called me his friend, she thought to herself, fighting back a big toothy grin. She had been under the impression that all of this was just work for him, something he was doing just to drum up publicity, with no personal connections at all. But him calling her a friend meant so much to her. It meant she was not alone in all this terrifying and overwhelming attention.

“I’m glad you think of me as a friend,” she said, still holding back her smile. “You’re my friend too.” He matched her close-lipped smile that had fought its way onto her face at her words.

They sat in silence together for a few moments. Harry returned to his book and Y/N answered emails; but their hands stayed connected across the small table. This silence was very different from the silence on the day they first met. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence that sat on your tongue, begging you to break the quiet; it was peaceful and safe.

Their silence was broken when a young woman wearing a jittery smile and nervous eyes approached their table. Her voice squeaked out a mouse-like “Hi,” towards the both of them, bringing their eyes up to meet hers and instinctively breaking their hands away from each other.

“I’m so so sorry to be a bother,” she began, cheeks red and hot. “But I’m a really big fan of both of you and I would never forgive myself if I didn’t say hello.” She rambled excitedly, mostly looking at Harry, as she held her slightly shaky hands up to her chest.

“Hello,” Harry said with one of his million dollar smiles. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Emma,” she breathed.

“Well, it’s so nice to meet you Emma.” He spoke gently with her, clearly sensing her anxiety, extending his hand for her to shake. “Thank you for all of your support.”

Y/N watched closely as he spoke with her. He spoke to her like she was the only person in the room, giving her his whole undivided attention, and repeatedly thanking her as she flooded him with compliments about how his music and message of kindness meant so much to her. She was so entranced that she nearly didn’t hear her own name being said as the girl turned towards her.

“I love your music as well,” she grinned, clearly more comfortable after her short conversation with Harry. “And your jumpsuit is just incredible.” Her nervous giggle was contagious, Y/N releasing one as well at the compliment as her cheeks heated slightly. She was shocked she even knew any of her music, clearly being the less popular of the pair.  

“Thank you so much, Emma. It means a lot.”

Emma took a few quick selfies with the both of them (that would be everywhere within a few hours), said goodbye and went to leave the two, but not before she paid them one last compliment. “You two are really cute together. I’m rooting for you.”

Both of their cheeks warmed as they looked back at each other. They were quiet for a moment, unsure how to respond, before Harry turned his attention back to the girl with a coy smile. “I am too,” was all he said.

***

The next three weeks passed in a blur of tour rehearsals, fittings, and public meetings with Harry. And then all of a sudden, it was the night of the first show.

Y/N had never been so nervous in her entire life. She would be the first face seen by just over 19,000 people, tasked to warm up the crowd and prepare them for Harry, which was enough pressure. And then there was the chance that they all hated her guts.

She stood behind the curtain, listening to the loud and inpatient crowd as she paced back and forth. She white-knuckeld her guitar, trying to keep her violently shaking hands from being too visible to the crew around her. Her stomach swirled and her palms were clammy, constantly having to rub them on the pants of her icey blue jumpsuit. It fit her like a glove, the wide legged pants and slight shoulder pads, creating a perfect hourglass silhouette; the only thing she was confident in at the moment was how good she looked in it.

Her heart leapt out of her chest and she almost hit the ceiling when a small voice appeared over her shoulder, whispering “You’re going to do great,” in her ear. If her heart wasn’t about to give out before, it was now. She swung around to face him, almost hitting Harry with her guitar, letting out a small breath of relief when her eyes met his own. They always seemed to calm her down a bit.

“I’m kinda freaking out, H,” she anxiously babbled, using the nickname he had told her to call him. “This is the biggest crowd I’ve ever played in front of, and they probably all hate me because they think I’m dating you, and I have to make sure I do a good job so they start listening to my music; and I just…” she trailed off for a second, uncomfortably scratching the back of her neck, “I just can’t let you down.”

His face softened at her words, seeming to take pity on her. “Y/N,” he began, resting his hands on her shoulders and looking so deep into her eyes she felt like he could probably see her soul. “We picked you to open because people love your music and the way that you perform. You just have to go out there and do what you do best: sing your heart out and put on a good show. It’s only 25 minutes. I know you can do it.”

Every word that left his lips was laced with honesty and encouragement; just enough for Y/N to relax her furrowed brow and give her lip a break from her constant chewing. “I can do it,” she softly repeated back to him, still not breaking contact with his striking green eyes.

A stage manager passed by them, running to some other important task, but not before tapping her shoulder. “You’re on in 30 seconds,” he spoke, just as she heard the roar of the crowd begin, signalling the dimming of the lights in the arena.

“Go kick some ass,” he winked, stepping backwards from her and releasing her from his grasp. “I’ll be watching.”

Walking on stage, she wasn’t met with ‘boo’s that had plagued her nightmares, or mean looks from the audience, or rotten tomatoes thrown from the crowd.

They were screaming in excitement, screaming for her.

From the second she started playing, the crowd had her back; the ones that knew the words to her songs sang them along with her, and the ones that didn’t, happily danced to her voice. Before long, the smile she had forced onto her face was genuine, and her set passed by with ease. When her 25 minutes were up, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to get off the stage.

She took her final bow as the crowd roared, running off of the stage into the wings, looking for one person in particular. And when she found him, she threw herself into Harry’s open and waiting arms. “I told you that you were going to do great!” He spoke excitedly into her ear and he held her close to his body, his arms wrapped around her waist tight.

She liked the way it felt to be in his arms.

Pulling away from him, she saw the massive grin that he wore for her, noting how adorable his dimples were and how the excited look in his eyes made him look like a little kid. But there was more to his face than excitement, he looked proud.

“They were so nice to me, and they knew my songs, and they were screaming so loud for me, and it just went so well. I can’t believe it!” Her previous anxious chatter had become an exhilarated rambling and she felt on top of the world.

“I can,” he grinned, looking down at his watch quickly. “I have to go get changed.” If she wasn’t so amped up, she might have noticed the disappointment that flashed over his features. “Promise me you’ll watch the show?”

“Pinky swear?” She stuck up her little finger in the air.

“Pinky swear.” He kept their pinkies locked for a moment too long, then released her hand and ran backstage to get dressed.

She kept her promise and watched with excitement as the building shook when Harry took the stage.

She had never heard something quite so loud, sure her ears would be ringing when she snuggled into her bunk on the tour bus that night. Watching him perform was mesmerizing; he knew how to work a stage in every way and make every person in the arena feel like he was singing just for them. He was larger than life while performing and his little dances and mannerisms only got more pronounced the more comfortable he got on stage. He messed with Mitch, who she had only met a few hours ago (he was very nice), and constantly praised Sarah on the drums behind him, while he looked over to Adam and sent him smiles often.

Everyone in the building came for a show, and boy, did he give them one. It was amazing to watch. There was a reason she was a fan.

Bouncing off the stage, full of adrenaline and in a post-show high, he came to find her. It wasn’t hard, as she had never left her spot on the side of the stage, unable to rip her eyes away from the man before her.

“Oh my god, Harry! That was incredible!” she said with delighted amazement.

“I’m glad you liked it.” He was smiling down at her with a big toothy grin, a hand running through his sweaty hair and pushing it off his forehead. “They only get better from here.”

***

He was telling the truth. The shows only got crazier and more exciting as the tour went on, and so did their “relationship.”

About five shows in, Jeff had Harry given her his “H” ring to start wearing. Harry didn’t seem too phased by it all even though she thought it might be too much, saying “it’s like a friendship bracelet.” But it was too big for her fingers, not because she had small hands, but because Harry’s were absolutely massive. She wore it on a chain around her neck from then on and made sure to always be seen playing with it.

Fans took notice and loved it.

A little after that, Jeff sent them off to get matching manicures. Both had a melting rainbow of oranges, pinks, and browns on their fingertips, which looked amazing in the paparazzi photos of them walking around with their fingers intertwined.

The fans loved that too.

But when she “accidentally” posted a photo of Harry on her story, the entire world lost it’s shit. In the photo, he laid sprawled across a bed in only a white hotel robe that was creeping dangerously high up his thigh. He looked sleepy and slightly sweaty, in a post-fuck haze, and clothes that looked very similar to ones she had been seen wearing in public only days before were strewn across the floor. The caption read “I love getting to love you.”

The photo had strategically only been up for about 30 seconds, but by the time it was deleted thousands of people had seen it and screenshots had been taken. They quickly circulated the internet, creating a bit of scandal. But more than anything, people began to love the two of them together even more. Harry looked genuinely happy in the photo, and for most of his fans, that was all that mattered.  

They were creating a fairytale love story for an audience, but she would be lying if she said she wasn’t enjoying her role. She quite liked being his “girlfriend.”

Harry and Y/N had a way of clicking as they grew closer–quite literally as they were crammed together on a tour bus most of the time. They seemed to be able to finish each other’s sentences and always beat the other to the punchline of a joke. The pair had begun to pick up on the other’s mannerisms and habits; Y/N always teasing that Harry was going to rub his nose off one day if he kept rubbing it while he was thinking and Harry always knowing when she got enough sleep by whether or not she had put on eyeliner that morning. They swapped playlists back and forth in their bunks as they tried to doze off and always grabbed a cup of coffee for whoever had decided to sleep in the next day, now knowing the other’s order by heart.

There was only one thing she didn’t know about him that she longed to discover: what his lips felt like against her own. She could never think too hard about it though, or she may just explode.

He had become a calming presence and was currently helping her keep her cool, even though she knew the pair of interviewers across the table were getting ready to grill the pair for every detail they could get. His hand had settled on top of her knee to quell it’s nervous bouncing, but remained after she had stopped, even though no one could see his touch under the table. She watched as his thumb ran itself back and forth along the leg of her flashy orange and yellow patterned overalls and she had a hard time pulling her gaze away when the radio host across the large table began to speak.

“So Harry,” the bald man began. “Fine Line has been one of the biggest albums of the year and I just have to say I love it. It’s truly incredible.” She listened as the man continued on to sing Harry’s praises, going on to list his grammy nominations, sold out world tour, and other accolades. She couldn’t help but smile as she watched his cheeks tinge pink with the praise. She knew anyone watching would pick up on her adoring look and people fawn over it, but she knew her gaze was nothing but truthful.

“Thank you very much,” he said shyly, shaking his head slightly as he spoke into the microphone suspended in front of his face. “You’re too kind.”

“Stop being humble,” she teased him, playfully tapping him on the arm. “All of his music is fantastic,” she said turning her attention back to the man across from them, “especially Fine Line.”

“And there’s Y/N, being the supportive girlfriend,” the man chuckled.

“I support him in everything he does,” she smiled back, not having to embellish the truth at all. “He is an amazing talent and I think Fine Line shows that.”

It wasn’t hard for her to gush about him. It was actually quite easy. She absolutely adored him, as an artist, a friend, and the focus of her affection. She felt an equal warmth in her cheeks as she watched his get even pinker with her compliments.

“That’s actually something we wanted to ask you about,” the blonde woman sitting next to him piped up, a mischievous glint in her eyes that sent nervous butterflies flying around Y/N’s stomach. “One of the songs on Fine Line, Cherry to be specific, actually features the voice of Harry’s ex, Camille. How does that make you feel as his new girl?”

Y/N did her best not to gag at the woman’s question, gritting her teeth as she plastered on a polite smile. “Well, I think Cherry is a really great song and her voice at the end adds a lot,” she spoke as smoothly as she could, refusing to let on that the question rattled her. Harry’s light squeeze on her knee signalled to her that she had answered the question well.

“It’s also been three years since the song was written,” Harry cut in. “Things are obviously a lot different now.” He connected their eyes for a second while he was leaning back into his seat, sending her a short smile, but she knew him well enough to know it was genuine.

“Oh, definitely,” the woman eagerly agreed. “You’re in a great new relationship with a beautiful girl on your arm.”

“Y/N,” he emphasized her name as the woman had referred to her as a possession of his for a second time, “and I are very happy. Thank you.” To an onlooker, he was calm. To her, he was visibly uncomfortable by her words.

Y/N began to notice a clear pattern as the interview went on. Harry was asked exclusively about his music and the tour, while Y/N only became relevant to their interviewers when they wanted to mention their relationship.

When the man asked Y/N if she felt uncomfortable playing to Harry’s mainly female fanbase every night that are “so obviously jealous of her,” something snapped inside of her, sending all her hours of media training out the window. “I’m not uncomfortable at all,” she said curtly. “His music is great and he puts on an awesome show. I don’t think the audience’s gender really has anything to do with the music.” She watched the man’s face fall before she decided to go on. “And I would like to think that at least a few of them are there for me too. You do know I make music too, right?”

An indignant smirk found its way to her lips as the man stammered out, “yes, of course.”

“Okay. I was just wondering since you have only asked me questions about our relationship since we got here.”

She knew Jeff wouldn’t be happy, but at the moment, she couldn’t care less. They may not have really been dating, but the interviewers didn’t know that. All of their dismissal of her and her career was 100% real.

She had been so worked up that she didn’t even realize Harry’s hand had left her knee until it found its way to rest on her back. She leaned into his touch as he rubbed her back softly while she crossed her arms in front of her.

The interviewers looked at the two of them across the table, jaws both lying on the floor. It was quiet until Harry nonchalantly spoke. “She has a point.”

The last few minutes of the interview passed in an awkward blur that felt suffocating. She felt like she could finally take in a deep breath once they were in the back of a massive SUV being driven away from the studio.

“Jeff is going to have my head,” she mumbled under her breath, nose stuck into her phone as she scrolled Twitter to see what people were saying about her outburst. But before she could read any opinions, Harry's tattooed arm blocked her view as he gently pushed her phone down onto her lap.

“Look at me,” he murmured, beckoning her attention to the other side of the back seat. When she connected her eyes with his, his usual calming aura took over her, softening the stressed crease between her brows. “It’s going to be okay.”

“Harry, I just blew my career up into smoke because I couldn’t deal with a rude interviewer,” she huffed at him.

“No,” he disagreed softly, moving the hand that rested on her arms to interlock his fingers with one of hers. “You stuck up for yourself to people who were ignoring your work and whittling you down to your relationship.”

“But it was rude.”

“It was necessary.”

The car ride to the venue for that night’s concert was quiet, but Harry never let go of her hand, brushing his thumb over her knuckles in a comforting touch. She wasn’t sure if she ever wanted him to let go.

***

It was the early hours of the morning by the time the pair returned to their tour bus and went to crawl into their bunks.

Her performance had gone well and Harry was mesmerizing (as always). He was truly hypnotizing to watch while he performed and she hadn’t missed watching him yet, even as they drew close to the end of the tour. It was the best part of her day and she would miss it dearly after the last show.

She was almost asleep, curtain drawn and cuddled under a pile of blankets, when her cell began to ring. Her heart sank, knowing only one person who would know when she had a sliver of free time (even though it’s debatable if sleeping counts as free time). She was going to get scolded like she was a little kid in the principal's office and she knew it.

“Hi Jeff,” she answered with a sigh as she pulled the curtain back and slid from the bunk, the cold air of the tour bus nipping at her legs.

Her gaze was met by a snuggled up Harry wearing a concerned face across from her in his own bed. He never closed the curtain, not even when she asked politely to muffle his snores, always saying something about how it made him claustrophobic. He sent her a tired smile and mouthed “good luck,” extending a hand for a fist bump as she passed. Knocking their knuckles together put a brief smile on her face before she buckled in for the chewing out she was about to get.

Harry watched her intently as she paced up and down the front of the tour bus as she spoke to Jeff, too far away for him to listen in. Her face gradually turned from anxious, to surprised, to something that would have probably been happiness if she wasn’t so tired.

“Alright, thank you for everything.” She spoke softly when she finally returned to be within earshot for him. “Goodnight Jeff.”

“So?” he murmured groggily at her, brows raised in question at her.

“People loved it,” she said shocked, like she didn’t fully believe it herself. “They think I’m some kind of badass for shutting down a sexist. Which is, like, a lot,” she spoke with a disbelieving chuckle, unable to find the right words in her groggy state. “I don’t really know what to make of it.”

Harry seemed to spring up from his spot in his bed, smacking his head on the top of the bunk in the process, prompting them both to dissolve into a puddle of giggles.

“Don’t get too excited for me,” she laughed. “I cannot be the reason that you hurt yourself and have to cancel a show.”

“I was just too excited to say ‘I told you so,’” he smirked, now rubbing the side of his head through his curls.

“Cocky bastard,” she sarcastically murmured under her breath while dramatically rolling her eyes.

She watched with confusion as Harry left his bed, and after a short and frantic search for his pajama pants so he wouldn’t “offend her eyes,” he moved towards the front of the bus. Her eyes trailed him as he bent down to the small mini fridge and pulled out two beers.

“We have to celebrate.”

It was 2 AM and she had been so ready for bed after a long day. But she knew she could never say no to him. She thanked god that they had a day off tomorrow.

After retrieving her massive and lovingly worn Grateful Dead sweatshirt to protect her from the chilly air, she nearly ran to the front of the bus. His painted pink fingers moved with skill as he popped the bottle caps off with one of his rings, handing it to her and gently nudging his bottle against hers.

“Cheers,” he murmured softly as he looked down at her with a kindhearted smile.

“Cheers,” she seemed to whisper back to him, a flutter in her stomach reminding her how badly she wanted to reach out and connect her lips to his. Instead she slid into the small booth across from him, taking a long sip from the bottle as she watched him do the same.

“I want you to know that I was really proud of you today,” he said as he put his beer down on the table. “Rude interviewers are never easy and you handled it like a champ.”

“Thank you, H,” she nodded, suddenly bashful and unable to make eye contact with him. Her cheeks burned hot as she put all her focus into tracing the rim of the bottle with her finger tip.

“Hey,” he called for her attention and her eyes snapped up to meet his. “I mean it, Y/N.”

“I know you do,” she gently nodded at him. “I’m just really happy they didn’t ask about my ex,” she chuckled as she took another sip. “That would have gone very poorly.”

“Oh yeah, I was a little annoyed they brought up my ex but not yours,” he teased. “Not fair if you ask me.”

“Well, then I’m glad no one asked you.”

“Can I ask you?”

“What?”

“About your ex.”

She should have been prepared to talk about it with Harry at some point. Half of this plan had been devised to get back at James anyway. She should be able to talk about it by now, especially with someone she had grown so close to.

“I guess so,” she shrugged, trying to seem casual like the mere mention of him didn’t still hurt her heart a little bit. “What do you want to know?”

“As much as you’re willing to tell me.”

He looked soft like this, eyes slightly sleepy with a tenderness in them as he looked back at her. His hair was unruly and puffy and he was wrapped in the powder blue blanket that lived on the tour bus’ couch. She would have told him anything that he ever wanted to hear if he kept looking like this.

With a deep breath, she began to recount everything that went down.

“I met James while I was still working as a waitress. I recognized him from his movies and started a conversation, and then–to my surprise–he asked me out on a date. I had been in LA for three weeks and this insanely famous actor is asking me to go out with him, so I obviously said yes.” She paused to take a swig of her beer, before mumbling under her breath, “I should have said ‘fuck no’ to that.”

A smile ghosted over her lips as she listened to Harry’s laugh across the table. She swore that laugh could cure cancer.

“But I didn’t,” she continued. “He introduced me to the right people and helped me make the right connections in the industry, which I guess made me feel indebted to him. Does that make sense?”

“Of course,” Harry nodded, eyebrows furrowed and listening intently.

“I should have broken up with him after I signed with Jeff and the label, however awful that sounds. But he just always knew the right things to say to make me feel special and like I was the most important person in the world. Even after I found out he was talking to other girls, he was somehow able to talk himself out of it.” She shook her head as she recalled it. “You wanna hear something fucked up?”

“Always,” he said with a gentle smirk.

“He proposed to me using lines from a romcom he was working on.”

Harry nearly spit out his drink. “Holy shit, you’re kidding!”

“I wish. I didn’t find out until I went with him to the premier a few months later and the proposal scene sounded surprisingly familiar.”

“What a dirtbag.”

“I know, right?” she laughed. “Then a few weeks after that, he got papped with his tongue down another girl’s throat. That finally knocked some sense into me and I ran for the hills.”

“Fuck,” he sighed as he finished his beer. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she breathed. “I don’t even feel hurt by him anymore, ya know? I just feel angry at myself for trusting him.”

“I understand but it’s not your fault he was a piece of shit,” he said as he rose from his seat and traveled to the mini fridge once again. “Another?” he asked, holding the bottle up about his head.

“Fuck it,” she shrugged. “Sure.”

She watched him skillfully pop off the tops again using just his rings, making a mental note to make him teach her how he did that, before he flopped back down in his seat.  

“At the risk of sounding like a Facebook mom, ‘you grow through what you go through,’” she chuckled, taking another long sip as she finished her first. He matched her high pitched giggle across the table and she nearly drooled beer down her front from smiling so wide.

“Amen, sister,” he agreed, raising his beer in the air.

“Oh, that was awful.” She shook her head as she descended into giggles. “Please never say that again.”

“Noted.”

“Anyway,” she began again after another sip of her drink, “I was well prepared to get my heartbroken by untrustworthy men after you, Styles.”

“I’m offended–tell me more,” he spoke quickly, his signature narcissistic smirk settling onto his features.

“I need you to know that Zayn leaving was my first real heartbreak.”

“Were the rest of us chopped liver?”

“You weren’t Zayn, I can tell you that.”

“Ouch!” He let out a loud belly laugh.

“Put yourself in my shoes for a minute, H. So first, the hottest-”

“Rude-”

“-I’m speaking. So the hottest one leaves, and then the rest of you are all like ‘we’ll be back in 18 months,’” she mocked him in a high pitched impersonation with a wave, “and then 6 months later you all mysteriously have solo careers.”

“I do not see you complaining about my solo career now, ya fame leetch.” He spoke with such humor and charisma, she couldn’t have even wished to be offended by his joke.

“Absolutely not, sir,” she said sternly, giving him a dramatic salute. “Deepest apologies from the fame leetch.” The two collapsed into giggles, laughing until their sides began to ache.

“Wait, I have a question for mega superstar Mr. Harry Styles of former One Direction fame,” she announced.

“I believe that’s me,” he bowed his head and raised his hand into the hair. “Shoot.”

She barely could get the question out, laughing too hard at her own joke. “Is Taylor Swift a good kisser?”

“Oh god,” he exasperatedly threw his hands in the air, chuckling while rolling his eyes dramatically before grinning wide as he thought over his answer. “I don’t kiss and tell,” he finally smirked.

“Wait, I have another!”

“Watch it, smart ass.”

“You think I’m smart?” she teased as she feigned flattery. “Have you ever heard of a song called ‘English Love Affair?’” He narrowed his eyes at her, a knowing smirk crossing his lips as he shook his head at her. “Also, when do I get to meet Gemma?”

“I’ll consider it when you stop bringing up her sex life, perv.”

“We’ve been dating for a few months now,” she teased as she continued to prod, emboldened by the liquid courage running through her veins as she was now half way through her next beer. “I think I should be allowed to meet the family soon. They seem delightful.”

“They would love how you have decided to rip into me like this,” he said with a cheeky smile, dimples on full display.

“Rockstars have to get knocked down a peg every once in a while.” She sarcastically shrugged. “Consider it a favor.”

She couldn’t help but think about how right this felt. Their back and forth flowed so smoothly, the banter falling from their lips without effort. Their laughter joined together in a delightful melody and she imagined they could go on this way all night.

Spending any amount of time with him made her so fucking happy; and time spent teasing each other over beers caused her to nearly explode with joy. How much she was enjoying herself was too hard to put into words.

He was safe and he was kind and he made her laugh no matter how bad his jokes were.

He was her best friend.

And for the first time, she was willing to admit that she was in love with him.

“Harry,” she hummed softly as their laughter died down to a comfortable silence. “Thank you for everything. You’ve changed my life forever and I can never repay you.”

“Just remember me when you get famous.”

“Oh shut up, I’m being serious,” she playfully scolded before letting her tone drop back into honesty. “You’re a very good person and I’m eternally grateful for you letting me be your opening act and then agreeing to this whole relationship charade.”

“I didn’t ‘let’ you be anything, Y/N. I picked you myself.”

Her brows furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I listened to your album when it came out and fell in love with it,” he shrugged, his casual tone contradicting the surprised raise of her pulse. “When I found out Jeff also managed you, I knew I had to have you on the tour.”

Y/N was honestly stunned. She had always assumed that the tour was Jeff’s doing, a careful arrangement pairing Full Stop’s new up-and-comer with their most famous and established talent. Being offered the tour had been the biggest opportunity and honor she had ever been presented with; but she had never considered Harry himself being behind it.

“Oh,” was all she could manage to get out.

It was now his turn to be confused. “What’s so surprising about that?” he asked, reading the shock on her face like she was an open book.

“I just,” she stammered, trying to find the words in her slightly hazy state. “I never would have thought you knew who I was or listened to my music.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know,” she trailed off. “You’re you, and I’m just... me, I guess.”

He didn’t respond right away, just looking at her intently and slightly amused, sea glass eyes boring into her with a pink lip held between his teeth.

He scanned her frame, from the way her hair sat messily on top of her head and the way the massive sweatshirt swallowed her body enough to where she had pulled her knees up to her chest underneath it. Her shoulders were slumped slightly, making her appear smaller as she held her legs close to her torso and her eyebrows were knitted together in worry, slightly nervous under his intense gaze.

She downed the rest of her beer in an attempt to forget his intense attention. It didn’t work.

“You really don’t know how incredible you are, do you?” he finally asked, the corner of his lips twitching into a small smile.

She felt her whole body burn with his compliment, wanting to shrink into herself and disappear completely from his view. She finally shook her head slightly in an attempt to deflect his words, breathing his name under her breath as if to scold him for being too kind.

“You are,” he insisted, ignoring her objection. “You’re so talented and your music deserves all the attention that it gets. I am honored that I get to play a part in helping expose the world to you and what you have to offer.”

“Thank you.” Her words came out as a whisper.

“You’re welcome, love.”

His pet name made her stomach turn in a nervous excitement and a wide grin involuntarily came to her lips.

“I like it when I make you smile like that.” His words only made her beam further. “You look very pretty when you smile.”

“Stop it,” she said softly, cheeks burning hot and having a hard time making eye contact with him.

“Stop what?” He feigned innocence as he lightly teased her, smirk still prominent on his features.

“Are you flirting with me, Styles?”

“Just practicing.”

His words rang through her mind long after they had left the table and crawled back into their bunks for the night. She wished she could see inside his head to understand whatever thoughts were running around his brain.

But for now she could just peak at him through the gap she had purposely left in her curtain, wondering if she ever popped into his dreams as he slept.

He was always in hers.

***

There was a sadness mixed in with her usually thrilled mood as she took the stage for the last show of the tour. While there was an element of relief as she looked forward to some well needed rest, the adrenaline and joy of being in front of a crowd was something that she would miss dearly. She had grown into a real performer over the last two months as they zig-zagged across the US and this period of time would have a special place in her heart long after it had ended.

But there was another reason why she was so sad to see this chapter come to an end. As far as she knew, a staged breakup was not far away and the thought of being without Harry was heartbreaking. He had become her person and soon their feux falling out would be on the front page of every magazine. She wanted nothing more in the world than for their relationship to be real, but it would be forced to end before it had even truely started.

She got choked up as she sang her final song that night, letting a few tears escape as she took in the thousands of people singing her lyrics back to her, flashlights swaying in the air to the beat of the music. Taking a move from Harry’s own playbook, she took her mic and directed it to the crowd to sing as she cried. The vibrations of the drums and bass behind her nestled it’s way into her bones and the chorus of singing voices in the crowd surrounded her in a bittersweet melody.

The past two months she had been on top of the world, and as soon as this song finished, it was the beginning of the end.

She took her final bow, watching as the small tears fell forward onto the dusty stage below her. She waved and blew kisses to the crowd, then nearly ran off the stage looking for the only person she wanted to see.

Harry was right where he always was, just out of view behind the curtain, holding his arms out for her to fall into.

“Awe, babe,” he hummed sympathetically when she settled her head onto his chest, surely ruining his crisp white t-shirt with her now wet makeup. “It’s okay. Final shows are always tough.” He rubbed her back gently, in a soothing rhythm.

He smelled so good. He smelled like home.

She tilted her head up to connect her glassy eyes with his. “I just don’t want this all to end.” She knew she wasn’t just talking about the tour.

“Neither do I,” he said as his lips curved into a devilish smirk that sent her heart into palpitations. “That’s why I have one last surprise for you.”

“Oh, Harry,” she sighed while wiping the remaining tears off her cheeks. “What have you done?”

“You said you liked surprises!” he defended.

“Not surprises in front of 20,000 people!”

“I promise you’re going to love this one, okay?” His voice was softer now, encouraging and supportive. “You’re going to come out and sing an extra song with me during my set,” he revealed.

“Sing what?”

“That’s the surprise.”

“Do I even know the words?”

“You definitely know the words,” he chuckled.

“I just finished sobbing. I can’t go out there like this.”

“You can fix your makeup. I believe in you.”

“What am I going to wear?” she asked, grasping at straws at this point, doing anything she could to get out of this.

“I had Lambert put something together for you.”

“Of course you did.”

She peppered him with a few more questions, but he had a smooth and charming answer to every single one. He had thought every detail out, and as always, she couldn’t say no to him.

“Fine,” she finally exasperatedly agreed, immediately met with his excited and dimpled smile that she had fallen head over heels for.

“Perfect,” he breathed. “I have to go get ready and so do you. I already put everything you need in your dressing room, okay?” She nodded, still biting her lip anxiously. He held her by her shoulders, lowering his head to match their eye level as he leaned in close, before he spoke. “You’re going to have fun. I promise.”

“Pinky swear?”

“Pinky swear.”

Seconds after they locked their little fingers together, he pressed a quick and protective kiss to her forehead that set her whole body ablaze before running off in the direction of his dressing room. She remained stunned and frozen in her spot for a few moments trying to process what it felt like to have his lips on her for the first time since that very first day they had met.

There was no audience to perform it for or an act to keep up behind the curtain. He kissed her because he wanted to.

She was finally snapped out of her daze when a stagehand bumped into her by accident, prompting her to begin the short walk back to her dressing room. But the ghost of his lips remained on her forehead, an incessant tingle placed there by his touch.

The dress she found waiting for her was one of the most beautiful gowns she had ever set her eyes on. Made of a light purple chiffon, the wrap dress’ long sleeves and floor length skirt flowed freely. A belt cinched the wispy fabric close to her waist and a deep-v exposed her neck and chest. But the most dazzling part of the dress were the red sequined hearts that dotted the fabric and reflected the light of the dressing room like a million little mirrors.

Slipping into it, the light fabric was soft against her skin, opaque enough but still slightly sheer to let light through and show off her legs and the bright red shiny pumps Lambert had left for her. She felt the most beautiful she had ever felt in this dress, boosting her confidence and quelling her nerves about whatever the hell Harry was planning.

“One minute to curtain,” was announced in an ominous voice over the arena’s backstage speakers as she finished fixing her makeup and she all but ran to make it back to the stage in time. She only had one more chance to watch him perform and she refused to miss a second of it.

Harry dazzled as the lights focused in on him, his deep blue and fully sequined suit reflecting the light and turning him into a human disco ball. He stood close to the edge of the stage as the beginning notes of the first song began being played by the band, but he made no move towards his mic stand to sing. His eyes were closed and his arms were outstretched to the audience, taking in every scream, every tear, and the thunderous shake of the building; but also giving himself to them.

Then the show began. As usual, he was electric, but tonight was like he had turned himself up to eleven. Every note he sang was full of his heart and every dance move was done with his entire body, even his bad jokes seemed funnier tonight.

She was so mesmerized she almost forgot about his ‘surprise.’ Almost.

“Since tonight is unfortunately our last show,” he pouted. “I thought I would do something special,” he spoke to the crowd as they roared, but quickly connected his eyes with her’s in the wings. By the smirk plastered on his face, she knew she was in for it.

“I recently found out that someone very close to me was a very big fan of…” he trailed off as he dramatically pretended to search for the right words, “my previous work.” He finished with a smirk and his words prompted the loudest reaction since he had been on stage.

“Now, I told her that she would be coming on stage to join me tonight, but I didn’t exactly tell her what we would be singing and I haven’t performed this song in a very long time, so cut us some slack if we mess up. This is very unrehearsed.” He kept sneaking glances back to her, as her eyes grew wider at the stunt he was currently pulling. “But I know for a fact that she knows all the words. I listen to her sing them in the shower quite often.” He wore a cheeky dimpled grin as he looked back at her once again.

The building was shaking due to the suspense he was creating, and looking down at her hands, she realized she was to. She gripped hard onto the mic a stagehand had just shoved at her, pleading with her hands to stop their tremors.

“Now, I would love it if you could all give another warm welcome to one of my favorite people on the planet, Y/N Y/L/N!” He turned his body to her for a final time, extending his hand out for her to take. Her legs felt like jello as she walked out into the bright lights towards him, interlocking her fingers with his as a way to keep her on her feet.

The audience’s screams were deafening at seeing the two of them together and she thanked god she had her earpieces in to protect her ear drums or they would have surely burst. She could only imagine the articles that would be written about this and the thousands of tweets that were probably already being sent.

“I’m gonna kick your ass,” she mouthed at him threateningly, but she couldn’t even get through the sentence before his dazzling smile began to quell her anxiety.

“The look on your face is 100% worth getting my ass kicked,” he answered smoothly before turning his attention back to the audience. “Everyone, sing along if you know the words,” he commanded their attention. “This is Ready to Run.”

Her jaw dropped and the crowd roared as the band behind her began to play the first few chords of the song she loved and knew so well. She had admitted it a few days ago that it was one of her favorites of his ‘previous work,’ but apparently he already knew that from the few showers she had taken on the tour bus.

“There’s a lightning in your eyes I can’t deny,” he began by himself, her brain still too shocked to jump in yet. He sang the first few lines to her with a giant grin plastered on his face, hand still holding tight to hers. His eyes had a playful glint in them that seemed to say ‘just have fun.’

“There’s a devil in your smile, it’s chasing me,” she finally began to sing, Harry fading his voice out so she could take the next few lines by herself as he admired her.

He did have a devilish smile, but it was one she loved with her entire heart. As she began to sing, she felt her muscles begin to relax into the song she had sung to herself so many times before, letting her body begin to bounce to the growing rhythm as her dress flowed around her.

The stage vibrated as Sarah beat her drums to introduce the chorus. “This time I’m ready to run, escape from the city and follow the sun,” the pair sang together, eyes still locked as their voices combined into the most perfect tune. “Cause I wanna be yours, don’t you wanna be mine?” they continued the lyrics. She felt herself meaning the words leaving her mouth more and more as they went on. She did want to be his, she couldn’t deny that. “I don’t wanna get lost in the dark of the night.”

Her apprehensiveness eased further as the music picked up and the hook went on, finally allowing herself to have a bit of fun. “Wherever you are is the place I belong,” they insisted towards each other, leaning in close before Harry grabbed her hand to dramatically spin her, the beautiful shining fabric of her dress splaying out around her. The next line was mumbled through giggles by both of them, but their laughter only added to the perfect moment they were having.

They danced across the stage together like there weren’t 20,ooo pairs of eyes watching them, both singing their hearts out to each other. It began to feel like they weren’t even there. It was just Y/N and Harry, serenading each other to one of her favorite songs.

“There’s a future in my eyes I can’t foresee,” she sang to him to start the second verse.

“Unless, of course, I stay on course and keep you next to me.” Harry grabbed her by her waist and pulled her into his side as he sang the words, prompting more giggles from her. She loved the way he smiled so wide as he sang, never breaking his eye contact with her and emitting pure joy. His eyes looked honest as he sang, like he meant every word just as much as she did.

The pair made their way through the rest of the verse and second chorus, flawlessly moving around the stage like they owned it. Y/N selfishly decided to let him have the bridge all to himself, needing to hear the way his beautiful voice hit the high notes. “This time I’m ready to run,” he sang passionately, executing the downward moving riff perfectly. “I’d give everything that I got for your love,” he pointed across the stage towards her, beckoning her back close to him. She quickly skipped to him at his request.

Like she had blinked, the song was already nearing its end.

“Cause I wanna be free and I wanna be young, I’ll never look back now I’m ready to run,” they belted the last lines out to each other. The band fell quiet on their last chord and the crowd exploded, but their noise fell on deaf ears as the pair stood so close their heaving chests were almost pressed up against each other. His eyes stared down into hers and she watched as his eyes flickered quickly down to her lips.

The world ceased to exist when he pressed his mouth to hers, even if it only lasted a second. It was nothing more than a peck, but it was everything to her. Her body igniting with heat and eyes full of shock, she looked back at him in simultaneous confusion and adoration, before realizing they had been staring at each other for too long. She needed to get off the stage so he could continue with his show. She walked back slowly towards the wings, letting the hand he had still been holding fall to her side. She waved and smiled to the crowd the best she could in her clouded mind.

“Thank you everyone!” she shouted into her mic as she moved out of their view. She shoved her mic into the first set of hands that would take it as she wobbled her way over to a table with water bottles. She nearly choked as she tried to suck one down, hoping it would ease the dizzy feeling he had created with his lips. Her lips burned just as her forehead had earlier in the night.

He had kissed her. He had sang a love song with her and then he had kissed her. She couldn’t decipher if that kiss was a confirmation that he shared the same feelings for her or if it was just another act for the cameras. But his mouth felt so right against hers. They fit together like a pair of puzzle pieces. She tried to suppress the optimistic hope that rose in her chest, but it began to swallow her whole.

When she heard his next song begin, she made her way back to the spot that had become hers at the side of the stage. She watched him perform the rest of the show in a loving haze, doe eyed and hypnotized, lips still buzzing from his contact.

He gave it his all. By the last song he was out of breath, drenched in sweat, and looked like he was about to pass out at any second. The crowd applauded for minutes after he left the stage and they were still cheering when she finally caught sight of him again. His curls were stuck to his forehead and his skin was shiny and flushed. He was panting, still trying to recover from his workout of a finale show; but he was beaming. His smile seemed to turn him into a beacon, emitting a light and positive energy that drew everyone backstage towards him.

She was so transfixed on Harry as he thanked the crew and accepted congratulations from all around that she just about jumped out of her skin when Jeff slinked up behind her and whispered ‘boo’ in her ear.

“What the fuck, Jeff,” she chuckled as she caught her breath, resting her hand on her chest and feeling her racing heartbeat.

“I just wanted to congratulate you on being half of the best fake couple out there,” he teased. “That kiss was perfect. People are losing their minds over it.”

“Oh,” she said softly, feeling every emotion she was distracted from while watching Harry rush back into her. Her heart sank as she remembered all the questions that continued to haunt her since she got off stage. “Thanks,” she murmured, plastering a smile onto her face. “I’m glad we could make you proud.”

“If you two could convince me, you can convince anyone.” Jeff walked off moments later, leaving her to sit in her confused thoughts as he disappeared into the hoards of bodies waiting for their minute with Harry.

She knew that she didn’t ‘convince’ Jeff of anything on her part. Everything she did with Harry was authentic and truthful. Including the thrilled grin that appeared on her face when she finally made eye contact with the exhausted man across the room. She gave him a shy wave that he sheepishly returned, biting back a shy smile. He pointed in the direction of his dressing room and mouthed “meet me in 15.”

She could never say no to him.

Fifteen minutes later, she was knocking on the large wooden door that had a single piece of paper that read STYLES haphazardly taped onto it. When it finally flew open, she was met by a soaking wet Harry with a towel hanging dangerously low on his hips. Her eyes trailed down his body without permission, taking in the toned torso that was decorated with his beautiful tattoos. Her eyes hovered over the two ferns that sat on his pelvis, too fascinated with the dark ink to pull her eyes away just yet.

She had obviously seen him in various states of undress before. They lived together on a tour bus without much space to exist with privacy, but this was different. He wasn’t rushing to get dressed or quickly changing his outfit. And he wasn’t moving away from her gaze at all.

If she hadn’t been so entranced by him, she would have noticed he was looking her up and down in the exact same manner.

She had changed since she had seen him last. The skin-tight black velvet romper she had brought along for the afterparty now fit her snuggly and held her every curve. The dark fabric was tight and appeared almost painted on, a rainbow racing stripe making its way down either side of her chest. The short shorts of the outfit exposed nearly all of her legs and the deep neckline put much of her chest on display as well. It’s long sleeves were her favorite part, as a strip of fringe dangled from below her arms any time she moved.

“You look great,” Harry finally choked out, his voice pulling their eyes back up to the other’s face.

“Oh, thanks,” she said, slightly awkwardly. “You too.”

“Well, I’m hopefully not going to the after party dressed like this,” he chuckled before stepping aside and ushering her into the room.

His dressing room was much larger than hers and she settled herself on the brown leather couch in the corner as she waited for him to get ready, sneaking glances up from her phone often. She chuckled as she watched him spend far too long fussing with his curls in the mirror, but was quickly distracted by the way his back and arms flexed when he reached up to muse his hair. Once he was satisfied with the way it fell, he disappeared into the bathroom at the back of the room. When he emerged, he was finally dressed, allowing her to take a deep breath and to focus on something other than his bare skin for the first time since he had opened the door.

The black satin suit was simple for him, but the tight white tank top that sat underneath hugged every muscle in his torso. She knew as soon as he got in the hot club, he would lose the jacket, and she would be devastatingly distracted once again.

The narcissist took one final look at himself in the mirror before turning to her and extending a hand. “Ready, darling?”

“You just spent 15 minutes exclusively on your hair and you’re asking me if I’m ready?” she teased as she took his hand, weaving her fingers between his as they exited the room together.

He leaned down close to her ear as they walked down the now mostly empty hallway, lips brushing over the hollow of her ear as he spoke. “I could have done it faster, but you were so obviously enjoying the show.”

“Relax yourself, Magic Mike,” she muttered indignantly, but hung her head in a way she hoped he couldn’t see how flustered he made her. Was she really that obvious?

They walked hand in hand out to the parking garage, now caught in a back and forth about whether or not Harry could be a male stripper. He said yes. She said no, although she did admit at one point that he worked his mic stand like a pole.

“Hey Jeff,” he called when they finally reached the parking garage where Jeff and Glenne had been waiting for them to head to the club. “Do you think I could be a stripper?”

“I think people would pay a lot to see it, but they may be disappointed in your dancing skills.”

“Come on,” he playfully whined. “I have some moves.”

“You have one move,” Y/N cut in with a chuckle, “and it’s the wiggle.” She brought her hands up near her chest, tilted her head back while dramatically biting her lip, and swayed her arms by her sides, earning a chorus of laughter from the people around her.

She hadn’t even realized she had done the move without releasing Harry’s hand first, dragging his arm into her dance as well, until their manager commented on it. “You know, you two don’t have to be holding hands all the time and keeping the show up back here,” he said with a slightly suspicious quirk in his eyebrows.

Her smile had been in the process of fading, like they had been caught doing something wrong, before Harry answered smoothly. “We know. Just practicing.”

There were those words again. Just practicing, she thought over to herself. But was he practicing anymore? How many flirty comments, heartfelt compliments, and warm touches did it take to cross the line of practicing to the real thing?

She wasn’t sure about Harry, but she knew that she wasn’t just practicing anymore.

She knew that the way they sat nearly on top of each other in the large SUV on the way to the club felt more than friendly. And the way he hadn’t stopped touching her in some way since they left his dressing room insinuated far more than something with business-like intentions. And the way he looked at her everytime he caught her eye the entire way to the club, always with a bright smile and adoring gaze that she always returned, pulled at her heartstrings far more than they should have if this was all an act.

A sloppy and cheeky grin settled almost permanently on his features after he had a few drinks in him, his arms moving in a lazy and fluid manner as she took in his many tattoos that he had exposed when he ditched his jacket (just like she knew he would). His butterfly was visible through the tight ribbed fabric of the white tank top and the little birds that peaked out from underneath seemed to be inviting her even closer to him in her now inebriated state.

All she wanted to do was to connect her lips with his as she watched him make conversation with someone from his management, entranced by the way his perfect mouth moved as he spoke. She once again craved the shocks of electricity that were created between them at the contact and could not stop thinking about it no matter how hard she tried. The protective hand that had settled onto her hip and continued to hold her close to his body just wasn’t enough anymore.

The pair had been drinking far too much; martinis turning into vodka sodas that had turned into straight tequila shots. She believed it was tequila shot four that did her in. The last thing she remembered was licking the line of salt off the back of her hand, downing the shot, and being entranced by Harry’s eyes as she bit down on the slice of lime he held carefully with his jeweled fingers.  

***

The next morning, Y/N woke up in a hotel room that she didn’t recognize with a pounding headache and a swirling gut. It felt like she had been hit with a truck and she could barely pick her head up off the pillow.

She had so many questions about what had happened the night before. Where was she? Who let her drink that much? Whose clothes was she wearing? But most of all, what the hell happened after that fourth shot?

But she realized the worst was yet to come when she heard soft snoring coming from beside her. She knew that snoring well. It was the snoring that kept her up half the night for the last two months and the one that had almost driven her to suffocating her bus-mate in his sleep; the snoring that matched the crumbled black suit she just noticed in a ball on the floor.

It took every ounce of strength in her body to pull herself from the pillow and turn around in the bed to have her suspicions confirmed.

There he was.

His dark long eyelashes were fluttered down across the tops of his cheeks and his hair was going in every direction, skin clammy like his body was trying to rid itself of all the poison he had ingested the night before. The crumpled comforter was pushed down his stomach, his bare skin holding a sheen that helped define every dip or curve of his muscles and the tiniest bit of the band of his boxers peaked out to assure her that he at least wasn’t fully naked next to her.

Why were they in bed together? And why did he look so good? Oh my god, she thought as a possibility dawned on her. Did we sleep together?

“Harry,” she murmured softer than she intended, voice scratchy and mouth dry. The soreness at the back of her throat clued her into the copious amounts of screaming she must have done last night. He didn’t stir at her gentle coaxing, the light streaming through the windows making him look angelic as it covered him in a blanket of soft light while he continued to sleep.

It was a hard nudge to his chest that finally made him open his eyes, immediately releasing a groan she was sure she made when she regained consciousness too. He looked at her puzzled, still rubbing sleep out of his eyes as he propped himself up on his elbows. He took an equally confused look around the hotel room before looking back at her. She watched as the gears slowly turned in his head until his eyes opened wide and he spring up into a sitting position to mirror hers.

“We didn’t,” he whispered hopefully. “Oh my god, did we?” he asked, a look of horror crossing his face that matched her own.

“I have no idea,” she anxiously replied. “I was hoping you would know!”

“You don’t remember anything?”

“The last thing I remember was doing tequila shots with you.”

“I remember those.” He rubbed his eyes hard like it would somehow jog his memory. His eyebrows knit together, buried in thought as he searched his brain for a timeline. “I can follow the night up until we did karaoke.”

“We did karaoke?” she repeated incredulously and was met with a somber nod. “Do I even want to know what we sang?”

He shook his head slowly, shame clear on his face, before he finally mumbled. “We did ‘It’s Raining Men.’”

“Oh my god, no,” she whined, holding her head in her hands and rubbing her temples. There were surely videos of them sloppily singing on top of a bar circulating online and she wasn’t sure how Jeff would be able to spin that one in a positive light.

“Where’s your phone?” he asked, a hopeful glint in his eye as he reached for his own. “Maybe there’s something on there that can clue us in.” It took her a moment but she finally spotted it on the ground in the corner of the room. She said a silent prayer that it wasn’t dead or broken.

Forcing her heavy limbs out from under the covers she made her way towards the device, but not before she heard a confused sound coming from Harry. “How did you get my clothes?”

Looking down at herself and taking in the red lettering that read But Daddy I Love Him across her chest, it clicked that the t-shirt and baggy basketball shorts were his. But how they hell did she get into them?

“I think we’ve established at this point that I don’t know anything that happened after about midnight, Harry.” Her words came out laced with slight frustration. She hoped he knew she wasn’t annoyed with him, just their situation.

“Just a question, princess.”

She ignored his quip and began to search through her texts, call history, and photos, hoping to find anything at all that could help trace their steps through the night. She found nothing but a few selfies of them still at the club. One was the pair casually smiling, the next was one of him kissing her on the cheek that made her skin warm, but the final one made her snort out a laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“I have a picture on my phone of you with two martini olives shoved up your nose,” she spoke through hysterical laughter. “Definitely birthday post material if you ask me.”

“Let me see,” he demanded with an adorable scowl.

She passed her phone over to him, still letting a few chuckles fall past her lips. “I’m gonna change your name in my phone to ‘Olive Nose Styles.”

“You're cruel.”

“You’re the one that put olives up his nose and then posed for a picture!”

“Whatever,” he grumbled, turning attention back to his own screen to continue his investigation. “There’s nothing of use on my phone either.”

The two flopped back on the bed, staring at the ceiling in the frustrated confusion. There was so much of their night that had gone up into smoke, completely unaccounted for with no clues as to what they did. Each traced their steps over and over again in their heads as they hoped desperately for a single detail that would lead them down a path to bigger memories, but it never came.

“Are we going to have to call Jeff and ask him what happened?” she finally murmured.

“I think so.”

“He’s going to put us both in client timeout, isn’t he?”

“We’re probably already there,” he groaned as he picked up his phone and hit Jefe Jeff-e in his contact list, putting the call on speaker and resting it on his still bare chest. The man on the other end picked up almost immediately.

“Morning Sleeping Beauty, I was wondering when I was going to hear from you.”

“Hi Jeff,” he groggily started then stopped, searching for the words that would make this all less uncomfortable. “Y/N and I have some questions about last night.”

Jeff let out a strained chuckle. “Yeah, that doesn’t really surprise me after last night’s bar bill.”

“Um,” Harry hummed, stammering but unable to form any real words.

“You sing about sex for a living,” she hissed at the man next to her before yanking the phone off his chest. “Jeff,” she started, taking over the conversation for them both. “Do you know if we slept together?”

“Probably not. You both were pretty unconscious when I put you in the hotel room.” His words prompted a massive sigh from both of them, looking to each other to share a relieved smile.

“Oh thank god,” they mumbled in unison.

“Jinx,” he smirked under his breath, prompting a ‘shut up’ from her.

“How did I get into Harry’s clothes?”

“I stopped by the tour bus when I realized you two probably shouldn’t be trusted not to roll out of your top bunks. I got you some clothes to sleep in before we took you guys to the hotel.”

“But why Harry’s?”

It was Jeff’s term to get squirmy. “I felt weird going through your things.”

“But you were perfectly fine with going through mine?” Harry asked, only half joking.

“Absolutely,” he deadpanned. They were all quiet for a moment before Jeff began again. “You two really don’t remember anything else that happened?”

“Everything after about two is unaccounted for,” she confessed.

“Oh,” Jeff chuckled. “So, you don’t remember when you stuck your tongues down each other’s throats on the ride home?”

Fuck.

Her eyes raced up to Harry’s from the phone she had been staring at like it held all the secrets of the night before. His easily readable features displayed all his emotions that surely matched hers. His pupils had grown in surprise, taking over nearly all the green in his wide eyes, and an embarrassed blush tinted his cheeks in a red hot flush that had reached the tips of his ears. His eyes flashed to the blank wall in front of them, running a stressed hand through his curls, like if he wasn’t looking at her, he would be able to focus better on the newly revealed information.

She couldn’t say that she didn’t relate. Her mind often went blank when she looked at him too. But right now, it was racing, occupied by anxious thoughts and intense emotions she couldn’t quite place, but felt with her entire being.

Her inevitable downward spiral was interrupted when Harry stiffly cleared his throat. “Uh,” he started, scratching the back of his neck uncomfortably. “We’ll see you later.”

“Sounds good, love birds,” Jeff replied, a clear snark apparent in his voice. Neither of the pair dignified his teasing with a response, Y/N quickly ending the call.

Silence hung heavy in the air and she let her eyes hover over the phone for too long when she settled it down on the bed, unwilling to connect her eyes with his just yet. Harry always had a way of staring into her and revealing all her cards to him before she even knew them herself. She wanted to hold them close to her chest for a moment, protecting the heart that longed for him more than anything else in the world.

There were no words exchanged between the two for a while as they silently took turns in the bathroom and occupied their hands and thoughts by their phones. They walked on eggshells anytime one neared the other. A tension like this hadn’t existed since the very first day they met, the first day they had begun to pretend.

Maybe that's why Harry was being so quiet. Maybe he never wanted to cross that line of pretending like she did. Maybe she had been blinded by his generally friendly personality and tricked herself into thinking there was anything more than a charade between them. Maybe last night really was just a drunken mistake, no matter how much she wanted it to be more.

“Maybe it’s a good thing that we don’t remember what happened last night,” she finally murmured from the opposite end of the room. She rested the side of her still heavy head and muscles against the wall, arms crossed in front of her as if they could keep her safe from the tension they had created. Her fingers nervously played with the hem of his t-shirt she was still dressed in.

“Why is it a good thing?” he almost immediately responded from the chair on the other side of the room he had settled himself into, running his hands along the satin pants of last night’s outfit he had put back on during their awkward shuffling around the room. He had even put physical space between them since they found out what happened, causing her heart to feel as if it was teetering on the edge of disintegrating.

“Well,” she stuttered, refusing to look at him and continuing to pick at her nail polish. “We’re just pretending so it would be weird if we really remembered it.”

“I don’t think it would be weird.”

“I don’t know,” she tried to maneuver her way around his response. “It might just be embarrassing to think about it.”

He let out a long and frustrated sigh, running his hands down his face. There was so much going on behind his eyes and she wished he would say something, anything, to break down the wall that hadn’t existed between them in months that was slowly reappearing.

“Do you regret it?” he asked bluntly, the abrupt question shocking her body to attention. “Do you regret any of this? Any of us?”

Did she regret drinking too much? Yes. Did she regret making out with him in front of their manager? Yes. Did she regret denying her feelings and pretending they didn’t exist for so long? Of course. But, did she regret falling in love with him? Never, not even for a second.

“No, I don’t,” she let out with a gentle shake of her head, no louder than a whisper.

“Neither do I.”

The words had barely left his lips before he crossed the room and crashed them into hers. The same fire she had felt on stage returned ten times over as his lips moved smoothly over hers, every neuron in her body lighting up like a switchboard. Her fingers reached up to curl into his hair and pull his lips impossibly closer to hers as her heart hammered in her chest with a passionate love she had kept under wraps for so long.

He tasted like the spicy peppermint toothpaste the hotel stocked in the bathroom and smelled like the tiny bottles of shampoo that rested on the side of the bathtub; but there was so much else about him that was completely unique–wholly irreplaceable and indescribable. He was just Harry.

Teeth clashed, lips were bitten, and hair was pulled as they took in every sensation the other created. His lips had been the only thought that captivated her mind since they were on stage the night before and her return to them did not disappoint. If her head wasn’t dizzy and her lungs not screaming at her for air, she would have stayed in that moment forever

When they finally disconnected, they stood against each other in a heaving and disheveled mess of heavy breathing and adoringly dazed smiles. She swore she could feel the pounding of his heart under her fingertips that rested on his chest.

“That was nice,” he eventually murmured down at her through heavy breaths, a love drunk grin finding its way onto his swollen lips.

“Yeah, I agree,” she hummed breathlessly, her anxious thoughts quiet and calm for the first time she could remember since she met him.

“I’m kind of disappointed I don’t remember doing that the first time,” he chuckled softly at her, shaking his head lightly in embarrassment with his pink tinged cheeks on full display.

“That’s okay. We were ‘just practicing’ then, right?” A giggle left her lips as she used the words against him. The same words he had used every time they let a glimpse of their true affections for each other slip past their guarded and friendly facade.

His dimples were exposed when he smiled a giant grin and let out a knowing huff, piecing together that she had caught onto his trail of excuses. “Yeah, just practicing,” he repeated softly, before his tone turned sincere and genuine. “I don’t want us to pretend anymore.”

“Good,” she said softly as her fingers slid up his neck to beckon his lips back down to hers. “I never was.”

“Neither was I.” She watched a soft smirk appear on his lips as they hovered over hers. “Do you want to keep not practicing?”

“Depends,” she quipped, lips brushing over his as she spoke. “Am I better kisser than Taylor Swift?

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!! REBLOGS AND FEEDBACK MEAN THE WORLD!!! 

An extra for our babies can be found here!

[ssamie]

one. MIYA TWINS

suna rintaro x fem! mitsuri reader

(kny x hq)

warnings: spelling mistakes,  3k+ words, italicized words/ sentences are her thoughts, mitsuri’s hair+eye color was used.

gen masterlist.      sakura mochi.

"oyakata-sama.. why are all my things in little bags?" she asked in a timid tone

y/n was standing infront of her estate, fresh out of training only to be met by ushibayaki himself, along with about twenty duffle bags filled with her possessions

"ah, y/n. how are you today?" he asked with his soothing voice

she blinked repeatedly as a bright pink hue covered her cheeks and ears

'oyakata-sama' s voice is so smooth and pretty!!' she fawned

"i-im very fine, oyakata-sama! and i wish you good health!" she exclaims flusteredly

"thank you, y/n." he said with a soft chuckle "i sure hope the skies are clear today" 

"t-the skies are very clear!" she squeaked out, biting back a huge grin as she held her flushed cheeks in her hands. she squealed mentally as ushibayaki held out his hand which held a letter, only for the twins to grab it and voice the writings out 

"the new kimetsu dojo has been moved to the hyogo region." they read simultaneously "while we build your new estate, you and the other slayers shall live with host families, whom were picked by oyakata-sama, himself."

the girl blinked in shock as she listened intently to the twins' words. she fiddled with her dual toned hair as she sent her estate a longing glance. 

"l/n y/n. for a given time period, you shall stay in the miya residence. the miya family, has agreed to our conditions and have sworn to provide you care and shelter for as long as needed." 

"miya residence..?" she muttered in response 

the twins nodded as they disposed of the letter, standing back behind their father. 

"b-but what about obanai-kun?" she mumbled worriedly to herself 

for as long as she can remember, obanai has been staying at her estate with her. she's been so used to his presence, that she has already started seeing him as a brother or a dear friend, whom she entrusts her life to. 

"iguro shall stay at a different residence." ushibayaki chimed in 

upon hearing his voice, she straightened up and took a deep breath as she felt herself unwind. its as if his voice alone could put her into cloud nine. 

"i've taken the liberty to book you a ticket, y/n. your train leaves in three hours." ushibayaki said 

she blushed madly as his soft hands grazed hers upon giving her the ticket. 

'h-his hands are so smooth and big!! i wonder what it's like to hold them..' she thought to herself 

"we'll be off." he announced "i wish you well, my child" he said with a smile as he waved at her direction 

"thank you so much, oyakata-sama!" she bowed in gratitude 

she heard him chuckle under his breath, as well as the sounds of his and his children's footsteps gradually fading until it fully disappeared. she then stood straight as she looked around, only to find them gone. 

"oyakata-sama is so nice!" she squealed "uwahh!! he even got me a train ticket!!" she gushed flusteredly as she hugged the said ticket to her chest 

"y/n?" obanai's voice rang across the air. the black haired male peeked out of the estate's door, smiling under his bandages as he watched her jump around in glee and flusteredness by the gate 

"oh, obanai-kun!!" she exclaimed as her eyes clashed with his heterochromatic orbs 

"y/n, welcome back" he greeted in the softest tone 

she ran towards him and pulled him into a bone crushing hug, smiling brightly as she blabbered about her deemed 'life changing interaction with oyakata-sama' 

"oh, hi there kaburamaru" she said as she petted the snake with her finger 

"i see you've heard the news" obanai mused "i prepared you a bath and a change of clothes, already." he said "i-i just figured you'd be tired from training.." the male had a soft blush on his face as she started thanking him profusely, bringing him into a hug once again as she does so. 

"thanks so much, obanai-kun!! you can join me if you want" she proposed 

obanai blinked in response to her suggestion, glancing at kaburamaru before looking back at her 

"join you?... in the bath?" he asked warily 

"of course! it's not like we haven't done it before!" she said with a soft laugh 

obanai didn't laugh with her. instead, he was frozen in place, blushing madly as she pulled him along to the bath 

"now now, obanai-kun!" she cooed "you're basically like my brother! you don't have to be so flustered!" 

obanai's visibly mood visibly shifted upon hearing those words. his brows furrowed as a small frown etched onto his lips. "right.." he muttered gloomily as he turned away from her and began to undress 

she was humming a sweet melody as she undressed from her uniform and haori, facing away from him as she does so. 

"have you figured where you'd stay, obanai-kun?" she asked him with a questioning hum 

"nowhere special.. im simply staying with an elderly couple. i heard its not that far from your place, though" he replied. obanai sighed, putting his folded up clothes aside as he loosely wrapped a towel around his hips. 

"ooh!! that way we can meet up and walk to the dojo together, isn't that nice?" she hummed with a sweet smile. she dipped herself into the huge tub, smiling sluggishly as she felt the hot water drown her stress away 

"yeah" obanai replied curtly. he stepped into the tub, settling down beside her as he rested his head upon the edges of the tub. 

"i'll miss you a lot, obanai-kun~" she cooed at him "it would be so strange not coming home to you, anymore" she sulked with a small pout 

obanai simply smiled and nodded along. his lightly scarred and calloused hand rested upon the crown of her head. he massaged her scalp lightly while his other hand combed through her long pink and green hair

"i'll miss you too, y/n" he whispered. his words were slightly muffled through his bandages, but she understood him nonetheless. 

she sighed lovingly as she laid back against his chest, letting him rest his chin upon her head as he loosely wrapped his arms around her 

"i hope your host family treats you well, y/n" he said with a smile. his heterochromatic eyes look at her with love and endearment. gazing at her face and down to her collar bone. 

obanai swipes the stray strands of hair away from her neck and shoulders, nuzzling his cheek against her head as he closed his eyes. 

"im sure the miya family are very nice and collected people" she said. she giggled as she splashed the water around with her legs. 

"i heard from oyakata-sama's children that there are twins in the family" she said 

"im sure they'll be nice and friendly!!" 

"tsumu come back 'er ya dumb piss head pig!!" a loud voice emitted from inside the home 

"get the fuck away from me ya abusive dog!!" another voice yelled in response 

she smiled blankly as she stared at the door, her fist paused mid knock as she waited for the yelling to die down a little "its alright.. the miya family is nice.. they're very nice.." she chanted repeatedly under her breath 

"i must've came in the wrong time, that's all" she chuckled hesitantly 

breathing in deeply, she put on a smile as she raised her fist to knock once again. though before her hand could touch the door, it suddenly swung open, and revealed a tall blonde boy about her age, looking quite irritated 

she yelped and retracted her hand, opting to raise it to wave instead. 

"h-hello there" she greeted him 

"oh shit" he cursed under his breath 

"hey there, pretty girl" he cooed, smirking down at her with half lidded eyes as he leaned against the door frame 

'me? pretty?!' she panicked inwardly 

'he should be saying that about himself!! he's so tall and lean!! and his hair looks so soft!' 

she couldn't utter a word. she felt so small under his gaze. so she simply blushed wildly in response as she continued praising him in her head, acting as if he was a god to be glorified. 

"the hell are ya standing there for-" 

another boy came into veiw. he looked exactly like the blonde, except this one had gray hair and had a more sophisticated aura about him. 

"oh shit" he cursed under his breath 

"ya must be the new girl" he said "im osamu, that's atsumu. feel free to call him fatsumu or pisshead, no one'll mind" osamu said

"oi! shut yer trap!" atsumu snarled at him, obviously agitated that his brother was making fun of him infront of a pretty girl

'h-he's just as handsome as the blonde!! if not, more handsome!! he's so cool and mysterious!' she gushed in her thoughts

'osamu.. osamu.. that's such an attractive name..'

'atsumu.. atsumu.. i could keep saying it forever!!'

"come in" osamu said, pushing his twin aside as he gestured into their home

"right! thank you.." she replied, bowing her head in thanks as she bends down to pick up her bags

"nah, just leave that there" osamu intervened "we'll carry yer bags for ya"

"oh, thank you!" she beamed in response

'so i was right, they're both nice after all!' she thought to herself

she walked in the door, taking off her shoes and neatly placing them by the mat in respect. "im coming in, sorry for intruding" she announced to no one in particular. she marvelled in the fairly large home. her sparkling eyes darted from every nook and corner, observing every piece of furniture with interest. 

"your house is so pretty!! it's so much more different and modern than my estate" she gushed 

"why thank you, l/n-san" a feminine voice said 

she whipped her head around to face a lovely woman, presumably in her early thirties, smiling warmly at her. "you must be mrs.miya! thank you so much for letting me stay in your home!" she exclaimed as she bowed in gratitude 

"its alright! no need to bow, dear" she chuckled 

"you can call me y/n, ma'am!" she suggested with a bright and blinding smile 

the woman simply nodded and held out her hand for the girl to shake. "then you should call me mom or ma. since you'll basically be my daughter for the time being" 

her pale green eyes sparkled at the woman's words, a blush forming on her cheeks as she nodded eagerly. "okay! i'll call you mom!!" 

"oi! samu, tsumu! hurry up, lets get to know 'er together!" she called out 

"hold yer horses mom!" atsumu replied with a groan "were doin somethin right now!" 

y/n whipped her head around to see both of the twins struggling to carry all her bags. feeling bad, she then stepped up to help them. "im so sorry!! i'll carry these, you can just show me where to go" she suggested 

"nah, it's fine. yer probably real tired" osamu declined "these bags are real heavy" 

"mhm, leave it to us, pretty girl~" atsumu cooed at her with a wink 

she gushed in her head once again, blushing madly as she praised the two boys with vigor. 

"ah, no its fine.. im not that tired anyways" she said with a chuckle. she then bent down to stack the bags up, there were about five huge duffle bags in total, and carried it all at once. 

"see! im fine!" she cooed at them, followed by a beaming smile 

the twins couldn't do anything but gape at her as she started walking ahead of them, flawlessly carrying the bags with ease. 

"damn, that girl is strong" atsumu said with a whistle 

"shut the fuck up, tsumu" osamu muttered 

"whyre ya so mean to me?!" atsumu whined 

"ehh?! that's so cool, osamu-kun!" she exclaimed as she listened to osamu with sparkling eyes 

"really? it's just onigiri though.." osamu replied with a small laugh 

"well, i think it's cool you like making onigiri" she said "just like how i like to make sakura mochi!!" she pulled out a fairly large container, placing it on the table and opening it for them. "i even brought you all some of it as a thank you!" she exclaimed 

osamu reached out to take one, nibbling slightly on it to test the taste, while she fiddles in anticipation. 

"this is really good" osamu complimented with a faint smile 

her face exploded into all shades of pink, fluateredly basking in the compliment as she shakily handed him more "a-atsumu-kun! would you like some as well?" she asked him with a smile

atsumu, who was initially pouting and grumbling as he glared at his twin in jealousy, now perked up and nodded at her 

"here you go" she hummed as she picked up a mochi with a stick and handed it to him 

"... well i can't eat it like that" atsumu said with an exaggerated sigh 

she blinked cluelessly at him as she looked down at the perfectly fine mochi in confusion ".. what?" she asked 

"i said i can't eat it like that, pretty girl" atsumu smirked at her. the blonde leaned on the table from across her and pointed to his mouth. "you gotta feed me properly" he sneered 

osamu rolled his eyes while their mother laughed at his antics. 

y/n simply nodded as her hands trembled in a concerning amount. she cupped her hand under the mochi to catch any crumbs as it neared his mouth

"o-okay.. say ahh" she cooed bashfully 

'oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh' she chanted repeatedly in her head 

'im feeding atsumu! im feeding him?!? is this real?!'

atsumu grinned brightly at her as he complied, opening his mouth for her.

'mskskka his mouth is open?!?! atsumu looks so cute!' she gushed  'he looks like a little kid' 

atsumu smiled gleefully at her as he chomps away on the sweet treat, his eyes crinkling as a soft blush covered his cheeks "thanks, y/n-chan~" he sang out 

"no problem, would you like some more?" she asked him with a close eyed smile 

atsumu's jaw dropped. he stared at her with glimmering eyes as he nodded eagerly like a child. "holy shit, samu. she's so nice. ya should try acting like that sometime" atsumu said to his brother 

"fine. say ah." osamu grunted as he picked up a mochi 

as atsumu looked at him in confusion, he took this as an opportunity to shove the sweet treat into his mouth, letting the blonde choke. "what- AGH SAMU!" atsumu exclaimed 

"how was that, fatsumu? would ya like some more?" osamu cooed in a sickly sweet tone "HMPH! I HATE YOU!" atsumu huffed and crossed his arms 

he didn't attack osamu like the latter had expected, instead he pouted like a child as he gave y/n his best puppy dog eyes. "y/n-chan~ osamu's being mean" atsumu whined "we should leave him here and hang out together instead" 

"oi oi oi!" osamu scowled in a warning tone "yer makin' me look bad! don't ya dare corrupt her!" 

"y/n don't go with that pig. stay here, I'll make ya some onigiri" osamu suggested 

"ahm, okay..?" she responded with a confused smile 

"NOOO!! yer just gonna talk shit 'bout me, its better if she hangs out with me" atsumu said with a glare. just before a fight could ensue, mrs.miya stepped up and pushed the boys away from each other. 

the woman wrapped an arm around y/n as she gave the boys a look. "well, 'm sorry to break it to ya, but she won't be hanging with anyone yet" she spoke in a sweet tone, though they could clearly tell she was simply masking her agitation "she has to get prepped and ready for school" she said 

"y/n-chan is transferring to inarizaki tomorrow, so im counting on y'all to help her, aight?" 

the twins blinked in response. looking back and forth from their mother and y/n, and back at each other. "well, 's fine. i can show her around tomorrow." osamu proposed 

"nah, i'll show her around" atsumu chimed in 

"no. i'll do it. yer ass isn't needed 'er" osamu scoffs 

"i won't take crap from ya so shut up" atsumu scoffed back 

"uwahh!! atsumu-kun and osamu-kun looks so manly when they fight!!" she gushed quietly as she watched them banter 

mrs.miya laughed at the girl's words and patted her head softly "well, that's a first" she mused "usually folks would get annoyed but apparently not you" 

"but miya-san!.. or er- mom! the twins are so cute and lovable!" she countered "how could anyone get annoyed by them?!" 

"SHUT YER TRAP 'SAMU!" atsumu yelled as he slapped osamu' s nape

"why you.." osamu muttered in anger "... YOU UNMANNERED MONGREL! DON'T FUCKIN HIT ME!" he yelled 

"sweetheart, the reason is right infront of you." the woman deadpanned

though the pink and green haired girl simply shook her head and grinned. "they seem very lovely to me!" she said 

"if you say so" 

[borealis-strange]

Chapter 6 “The witch market”

Link

Summary: 

Franco and Regina finally arrive in the glorious Palladium city, also known as the "Phoenix city" for being reborn from the ashes.

They explore the entire city, seeing everything new it has to offer. The new buildings and the witch market.

After a long day of walking, Franco meets an old friend...

Notes:

I'm thinking of doing some drawings and add them to the story. What do you guys think?

Tag-list:  @freesiafields @bambirexwrites @whitequeen-ofwillowgreen @vaeya @sirenlovesqueen @moreofthatqueen @eileen-crys​

If someone wants to be added or removed from the tag-list, just tell me :}

We decided to leave Gold Pine right after breakfast, rather, Franco decided that. He said something about him wanting to spend more time at Paladium. I didn't blame him, he surely wanted to see how much the city had changed since his departure.

We went to the big red brick station. The place was packed with people, which surprised me. I understood that this station was only about 15 years old, plus it only had trains that led to Paladium. In a way, it reminded me of the entrance to The Shelter, mostly because of the busy people who kept pushing you.

We bought the cheapest ticket we could get, which was only a few copper coins, and we set off on our journey.

The train turned out better than I expected; even though the seats were so close to each other that they stifled a bit, but that was the least of it. At least we had managed to sit together.

The train ride was uneventful, without much to see.

I hadn't been on a train in years, four to be exact, and that's when I left The Shelter. I was only 14 years old and I remember how scared I was traveling all over the Empire on my own. How small and lost I was not knowing where to go. Now all that has changed, I am very grateful that I now had Franco to accompany me.

I turned to see him. His gaze was still lost in the window and I could see how Franco's hands were trembling slightly.

— All good? — Asked.

Franco turned to see me with some nervousness and took his hands to control them.

— Yes… all good — Was the only thing he said before looking out the window again.

__________________

After just over two hours of travel, we finally reached the huge and glorious Palladium city. I had heard some calling it Phoenix City for having survived its destruction and rising from the ashes.

We crossed the city on the train and I was amazed by its large stone buildings where pointed arches were used, roofs with steep slopes and elegant carvings such as lace and latticework. Even though there were still several buildings under construction, the city looked fantastic. ///

I watched as the buildings stopped going by so fast as the train slowed down little by little. Finally it stopped completely. We grab our things before getting off next to the sea of ​​people.

The station was packed with people, which surprised me even more. There were still not too many roads, that I know you could only go to Gold Pine and the Tree city, but maybe they had already built more railways.

We made our way through the people as best we could, until we found the exit.

Right at the exit was a statue of a Netherite knight, as if he was protecting everyone who came to the city. I could see that it had a few flowers at the base. Franco approached the statue and looked at it for a moment before continuing on his way.

As I left the station, the sun dazzled me slightly, presenting the great city to me. Franco stayed a few seconds admiring the city and I did the same. It was simply beautiful, like none I had ever seen before.

I turned to see Franco for a second, he had crystalline eyes, it seemed that he was going to cry at any moment.

— Are you alright — I asked

— Yes ... it's just that ... the last time I saw the Paladium city was when it was destroyed  —Franco replied in a whisper — I never believed they were going to rebuild it as beautiful as it once was —

— Was Paladium the same as now? — I asked.

— No… it's quite different… actually — Franco replied, as if he still couldn't believe we were here. — It's ... much better ... than I expected —

I smiled a little. I couldn't imagine how many thoughts should be going through his head, the only thing I could decipher was some relief. Franco started walking and I followed him.

— And where do you want to go? — Asked.

— I don't know — Franco confessed as he shrugged. — Somewhere ... would be fine —

This… would be interesting. Neither of us had come to the new city. Franco could guide us a bit but who knows how much the city has changed in 30 years.

The first thing we did was look for a hostel to stay in. To be able to leave the backpacks and not have to carry them around the city.

After doing that, Franco guided me through different streets of the city showing me different places, or rather where they were thirty years ago. He showed me where the old knight academy should be, where he did much of his training. He told me that there came knights from all over the Empire since it was the best Academy. It was unfortunate that they did not rebuild it. We couldn't figure out what they were doing now in that place

He also took me where the old castle of the King of Farfania was, now they seemed to be building a great cathedral. Franco told me that he served his former queen for a time. He said that the castle was a beautiful and elegant place, where he had met some of his friends.

Franco showed me an old theater, which according to him had been rebuilt as it was. I had never been a big fan of the theater, and Franco apparently neither, but even so he remembered a few plays. Franco confessed that he came to come a couple of times for a girl that he liked. He couldn't tell me what happened to that relationship.

We come to an area with different houses. Franco told me that this is the street where he grew up. He told me how he used to be a bit of a messy and rebellious kid, who used to get in trouble with everyone. Until, he decided to join the royal guard when he was only 16 years old. He said it was difficult, that no one had confidence in him but he still managed to have great rank and recognition.

We ended up arriving at a large park, full of large trees and people walking and playing. Most striking was the large statue of a Netherite knight in the center.

Franco walked automatically to the large statue, and I followed him.

It was at least 10 meters tall, made of iron that had deteriorated over time. The knight had a heroic pose, raising his sword into the air. The base was made of marble and had a plaque with a dedication. I leaned a little closer to see what it was saying.

“To the 19 Netherite knights who sacrificed their lives for others. We will never forget such a heroic act. Rest in peace and may glory always be with you "

Below were the 19 names, of which I did not recognize any.

—The Netherite knights — I said in a whisper.

Franco came silently to my side and began to analyze the names. I felt like my heart skipped a beat, he had met each one of them.

— One is missing — I heard Franco say, I assumed he said it to himself because of the low voice that he said.

— The King of Farfania — I completed

Franco seemed to laugh when I said that.

— Yes — He said sadly — He used to have a statue, right in this place. He destroyed it himself —

 — Why? — I asked as if Franco had the answer.

— He said that statue did not represent him and that they would make a real one when he saved the Empire — Franco said in a low voice.

— He was really crazy — I commented.

Franco looked at me with sad eyes before looking back from him to the statue.

We stayed a few more minutes appreciating the great stature. Franco moved a little closer to the plate and seemed to say a few words. Maybe some prayer or thanks for the fallen knights or… apologize for not being able to save them.

I don't know if I should tell them something, it would be rude of me not to.

“Thank you for his heroic act. For having saved thousands of people and giving people hope" I said while touching the plate. I wish I had flowers to leave them.

When Franco finished, he gestured to me that it was time to go.

We continued walking in the big city but this time Franco did not tell me about the old buildings or their history. He just walked around like I wasn't with him. Although, this time it seemed that Franco knew where he wanted to go. I ran a little to catch up

— And where will we go? — I asked excitedly when I got to his side.

— Now that I think about it ... I would like to see if The Witch Market still exists — Franco replied with a small smile.

— The what? — I asked.

— Don't tell me you haven’t heard about it! The best market of all, where there are only things of the best quality — Franco said proudly.

I couldn't help but laugh a little at Franco's excitement. To be honest, he had never seen him like this.

____________________

We didn't have to walk too far to get to the market,

The market was inside a one-story tall building. It had a large entrance with doors made of metal. On the sides were large colorful stained glass windows. The crystals were not only the windows but also represented figures of different creatures, day and night, in addition to various plants, more than just windows, they seemed a work of art

Franco stopped for a moment before entering the market and I appreciated it for a moment.

— It seemed that this if they wanted to leave - Franco said with a big smile.

— Are we coming to buy something in particular? — Asked.

— To get you a shield — Franco replied happily — You've been without one for too long. —

— Pfff — I exclaimed with a gesture with my hands — Why do I need a shield? I know how to fight — I said nonchalantly.

— You may know how to fight but you do not know how to defend yourself. This is the new part of your training: coordinating between defense and attack. And it is more difficult than it sounds. Believe me — Franco explained with a smile.

How difficult could it be? I defend myself with one arm and attack with the other. And voila, I know how to defend myself.

— Why don't you explore a bit? — Franco told me. — We still need food, plus you will surely find something you like. See you at the entrance in an hour —

Franco patted me on the back before losing himself in the crowd. The atmosphere was energetic inside the market, with all the people mobilizing and the vendors shouting.

I entered with some nervousness, to tell the truth, I had never been to a market, mostly because my uncle would not let me leave the castle. I couldn't be nervous, I had defeated a golem! This should be easier.

Even though the market was not as crowded as I expected, I still had to dodge people, mostly those who were watching the stalls.

All the stalls were quite different from each other, apart from selling food, they also sold clothes, books, plants, anything you could imagine, you could get it here.

I went over to one of the candy stalls, where everything smelled delicious. It sold everything, caramel cookies, milk balls, golden licorice and more sweets that I could not decipher what they were, I suppose they were traditional from other species.

Then I went to a goblin's stand, where he had all kinds of plants, both decorative and for making potions. It was also filled with flowers of all colors and sizes, all of which gave off a sweet scent. There were even plants that I had never seen, like some kind of algae but in different colors and seemed to move slightly. The seller explained to me that he had obtained it from the depths of The coast of Silence and he explained that some people used it as a method of transportation, he did not want to give me a demonstration because of how dangerous the plant could be.

I saw a stall where they sold clothes, which took me by surprise but I still decided to go closer. They sold clothes made of different types of fabric that did not fit well together, but had a certain charm. They were mostly dresses.

There was a stall where a wizard sold wands. I would have tried them if it hadn't been that I had no magic. The wizard told me that he carved the wands himself, taking care of every detail. They were really pretty, plus apparently they all had a unique engraving.

I approached another of the stalls. One where they sold fresh fruit of all kinds; apples, watermelons, pears, plums, peaches, everything. They looked pretty good, unlike the other stalls.

— Wow — exclaimed the woman who attended the stall — I haven't seen enchanted armor in years. Why do you need armor like that? —

— Oh. It is for when I enter the Royal Guard — I said with pride.

— The royal guard? — Said the surprised woman. — That thing dissolved years ago—

That was not true! I think… Franco used to tell me how he did his service in Tree City and Paladium, and that it was usual for knights to be in big cities but… so far he hadn't seen any.

— Dissolved? — I asked confused.

— Why do you think there are no longer knights in the cities? Well… it was not completely dissolved, the few remaining knights do their service on the walls. It is rare to see someone doing his service in cities or towns — The woman said while she attended to another person.

— Why did it dissolve? — I asked.

— Have you lived under a stone all this time? — Said the woman contemptuously — The fall of Farfania! Unfortunately, several knights died to protect civilians. Especially the Netherite knights, the poor people went to face the king of Farfania alone and well ... you can imagine what happened. Some say that the Netherite knight killed the others because he wanted to be the only one “worthy” of that rank —

That was… much worse than I had imagined.

— After that a huge collective fear arose. — The woman continued — During the following years people lived scared that the king of Farfania would return, so many people decided to retire from the royal guard, although it seems that it is already recovering. Also ... come closer girl — she indicated — There are rumors that the Netherite Knight has returned — she said in a low voice just for me to hear her.

— Seriously? — I was puzzled. That was impossible but… just like my uncle had said, they left him alive.

— Like I said girl, they are just rumors. There have been several robberies of powerful objects throughout the empire and since the kings have not said anything about it, people create their own theories —

— What… things have they stolen? — I asked.

— Everything, books, armor, a lot of building materials, red stone, there are even people who say they have kidnapped fairies. Total chaos —

My mind returned when we went to the Poppy Garden. The fairies had mentioned a wither skeleton. Was he ... the Netherite knight?

— And how are people so sure that he is the Netherite knight? —

— It's hard to forget those white eyes and shadowy appearance — The woman replied.

It was the Wither skeleton. Or at least someone who could easily be mistaken for the knight. Oh Gods, I had messed with some copycat! I hoped that the fairies and Vandal had nothing to do with the knight, but something in me told me that this was not true.

— Are you going to buy fruit or not? — 0The woman took me out of my thoughts.

At the end I brought a few apples and peaches, before I left, not without earning the dissatisfied look of another customer.

I left the market thinking about what the woman had told me. They were just rumors but the rumors have some truth. And if wither skeleton wasn't the Netherite knight, he must be some madman who wanted to replicate his footsteps. The truth did not know which was worse. I should tell Franco about this, mostly because of Vandal. The boy must have something on his hands but Franco had told me to leave him alone. I had to find some way to convince him to seek out and confront Vandal.

After a few minutes, Franco arrived, carrying a gleaming shield.

— I found this and at a very good price — Franco said with emotion — Wouldn't you like to try it? —

I left my worries behind and agreed.

__________________

Franco ended up guiding me back to the knight's park. I didn't know if it was such a good idea to practice there, but when I saw that it was now practically empty, I ended up accepting.

We looked for a space where there were not too many trees and I started with a little warm-up.

Franco sat on one of the benches with some difficulty and from there he began to give me instructions.

I tried my best to imitate everything he said to me. I knew the terms and positions perfectly, but apparently Franco did not find it appropriate.

— You're not doing it right! — Franco yelled at me. I stopped immediately to turn to see him — Your posture is not adequate —

— It would be easier if I didn't have imaginary enemies — I reproached him.

— Do you want real enemies? — Franco said as he got up from the bench with difficulty — I will be your opponent -

Franco stood in front of me, and looked at me challengingly and with a smug smile.

— Seriously? I thought you couldn't fight — I said amused.

— Of course I can! —Franco exclaimed — I'm a little rusty but it won't be a problem against a rookie —

— Okay — I said between a laugh — But you don't even have a sword —

— I suppose that with my cane it will be enough — Franco said with a smile — It will only be to explain the fundamentals and that you understand better. No need to get aggressive —

I had to suppress a laugh.

—We'll start slow — Franco said as he got into position to start. I imitated him.

Franco told me to follow his movements like a mirror; Franco did them slowly and calmly. Most of the exercises were straightforward, as Franco said it was mostly for coordination. Franco told me that later he would teach me more complicated things but that this was a good start.

I was surprised by how easily Franco managed to move. The only thing was that he seemed not to want to put much support on his left foot.

I don't know how long we were training. Although I would have liked a "real fight", it would be interesting, especially with Franco. I had to be patient, I suppose there will be a chance at another time.

— With that you will have enough for today — Franco told me as he gave me a small bow.

I returned the bow and put my sword away.

— And how did I do it? — I asked excitedly.

— Good — Franco said with a small smile — You are doing quite well — He said, giving me a few pats on the back.

______________

After a long day of walking around the city, all Franco wanted to do was rest. His leg was killing him with pain, he hoped that the next day the pain would subside, he didn't want to have to tell Regina that they couldn't travel. Although it wouldn't be so bad now that he thought about it, he could explore other areas of the city that they hadn't visited that day.

He sat on his bed, ready to go to sleep, when a strange breeze filled the room. Franco managed to see a shadow crawl across the ground to form a peculiar figure.

— You are very difficult to find, you know? — Said a voice behind him.— And I have to say ... The years have not been good to you —

That voice, that voice so deep it could make anyone's hair stand on end. That voice, that belonged to a Wither skeleton.

— What do you want!? — Franco yelled, turning behind him.

Rich was still the same as thirty years ago. The same white eyes, the same red coat, and the same gloomy appearance. Although he had to say that he looked too…. worn out somehow.

The skeleton put a finger over his mouth.

— If I were you, I would not speak so loud — Rich spoke calmly. — We don't want to wake people up —

Franco looked at him suspiciously.

— What do you want? — Franco repeated in a low voice.

— I can't visit an old friend? — Said the skeleton mockingly as he began to walk around the room — Being in these directions I remembered the old days. You remember that day? The last time we saw each other. —

— Of course I remember — Franco lamented.

The skeleton approached the window and slightly opened the curtain. He observed all the people passing by on the street, no one noticed his presence. After a few seconds, the skeleton spoke again.

— They  kings rebuilt a part of the Empire, when will they do the same with the rest? — He commented without turning to see Franco

— They won't unless…— Franco broke off quickly.

— Unless, we destroy the Empire. Franco, you are finally understanding what I came for — Said the skeleton with a malicious smile and finally looking back at Franco.

— I will not return to that cause! — Franco yelled furious as he got up from the bed.

— Why? If you let me into the Empire in the first place. — The skeleton approached Franco defiantly — You supported the cause with your heart and sword. It's a matter of time until you get back to it. Also, haven't you seen what we've created? When we destroyed Farfania, people advanced, created new things that were previously believed to be just dreams —

— Stop it! Don't ever mention anything about that again! —

— Don't scream. Or do you want the girl to find out about your betrayal of the empire? —

Franco looked away from him. When he turned around, Rich was already gone.

For years he had tried to get away from that black stain in his past, but somehow it always came back. And worst of all, Rich had survived, something he thought impossible, but when you're a skeleton, you really can't die, right?

[kurama-is-love]

An unusual proposal (Oneshot)

It's been a while since I wrote in english, so please bear with me if this is not perfect. English is not my first language ;-;

Oh and this time it's a female Half!Demon/Human Reader x Kurama. Just to let you know! Again as warning, much much fluff between you and Kurama.

The Dark Tournament was looking forward to its grand finale.

Team Toguro faced Team Urameshi, consisting of Yusuke, Kuwabara, Hiei and Kurama. Their fifth member, Mask, or rather Genkai, was 'killed' in battle by the younger Toguro brother the night before. Although you and your friends mourned about your deceased comrade, the others were not allowed to give in to their feelings now. One single mistake could result in the next death, everyone knew that.

You hadn't left your friend's side since the beginning of the Tournament and you were even allowed to stay at their side near the battle field. Though now you were concerned about the last battle.   You had asked to stand in for Mask as the fifth participant, but before you were able to speak to the competition officials, you were prevented from doing so by your friends, mostly Yusuke and especially Kurama. It was a lengthy and exhausting discussion that followed with the two of them. Yusuke was anything but calm and tried to dissuade you from your idea with irrelevant threats for "beating the shit out of you if you continue to try to participate". Of course he would never lay a finger on a friend, especially not if he were to draw the wrath of a certain fox on him ..

Speaking of the fox. It was Kurama's empathetic and factually convincing words that finally led you to abandon your idea and not take part in the fight. As much as you hated not being able to stand by your friends, it was clear to you aswell that you would not survive 2 minutes in the ring against a member of this diabolical team from Toguro .. It was just maddening ..

Before the fight started, you cleared your throat to attract the attention of your friends.

"Before you fight, I want to get rid of something .." you began and looked at the ground slightly.

"Spit it out, [Y/n]-chan." Kuwabara tried with a calm and understanding tone of voice to reassure you that none of them were mad at you for your earlier discussions. He thought that, because you were trembling all over and he could also tell that you were fighting back tears.

"I want you .. to be extra careful this time .. Your opponents are of a completely different caliber than all your opponents before .. And if ..Uh.. when you notice that you .. can't do it .. that you. . " you stopped, the thought of what should follow your sentence stung your heart. "... you will die if you keep going .. I beg you to give up .. just give up and end the fight .. Fuck this stupid tournament, your lives are way too precious ..!" you spoke a little louder and more determined as you looked at your four friends.

Hiei's expression was disinterested as always. Kuwabara looked away, slightly embarrassed, while Kurama had put on an illegible expression. Yusuke crossed his arms before briefly closing his eyes.

"Sorry, but we can't promise that." he said then.

"W-What ..?"

When you looked up, startled, you felt a hand on your shoulder. It was Yusuke's.

"If we give up, everything was in vain. Our training, the preliminary fights. And ... also the death of that old witch ... The least we owe her is to try to defeat her killer." He continued serious, but his face showed no sign of annoyance or anger towards you. He showed you .. friendliness and a small smile. "Anyway, thank you for taking care of us all. With that knowledge, we can do our best," he added.

"B-But .." your quiet objections were stopped again when Kurama took Yusuke's place and put both hands on your shoulders. A slightly worried smile graced his pale lips.

"Yusuke is right. If we give up here, everything we have been through so far will be wasted. Besides .." he continued and his expression darkened slightly as he looked at his opponents, especially at Karasu. "..we can't allow these .. monsters to continue their mischief to continue their murders in the world of spirits, demons and humans. If we don't stop them, who should do it?" he asked you.

You didn't know the answer and looked to the side. Kurama smiled sadly and put his hand on your cheek to turn your face back to him.

"Just trust us, okay?" He said softly and lovingly before placing a gentle kiss on your lips.

"Kurama .. I trust you. But I'm still scared okay ..?"

"That's perfectly okay." The redhead whispered and you sighed softly.

"I'm serious. I don't want to go through the same fear that I did during your fight against Bakken ..."

"Mhm .."

[Flashback]

The battle against the members of Team Masho had reached worrying proportions after Kurama lost consciousness while standing shortly after he was named as the victor in the battle against the ice demon Touya by Koto. The rules of this match were like an endless battle. As long as a member could fight, he fought against any opponent. This is exactly how he had defeated Gama at first and was able to win against Touya with the last of his strength. But now the luck of the kitsune seemed to have run out when he stood bleeding and unconscious on the battlefield and Koto checked whether he was still alive.

"That's enough now! I'll take over for Kurama!" Yusuke called to the judge when the third opponent, a tall, dark-skinned man with short black hair, stepped out.

"Not so fast. That guy is still there, so I'm his opponent now." The shinobi grinned maliciously and was already flexing his fists.

"You can't be serious! You can see that he is not able to fight!" You said and looked angry at Bakken.

"You stay out of it, you brat. I say: He can fight." With these words he turned to Koto, who looked back and forth between the two parties, perplexed.

"Well .. Well .. I also think that Kurama is incapacitated. We have to wait for the decision of the competition committee before an exchange takes place .." the cat demon spoke uncertainly.

All attention was then turned to the speakers when the committee announced its decision. They disagreed with the exchange and declared Kurama's ability to fight.

Yusuke and you had to watch in shock when Bakken started hit the unconscious Kurama again and again and injured him so badly that it was a miracle if he could survive this ordeal for long. When Bakken pulled Kurama up by his top and beat him again, the fabric on the top tore and Kurama fell to the ground. Blood ran down his forehead.

While you could only watch in shock, the stadium echoed under the calls of the demonic audience, who very unanimously demanded only one thing.

"Kill him!"

"Kill him, Bakken!"

"Yes, kill this traitor !!!"

You clenched your fists in anger before turning to the bleachers.

"SHUT UP YOUR DAMN MOUTHS ALREADY!" you shouted so loudly that the stadium fell silent and Yusuke and the others looked at you too. "I CAN'T STAND YOUR HATE TIRADS ANYMORE! The next one who says anything about 'kill this bastard' will get a free ticket to hell from me. WAS THAT CLEAR?"

Your friends had seldom seen you so loud and serious. The girls, Botan, Shizuru, Keiko and Yukino were very shocked by your exclamation.

Suddenly one of the demons jumped down from the stands and stood next to you.

"Pretty loose mouth for such a shitty, weak half-breed, darling."the green-colored beast grinned and licked its lips with its iguana-like tongue. "You are nothing but a shabby one demon, who has human blood in them. It doesn't surprise me that you are on the traitors side. But don't open your mouth like that if you know what's good for you. " He threatened you.

Your eyebrow twitched menacingly as the demon extended its claws and tried to slit your stomach. You reached for your weapons,  chakrams, and a reddish-orange aura flooded the metal, your Reiki, mixed with Yoki. The audience held their breath when they could only hear lightning-fast cuts and white clouds of energy sliced the demon that was attacking you until the attacker fell dead to the ground.

"Anyone else has something to say to a " failed half-breed "? you asked the ranks, but the audience fell silent before you could finally devote yourself to the fighting again.

"T-That's enough! Kurama is on the ground and can no longer fight! I think a countdown is also unnecessary .." Koto interrupted the scene now when she saw the battered Kurama.

Bakken seemed to disagree and lifted Kurama up in the air again by his top.

"Now he's standing again. That means the fight goes on."the black-haired man smirked and wanted to make the final punch that should blow out Kurama's life light forever.

"Stop. That's enough, Bakken." a masked figure behind Bakken, another member of Team Mascho, spoke up.

"Why are you stopping me, Risho? I was just about to finish it." Bakken grumbled while Risho pointed to the opposite side of the arena.

"If you had landed this punch, that would have been your death." Risho spoke only dryly, while Bakken blinked and looked in the direction in which Risho was pointing.

Yusuke and you stood there, both of you in your strongest attacking postures. Yusuke was ready to use his "Rei-Gun" while your chakrams had turned into icy-tessen (Metal fans), the tips of their spikes were reinforced with your Reiki and turned into razor-sharp blades that could be shot individually. You were both ready to kill Bakken if he made any move.

"Tch. Fine. Well, you can have him back." Bakken sighed and threw Kurama carelessly out of the ring. Yusuke and you immediately rushed to the passed out Kitsune and Yusuke carried him to the edge of the ring. You were right behind him. After Yusuke dropped him off, you kneeled down at Kurama's side and looked up your human best friend.

"Yusuke." You spoke in a serious tone. Yusuke turned to you. questioningly. "... Beat the shit out of him. Hit that asshole really hard with a greeting from me." You muttered with bared teeth. Yusuke grinned and gave you a thumbs-up.

"Rely on me, [Y/n]. I will make sure that he gets a proper rubdown. And greetings from you. Just take care of our Kurama." Yusuke answered with a wink.

You nodded gently and put your hands on Kurama's damaged chest to let your Reiki flow into his body. That should give him enough energy to activate his own self-healing powers. At least that was how it prevented him from having too little energy.

He almost died ..

When Kurama woke up a little later, he promised you to never again risk his life so lightly.

[End of flashback]

"Remember your promise." you said softly and took Kurama's hand in yours to give it an affectionate squeeze. The fox just looked at you apologetically, but he was weighing whether he could really tell you that he couldn't keep this promise.

"I'm sorry. This may be my first promise, which I can't keep, as much as I would like to. But ..." he began before you could sigh in frustration. Kurama smiled and put a strand of hair behind your ear. "I'll give you a new promise for that." He said and made you blink in curiousity.

"One that you will keep?" you asked.

Kurama smiled and pulled you close for a moment.

"Yes. I promise you, if I survive my fight against Karasu .." he almost sounded as if he didn't believe in it himself, which only unsettled you even more. "... I will take you as my wife as soon as my human body is 18 years old."

Your eyes widened, speechless, at these words. Kurama, who had sworn off love and certainly did not want to settle down in the human world, had just given you the promise of marriage if he should emerge victorious from the battle ..

"K-Kurama .." you started, touched, when the Kitsune put his index and middle fingers on your lips and gently shook his head.

"I have to go into the ring now." He said, because the referee Juri had to call his name again.

Kurama broke away from you and went to the battlefield, where Karasu was already waiting for him. You held your breath as the fight began. It was going to be the hardest fight of all time for him, you were sure of it.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The fight was clearly dominated by Karasu for a long time, who seemed to foresee every one of Kurama's steps. His rosewhip basically crumbled to dust before it could hit Karasu due to a miniature bomb that the black-haired man had already placed. Knowing that Kurama would resort to his signature attack.

Even the transformation into his Youko form only briefly gave Kurama the upper hand in this fight.

Karasu was strong, incredibly strong. Kurama was already bleeding profusely on his legs and arms from the bombs that hit his flesh. The transformation into his demon form had already reached its limits. Now everything seemed to be over for the redhead when he went down and his robe was already completely bathed in red blood.

It was a horrible sight, almost worse than Bakken's back then. Kurama stopped moving when Karasu tried to put an end to it.

With the very last of his strength, Kurama was able to mobilize his last reserves and thus also make his Reiki to zero when he conjured up a large, gray plant. Shortly afterwards he sagged dead and his friends, as well as you, cried out in agony.

"KURAMA!"

Karasu stopped. Not because he thought his opponent was dead, but because something had pierced his chest. Everyone stared in disbelief at the three vines of the plant that Kurama had conjured up with his last strength. They seemed to suck out Karasus blood.

"What is happening?" Kuwabara asked in disbelief.

"The plant sucks out its blood. Like a vampire." You explained and looked a little more composed again. Apparently you knew this technique. Since dated Kurama, the others weren't surprised.

Before the crowd could properly process what had happened, Karasu fell to the ground. His skin was pale from massive blood loss and his eyes were blank and torn. He was dead.

But what about Kurama?

Kurama opened his eyes. The bleeding wounds had closed again as if by a miracle and he straightened up slightly wobbly. Did the vampire plant fed him with the blood of his victim to save his life? It was the only logical explanation.

Tears now ran down your cheeks. No tears of sadness, tears of infinite joy. He was alive. Kurama had kept his promise and survived this fight.

Without hesitation for a second, after Juri made him the winner, you ran onto the battlefield and threw Kurama to the ground in a stormy embrace. The Redhead was unprepared for the impact and lost balance when you buried your face in the crook of his neck.

"Idiot. Idiot idiot idiot." You repeated several times, still sobbing slightly. This kitsune almost seemed to enjoy causing you so much grief by letting himself be beaten up in every fight.

Kurama smiled gently and caressed your back soothingly.

"Ssh. Everything is fine.", He whispered and heard only briefly loud sobs before you pulled away from him and stared at him.

"DO. THAT. NEVER. AGAIN." You warned and if Kurama wasn't grinning at you so sweetly, your anger would also come across convincingly. Instead, you just sighed softly and patted him gently on the shoulder. "But you also have to keep your promise," you added.

"Don't worry, I will." Kurama chuckled and turned to Yusuke with a hand sign. You blinked perplexed when Yusuke grinned and threw a small velvet box to him. Out of the corner of your eye you could see that it was a box with a beautifully decorated rose on the lid.

"Kurama .."

Kurama got on one knee and took your hand in his.

"I should do this formally and properly, don't you think?" He laughed and you suddenly realized something.

"... You already planned everything in advance, right ...?" You wanted to know.

Kurama gave a small laugh and kissed your palm lovingly before looking intensely into your eyes.

"Quite possible. No, but .. I've never met a woman like you in my life - and that applies to my human and demonic life - and I never expected to lose my heart to someone who makes me as happy as you. "

"Kurama .."

Kurama smirked when you didn't let him finish and cleared his throat to continue.

"Originally I wanted to stay in the human world because my mother and my friends were so close to my heart. But now there is another reason why I don't want to leave this world anymore. I want you by my side until the end of my days and ... start a family with you. In the human world. That is why I ask you, here and now, [First Name] [Last Name], do you want to be my wife and eternal mate? ", He asked and opened the box. Inside it was the most beautiful diamond ring you ever saw. Its sides were adorned with two beautiful jewels, a shiny [gem with your eye color] and a shimmering emerald. It was more than obvious that these jewels symbolized the eye colors of the both of you.

"Yes .. Yes, I want Kurama. Of course I want that!" You said overjoyed and let a smiling Kurama put the ring on your finger before he pulled you to him and kissed you passionately.

"U-Unbelievable! A marriage proposal during the final of the Dark Tournament! I've never seen anything like it!"Koto announced, she sat in the crowd as the second announcer and looked dreamily at the engaged couple.

You smiled and looked at the ring.

"So beautiful. But something's missing," you mumbled.

"Huh?", Kurama asked and you turned to him and grinned slightly.

"A topaz." You answered with a smile.

Now Kurama was the one whose eyes widened and he even blushed a little.

A topaz as golden as Youko Kurama's eyes. His demon form.

Now he was more certain than ever. He would never let you go again. He swore to himself.

[mollymauk-teafleak]

“don’t do that. don’t shut me out.” + Jupeter

I wrote this for @spiky-lesbian because she’s had a rough week so here’s some angst babe, go figure 

----------

“I’m getting too old for this.”

Juno was pretty sure PIs were supposed to think that sort of thing when they were doing something cool and dangerous, like leaping the gap between the cars of a moving train or ducking behind crates at a harbour to avoid laser fire.

Rather than crawling on their stomachs to get their pet sewer rabbit’s favourite ball out from behind the sofa. But hey, it was his day off.

Then again, Small Fry did look delighted when he straightened back up with a loud groan and the cracking of some vertebrae, whiffling her nose and hopping excitedly, shaking the floorboards of their little apartment. Smiling fondly, Juno threw the ball off down the hallway so she could chase it, squeaking happily.

“Next time that happens I’m not getting it out for you! You can go make goo goo eyes at your daddy for a change,” he called after her, brushing dust from his curls and his shirt. But the smile didn’t fade from his face, even after she had rounded the corner to go and cause mischief somewhere else. Anyone who said keeping a massive sewer rabbit in a modest Hyperion apartment was a bad idea was just too afraid of cleaning up the occasional broken lamp or gnaw marks on the walls.

He was about to straighten back up and go back to the book he’d been reading, he got so little time to do things like that these days but his husband was still at work, the boys were asleep and Bianca was happily playing in her room, giving him a rare hour or two to himself that he didn’t want to waste. He was mildly tempted to crack the lock on the drawer where Nureyev stowed away any case files he brought home so he couldn’t continue working himself ragged outside of his own office but, contrary to the size of the lock and the dedication with which his husband hid the key, he really was getting better at giving himself time off.

After all, it had been a hell of a long time since work was the only thing he had to keep him going.

He was about to do that when something else behind the sofa caught his eye, something that wasn’t just a toy of Bee Bee’s that she’d forgotten or one of Small Fry’s hordes of left socks that she liked to build nests out of. He was about to sigh and mutter something about the wonders of having three kids being that you’d find trash in the weirdest places but something wary ran its way down his spine. Something that was maybe instinct, maybe his detective brain putting pieces together and proving yet again that the years spent theoretically on the other side of law and order hadn’t dampened his skills.

Whatever it was, it made him reach out, once again feeling the twinge in the base of his spine, using his hip to nudge the couch further out so he could snag it and bring it out.

It was a small bag, something designed to be inconspicuously held at the waist or over the shoulder, dark in colour so it wouldn’t catch the eye. Juno frowned, the wariness growing stronger as he sat on the couch and opened it up.

He recognised the precision and fastidiousness immediately, like it was rolling off it in waves like too much perfume. It was in the way everything was crammed in so tight there wasn’t a spare inch of space, everything chosen for its shape and size so it would go in seamlessly like a game of tetris. It was in the items themselves, every possible scenario accounted for; dried rations, iodine pills to purify water, vouchers for shuttle tickets that would take you anywhere in the galaxy, tightly rolled stacks of genuine honest to god Earth currency to take you even further than that, no questions asked, clothes folded so tightly they looked like napkins at first. And, in an even more closely concealed pocket on the inside seam, fake documents, fake IDs, fake cards loaded up with fake creds.

And a knife. If Juno had been entertaining any doubts, any lingering threads of uncertainty, then seeing his tired reflection in that razor edge snipped them neatly away.

He sighed, long and low, filing through the emotions rising in his chest, sending away any that he knew weren’t helpful or were just offshoots of his anxiety, counting backwards from ten like Buddy had shown him until all the messiness sorted itself out.

He didn’t pick his book back up. He watched the clock and waited for his husband to come home.

Nureyev really enjoyed working at the salon. He kept waiting, expecting to get bored or frustrated with it all, but it hadn’t happened yet. He just laughed at the conversations with his colleagues more and more, got more familiar with the smell of hairspray on his clothes and felt a small spark of pride at the ache in his ankles at the end of a long day.

It was enough to make him feel something approaching hope.

He slid off his shoes, not wanting to track any dust from outside into the apartment. Living on Mars had meant needing to get used to the fine red silt clinging to his soles every day and turning up in the most inconvenient places, no matter how careful he tried to be. Juno, the Aurinkos and Rita barely even seemed to notice it. Nureyev assumed that came from growing up with the stuff.

The apartment was surprisingly quiet, enough that he was already getting ideas before he walked into the living room and saw his wife sitting on the sofa.

“What exactly have you done with our children, my love?” he grinned, “Bought us some alone time?”

Juno started a little at his voice, even though he should have heard him come in, the door closing, his keys rattling into the bowl. And when his eye lifted and met Nureyev’s, it was immediately clear that his ideas had been far off the mark.

“Yeah, Rita has them,” Juno’s voice was even, not full of scowls and snarls as usual, not in any way a ‘we’re in serious trouble’ voice but Nureyev’s veins still flooded with adrenaline as he rooted to the spot, a discordant clashing in his ears, “I did want to have some time with just you and me.”

“And yet you’re still dressed?” Nureyev was a little impressed with himself, how his tone came out still perfectly light and joking, like he wasn’t completely gripped by panic and his brain wasn’t scribbling blue prints behind his eyes.

It would seem hairdressing hadn’t lost him all of his skills.

“Babe, listen,” Juno sat forward, eye gentle, “Just come and sit with me, okay? Nothing’s wrong, nothing bad has happened or anything like that. I just want to talk.”

Nureyev frowned. Maybe he had lost his skills a little. Or maybe they’d just never worked on Juno.

But he did sit, stiffly, still braced for something awful in spite of his wife’s reassurance. And when Juno wordlessly produced one of his getaway bags and set it on the coffee table between them, he was ready to run.

But Juno didn’t let the moment build, he didn’t keep him hanging. He simply sighed and reached across the gap between them to take his hand.

“Peter, I’m sorry.”

“What?” Nureyev looked up, certain he must have misheard.

But Juno’s expression was firmly set in penance, mouth turned down, brow fallen across his eye which was soft and sad, “I never once asked you if you were struggling to adjust to the way our lives are now. I never thought to check in with you. I let you down in that and I’m sorry.”

“I...what?” Nureyev was well aware he was falling short of his usual articulation but no more words were coming in to fill the blank gap in his mind, “You’re not...you’re not upset with me?”

Juno frowned a little, shaking his head, “No. No, why would I be?”

“Because…” Laughter, of all things, raw edged and disbelieving bubbled up in his chest, “Because the only thing to take from this is that I’m insane or I was going to leave you?”

“Are either of those things why you’ve got these bags?” Juno asked evenly.

Nureyev winced, “You found the others?”

“No but I know you enough to assume.”

Nureyev took a shaky breath, “I’m not leaving you. And...and I don’t know whether I’m insane or not, honestly.”

The sadness in Juno's eye deepened and he squeezed his husband’s hand, “I don’t think you are but we need to talk about this. What exactly were you trying to prepare for with these?”

“I...I don’t know…” Nureyev didn’t like this one bit, this reversal of their usual roles, Juno being so calm and collected and even while he sat here struggling to leash his emotions, “Nothing! I...I wasn’t…”

Juno exhaled, something cracking through his calm, “Don’t do that. Nureyev, please, don’t shut me out. That’s the one thing I need you not to do right now.”

Nureyev felt his throat close and he couldn’t have said anything if his life depended on it. He didn’t want to shut his wife out, he really didn’t, but it was so hard to unlearn something that had been your first line of defence since childhood.

But if there was anyone who understood that, it was Juno.

“Listen, Nureyev, there’s no answer you can give me that will make me angry with you or upset me. I just want you to feel safe here with me and with the kids and...finding this, it’s just made me worry that you don’t?”

Nureyev forced his lungs to pull in air and turn it into words, determined to not be the man who had shut Juno out for years, the man who had packed those bags.

“I do feel safe here, I am happy here,” he promised, feeling the truth of it and drawing strength from that, “It’s just been so long since I stayed in one place, since...since I could feel safe. And sometimes it feels like another cover I’m wearing for a little while, like something’s going to change and I’ll have to run again. And I guess I just wanted to prepare for that, even if it isn’t what I want. Even if I’m praying it never happens, I just can’t let myself be unprepared. It’s not how I was raised. And having those bags...I can breathe a little easier. I can settle into this more because even if the absolute worst thing happens, I’ll survive.”

Juno nodded slowly, eye never leaving his husband’s face, “Nureyev, we both knew this was going to be a change. And change is hard, even if it’s for the better. And if this helps you settle down, I’m fine with that.”

“But I’m not,” Nureyev croaked, wanting to wipe his eyes so the tears there didn’t fall but also not wanting to let go of Juno’s hand, “I don’t want to live my life like it’s not mine. This isn’t a cover, it’s my family and my home and I want to feel like that.”

Juno squeezed his fingers, “This is yours, Nureyev. I’m your wife and they’re our kids and this is our home. No one is taking any of this from us, I promise. And if you need me to remind you of that, I will, every single damn day for the rest of our lives if that's what you need. And it fucking sucks that everything you’ve lived up until now is telling you different.”

“Yeah,” Nureyev mumbled, the tears falling and dripping off his nose now but they hit Juno’s hands before his own and he didn’t flinch, “It does.”

“Come here…” Juno murmured, pulling him close, wrapping his arms around him as their bodies fit themselves together, “You can cry, it’s okay.”

Nureyev did. Because he believed Juno when he told him it was.

They spent the rest of their rare evening alone pulling out all of the getaway bags Nureyev had stowed over the first week of their retirement from the Carte Blanche, all of the stockpiles of food as well, everything he’d hidden underneath their new life with Mag’s voice and the voice of a hungry child guiding his hands. They didn’t get rid of it, he wasn’t ready for that yet, but it went into a box under their bed instead.

And Juno still told him he was proud of him.

Nureyev thought there was always going to be that part of him that had Mag’s rules in it’s mind and a constant hunger in its belly. All he could ever do was fold it up as small as he could make it and find space for it in the back of his brain.

But with Juno’s arm around him and red dust on the soles of his shoes, that felt easier than it ever had before.

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Welcome To Backwater ch.2 (spicyhoney)

Summary: Stretch isn’t running away, not really.

He took the bus.

Only to end up in a little town in the middle of nowhere, meeting unusual people, dealing with unexpected happenings, what the hell is going on in this place?

Content:  Spicyhoney, Midwest Gothic

Note:  Just as a heads up, I'd give this story a warning for mild horror and mild gore. None of our boys, but better to let y'all know!

~~*~~

Read Chapter Two ‘Meet and Greet’ on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

For the next week Stretch spent most of his time trying to figure out the method in the madness to Red’s store management. His first day of ‘training’ pretty much consisted of Red showing up long enough to demo the cash register and then shuffling off to the apartment at the back where he lived. Not that pushing a couple of numbered buttons was that complicated, but that wasn’t the only issue cropping up around here along with the local corn.

First of all, nothing in the shop was priced. All the items were recorded in a ragged notebook with coffee ring stains on the cover, where Stretch got to figure out if an item fell under the category of ‘toilet paper’, ‘paper, toilet’, ‘ass wipers’, or ‘shitty ass wipers’, all written in Red’s sloppy handwriting. The sheer number of items that fell under ‘ass’ and ‘shitty’ were staggering.

Turned out, the little store actually did a fair amount of business. Plenty of Humans stopped in to pick up one or two things rather than drive to the nearest Wally World which according to Granny Collemore, who Stretch was guessing was the unofficial town gossip, was better than a thirty-minute drive away.

“Don’t need to be driving an hour for a little bum tissue,” she bellowed happily, “shopping day is Sunday, we’ll stock up then!”

Stretch nodded as he rang her up, wincing away from her volume. He’d figured out pretty quickly that the old woman was stone deaf, but she didn’t seem to care if all she got was a smile and plenty of nods, so that was fine.

She handed over a wad of cash pulled from a little embroidered change purse that let out a puff of lavender so strong when she opened it that it overshadowed the store’s normal musty smell, hollering the whole time. By the time she left, Stretch knew enough about the local weather patterns to make a rain prediction and that the way someone named Pritchard was hamming on a pretty young’un Eloise meant they’d best they be married soon ‘fore it turned into a shotgun wedding. He nodded along with every proclamation, hurrying around the counter to open the door for her and ended up spending five minutes waiting for her to shuffle her way out, her bunny slippers leading the way.

But as she was leaving, she reached up and gave him a gentle pat on the cheekbone, her wrinkled hand barely able to reach. “You’re a nice boy,” she told him, too loud and with a pink, gummy smile.

Stretch was too startled to flinch away and only managed to mumble a thank you as she headed off into the growing heat of the morning, a hunched figure in a flowery dress and pink slippers, her bag of emergency tp bumping against her hip as she trundled along.

That was another thing. He’d thought that the Humans around here would be distrustful, even malicious, but that wasn’t proving to be the case. Aside from a little surprise when they first saw him, all the customers so far were small-town kindly. Kids came into the shop to raid the nickel-candy rack, their bikes left in piles outside as excited groups came roaring in. Mothers came in with babies wearing only their diapers, fanning themselves and laughing out their, ‘my, isn’t it a hot one today?’ as they bought a half-gallon of milk and some fresh apples to put in the bottom of their strollers.

No one in town seemed to care that he was a Monster past asking his name and maybe it was just ‘cause of Red being a skeleton, too. Could be that Granny Collemore was out there somewhere bellowing that the local shopkeeper had family visiting, who knew? It was sure different than he was used to. The general sentiment in Ebott about Monsters was resentment; over them taking jobs, enrolling in the schools, whatever it was, they didn’t want Monsters doing it.

It was…nice, he decided, to not have someone dislike him on sight.

That was how he spent his mornings. He worked in the shop, idly dusting, putting away the deliveries that a guy in the pickup truck and overalls brought in daily, and borrowing Red’s wifi to listen to soft music on his phone. The calls had trickled to only once a day and the glaring red alert number of his messages kept climbing.

Stretch didn’t look at them, only skipped right over to Spotify and the 'The Wedding Singer Divorce Special pt 2' playlist.

Red came in every day to relieve him at around two. He grunted out something that resembled a hello as he heaved himself up on the stool, leaning his cane against it as he pulled out a battered romance novel from beneath the counter. The creased covered did not in the slightest hide the young, scantily-clad woman caught up in a fiery embrace with her highland Lord.

“be back later,” Stretch said as he hung up his apron. Not that it mattered, wasn’t like Red was his dad or even a friend, not really, and he didn’t care when Stretch came home. A couple times they’d eaten together, takeout from the local diner that was imaginatively called ‘Mama’s’, not ‘Eats’, watched a little but that was it. His lack of idle chitchat was the complete opposite of Blue’s constant stream of chatter and after years of that, the silence was kinda disconcerting, but maybe not in a bad way.

Red didn’t even look up from his book, only pulled a crumpled bill out of his pocket and pushed it across the counter, “pick up some beer at the station, wouldja?”

“sure,” Stretch said, almost grateful for something else to do. It was miles better than sitting the rest of the day in his little room with its faded, floral wallpaper where the air conditioning wasn’t quite able to combat the heat of the mid-afternoon sun. He’d done that once, the first day, and after that made a point of staying out of his room until sundown to give it chance to cool off.

The town itself wasn’t much more than a bunch of ramshackle houses. To the west were fields, the leafy tops of what Stretch was now certain was corn rustling in the wind. Off to the east, the landscape slowly went from flat plains to trees, their wilting leaves yellowing in the heat and ending in a wooded area that surrounded maybe half the town. Shame it was too far away provide much shade unless you went walking right into it. Main street consisted of a few other public buildings; a tractor store right up next to the thrift shop, a little one-room schoolhouse with an attached shed that served as the town library, the Sheriff’s office, and the movie theater.

On the outskirts of town there was also a bar, The Whistling Cow, its glowing neon sign a single point of orange light on dark nights. As much as Stretch wanted a drink, he stuck with filching beer from the cooler Red kept under the counter. Hanging around with strange, drunk humans usually didn't end well for him.

The movie theater was where he’d taken to heading after work. Someone with a sense of humor must’ve named the place, since ‘The Grandeur’ literally only had one theater and maybe thirty seats, if that. The proprietor ran the ticket booth and the concession stand, and in his threadbare uniform with its yellowing shirt, he looked a lot like Lurch's second cousin, once removed.

But he was a nice enough fella and it was a good way to waste some time. Even if the only movies showing were old black and whites, the popcorn was fresh, with real butter, and the added bonus of air conditioning. Besides, the Three Stooges were funny as shit any old day.

That was where Stretch was headed today; the afternoon showing only cost two bucks, then another for popcorn and he was set for a few hours. It was better than trying to get anything to tune in on the television in his overboiled room. With a lot of coaxing, he might manage to get a PBS channel, but there was only so much time a person could spend sweating their way through a staticky version of Sesame Street.

Stretch got to his seat just as the lights were going down, settling in with his popcorn. Before the movie there were a few cartoons, and it was kinda wild to get to see Steamboat Willy chugging along on the big screen again.

Today’s flick was an honest to bitsy silent movie and Stretch watched with a wide grin as Charlie Chaplin slap-schticked his way across the stage. There were a few other people in the seats, at least one of them snoring; probably only came to get out of the summertime heat.

But it wasn’t really the movie he was here for. Not today.

He’d seen her the first time he came. Sitting in the far back row, not that uncommon, some people liked to sit far away. No one else seemed to notice her and that wasn’t strange either. Normally even he didn’t pay much attention to anyone else in the theater, who did? So long as a person was quiet, made no ripples in the pond, no one saw them. Movies were for escapism, not to make new friends.

But this lady. To begin with, her clothes were about a century out of date, with her pink suit and matching pillbox hat, her white gloves, and whenever the house lights came up while they switch the reel, she vanished without even a shimmer of dust motes, only returning once the darkness did.

He’d been back three times so far and she’d been in the theater for every showing. Sitting on her own watching the flick, always in the same seat. This time, Stretch was sitting in the seat next to it. He munched his buttery popcorn and watched as Charlie Chaplin-ed his way through the movie. He didn’t have to wait long.

None of the Humans noticed. The black-and-white light coming from the screen was dim enough that anyone sitting in the audience was nothing but a shadow. Humans tended towards the unobservant side, anyway, none of them had to be as aware of their surroundings as a Monster did, especially one like Stretch with only 5 HP between him and dust.

Besides, there wasn’t any fanfare about it. One minute the chair next to him was empty and the next, a young woman was sitting there, her hands clasped primly in her lap as she looked up at the movie with rapt attention.

“like the movies, huh?” Stretch said, very softly. “always wanted to be an actor myself, but i don’t have the guts for it.”

Waste of a good pun, he didn’t even think the woman had a chance to notice he was a skeleton. She startled, one faintly translucent hand flying to her mouth as if to stifle a scream. Stretch only munched on another piece of popcorn and let her gather her wits or ectoplasm or whatever ghosts had. Wasn’t like he had room to talk, the inside of his skull was as hollow as a drunken apology.

She settled quick enough and asked in a wispy little voice, “you can see me?”

Stretch slouched back and propped his sneakers up on the seat in front of him. “sure. it’s a monster thing. we see things that humans don’t, sometimes.” Or didn’t bother to see, Stretch wasn’t sure which.

“Sometimes they see me,” she admitted. “but they always run away.”

Yeah, Stretch couldn’t really blame them for that one. Humans weren’t used to ghosts, not the way Monsters were, and now that he was sitting up close, he could see the way she flickered a little, that pretty face sometimes flashing onto something else, half still pretty as a picture from an old magazine and the other a bloody ruin. There was a gaping hole on one side of her head, her blonde hair matted into dark clumps, and one blue eye stared out, unseeing. There were flecks scattered on the shoulder of her pink suit, chips of ivory, and Stretch knew enough about bones to recognize skull fragments. Another flicker and it was gone, only a pretty young Human woman looking back at him. The effect was a little off-putting, true, but it wasn’t like she could help it.

Besides, Stretch didn’t have to look. He was watching the movie.

“what’s your name?” he asked, softly.

She hesitated and he wondered if she didn’t want to tell him or if she didn’t know. Her eyes were large, absurdly long lashes sweeping against her cheeks as she considered. When she spoke again her voice was a little stronger, surer, “Doris.”

“doris, my name is stretch,” he told her, “and it is a pleasure to meet you.”

They sat together in silence for a little while. The music coming brightly from the speakers was as cheerful as a carousel, offering happiness and humor when she spoke again abruptly. “I know this is very forward. But. Could you do something for me?”

“maybe,” Stretch said, a little wary. Better not to make promises to unknown ghosts, they could get tetchy.

She smiled, a wry curve of lips as if she could hear his thoughts. “Your popcorn.”

He looked down at the paper cup in his hand, still half-full of buttery kernels. “you want some?” he asked, bemused.

She let out a whispery laugh, like a wind rustling through summer cattails. “No, but. Can I smell it?”

Oh. “sure.” He held the cup out and she leaned over it, inhaling deeply, or, well, looked like she did, he didn’t think ghosts actually breathed, but who knew? When she bent down twin ribbons of blood ran from both her nostrils, dark and slick. It didn’t drip into the popcorn, couldn’t, it wasn’t present in the same way the little carton was, but he felt his appetite fade. He still politely pretended not to notice.

She leaned back with a happy sigh and all signs of the blood were gone. “Thank you. I go behind the counter sometimes to smell it, but it’s not the same.”

“i bet. gotta be in a paper bucket or it ain’t right.” If she could go out to the concession stand, that meant at least she wasn’t stuck sitting in this one seat. Maybe it was just her favorite. “you get out much?” He jerked his head towards the door, “outside, i mean.”

“No,” She shook her head sadly, and her hair brushed her shoulders. “I have to stay in the theater.”

He nodded sympathetically. That was gonna make this a little harder, but not too much. He liked the movies, anyway. “yeah, it works that way sometimes. but hey, i’ll stop back in and see you again. if that’s okay?”

She brightened visibly, coming sharply into focus like a lens turned on a camera, until the chair behind her only barely showing through. “Would you?”

Now that was a vow he could make and Stretch sketched a cross over his chest with a finger and said solemnly, “i promise.”

Their chat must’ve been getting a little loud. Someone was turning around in the front seats. The room was too dark to see, but he didn’t have to witness a glare to feel it. Stretch slouched down in his seat and took the hint.

Hey, he’d made a friend. Well, most of one and it was the important part. A soul without a body was a lot nicer than a body without a soul, hands down.

Which made him wonder about the gas station attendant, because Mitch made Red seem like a warm, outgoing person.

The ancient artwork on the front window of the gas station showed a shiny, smiling attendant in a tidy uniform, his neatly cut hair almost hidden beneath his cap as he held up a dripping gas nozzle in offering. That guy must’ve gotten promoted out of state, because the only dress code Mitch followed was ‘fuck it, looks clean.’ Long, straggly hair poked out from his dirty baseball cap and, of all things, he was reading the New York Times, the business section.

His saving grace was that his disinterest in all customers was universal. Mitch was an equal opportunity kind of guy; he didn’t give a shit about anyone.

Stretch opened the door carefully so that the cowbell only gave a muted clang. He hesitated inside the door and decided to brave a question. Hey, he’d made one friend today, may as well push his luck. “you got any coffee on?”

It was a pretty safe bet, even as hot as it was. Coffee wouldn’t help with the sweat that was already dampening his shirt from walking over from the theater, but Stretch felt a little unsteady from meeting Doris. He could use a dose of caffeine to shore him up.

Mitch didn’t look up from his paper, but he jerked his chin towards the back wall. “Yep, but the only coffee I got is hot. Ain’t no ‘spressos around here, Slick.”

“Hot is fine.” He didn’t bother correcting him on the name. Started with an S, close enough, they’d be best pals in no time. The carafe of coffee smelled surprisingly fresh, considering that Mitch looked like he’d been holding that chair down for a few hours. There was a plastic basket next to the carafe filled with little coffee mate creamer cups. He added four French vanilla, carrying his murky coffee up to the counter with Red’s six-pack. Beer was one thing they didn’t sell at the store, no alcohol at all, something to do with the liquor laws in this county and Red not paying those skinflint jackholes for a license, not on his ass, thanks much.

He paid for both, picked up his change from where Mitch tossed it unhelpfully on the counter and went outside, fumbling out his smokes on the way.

Stretch sat down on the crumbling curb, drinking his coffee and smoking, letting the caffeine and nicotine wash over him in a twin, soothing rush. He’d been trying to cut down with his funds being on the uncertain side, cigarettes were a pricy vice, and he couldn’t bum any from Red the way he did the beers.

The sun was still high overhead pouring down the heat, coming up off the pavement in shimmery waves. Sweat was rising up on his bones, his t-shirt clinging damply to his ribs and spine. Somewhere nearby, he could hear children playing, the hollow thud of a basketball and their laughter carrying on in the still air. He didn’t have anywhere he needed to be, no one’s expectations to live up to.

When his cigarette was done and pinched out, Stretch climbed back to his feet and headed for the grocery to drop off the beers before they got warm. Again, he went easy on the door, keeping the bell to a faint rattle rather than a clang. It was only when he turned around that he saw the front counter was empty, Red’s book bent open on the counter but no skeleton around to pick it back up.

He set the beers on the counter, calling, “red?”

No reply and that was strangely ominous in a little store where even a short skeleton would be hard pressed to hide.

There was a long hallway in the back that led past a couple storerooms to the apartment Red lived in. He gave the storerooms a glance, just in case Red had a sudden urge to restock the sanitary napkin display, and wasn’t very surprised to find them unoccupied. He saw the door to Red’s apartment was open a crack like it never was and that cranked ominous up to sinister. The lingering sweat on his bones was chilling in the air conditioning, but that wasn’t the only reason a sudden shiver rattled him.

“red?” Stretch called weakly as he pushed open the door.

The living room was small with a ratty plaid sofa and a coffee table littered with beer cans and balled up chip bags, and standing in the center of it was a person who was not Red, not unless he got one hell of a growth spurt while Stretch was gone.

Once, Stretch would’ve just taken a shortcut out, right the hell to the Sheriff station down the road and never had he missed the skill more than when the guy-who-was-definitely-not-Red started to turn around. The instinct to teleport was still there even if the ability wasn’t, fizzling out with an aching pain right in the middle of his chest.

It was only a minor distraction and Stretch blundered over to grab a lamp from a side table, yanking the cord right out of the wall as he brandished it over his head like a club, yelling shrilly, “what the fuck are you doing in here?”

The guy turned around, looking back at him with deep crimson eye lights that flicked briefly up to the lamp before meeting his wild gaze. His voice was as smooth and dark as deep water as he stated coolly, “I believe that’s my question.”

Stretch could stare and the only coherent thought amongst the many tangled ones scrambling through his mind was only two words. Simple. Descriptive.

Oh, shit.

-tbc-

[darkmindsotome]

Frozen Jealousy

Fandom: Love365 Masquerade Kiss  

Pairing: Yuzuru Shiba X MC

Word count: 3,046

Warning: NSFW Smut 

Written by: darkmindsotome 

Tagging @voltage-vixen as requested. prompt #1: Popsicle licking 

Darkmindsotome Masterlist

---

Frozen Jealousy 

It had been nearly a month or as a certain someone corrected me three weeks and four days since our last date that had been somewhere other than his place. Work had kept us both busy and I had just returned from a mission that took me to Hong Kong where I had to limit my contact with Yuzu to brief calls. Every time I heard his voice in my ear it made me miss him more. I missed his face and I could practically feel his breath in my ear as I struggled to remain focused on my job.

Now the moment was here where we could spend the day together and I was a bundle of energy. Hugo had given me a simple navy blue halter dress that buttoned all the way up the front. He had discovered it in a small boutique that reworked vintage designs and he said he simply couldn’t not get it for me. We ended up gossiping as he worked his magic styling my hair and doing my make up. In the end, it was almost as if he was more excited about this date than I was. Thanking him I made a dash from my apartment to our meeting place in town.

We said we would meet at a station and then I’d show him around the large park nearby, possibly go around some of its museums or the little zoo. I couldn’t help smiling thinking how adorable it would be to see Yuzu excited about one of the animals. For the length of time he had been in Tokyo it had surprised me when he told me he hadn’t seen much of it apart from the locations he went to for business. Although knowing my gorgeously intelligent boyfriend I really should not have been surprised that he had not looked into sightseeing as part of his relocation for work. He would have said it was an inefficient use of time that could be better spent further developing something at work and written it off as frivolous.

Speaking of inefficient uses of time, I checked my watch and realised that thanks to the catch up with Hugo I had left later than intended and was now running late. Knowing Yuzuru he was already going to be standing there waiting on me. His timekeeping was always impeccable and his schedules were so packed I had to book time alone with him. I shook my head and laughed at myself, what I once found to be so irritating was now simply one more part of the man I loved.

After passing through the ticket barrier I looked around and noticed him leaning against the entrance his hands holding his smartphone reading something completely unaware of the glances and looks he was receiving from the men and women passing by. His black hair shone in the sun like it had been polished and his earring twinkled. I smiled noting he had worn the outfit we had chosen together and not just appeared in his usual turtleneck and suit. The simple grey v neck t-shirt and buff tan leather jacket fitted him like they were custom made it was no wonder why so many people were checking him out. I swear he could wear anything and still look like a model.

“Yuzu!” I called out and waved to him. He turned his expressionless face in my direction slipping his phone into his pocket.

“You’re late.” His cold eyes scanned me like a laser. His voice was much softer than his words, not that I was going to point that out.

“I’m sorry I got held up at home.” Feeling terrible for making him wait even if it was only for a few extra minutes I gave him a rueful smile and apologised.

“Is everything alright?” He pushed off from the wall and came closer looking concerned.

If you had told me this cold, unapproachable and unreadable man could be like this I would have thought you were mad. Now though I knew all too well exactly how wonderful he could be. His words were much harsher than his actions, the chill of his countenance was still there but it protected a very sensitive and passionate man. My man.

“Yes, fine I was just catching up with Hugo and lost track of time.” Realising he had gotten the wrong idea I attempted to explain and was met with a partial sigh and a blank unreadable look after he schooled his expression.

“Mm. Come on let's go.” Yuzu took my hand causing my heart to skip a beat as he began walking briskly with me in tow. All I can say is thank god for training because if I was not an agent used to trying to run in heels, I would be in a lot of trouble right now. I wonder what got into him.

We went through the park gates and found a lot of people enjoying a relaxing weekend. When we had reached a quieter path that ran under some trees near a river he slowed his pace to match mine and stopped dragging me. The sun was high in the sky which felt wonderful but soon had us both showing the effects of the change in temperature.

I kept stealing glances at Yuzuru the fine mist of sweat glistening on his forehead and neck had my mind constantly venturing down the salacious path of remembering our times in bed together. The slip of our bodies together in harmony after becoming one and the way his hands never left me even for a moment as he stripped away my ability to think allowing me to only respond to him physically.

His eyes met mine and a small frown creased his forehead as he looked at me quizzically.

“What?”

“Nothing I was just thinking it's very hot out today.” I spoke quickly trying to ignore the ache that had developed inside me thanks to my rather vivid memory recall.

“Victoria said it is supposed to be the hottest day on record for the year so far.” He didn’t question my choice of topic, he just nodded in agreement adding to it by bringing up his AI invention. Knowing how he despises small talk I started to look around unwilling to test my luck further that he would continue to not notice my flustered state. There was a colourful sign for a small vendor that caught my eye.

“Hang on a minute.” I didn’t give him a chance to reply and darted off to get some refreshments for us both. When I returned, I had two popsicles in hand finding him waiting in the shade of some trees by the water and held them both out in front of him. “What one do you want?”

“I don’t mind I can just have the one you don’t want.” He shrugged as if he found this whole thing a bit pointless. To be honest, it annoyed me. He was so willing to try to please at times he ignored himself. I get he wants to avoid conflict and everything but there are times where he really didn’t have to worry so much.

“Nope, not happening. This is that ‘where do you want to eat?’ situation all over again and you said you would try not to do that again. You know you have preferences so pick one, I won’t be upset even its one I wanted.” I stepped closer still holding both popsicles out in front of me earning me an exasperated frown from him.

“You developed an annoying bug.” He still hadn’t moved to select one it was like he was stubbornly refusing to buckle to my simple demand.

“I’m sure you can find the solution later. Come on pick.”

“Fine.” He huffed and then took one of them from me waiting till I started to eat mine before doing the same. “Happy now?”

“Yep” I beamed a smile at him happy at my small victory.

“I really don’t get you sometimes.” He muttered a small smile playing on his lips that became wet as they wrapped around the popsicle. The flustered mess I was in danger of becoming before came back and hit me full force. The way his tongue came out just far enough to glide over the flavoured ice. How the natural fruit stained his lips in a new shade that had me wanting to taste them myself. I reminded myself that this was supposed to be a date and shifted my focus to my own popsicle hoping the cold treat would put out some of the fire growing in me.

We walked around eating the iced treats after a few minutes I felt something cold on my hand and realised mine was dripping. Without thinking I parted my lips and ran my tongue over the back of my hand chasing the liquid right up the side of the popsicle before putting it in my mouth to give it a hard suck in the hopes of removing enough excess juice from it to stop it dripping again.

I heard him stop in his tracks and when I turned to see what was wrong I nearly choked on the passionate look he was giving me.

“You did that on purpose.”

There was no time to react even if pulling away from him was the last thing on my mind. The sunlight vanished and I could feel the harsh bark of a tree against my back. We each still had hold of the sticks for the popsicles as he pressed himself closer. With the tree hiding us both he placed his free hand near my head effectively preventing escape, everywhere his body touched mine felt like burning.

“Did what?” I had a mind as to what he was talking about. It had only been a simple thing that had unintended suggestions attached to it but I couldn’t resist playing this deliciously dangerous game after being apart for so long.

“If you really don’t know then you’re even more dangerous than I give you credit.” Yuzu leant in covering my lips with his.

“Well, I am a dangerous woman after all.” My lower tone had the sweet kiss turn biting and passionate as his tongue ran along my bottom lip before plunging in to dance with my own.

Hidden from view we continued our little battle. Every kiss given was returned and every breath mingling became as hot as the sun. A soft thump on the ground gave us pause and I could see what was left of his popsicle had slid from its stick and fallen. Mine was probably not far behind it as the sticky sweet treat was melting much faster than before.

A wicked grin spread over his face, a look I knew all too well. It was part challenge part devilish as he took hold of my hand, now covered in melted fruit juice and began lapping it off my skin. I couldn’t take my eyes off him as he chased the drips with his tongue and paused only to give small nips and suckling on the inside of my wrist.

He looked at me from upturned eyes, those deep eyes of his drawing me into the bottomless void. Eyes I loved, the dry ice melting only to drown us both in passion. I started to become very aware of how suddenly restrictive this new dress was. My chest was heaving at the sight of the beguiling man in front of me all the things he was doing and all the possibilities of what I knew he was capable of.

“That’s it we’re leaving.” He stood up and pulled away from me, running his hand roughly through his dark hair giving it an unkempt look that was so unlike him.

“Where are we going?” I tried to pull myself together knowing that this was a public space and chastising myself for the fact I didn’t want him to stop.

“I’m fixing those bugs you developed right now.” He nearly growled as he struggled to keep his voice even and clear. I don’t think I’ve seen him like this before, the thrill of this new discovery had my heart racing even more as I allowed him to once more drag me along behind him.

The door to the hotel room that had been hastily acquired by the normally level headed Yuzu hadn’t even fully closed before I found myself locked in his strong arms. His mouth travelling along the nape of my neck as his clean scent like a winter’s night wrapped around me, claiming my senses.

“Mmm…. Ah… Yuzu wait.” I gave a small show of resistance that was certainly not up to my top-level agent credentials.

“Not happening I can’t” He was forceful and demanding, kissing me over and over alternating between soft and hard. His fingers roamed over my contours expertly hitting all the right places with just enough pressure to set my body purring like the engine on his beloved Bugatti.

“But…”

“You are far too good at generating a short circuit in me.” His voice was lower, far more sensual and his attacks were calculated. Not a single wasted motion, as to be expected from Mr perpetually logical with an eye for details and the skills to back up any action he desired.

“What?” Something was bugging me while I didn’t not want this to happen it just felt a little like something was off. Distractions in the bedroom are never a good thing, curse the mind of an agent and that dreaded gut instinct.

“I don’t see you for ages and we can only communicate via phone. That is fine work is work I knew what I was signing up for when I asked you to be mine.” He pushed me to the floor apparently the bed that was only a few feet away was too far. His fingers latched on to the buttons at the front of my dress popping each one roughly before exposing enough of my chest to push his hand up under my bra, cupping my breasts as his eyes burned with intensity. “But then you show up late and use another man as an excuse…”

“Wait! I already told you Hugo isn’t like that he’s…” My words were cut off as he squeezed hard on both my nipples at the same time causing my back to arch against the floor.

“Still a man. I suppose he picked this dress for you as well?” He moved his knee between my thighs with the little movement left to me I tried rubbing his leg with mine only to discover exactly how turned on he was and gasping. His hands don’t stop as they move to my back releasing the clasp on my bra and removing it skilfully as he shoved the top of the dress down to my hips. “And then you tease and torment me with that little display back there in the park.”

“Display?” It wasn’t fair he had me panting like an animal in heat, pinned beneath him and half exposed already while he had still failed to do more than shrug off his own jacket. I wanted him, I wanted to feel him. My hands travelled up to try to get a grip on his shirt to remove it only to be grabbed in his hands and have him guide them for me over the perfectly formed muscles of his stomach, pushing the fabric higher and higher until it was gone.

“You think I would miss such a thing? Or did you think I would be unaffected watching my girlfriend devour a popsicle so suggestively?” He was jealous and while it shouldn’t have been something I liked I actually did. A man of few words who showed even fewer emotions. Never said what he really meant and was hopeless with the human element in life. Yet here he was showing his raw emotions in front of me, my mouth watered as he dipped in to kiss me again.

“Mmm!”

He made quick work of removing my shoes and the rest of my clothing. I didn’t even notice him lifting me up to free the dress and underwear from my hips, my mind was in a total haze. He says I’m good at making him short circuit but honestly, when I’m with him it’s like a total system crash.

“You’re the only one that can make me feel like this.” Unbuckling his belt he slipped free of his trousers and took my hand once more guiding it over to rest on the throbbing hard length of him.

He hovered over me the heat rolling off him and over me making it feel like we were still outside in the baking sun. My hand travelled up his sides and found the same defined muscles on his back, drawing my fingertips over them as I tipped my chin to gain a kiss. As soon as our lips connected, I felt the familiar sensation of his fingers slide between my thighs. They alternated in direction and pressure targeting every nerve he knew would destroy me.

“Oh, God!” I cried out hips bucking against him making him groan into my mouth as he tried to reclaim my lips.

“Damn you’re sexy.”

“Yuzu?” We were both out of breath, panting and burning up. I could barely make out anything as my eyes started to burn with tears.

“I know.” Was all Yuzu said as he took one of my legs and placed it on his shoulder before plunging himself in as far as he could in one motion. “Ngh!”

“Ah!” The pressure from inside told me we were one and that was enough for me to start moving in time with him.

“Mmm ah MC!”

Our mingled breaths and voices filled the room with the scandalous noises of our lovemaking. I knew this would be the first in many rounds. We would talk and he would convince me, taking me over and over again. Matching his pace was all I could ever hope for knowing that this man was a human dynamo. I willingly gave myself over to the pleasure of being with him.

---

[5lazarus]

Anders in Autumn, Ch. 11

inspired by @cozy-autumn-prompts, number 11, hay ride. it was really that prompt that prompted the whole plot. I can extrapolate wildly! Check it out on AO3 here!

The elf has the blade of her staff right at Varric’s throat. Varric, of course, has his finger on Bianca’s trigger. Merrill looks absolutely despairing. Lavellan is staring at her, not the dwarf, and she does not look pleased. Her lip curls into a sneer, and the temperature rises uncomfortably hot for such a cool evening. Anders shifts. She must be a fire mage. “Varric,” Fenris warns, “put your crossbow down.” “Her first,” Varric says, not moving an inch. Merrill begins backing towards the door. “You good, Daisy?” “Oh, Merrill is always fine,” Lavellan sneers. “Clan Sabrae’s runaway First always comes away her hands clean, doesn’t she? Tell me, child, does the alienage hahren know you consort with the likes of him?” She jerks her chin at Varric. “She let you do the burial. You’ve dishonored the dead.” “I didn’t tell anyone anything,” Merrill protests. “Stop patronizing me! I’m barely younger than you, Imladris Ashallin. You have no right--” “I have every right,” Imladris snaps, “Marethari is dead because of you! And you’ve wiggled your way into the Kirkwall alienage. You should face the consequences of your disgrace.”

Anders raises his hands. He is beginning to sense he is losing track of the plot. First Fenris in his bed, well, sitting on his bed, then the grief and mess of Kirkwall and surviving, and he’s killed a guard, at least he did it with a sword, and now even more mess: it has been a long fucking night. Before he can open his mouth, though, Varric snorts. “Don’t you elves ever play nice?” he says. “I’m not here for your man. Not yet, anyway. The Merchants’ Guild doesn’t know his name. Yet. Put your weapon down.” The Dalish woman twists the grip of her staff, and Anders has had enough. He steps in. “This is a clinic,” he snaps. Justice is pushing behind his eyes, and lending his voice a reverberation. “No fighting. Both of you, calm down. I’m not having more bloodshed today, I’ve had enough.” Varric sighs. “Bad choice in friends, Blondie.” He lowers Bianca and steps back. Lavellan shifts her stance, but Anders can feel her twisting at the ambient magic in the room. Merrill is staring at from the other end of the room. His patients are beginning to stir. It isn’t right, they’ve been through enough, and he’s not having whatever Merrill’s made wreck through his shop. “I don’t even know who these people are,” Anders lies. He knows that they are agitators from Clan Lavellan from Wycombe, that they are Fenris’ friends, that, for the moment, they are his too--comrades, more than Varric is. “You know more than me.” Maybe Varric will volunteer information. He is feeling very clever. Varric eyes him: less clever than he thinks. He tries to deflect, a classic strategy he would employ in the Circle. It was always fun to mess with the aequitarians and the traditionalists; maybe that was why they all hated him. “Maybe Merrill can help.” “Yes,” Fenris says darkly. “Perhaps she can shed some light on the matter.” He is angry, vibrating with tension, and Anders leans into his heat. The elf has not reached for his sword once. “I didn’t sell you out,” Merrill snaps. “I never did. Just because I don’t want to get involved in your--machineering, doesn’t make me a traitor. I serve the People in my own way. And Marethari’s death was not my fault. The demon had taken her. It didn’t take me.” Anders is irritated. Merrill had woken the demon from the Sundermount, she had brokered the deal, and she had exposed her entire clan to its influence, and everyone knew the elves were more susceptible to the temptations of the Fade--though that is what the Circle taught, and really the elvhen mages passed the Harrowing as often as the human mages, so perhaps that wasn’t fair, even though they didn’t have the training to understand demons as Andraste taught, breaking down into the seven sins, but then again Audacity was beyond that, and old, old as Arlathan itself, and--he blinked. Justice said, pay attention. Dirthara ma, lethallin, suledin. Fenris let loose a huff of air through his nose, like an angry horse. “We don’t have time for this. Varric, why are you here? What did you say about the Guild?” Varric said, “When this is all over, you and I need to have a long talk about how you treat your friends. Especially when your friends disagree. If Hawke can deal with you and Blondie and Sebastian and Merrill and Aveline--really, take a page from Hawke’s book. They manage to get everyone to get along. You can try, you know. Communicate. Talk to me, Broody. And not just at poker night.” Fenris says, “Varric--don’t prevaricate. You came here for a reason. What is it?” Motion distracts Anders from their conversation. The Lavellan woman is inching closer to her husband. She wakes him gently, and there is a softness in her gaze that wrenches at his heart. He tastes envy, metallic on his tongue, as the man wakes up and reaches a weak hand to stroke her face. She clutches it to her, and he thinks, no one’s ever looked at me like that. Anders looks at Fenris and bites his lip nervously. There is nothing to expect. It would be wrong to expect anything, in times like these. “You four killed a guard,” Varric says. “And, listen. I don’t care about the guards. I’m happy to keep them off my back. And half the time they’re more trouble than they’re worth. But you chose exactly the worst time to kill one, and the Merchants’ Guild is talking about justice for the family.” Anders snorts. “Well, she was supporting a family.” “Supporting them by extorting local residents and beating strikers to death, but okay,” Anders says. Varric glares at him. “Moving on, the Merchants’ Guild promised justice to the family. Easiest and least controversial way to kill the agitators. No one likes a guard-killer, makes you all look bad.” “Except, of course, it’s okay when the guards are letting the magistrate’s son kill little kids,” Anders says, “or kill mages rather than send them to the templars. Or sell people to the Blind Men. Guard-killers, that’s what makes us look bad. Right.” Varric says, “I’m trying to give you a warning, alright? Get out of town. Ran into Daisy on my way here--apparently she’s heard similar. Someone in the alienage sold the Lavellans out, said they were here. So you guys need to get out of town for awhile. Especially you, Blondie. Smart that you killed her with a sword, but there’s only so many blond Fereldens running around Darktown. I’ve arranged you a way out.” Anders said wildly, “What about my patients? What about the strikers?” He saw Lavellan looking at them, supporting her man as he tried to climb out of bed. He was nowhere near well enough to be on his feet yet, not with the bash he got to the head. Anders hurried over and took his other arm, and settled him in a chair. What had Fenris said his name was? Mahanon. Perhaps it was better he didn’t remember. He stared at Varric. “What about them? I won’t abandon my patient, Varric. That’s got to be a ticket out for three.” “Four,” Fenris said. Varric raised an eyebrow. “I’m coming with you.” Anders blushes slightly. He wants him to come, of course he does, because Fenris is reliable in a fight. He knows these two elves. He knows the Free Marches better than him, too, since he had spent a few years in hiding before settling in Kirkwall. He doesn’t want to leave his clinic, though. He doesn’t want to abandon the Mage Underground, his friends locked in the Gallows. Meredith is planning something evil, she always is, and justice must return to Kirkwall, he cannot flee-- Lavellan says, “Stop.” She looks at the dwarf. “What will happen to the dockworkers?” Varric passes a hand through his hair. “The less I talk to you, the better,” he says. “I don’t want to remember you. I don’t want to know you. And you don’t want to know--well, we’ll reach some sort of settlement. Those ships need to move. And dead workers can’t load ships.” “How long do I need to be gone?” Anders says, heart sinking. This is where he belongs. This is where the work must be done. Bethany is expecting him to shepherd two apprentices through the sewers and hand them off to Samson, who will escort them to Rivain. Samson liked mages, and used to pass along messages for Karl before his friend was tranquilized, and would do anything for enough lyrium. “Give me a month to clean things up,” Varric says. “But you need to be gone before dawn.” He gestures to the door. “A farmer’s taking hay as far as the Sundermount. From there, you’re on your own. But you better act fast--before someone robs him of his horse.” Anders gestures at Merrill to follow him as he hurries into his bedroom, packing quickly. He stashes his few favorite things--the shawl Mahariel made him, his journal, his cracked phylactery, and that small embroidered pillow his mother sewed him, a lifetime ago. Hurriedly he informs her rapidfire about Messere Pounce-the-Second’s peculiar diet, what Bethany needs for the drop, and how to handle Samson when he’s in withdrawal. “You’re involved now,” he says. “Congratulations. No more excuses for complacency apparently, according to Lavellan.” “Imladris Ashallin is just like you,” Merrill says angrily. “Both of you expect everyone to throw away all their life’s work and dreams and passion for some abstract dream of justice. Just because you can do it doesn’t mean I can. Or that I want to. I serve the People in my own way--mages too, you know. Not everyone can do what you do.” “But you’ll do it,” Anders presses. “For Bethany, if not for me. Meredith’ll have them made Tranquil--and they’re children, Merrill. Do you want more blood on your hands? You’re complicit in this, we all are. We apostates have an obligation to those who are stuck in the Circle. What do you think they’d do to you, if they caught you? Wouldn’t you want someone on the outside, working to get you out?” Merrill makes a face. “I’ll do it for Messere Pounce,” she says. “Don’t tell Hawke. Please. They don’t--I don’t know what they’d do, if they knew how bad things were in the Gallows.” Anders grabs his bag. “Just remember--two scoops of the pumpkin, and make sure he doesn’t get into the cheese, it makes him sick. And he’s allergic to sardines!” Outside, in the cold predawn light,  is a horse and cart. The cart is loaded with bales of hay. He looks at it distastefully. He can already feel himself itching. They make a space for the four of them to curl up together, and then cover them again with hay. When he moves to sneeze, Fenris pinches his nose and he chokes on a giggle. Imladris has Mahanon’s head resting in her arms, and she scratches a cooling sigil into the wooden floor of the cart. It only makes it marginally better as the driver sets off. They jostle uncomfortably against each other as they drive into the sunset. It is not the most uncomfortable way Anders has escaped a city, but it is definitely the itchiest. He tries to say something to Fenris, an apology or a jeer, but Fenris just leaves his hand resting at his jaw and presses against him. That too is uncomfortable. The cart rattles on a particularly rough part of cobblestone, and Fenris snakes a hand around his waist to keep himself from being thrown against the cart. Anders leans against him with bated breath. It is suffocating in the cart, and he is afraid. Mahanon’s breathing is not as even as it should be. Fenris has also obviously eaten something garlicky the night before. He tries not to think too much about proximity. Instead, he worries about Merrill, and the mages, and his cat. He decides he will think about his cat, because that’s better than thinking about the alternative. An eternity passes as Anders listens to the rattle and jostle of cart over cobble transition to the paved road leading towards Ostwick. Then they are all nearly thrown out as it takes a sharp left and begins to escalate: the driver must be taking them in the Sundermount. He focuses on his breathing, on the mana thrumming in the people around him and the landscape unfolding him, and sinks into the wonder of it. The Dalish mage is all tightly controlled heat, like a planned burn on a field. She reminds him of a story Mahariel told him, about the Burning Man she met in the Fade at Kinloch Hold. Her husband, Mahanon, is less vibrant of course--he isn’t a mage--but all living things except dwarves exude some mana. When he closes his eyes he can see Fenris tattooed to the back of him. Danarius’s magic moves around his body, in those lyrium brands. Horrible, horrible, he thinks: Danarius should’ve died worse, we let Fenris go too easy on him. Finally the cart stops. They all tense. Fenris’ hand moves from his waist to his short sword, and Anders concentrates to bring  a quick mana blast. If he hits whoever’s inspecting them hard enough they’ll be stunned enough for the rest to run for it. Then a Ferelden-accented voice says, “Easy, mages. Just give me a bit to unload this. You’re in friendly hands now.” They push the bales off and blink into a beautifully clear autumn morning. Anders recognizes the small homestead they are parked at--friends of Hawke through Athenril. He breathes in that wonderfully sharp, woodsy air as they lurch out of the cart. He turns to help Imladris get Mahanon out, but Fenris is already half-carrying him. Anders hurries over, hands glowing. Mahanon gives him a weak smile and pushes him away. “Well,” the Ferelden smuggler says, “that’s you sorted. Dwarf says I don’t get paid ‘til you come home safe, so--farm’s yours for the month. But you’ll work for your keep. I need extra if there are templars involved.” The farmhouse is cute and clean, surprisingly prosperous for a Ferelden’s homestead--but of course Varric is paying him to hide whomever. He wonders if this is where Varrics disappear sometimes. Isabela has a theory Varric has a lover, probably named Bianca, and Merrill thinks it’s forbidden love, that she is a human noble or an Orlesian bard or something exciting. Anders really does not care. They settle Mahanon into a bed, and Anders changes his bandages. The cuts have scabbed over, but his ribs are still purpled and he cannot move particularly well. He leaves his patient to the tender care of his wife, and then collapses into the plush armchair by the fireplace. Fenris follows, and Anders reaches for him, exhausted. Fenris takes his hand and squeezes it. He meets their gaze and Anders sees an naked vulnerability there as exhaustion forces him to drop his usual guarded expression. For once Anders holds his tongue. Anders squeezes his hand back, and Fenris pulls away, and as he falls asleep he feels a blanket being draped around him. When he wakes up he finds his shawl tucked around him and his boots off: Fenris, and what has he done to deserve this sort of tenderness?

[bonebreakjack]

What Would I Be Without You?

Tenko and Hana take a leap of faith changing their lives for better or for worse. Along the way they uncover many secrets hidden away, try to find their way in life, and deal with their new eccentric roommates and their even more eccentric friends.

But at least their doing it together.

(An AU of what would have happened if AFO hadn't interfered with the Shimura family's lives. (Cause I refuse to believe he had no part in that horror). This is my take of what could have happened via what little we saw of the family.)

Chapter 2: What A Day...And It’s Not Even Over yet

If this was going to be a new normal, Tenko would rather take his chances and hide from society back inside the apartment becoming a shut in. It’s as if the universe was like ‘Fuck You’ to him and his sister the moment they stepped out. First they missed  the first two busses. Not even just one, but both of them, to get to the station. So they both had to run all the way to the station so they could make the train. Then there was a villain attack along the way and the crowd watching the Hero and Villain go at it. (Is that the new upcoming hero Mirko? She’s moving around like a frenzied rabbit keeping the guy disoriented.) Tenko would have been more happy to see the fight if we weren't worried about getting to school on time. ( Which really was more about keeping as much stress off his sister as possible she’s got enough on her plate besides worrying about him.) Navigating the crowd  was a nightmare and a half, no one wanted to move, half of them were being rude assholes and the other half kept hesitating cause they didn’t want to look away from the fight. Hana nearly tasted dirt more than a couple times and Tenko sure as hell did taste the dirt with being shoved around. They finally make it to the station only for the ticket machine to break and them missing the train having to wait nearly an hour for another one. Thus making them late.

 Hana tried to lighten the atmosphere by suggesting they go buy snacks while they waited, only for Tenko to tell her he was broke cause he spent the last of his money on house items they needed, and she herself had forgotten her wallet. Meaning they don’t even have money for the train to begin with. Wonderful. They did have a bit of luck in Hana digging through her bag and finding enough change to get them on the train, but she would probably have to ask one of their roommates to get her her wallet when they wake up. She paid for the tickets and they sat in silence on their phones. Tenko saw that his phone battery was in the red and went to get his charger …..that he didn’t bring . So he just wasted what little he had on mobile games. He threw the damn thing in his bag and scowled for the next hour, as the rage bubbled up inside him and he stewed like a pressure cooker. The train comes and one again he's surrounded by people, who were far too close and pushy as they packed into the train like sardines. He could feel his very thin rope of patience fraying quickly. He hated being touched, there were too many people, and today was NOT working in their favor, he has to go back to school in the middle of the year, they moved all the way into the city in a stranger's house he had never met, and its too much for the first fucking day- Hana reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing lightly and he throttled the urge to scratch at his face and neck. His sister hated it and it made her distressed. He stewed in stillness instead, thinking positive. At least they were together. Not.

Tenko was seriously contemplating homicide right now. He was jam packed alone on the train to the new school he had to go to, his sister got dropped off at her Highschool two stops before so he had to suffer alone now. This was pure crap and what's worse because of his height made him easy to push and shove around, and God help him Why is everyone TOUCHING HIM?

This was the start of what Tenko was sure to be a Hellish day.

Fuck.

The hiss of the doors alerted him to freedom and he clawed his way out nearly knocking over an elementary school girl. From what he could see she apparently had a similar plan but was using the wall to avoid death by stampede. Apologizing under his breath, Tenko pulled her up and then shoved her through the door before following. He yelled out another apology as he ran, noticing the time.

A plain faced boy passed him wearing the same uniform, his face more panicked as he ran to get to school. HE was a bit weird out by the boys muttering of wanting to avoid his mother's fly swats.

More and more students passed by him as he slowed down wearing the same uniform as him. He couldn't help but stare at how much more unique looking everyone was in comparison to the private school he went to. A sense of more freedom filled the air and the students seemed more lively. They seemed pretty happy and content rubbing their good mood to everyone today.

Maybe today won’t be as bad as he thought-

He was shoved to the side very roughly by a much taller bastard of a kid with dark red brown hair with needle like appearance and gold eyes. He smirked condescendingly down at Tenko who glared back up at him. He began to walk away but Tenko wasn't about to let him. Nope that was the last fucking straw that burnt up the rest of his self restraint. He couldn’t help his lips twitching, wanting to stretch into a smile as a thought passed through his head. Hello, Misplaced Aggression.

"Hey bastard what was that for?" Tenko was snarling at the now surprised boy, assholes like this think they're so damn mighty until someone barks back. But they messed with him on the wrong day.

"You were in my way shortly, learn to make room for your betters!" The Tall Bastard, as Tenko now deemed him, had gathered himself after he realized Tenko wasn't backing down. His two friends flanking him to try and further intimidate him.

Tenko just scoffed and wondered when they started cloning cliches. Different schools have the same bullies, how predictable. The ones back home were scarier anyway, they actually knew who his dad was.

"Oh I'm sorry your majesty, I didn't realize you have a Caution: Wide Load sign on you."

The silence was too beautiful, he should have recorded it, or took out his phone to take a picture (he was still mad at leaving his charger at home). The Tall Bastard’s face was turning a funny shade of red from humiliation and anger. His friends looked wary and looked at their leader  before backing away slowly. “You looking down on me you puny bastard!” Tall Bastard picked Tenko up by the scruff of his collar and Tenko could almost hear a choir cause it was as if his prayers were answered and someone decided to send him a punching bag.

If that’s the case then… A yelp that sounded like a came from the mouth of a dog came out of the Tall Bastards mouth and he dropped Tenko to cover and hold his injured crotch from where Tenko kicked him. One doesn’t play fair with those who won’t give the same treatment. As soon as he was on the ground Tenko’s leg shot out to kick Tall Bastard on the back of the head making him hit the ground. He picked up his backpack where it had fallen and went to walk away. “Hey asshole I wasn’t done with you-!” “Wait Soga! You can’t get in trouble again. You could get expelled this time.”One of the friends spoke up, he had a reptilian appearance and on the short side. He grabbed his friend Soga’s arm to keep him from attacking Tenko. “Let's Just leave besides I get the feeling this kid isn’t all there if yanno what I mean.” Tenko felt a scowl pull at his lips at the remark which caused the reptilian human to hide behind Tall Bastards-Soga’s- body. The two boys stared at each other down before Soga tsked and spat on the ground. “Fine whatever, he’s not fucking worth it anyway.”They walked to the school entrance, though Tenko noticed with slight satisfaction that Soga was limping as he did. It didn’t help the bitterness that burned in his lungs as the words ‘Not worth it’ , ran in his head. The small fight didn’t help his bad mood and he grumbled all the way to the Staff office as how unsatisfied he felt.

  He got scolded for being late on his first day of transferring by a bulbous looking teacher. He was just in time for the 2nd period to begin but they weren’t lenient on tardies. And no, you can’t use a villain attack as an excuse. Asshole. Tenko looked sourly down at his schedule and the added papers on top of it. Apparently his sister had asked the staff to give him a list of clubs he could join this late in the year. He and Hana transferred to their new schools in the middle of fall, a really weird time but they didn’t have much of a choice. Ugh he didn’t even do clubs back home, why would she think he would now? He trudged all the way to homeroom and was met with the Class representative, a lanky boy with a split mouth and slim face. When he spoke his voice contained a slight hiss and small bumps of flesh along with extra needle-like rows of teeth shows. A snake-like quirk it seems. The boy was polite and said u anything to ask him. The only seat available was the one in the cornerback near the classroom closet. Another good thing that happened today seems, best place to pretend you're doing work and take a nap. He had a few minutes before 2nd period officially started which was physical education and all the boys were changing. Since he hadn’t gotten his uniform for that yet he was allowed to sit out or stay in the classroom. Obviously he decided to stay and the class representative went to go change himself while Tenko worked on setting up his desk to take a nap on. At the corner of his eye he spotted a strange looking teenager with bandages all over his arms and neck. His hair was black in a way that clearly looked dyed, and his eyes were almost a luminous blue. Something about him kept nagging at Tenko’s brain. He decided to just go back to minding his business and didn’t even know why some random kid caught his attention anyway. The moment every one left he  laid his head on his desk and knocked solidly out. ----- Tenko and Hana were walking home when a man with white hair stood in front of them, he smiled kindly at them and for some reason Tenko was having a hard time putting a face to this stranger or even a name. Is he new around here? Did he just move in? Tenko didn’t hear the others talking about anyone new in the neighborhood. The man was talking to them about something but Tenko can’t remember what he was saying. The words just sounded like noise. He reached out  to him with a hand but Hana put herself in front of Tenko and started screaming about a pervert and calling for help. Whatever ease Tenko had felt disappeared when she did and followed her lead bringing the attention of whatever adults in the area to them. Hearing a familiar dog-like growl, Tenko felt relief as he saw Mikkuns mother stomp up to them and the man backing up as she interrogated him on what he was doing with them. Getting vague answers she tells him she has never seen him around here before, putting her body right in front of them blocking their view of the man. The words became a blur again and whatever he said seemed to pacify her but then Mikkuns mom was leading them home. She was talking to herself, french accent thick with anger and suspicion as she was going to tell the other neighborhood parents about this. His own mom opened the door demurely as if waiting to receive bad news and apologize. It hurts Tenko to know she was already suspecting that he got in trouble for something. To her surprise and fear Mikkun’s mom was talking about how a strange man had begun talking with her children but Mikkun did not recall anyone moving in recently. She was going to ask the other mothers but warned his mom Nao to keep an eye out. They ended up receiving praise from the French woman for their quick thinking and instincts before getting head pats from her paws. She bidded them a good day before marching off intending to go warn the others parents. Mikkuns mom was pretty cool. Both kids were brought into a hug by their mom who was so happy they were okay before ushering them to the living room and rushed to go talk to grandma and grandpa. Tenko wondered why he can’t seem to recall this mans face-

“Shimura-san, Shimura-san…”Somebody was shaking him, ripping him from his memory. Tenko blearily looked up to see the class president looking down at him in concern. Shooting up from his desk thinking he slept while class came back, but was happy to see it was just the class  President there. Seeing his gym uniform showed he had come from where the class actually was to find him. “Sorry about that Shimura-san, a man had come to school saying he bought something from home that you forgot..” A shadow image of a taller man with slicked back hair and cold eyes flashed in his mind making him shudder. A wave of fear ran through him and all he could think was pain. The President looked concerned at Tenko reaching his hands out as if to prevent him from falling over but Tenko stepped out of his reach.

“It’s fine, I wasn’t doing anything anyway. Who did you say came by?”He let out a shuddering breath and gathered himself in case it was who he thought it was. The President's tongue slipped out as if tasting the air before letting out a sign. “A Shirakumo Oboro? Do you wish for me to tell him you're busy? I will if you want.” That was surprising, most people wouldn’t lie to an adult so blatantly like that and not for someone else. It made Tenko feel a bit awkward but also a little happy. “No it’s fine I know who that is. Thank you….” Tenko trailed off. A flush of heat hit his cheeks once he realized he has no idea what the president’s name is. It got even worse one the other taller boy realized and laughed softly. The president led him out of the class to the front entrance. “Uroko Sogen. Now let’s hurry, there isn’t much time before the rest of the class comes back.” Making it to the door he tried not to look too surprised to see one of Hana and his new roommates, or really he should be calling them the actual tenants, here at his school. The man was on the taller side with tan skin and a scar on his head, his hair flowed around white and fluffy like a cloud even though it was pulled back into a ponytail. Blue eyes caught Tenko’s form and waved at him like an enthusiastic idiot. 

Which had the opposite effect it intended, making Tenko want to do an 180 and go back to class. “Lil Shimura-chan!” Actually never mind he’s just going to go back to class. “NO WAIT, I GOT YOUR CHARGER!”The older man screeched, panicked seeing Tenko actually maneuver to go back inside. Tenko looked confused and a little suspicious that the man came all the way here just to deliver his charger. “Hana texted me saying she forgot some things at the apartment, and that you also forgot this. I wasn’t working so-” He went to one of the multitude of pockets he had and pulled it out letting it fall gently into a confused Tenko’s waiting hands. “The first day can be rough, and from what I heard from Hana it was far from ideal for the both of ya. It ain’t much but I can take you two somehwere to eat after she’s done training? I know a place with great Sushi.”  It was a bit silent after that but Tenko felt his lips twitching into a small smile. Shirakumo didn’t have to do that, he could have just dropped off his sister's stuff and be done. It felt nice to be considered. “I think I would like that.” The smile he got from Shirakumo was downright blinding, seriously did he employ the sun into his teeth why was it so bright?! 

“Alright! I’ll leave you to it then. Have a good day Lil Shimura-san!” The older man waved at them before taking off on a cloud like a dragon ball parody character. Huh so that what his quirk was, he wonder how he implements that into his hero work- “Shimura-san class is about to start.” Tenko’s thoughts were interrupted before nodding at the boy as they went back in. He couldn’t help but squeeze the charger in his pocket, happy that some good things came out of today at the very least. They got into class and all the boys had finished changing back into their regular uniforms. His eyes caught the blued eyed black haired kid again and was shocked to find he had piercings in his ears, nose, and lip. He couldn’t believe the school even allowed that. The other kid looked up before giving him a wink flustering Tenko.

Distracted he didn’t see the small girl trying to get into class and tripped right over her knocking them both over.

Dammit he jinxed himself. Tenko quickly got up and pulled her up to her feet. She was so small for a second he could have mistaken her for a younger elementary student. Her hair was a pinkish red and she reminded him of cherub from those paintings but without the wings. “Ah I’m sorry-!” They both started and it became a babbled mess that the president broke up since they were in front of the door. The girl sat in the front seat looking down at her now dirty uniform, and Tenko winced before deciding to pay her back later for that.

The class filled in and sat around talking to each other. He tried to ignore the occasional glances his way from his new classmates and especially that bastard with the glowy eyes. A heavy knocking and the class stood up as this ridiculous amazon of a woman walked into the door. She was clearly built under her suit and skirt and looked more like she would fit in a fighting ring than she would as a teacher. Her hair long purple pink, and eyes that looked shiny and red. She looked even bigger as they sat down. “Helloooo class!”And Loud, she was very loud, it grated on Tenko’s ears a bit “Now I’m sure you all were gossiping about it during gym, but I’m a say it again anyway. We have a new classmate with us.” She looked at Tenko and invited him up and damn he hated this. He trudged along slowly to the front as the teacher clapped her hands. “Let’s make this quick, we have free time and I’m sure your classmates are excited to get to know you. Why don’t you tell everyone your name, what you like, and your quirk as an ice breaker?”

Her voice became softer as she handed him the chalk. His classmates leaned in excited to gossip or rip into him the moment he was done and Tenko felt like he was in the spotlight. He wanted to puke. It would have been fine if she didn’t mention the damn quirk thing. Tenko was hoping to avoid that a little longer. So much for good things happening, right back where he started. A familiar rage boiled inside him, or it could be the stomach acid from his anxiety. His hand shook a bit as he wrote his name down slowly trying to buy himself some time. He looked at the board hoping for some answers but got now. Resigned, he put it down and turned to his excited classmates. Sogen, Dye job with blue eyes and the small cherub girl were the only ones who looked subdued.

“I’m Shimura Tenko, I like video games and syrup covered mochi,” He took a breath and decided to rip it off like a bandaid. They would find out sooner or later anyways.

“Quirkless.”

[jamesdeerest]

could have been me

pairing: newt scamander x reader, theseus scamander x reader

request: anon asked “can u give us newt scamander x reader x theseus angst but then a happy ending with reader x newt”

notes: yes i can anon :) also while trying to find a good gif, i have unwillingly been shown the horror that is the #scamandercest tag and i am currently trying to bleach my brain :)

warnings: swearing. dude this gets friggin angsty

word count: 1.8k

“Hey, buddy! Do you want some breakfast, hm?” you cooed at Theodora, a female Erumpent who was nudging your arm gently. Pouring out some food into a massive bowl, you patted her, and walked onto the next habitat, grabbing the right food for the creature.

Newt looked at you from the Bowtruckle habitat, Pickett sat on his shoulder, a soft smile on his face, before he jerked up, nearly jolting Pickett off as he realised he’d been staring. Again. He flushed, looking down, before glaring at Pickett who was poking him insistently. “Shush, you.” he murmured, before glancing back at you, the smile settling back on his face.

You had been his assistant for a couple months now, and you had immediately fitted in with the animals and Newt. Especially Newt. Even though you turned him into a flustered mess. you were just really cute, okay?! 

Unfortunately, his brother, Theseus, thought so too. And he was slightly better at flirting.

Speak of the devil. Theseus climbed down the ladder and walked over to Newt, pulling him into a hug. “If it isn’t my favourite little brother. How have you been, Newt?”

“I’m your only little brother. And I’ve been fine, except for the-” Newt broke off as Theseus walked over to you, kissing your cheek. Smooth git.

You smiled at the Auror, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “Hi, Theseus! Haven’t seen you in a while, where have you been?”

Theseus shrugged it off, oblivious to Newt’s death glare. “Oh you know, here, there and everywhere! Comes with the job, i guess.”

You smiled, picking up and stroking the Niffler who had been pawing at your leg. “It must be so cool, being an Auror. You get to travel all around the world! I wish I could do that.”

Theseus smirked, winking at you. “I will admit, it is pretty cool. I’m sure you could do it, though! I remember you being smart in school, so I’m sure you’ve got the grades. we could use someone like you.”

You bit your lip. “Maybe someday. I’ve got my children to look after, though! I don’t think newt would be a good single parent.” you laughed, gesturing to the Niffler who was burrowed in your arms.

Theseus chuckled, scratching its head. “Well, let me know if you ever change your mind. I best be getting back to the office! There’s some inspector coming in, and we have to be on our best behaviour.” he said, rolling his eyes. You nodded, before leaning in and kissing his cheek, fighting off a blush as you did so.

He beamed at you, before walking back to the ladder, nodding at Newt, and climbing up the ladder. You sighed, a smile on your face, and started rocking the Niffler as it slowly fell asleep.

Newt was furious. Theseus thought he could just come in and sweep you off your feet! He’d liked you for ages, but he just had to be so flipping awkward. Ugh. And you weren’t helping, either! You were flirting right back with him, completely ignoring Newt!

A frown had settled onto his face, and you looked at him, concerned, walking over and placing a hand on his arm. “Are you alright, Newt?”

He jerked his arm away, eyes glinting sharply. “I’m fine, Y/N.”

You stepped back, eyebrows raised. “Jeez, what got your knickers in a twist?” you snarked, your previously happy mood gone. At his silence, you walked up to the ladder, setting the Niffler down before climbing it, looking back at Newt. “I’m going to get lunch.” Newt bit his lip, before looking up. “Y/N-”

However, he was only answered by the trapdoor clanging shut.

You swore as soon as you were out of the suitcase- like the genius you were, you had left your wallet inside. But like the stubborn git you were, there was no way you were going back in for a good couple of hours. Walking out of Newt’s apartment, you paused for a second on the street, before locking eyes with a familiar face.

“Theseus! I thought you had to get back to the office!” you smiled, walking over to him. He smiled back, shaking his head. “Nah, they had it covered. Anyway, do you want to get lunch? I’m starving.” you beamed, nodding, before you remembered. “Shoot. I left my wallet in the suitcase.”

Theseus glared at you, grabbing your hand and leading you off. “Y/N, I’m paying. Now come on, there’s this chippy a couple streets away which does the best chips. You haven’t lived till you’ve had them, trust me.” 

You laughed as he dragged you along, before walking in the chip shop, stepping up to the counter. “Large bag of chips with salt and vinegar, please.”

Newt ran out onto the street, your wallet clutched in his hand, his head flicking from side to side to try and catch sight of you. When he couldn’t find you, he groaned, before turning down the nearest street to look for you. You couldn’t have gone far, right? 

After turning a couple corners, he stopped, sighing in frustration. Why did he have to get mad at you. You hadn’t done anything wrong, but there he was, messing everything up as usual. 

Suddenly, he heard the familiar sound of your laugh, and his ears perked up. He looked left, into a chip shop, and his heart lifted at the sight of you... and then promptly sank when he saw Theseus.

Theseus, who was holding your hand as you both laughed, tears in your eyes.

Theseus, who was staring at you adoringly, but only Newt was allowed to do that!

Stupid Theseus, who was a stupid Auror, who dazzled everyone, and honestly? Newt wasn’t surprised that you picked him. Everyone did. Newt was just Theseus Scamander’s little brother, the fuckup.

He walked into the chip shop, glaring at the pair of you. Theseus just smiled confusedly at him, whilst you refused to make eye contact. “You know what, Y/N?” Newt said, biting his lip. You looked up, brow furrowed. “Don’t bother coming back to work. I’m sure your new boyfriend can get you a fancy new job at the ministry.” he hissed, surprising both himself and you with his words. Your jaw dropped open, while Theseus stood up, shoving his chair back. “What the hell are you talking about, Newt?! You can’t fire her!”

Newt looked sharply at his brother, jealousy burning hot in his veins. “Oh, can’t I?”

Apparently, he could. As much as he resented that fact for the next three years, he could, and did, fire you.

Newt hadn’t seen hide nor hair of you since then, but oh, the things he had heard. Y/N L/N, the upcoming Auror-in-training, said to rival dear old Theseus. Surprisingly, they hadn’t gotten together yet, but that didn’t stop Newt’s brain conjuring up endless scenarios of the two of you laughing together, kissing, going on dates... Newt wasn’t angry, though. he had got over his anger a couple of hours after that dreadful incident. 

Newt was lonely.

He missed you, and so did the creatures- the Niffler wouldn’t look at him for weeks after. It was so quiet without your presence lighting up the room, and he wasn’t sure how to fill the space. He threw himself into his work, identifying, adopting and teaching the world about countless creatures. You were right about one thing, at least- Newt was a terrible single parent.

He was distracted from his thoughts, however, by Jacob, who was clutching a letter in his hand, holding it out. “An owl just dropped this off. Dunno who it’s from, though.” 

Newt smiled gratefully at the man, before ripping it open, a little card falling out onto the floor. Picking it up, he scanned it quickly before dropping it again. 

‘You are cordially invited to a celebration of Y/N L/N’s graduation of the Auror Training Programme, on Saturday 23rd September, flat B5, Rook House, Jeffers Street, London, at 6pm. RVSP- regrets only.’

Newt stared at the invite wide-eyed, before standing up and pacing, much to Jacob’s confusion. “I need to book a ship ticket! I- 23rd, that’s not that much time! I’ve got to-”

“Newt! Slow down, buddy, you’re freaking me out! What’s in the letter?”

Newt looked up at him, biting his lip, a habit he had never been able to break. “Have you heard of Y/N L/N?”

Walking up to your front door, Newt paused, his hand poised to knock, doubts racing through his mind. Did you even want to see him? He did fire you, with the only reason being that he was jealous. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Bracing himself, Newt knocked on the door, and a few seconds later it swung open to reveal you.

You looked good.

Newt wasn’t that surprised- you looked good back then.

But going by the look on your gorgeous face, he’d been staring. Oops.

“Newt! It’s so good to see you, come in!” you said, opening the door wider to reveal the party in full swing. He nervously smiled, leaning in to kiss your cheek, and offered you the gift in his hands. “Congratulations,” he said awkwardly, and you cooed, pulling him into a hug. 

“Thank you, Newt! It means a lot. Now come on, it’s getting cold out.” You hurried him in, shutting the door, and Newt inwardly winced. Parties were never his scene. No, that was more... Theseus.

Theseus, who was (very badly) half dancing, half walking over, before picking you up, spinning you around, and pulling Newt into a hug. “I’m glad you came, Newt. We all are.” 

Newt nodded, smiling a thin lipped smile as he tried to push down that familiar wave of jealousy. “It’s good to be back.”

Theseus grinned, turning to the crowd of people, who seemed to be... anticipating something. “Anyway! Now that everyone’s here, Y/N, darling, would you come with me for a second?”

Newt blanked. Darling? Were you two...

You looked at Theseus, a confused but fond smile on your lips. “What’s going on, babe?”

Theseus led you to the middle of the room, where everyone had formed a circle, before... getting down on one knee.

Shit.

How much had he missed?!

“Y/N L/N, you’re the best woman I’ve ever met, and soon to be the best Auror, too. I’m so glad I got the balls to ask you out three years ago, because I had been crushing on you for god knows how long before that. So, darling, will you marry me?”

You nodded furiously, tears streaking their way down your cheeks. “Of course, you idiot!”

Theseus beamed, sliding a shining diamond ring onto your finger before standing up, gently kissing you. Everyone cheered, but Newt slipped out the room, unable to take it anymore.

That could’ve been him.

Why did you choose Theseus?

Why did everyone choose Theseus?

taglist: @shadylittlewonder @hoewkeye @blackpinkdolan @sassy-specter @im-eating-rn @knowledgeisthebomb

[jabbajambler]

21

Human

The Mandalorian/Din Djarin x f!OC

Word Count: 2,261

*GIF by @smoak-and-mirrors*

         Night had fallen, the moon rising high into the sky and leaving the desert plains dark and cold. I was woken up by the feeling of Din's hand leaving mine, shifting into his own lap. He must've been awake long before I was.

         I shivered and rubbed my eyes as I opened them, looking out across the dark sandy hills. It was unbelievable how unbearably hot it could be during the day only to practically freeze outside at night.

         "Alright, suns are down. Time to ride, Mando."

         I heard Toro speak. He let out a quiet sigh and made his way over, his boots kicking up the sand.

         "Come on, wake up." He whined.

         "Oh, leave him alone, Toro. He hardly gets any rest." I cautiously scooted away from him to stand up without waking him. Or, at least not disturbing whatever rest he was currently getting.

         Toro chuckled and continued to pester Din. "Look at you, asleep on the job, old man." He grabbed his blaster jokingly and pointed it at him. I had half a mind to pull mine on him instead.

         "You done?" Din grumbled and turned his head towards Toro.

         "Yeah." Toro mumbled and holstered his blaster, his face growing pink from embarrassment. "Yeah. I was just, you know, waking you up. Come on."

         "Get on your bike." He stood and began digging through the pack he had strapped to the speeder. "Ride as fast as you can towards those rocks."

         "That's your plan?" Toro scoffed. "She'll snipe us right off the bikes."

         Din tossed him a flash charge, something I guess the newbie bounty hunter had never seen before. If we hadn't been here to help him, I'm positive that he would already be dead.

         "It's a flash charge." Din spoke as though it was the most obvious thing in the world while he swung his leg over his bike. "We alternate shots. It'll blind any scope temporarily. Combine that with our speed and we got a chance."

         "They're a great tool for hunters. You might want to invest in some." I smiled and pulled myself on the bike behind Din.

         "Woah, woah, woah, wait." Toro waved his hands around. "A chance?"

         "You want to be a bounty hunter, right?" I chuckled and wrapped my arms around Din's torso. "Everything you do is a chance."

         "Get ready." Din's voice broke through right before speeding off ahead of Toro.

         We sped towards the cliff as fast as we could with Toro not far behind us. Good, quick learner. Maybe he wasn't so bad. The Force must've sensed that in him.

         Din fired the first flash charge as we neared the wall, its whiny sound hurt my ears. A shot was fired down towards us not long after, but thankfully we dodged it with ease.

         "Now!" Din demanded.

         Toro fired off his flash charge but he missed. Never mind. He was an idiot.

         Her next shot hit the front of our speeder and threw us off the back of it. I groaned as I hit the ground. I could feel the edge of a small stone rip through my arm, but now was not the time to mention a minor injury.

        Din fired the final charge, giving Toro an actual chance to get up to the cliff. I could see him starting to make his way towards me, but was knocked back by another shot.

         My heart had stopped when I didn't hear the ding of it bouncing off of the beskar. I rushed over and fell to my knees in the soft sand next to his body.

         "Din? Din, are you okay?" I looked over him, feeling a wave of relief wash over me when I saw the scoring on his chest plate. "Thank, Kriff." I let out a breath and shifted to cup his helmet in my hands.

         He groaned and wrapped his hands around my wrists. "I'm fine..." He mumbled. "Help me up." I pulled him to his feet and kept my hold on his arms to stabilize him. "We need to get up there. He'll die if does this on his own."

         "I know." I said with a roll of my eyes.

         "What? Not so googly eyed over him anymore."

         I threw my head back in a quick laugh. "Oh, Din. You should know better than anyone that I was never actually interested in him."

         I gave him a quick smile and ran up the hill. I saw the red light of a blaster shot illuminate the area paired with the sound of people going on in a fight and chose to follow that. I figured it was a safe bet.

         We found Toro down on the ground with Fennec's legs strangling him. Yeah, this definitely wouldn't have gone his way if we weren't around.

         "Nice distraction." Din spoke calmly, standing above them.

         Fennec sighed, long and disappointed. She let go of Toro and sat up, looking defeated with our blasters pointed at her.

         Toro rolled over and practically wheezed as he laid on the ground. "Ugh, ow!" He pushed himself onto his knees and held his gut. "Yeah, good work, team."

         "Cuff yourself." I grabbed the cuffs from Din's belt and tossed them in front of her. "You should probably go find your blaster, Toro."

         "Will do, darlin'" He stood up and brushed himself off before venturing out to search for his weapon.

         Fennec sat in front of us, cuffed, but with a small grin on her face. "A Mandalorian..." She spoke, a hint of admiration in her voice as she stared up at Din. "It's been a long time since I've seen one of your kind... Ever been to Nevarro?"

         I could see Din's posture stiffen next to me. I wanted to reach out and tell him to not stress too much, but I couldn't right now. Not with Fennec here.

         It had been months since that happened, were they still talking about it? Certainly it couldn't have been that big of a deal, right?

         "I hear things didn't go so well there, but it looks like you got off easy." She was smug, I didn't like it. My grip on my blaster tightened and my desire to aim the barrel to her head increased with every word that came out of her mouth.

         "You don't have to worry about gettin' to Nevarro, or anywhere else once we turn you in." Toro spoke as he fished his gun out of the sand. "You know, I really should thank you. You're my ticket into the Guild."

         "You're welcome." Fennec answered sarcastically as Din pushed her down towards the bikes. "Uh-oh..." She chuckled. "Looks like one of us has to walk."

         "Or maybe we should drag you behind us. Do you prefer to be dead weight or alive?" I snapped. A hand pulled me away and towards the bikes where the three of us reconvened.

         "Alright, so what is the plan?" Toro looked at us with furrowed brows.

         "I need you to go find that dewback we saw."

         Toro scoffed. "And leave you two here with my bounty and my ride? Yeah, I don't think so, Mando."

         "I'll go." I shrugged and looked over the hill, trying to see the beast from afar.

         "You're not going alone." Din quickly responded. "Watch her." He pointed to Toro and then to the quarry. "And don't let her get near the bike. She's no good to us dead."

         We began walking towards the dewback, or at least, I assume that's where Din was leading me. He was the one with the heat sensor after all. I trusted him enough to not lead me astray.

         "Didn't want to stick around with loverboy?" He teased.

         "He's more of a one-and-done kind of guy and I'm way past done with him."

         "Oh, yeah?"

         "Mhmm" I hummed. "That's why I stick around with you. You're the kind of guy that sticks with you till the end."

         Din stopped dead in his tracks, his gaze trained on me for what felt like an eternity. "You're one of a kind, Princess..."

         I could feel the blush creep up my neck and onto my face. "Don't get all soft on me now, Din." I nudged him as we approached the dewback. "Make sure you don't treat it like how you treated the blurrg."

         "Hey!" He chucked and detached the rider from the animal, gently petting its head. "I thought I did pretty well with it."

         "Debatable." I shrugged.

         He moved closer to me, silently and in a way, threatening. His hands rested on my hips, his delicate touch causing my body to warm despite the cold desert breeze. Before I could even open my mouth to speak, he lifted me up onto the back of the animal.

         "What did you think I was doing?" The smirk was evident in his voice as he pulled himself up.

         I rolled my eyes and wrapped my arms around his waist, pulling me closer to him. "Maybe you were finally making a move or something."

         I could hear the sharp inhale of breath before he tapped the side of the dewback, instructing it on where to go.

          "Not out here." He mumbled so quietly that I wasn't even sure I heard him correctly.

┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉

         "Son of a bitch!" I hissed as I looked down at the lifeless body before me. "He knows... Din, he has to! She ran her mouth and-"

         He shushed me as he took careful note of our surroundings with his hand on his blaster. He tapped his foot against the dewback again and turned us around towards the hangar.

         The sun had set once again by the time we arrived. The clouds were covering the moon, casting little to no light on the land. Din hopped off of the animal's back and helped me down as well. It was way too quiet around here, I had no doubt in my mind that Toro was hiding somewhere near.

         We grabbed our blasters and made our way in the dark hangar. There was no sign of Peli or the child. Even the droids were deactivated.

         "Took you long enough, Mando!" Toro emerged from the shadows of the Razor Crest, holding the child in one arm while pushing Peli down the ramp with the other. "Looks like I'm calling the shots now. Huh, team? Drop your blasters and raise 'em."

         My eyes widened at his words as my jaw fell slack. "What? Why would you-"

         "I said: drop your blasters." He demanded, walking down the ramp towards us.

         I took a deep breath and let my blaster fall to the ground, followed by Din's. I looked over at him, desperately hoping that he had a plan. We placed our hands behind our heads and stared at Toro, waiting for his next move.

         "Cuff 'em." He shoved Peli forward and glanced down at the cooing child. "You two are Guild traitors."

         He raised his blaster and pointed it at the two of us. There has always been something incredibly discomforting about staring down the barrel of a gun.

         "And I'm willing to bet that this here is the target you guys helped escape." Toro directed his blaster towards the child. I flinched as it whimpered, wanting more than anything to run to its aid.

         Peli approached us with the cuffs in her hands, fidgeting nervously with them between her fingers. "You're smarter than you look." I heard her whisper, noticing the flash charge that Din held behind his head.

         "Fennec was right... Bringing you two in won't just make me a member of the Guild, it'll make me legendary." He chuckled and pointed the blaster back at us. I trusted Din, but I fully prepared to feel the pain of the shot.

         A bright light filled the building, blinding anyone who wasn't prepared. Luckily, I had my eyes squeezed shut in fear of dying.

         Toro fired randomly, blinded by the light that had soon dissipated. Din snuck to the side of the ship and shot Toro in the chest just as he turned to face him. His body flew off the ramp, dropping the child in the process.

         I wanted to run over to him and kick him or punch him in the face, but I was stopped by Din's hand on my shoulder.

         "Stay back."

         I thought about it, truly I did, but I couldn't. I pushed past him and kicked Toro over onto his back. One thing was for certain: Toro was dead.

         "Where is it?" Peli asked as she looked around for the child.

         A soft babbling came from behind the box, a babbling that I knew incredibly well. I ran over and scooped the green baby in my arms, cradling him to my chest. I placed a gentle kiss on his head and shut my eyes, his safe presence was calming me.

         "So, I take it you didn't get paid?" Peli sighed and placed her hands on her hips.

         Din snatched a bag of credits off of Toro's body and dumped them in the mechanic's hand. "That cover us?"

         "Yeah." Peli paused and looked over the coins. "Yes, this is gonna cover you."

         I mumbled a quick thank you and boarded the ship with the child in my arms and Din not far behind me. Certainly there wouldn't be too much more trouble in the upcoming days, if we lasted that long.

[amythingys]

Waiting

Pairing: 40s!Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 2537

Warnings: pining, some sad boi hours and perhaps a hint of suggestiveness if you reaaaaally squint

Summary: September, 1945. The war is over and the boys are coming home. Though, unfortunately for Y/N, it seems that some soldiers find their way home a lot slower. For a month she waited and just when it seemed like all hope could possibly be lost there he was, The Miracle of Manhattan, well Brooklyn - but she wasn’t minding too much. 

A/N: hey hey hey y’all! Eventually posting again, just a quick one and of course it is the au in which Bucky made it through the war and got to live his happy lil 1940s life. It’s what he deserves. Now, first of all this is very much based upon an old Newsie fanfic which I posted on a previous blog last year and though I highly doubt any of you would recognize it as such, if you do pls do not block and report me for plagiarism, thank you. Also this was scrambled together in two hours max so if it’s a little meh that is very well why. Now, she didn’t beta this at all but I love her and always wanna hear what she thinks so I’m tagging @quantumarvel . Okay that is all, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy and feedback is always appreciated!!!

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

Waiting was just a part of her routine by now.

Every day: wake up, have breakfast if she felt up for it - if not, then just some coffee -  and then get dressed for work. The next logical step would have been to head for the hospital, but that never seemed to be the case. She was always early, too early for her shift beginning, so she would spend the extra time at the train station. Waiting. On days off she would stay for far longer, hours if the workers allowed.

September 5th, 1945. The first week she would wait an hour. Anxiety flowed through her as she moved from platform to platform, asking about when the next train was coming in, toes just nearly too close to the tracks. One more carriage and he’ll be home. That’s what she would tell herself. But, she soon learned that was not the case. It wouldn’t be the next carriage or even the next hour, it would be the next day or week if she was lucky. Few troops would come home so quickly, soldiers having to come from all over the globe took a little time. But still, she couldn’t help being jealous. She watched as they strode across the platform being met halfway by loved ones. Parents greeting sons with teary eyes and shaking hands. Children attaching themselves to the legs of their father with giggles and shouts of excitement. Women would meet them, ready with a kiss to welcome home their soldier. 

It was hard not to be a little jealous, at least. 

 So, the next week she kept waiting. Though, this time she sat down on the bench by the newsstand, taking the first paper her hand found after waiting for a quarter of an hour. Anything to distract the mind. At every train whistle, she’d look up and scan the incoming crowd, sighing and looking back to her paper after coming up with nothing. This happened another four times before she had to leave. She’d glance at the paper in hand, thinking it over before tucking it into her bag; she had a growing pile at home. She kept them because she knew he would want to get all caught up when he made it home - she didn’t trust herself to remember every single thing. She gave the newsboy a tip before rushing off towards the main entrance. She had left late for work that morning. Something that had been happening more frequently.

She began to show later and later each day, a different reason why each time. Each reason different than, waiting on nothing hurt. But still, she was always there. 

 The third week was much the same as the one previous. Workers began to recognize her, a few even knew her by name. Every time she went to the newsstand, Tom, the newsboy of only 17 greeted her with a polite, ‘Morning Miss Y/N, which would you like?’ before displaying all the papers he had available for her. She picked one, a different title every time and he would always reply the same, ‘Great choice, ma’am.’ And she’d walk away. She’d sit, flipping the pages slowly but never really read them properly. And, when it was time to go and his train hadn’t arrived she handed the paper to a waiting customer at the ticket kiosk, ‘something to read, for your travels.’

The fourth week, the final week of September, it had begun to get colder in New York. so much so, she often waited inside the station now. It was a grand building, Central Station and Rebecca, who was by her side, would marvel at its high ceiling and watch as workmen pulled down war posters that decorated the walls. Her boss had allowed her a few days off of work that week, knowing fine well that the thought of Bucky was distracting her. Plus, if she was being honest, Y/N was glad to have the company. ‘Becca told her stories of the British boy who had been in her class for her senior year before shipping off, Thomas. Y/N threw a glance in the direction of the newsstand as ‘Becca continued chatting, but Tom wasn’t there - the clock above their heads informed her his morning shift must have been over and he was off to school. 

Y/N was quiet then, sparing but a tired smile as they shared one seat and a jacket between them. It was nice to have someone with her for a few days. 

Of course, Rebecca had to go back to work eventually, but Y/N promised the youngest Barnes that she would tell Bucky that she had been waiting for him when he got back, not that he would’ve had any doubts, to begin with. She doubted he would return before ‘Becca had the opportunity to wait with her again. If she kept waiting that is.

She made a promise to herself then: She would wait until Sunday, and if he wasn’t home she wouldn’t- she couldn’t wait anymore. 

Thursday came and went as quickly as Friday and Saturday did afterward. It was Sunday before she had time to come to peace with it. 

October 7th, 1945. Sunday.  The last chance she had given herself to be there when he stepped off the train- if he stepped off the train. She waited on the platform for the first time in a week but stayed close to a small cafe attached to the station, it was giving off a warmth she needed in that weather. She gave herself one hour in this cold before heading home. Even the days off had been cut short. Half of her time passed as quick as a blink, she felt. 

With just half an hour left a whistle blew, she recognized the noise as a foe along with the familiar hustle and bustle of the station. She heard feet shuffling and greetings called across the way. And, just as she had done with every train that day she looked up from the book in her lap, hearing as a newsvendor called the day's headline:

“Miracle in Manhattan! Read all about it!”

She gave in to an eye-roll at the news before giving a quick search. Nothing, as always. But, when her eyes, once again, met the pages of her novel she couldn’t help but feel like she should look again. 

She set the book aside and stood to get a better view. She could’ve sworn she caught sight of a familiar face. Before she could comprehend what she may or may not have seen, her boots met the bench on which she had just been sitting and with a moment to herself, she took a breath. Y/N turned towards to train which had just stopped and the crowd that had just stepped off of it. 

And then, a whisper, “Bucky?”

He hadn’t expected anybody to be waiting when he arrived, not with it being a month since the war ended. He suspected they had waited the first few days, perhaps even a week but after that, he hoped they had just returned to normal life. Bucky was aware that this is not the most likely scenario at all but that’s what he longed for. 

He longed for Y/N. Complaining about how early they would get up on Saturdays, but doing so week in and week out anyway just so they would get to market as soon as it opened. He longed for his family. Dinner served every Sunday night when his Ma cooked way too much food and bombarded he and Y/N with way too many questions for the pair of them living just a block away. He longed for what he had missed. Listening as Rebecca caught him up in all the neighborhood gossip or when she would rush up to his and Y/N’s apartment after school- well work now, he supposed. He longed to belong again, settle in just one place. He longed for comfort, for peace. 

He longed for normal. Thankfully, normal could be just a ten-minute cab ride across the Brooklyn Bridge. Ten-minutes became mere seconds when a familiar voice called for him across the platform. 

She was easy enough to spot as she dashed through the crowd, all smiles and rushed apologies to all of those who she ran into en route. Her grin lit up what was once just another dull New York day in the middle of October. 

They collided, his bag dropped to the floor just in time for her to be caught in his arms. The breath was knocked from him, arguably not from their collision at all, and a laugh quickly took its place. Hands pressed flat to her back, keeping her held flush to him as they collectively ignored the groans from passersby they had momentarily obstructed. They barely noticed their presence at all. 

Her feet hit the ground but her head remained in the clouds when she got a look at him. A good look. He was still Bucky, the one she knew but she also knew that some things were bound to change. Scruff covered his jaw and cheek, neat but a far cry from the clean-shaven look he always insisted on before. His hair was a little longer too, something she was certain he would rectify soon enough - he always liked to keep his hair short, tidy around his face. She couldn’t complain, he had the face for just about any style he desired. Then there were his eyes. Y/N couldn’t quite put her finger on it but there was definitely something about those baby blues. Maybe it was the tears that began to line them as he looked right back at her. 

She was glad she waited. 

“Bucky…” A whisper in the busy station, but it said loud and clear all she needed it to, all she hadn’t found the words for quite yet. He knew. He knew exactly what she meant, nodding quickly before he brought her close again, lips meeting her own after what felt like a lifetime. It was feverish, kissing as if they may never have gotten the chance again - which is a possibility they would never scoff at after the war. 

“Bucky I-” She cried after they parted, tears streaming steadily down her cheeks as she caught her breath. “I did-didn’t know whether- whether you-” Hands clumsily reached for him, fingers brushing his jaw, his nose, palms pressing close to his cheeks and catching his own tears. 

“I know baby,” he murmured. He kissed her again, quick but just barely pulling back before he spoke once again. “I know, I’m sorry it’s just, we- we were doing some real important work out there, Steve, the Commandos and me. God, the Commandos, baby you’re gonna love them.” 

“I can’t wait to hear all about them.”

“They’ve already heard all about you, trust me, they may very well be sick of hearing your name by now.” He chuckled, and she did the same, sniffling still as they stood there. 

“I missed you, wasn’t a moment I didn’t have you on my mind.”

“I missed you, every day.”

“That’s not true, I’m sure you’ve been real busy, y’know with the hospital and ev- everything… don’t you usually work Sunday mornings? What’re you doing here?” He asked, brows knitting in confusion and eyes darting all over as if searching for the answer materializing in front of him before he focused on her again.  He couldn’t stand to look away for too long. 

She gave a breathy laugh, almost scoffing as if the answer was the most obvious one that could ever possibly exist. “I promised I would wait for you getting off that train didn’t I?” 

“You’ve been waiting here?” She hummed in agreement, nodding as her eyes fell to his lips and she stole another kiss. The platform began to empty around them, leaving them alone for the most part for a minute or two before it would begin to refill for the next train’s arrival. “Every day for a month?” She never replied to him, the small smile on her being an answer enough for him to know. “You shouldn’t have done that for me, it’s freezing out.”

As if that would deter her. No storm could keep her away for long, not from him. A kiss to her forehead, and her hands gripping the lapels of his uniform tight as if he would even dream of leaving again any time soon. 

“Well, ‘Becca wanted me to tell you that she would have been here too but her boss, Mr…”

“Davis, Mr. Davis. Her new boss, right?” 

“That's the one: Davis. She said that Mr. Davis would have busted her chops if she missed anymore work this month. Plus, I think you’re Ma said something about her focusing all her energy towards something helpful until you got back, y’know to keep her mind away from you.” Bucky chuckled at her words, mumbling a ‘Sounds about right’ before pulling back and opting to take her hand in his instead. 

“But! She is very excited to catch you up on every single thing that you missed while you were away.”

“Did I miss anything? Exciting I mean?” 

“New neighbors,” Y/N mumbled with a shrug, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek, nose scrunching as his stubble tickled her chin.

“Upstairs or down?” He was simply wondering if Y/N and he would be annoying them or they would be annoying him. 

“Up. You’ll hate ‘em.” She laughed against his skin and pulled back in favour of pulling him towards the exit.

Bucky gave a comedic groan and picked his bag up before following along. “Great, excited to get home then. Can’t wait to meet ‘em, also can’t wait to shave - Ma will pitch a fit if I show up to dinner for the first time in forever and this is how I look.”

“I don’t know, Sarge…” She turned on her heels, stopping dead in her tracks and therefore crashing into his chest for the second time that morning. “I think it makes you look pretty… handsome.” A coy smile and he was already 99% convinced to keep it. 

“That so?”

“Yeah, it seems I got myself my very own casanova.”

He was perhaps a little skeptical, teasing the language they often spoken and he had a feeling this may be going in that direction. “Careful, sweetheart,” He paused, smirking at her before stepping aside and grabbing her hand again. As they began walking again, hands laced together as they took on the New York streets together for the first time in years, he spoke, “Wouldn’t want none of these folks to be thinking you’re sweet on a guy like me.”

“A guy like you?” She cozied up to his side, free hand wrapping around his arm, “Baby, I’m convinced you’re the ‘Miracle in Manhattan’ that newsvendor was yelling about.” The couple shared a laugh, feeling the weight of the time passed but interacting as if not a second had gone by since they were last together. 

“How couldn’t I be sweet on you?”

[wacem]

Alone in the Dark

An Until Dawn fic by Wacem

Read it here or check it out on AO3, where everything is definitely formatted properly, because I suck at Tumblr.

Chapter 1

Chris --- 5:35 AM 

Tunnel to Sanatorium

Chris stumbled back a few steps and craned his neck to watch Sam clamber up the wall like a spider monkey. He shook his head. He'd never understand how a person could make that look so effortless. Hell, he'd never understand the appeal of rock-climbing in the first place. He supposed it was useful in circumstances like these, but heights just weren't his thing. At all.

“Guess it’s just you and me now, A--”

He turned around and stopped dead in his tracks. He thought Ash was right behind him, but his eyes met nothing but darkness. With the agonizingly slow pace he'd been able to keep up, he hadn’t even considered the possibility that she wouldn’t catch up. Hell, that's the only reason he hadn't waited for her back at the manhole. She had just groused at him for moving too slowly, so he figured he might as well get a head start. That way, she could overtake him, and no time would be wasted waiting for his crippled ass to keep up.

Only she hadn't. 

And now there wasn't so much as a glimmer of reflection on a rock to indicate her existence.

"Ash?" he'd meant to call out, but it came out as more of a trembling whisper. 

The wendigo got her. The thought sent a cold dagger through his heart and made his legs feel heavy. No. Not her. I've already lost enough tonight. Please, God, not her, too. His throat tightened, and unwelcome tears stung his already aching eyes. 

"Ash??" His voice tore through the lump in his throat and cracked. It sounded way too shrill to his ears, and the way it echoed through the caves filled his soul with dread. As far as he knew, the wendigo could hear just fine; it was just its  vision that was funky. Biting his lips to hold in the rising panic, he took a shaky step forward. The pain in his ankle, objecting to having been temporarily forgotten, vigorously reminded him of its existence. He grunted softly. 

Images of the stranger, alive one second, gone the next, flooded his mind for the umpteenth time since it happened. Only this time, it was Ashley's body dropping to its knees. Ashley's head thudding heavily into the snow while he stood paralyzed with fear, clutching the stranger's shotgun uselessly as the air filled with the monster's shrieks. First, the wendigo, he'll render you immobile. Then he strips the skin off of your entire body, piece by piece.

Nononono. She can't be dead. I'd have heard something, right? Screams or something. I didn't hear anything, so maybe she just got lost. 

"Y-yeah… yeah... she just got lost," he murmured to himself, hoping its utterance would make it true. Chris continued limping toward where he'd seen her last.  He'd noticed a path branching off to the left on the way here. Maybe she took that by mistake. She did have a notoriously wretched sense of direction, and they hadn't exactly marked their passage. 

As he moved, his mind wandered to the time he and Ash had gone to see Star Trek Into Darkness in IMAX. There wasn't an IMAX theater in their hometown, so they'd had to drive all the way to the city-- an hour away. Chris had just gotten off an overnight double and was utterly wiped, so he'd given Ash the keys to his car and let her drive. He'd figured that way he could catch some z's on the way up and actually be conscious for the movie. Big. Mistake. Next thing he'd known, Ashley's sheepish voice was waking him up saying, "We're here!" When he'd looked at the clock, he saw that they were four and a half hours late for the movie. They couldn't even catch a later showing! Turned out Ash had driven them to every single movie theater in the city-- during rush hour traffic, no less! --before she finally found the one their tickets were for. It wasn't a total loss; they were able to get a refund on their tickets, since they weren't torn or anything, and they tried again (successfully) the following week, thanks to Chris' superior mastery of navigation. Now that he thought of it… that had been the first time they'd really gone anywhere together without someone else tagging along. Purely coincidentally (he told himself), that was also when Chris first noticed how very, very frantically the butterflies fluttered their wings in his stomach whenever he was near her. 

After that day, she was firmly forbidden from ever driving them anywhere again. From then on, her official job on road trips was to be the in-flight entertainment. This normally took the form of her reading one of her books aloud like a live-performance audiobook. It was a duty she solemnly accepted and performed with gusto; she even did voices for the different characters. The memory made soft laughter rise up out of him like a bubble, and, like a bubble, it abruptly vanished at the thought that he might never hear her silly voices again. 

Oh, God, Ash. Please be okay. I could probably handle losing Emily and Jess… maybe even Josh. But not you. 

Emily's face, pale and gray in the light of the monitors, mouth drawn open in a silent scream, dark blood oozing from the hole where her eye had been. The contents of her blown-out skull adorning the wall behind her head like a macabre rorschach. The image he'd been fighting to suppress since it happened hit him like a freight train. He doubled over and retched the nothing he'd had for dinner onto the cave floor. The sudden shift in balance irked his ankle and made him stagger against a rock, aggravating the tender spot in his ribs and jarring his aching jaw. He groaned. As he pushed himself away from the wall, he wiped at a tickle under his nose, and his hand came away bloody. Great. His nose was bleeding again. 

Shit, he was a mess. 

At least his nose wasn't broken. Or… he didn't think it was broken. His jaw, like the proverbial fat lady, sorta dominated the chorus of facial maladies, and he'd had other things on his mind when he'd rammed his face full-speed into that damned tree. Like, for instance, not getting eviscerated by the wendigo hot on his heels. You know… something that could be happening to Ash right now?

Come on, Ash, where are you? Please be okay. 

Ignoring the pain in his ankle, he picked up his pace. It wasn't long before he came upon the drop he'd completely forgotten about. Only, going this direction, it wasn't a drop. It was a climb. A string of curses and obscenities ran circles around his brain. The ledge wasn't low, coming up just above his shoulders. Even his attempts to gently lower himself when coming the other way had yielded a sharp pain in his ankle on landing. How the ever-loving fuck was he supposed to get back up? "Dammit, Sam…" he muttered. "Remind me why you left the gimp to navigate these tunnels alone?" Of course, she’d been just as oblivious to Ash’s absence as he was, but that was beside the point.

Why had they even come here? Something about Mike and the sanatorium and the wendigo and needing to warn him about something and hell if he knew. He hadn't read the journal that had Ash and Sam up in a tizzy. Nobody thought to volunteer to him any information they'd found out, and frankly… he'd been too relieved at the prospect of getting away from Emily's body to ask questions. Now he regretted not asking. The decision to leave the safe room might have gotten Ash killed, and he needed to know it was for a worthy cause. At this point, though, even if it was for a worthy cause, if it was down to a choice between Mike's life and Ash's… well… was that even really a choice? Especially since Mike just…

A deafening bang, reinforcing the ringing in his ear. Ghostly face, mouth stretched open in a scream cut short. Dark blood trickling down from the blackness of her eye socket. 

"Oh, God…" Chris stumbled against the wall blocking his way, using it for support as his lungs tried to explode out of his aching chest. His body rocked back and forth; the arm holding the flashlight hugged his ribs in place, while his free hand clapped over his mouth to hold back his sobs. The burns near his mouth shouted their protest, and he stifled a moan. 

Oh, God, how had this night gotten so fucked? This was supposed to be a good night! A night of remembrance and catharsis. A night of reconciliation and rekindling estranged friendships. A psycho? He could handle that. It was horrible, but he at least understood a psycho. But curses? Monsters?? How do you fight something like that? How do you escape something that moves that fast? How do you protect someone from a fear so pervasive that it makes them murder their own friends? 

Oh, shut up with that 'they' and 'them' bullshit. You helped, Christopher. By sitting there and stoking that fear, you might as well have pulled the trigger yourself. 

No, no, no. He hadn't wanted Emily to die! 

You should have done something, then. Should have helped Sam calm them down. Should have disarmed Mike. You could have forced him to stop. Overpowered him. Something! You call yourself a man, but you just sat there like a pussy and let it happen. Just like with the stranger!

His head was swimming, and his ribs were on fire. Somewhere along the way, he'd sunken down to his knees, still rocking. He was hyperventilating. 

Let's face it, Chris. You didn't do anything, because you didn't want to do anything. You were just as afraid as Mike and Ash, and just as willing to sacrifice Emily to save your own ass. 

"I didn't think he was going to shoot her." The words were rapid, small, and gasping, barely audible. Mike hadn't shot Josh. He’d bitched at Chris for even thinking he would. So why would he shoot Emily? It was a bluff. Had to be. Just to scare her out of the room. Chris wasn't about to ruin Mike's bluff again. 

Her small legs falling from the desk, limp and lifeless, making her whole body jerk when they stopped short of the floor. Her head settling on the wall beneath the Jackson Pollock pattern of her blood and brains was the last movement she'd ever make. Chris squeezed his eyes shut, but the image persisted. 

How is that even better? You didn't think Mike would shoot her? But you were perfectly content to let him sacrifice her to that thing out there. You've seen what it does. You, more than anyone else here, know that compared to that? The bullet was a mercy. You didn't care if or how she died. You just didn't want to see it happen, you selfish asshole. You killed her, and you killed her for no damn reason. 

"We didn't know, we didn't know, we didn't know…" His hands and face were tingling. Shit, he was about to pass out. Now was not the time for this; he had to find Ash. He forced himself to take a deep breath in. The pain in his side kept him from holding it as long as he'd have liked, and it all came out in a pitiful sigh. But his head felt clearer, at least. He repeated this exercise until his thoughts stopped spiraling, sliding his free hand up under his glasses to wipe away the tears blurring his eyes. 

Now wasn't the time for self-recrimination or excuses. Ash was in here somewhere. The wendigo might have her. He keeps you alive and aware and feasts on your organs, one piece at a time. He couldn't let that happen to her. Melting down in a cave wasn't going to help anyone, and Chris refused to have another death on his conscience because he was too wrapped up in himself to lift a finger to stop it. Especially not Ashley’s.

He sighed, pushing himself back onto his good leg and regarded the ledge. How the hell was he supposed to climb this? Even at the best of times, he was a pathetic climber. He'd damn near broken his neck trying to clamber over the wall by the broken gate at the bottom of the mountain. And now? With a bum ankle, a jacked up face, probably a concussion, and whatever the hell was going on with his ribs? He groaned, grabbing the ledge and hoisting himself up until the edge was under his armpits. His legs scrabbled uselessly for purchase on the sheer rock. His ribs protested strenuously. He was just about to lose his grip when his right foot found an outcropping and pushed off hard enough to get his left leg over the edge. But the momentary victory was promptly shat upon by the blinding agony in his ankle. 

"Aggghh!" he hissed "Ow ow ow ow ow ow owwwww!!" Each syllable gave him strength as he pulled himself up the rest of the way and rolled over onto his good side. He curled into a ball of misery and grabbed his throbbing leg. "Shitshitshitshitfuckingshiiiiiiit!"

When the pain died back down to a dull throb, he slowly pulled himself up to his feet. It was more miserable than ever to put weight on his ankle, but it still held him, so he hobbled onward. Had to be getting close to the branch-off now.

He felt, more than saw, the side tunnel open up to his right. The air was suddenly less close, and through the passage, the wind sang a soft and haunting song. Dripping water served as percussion. It vaguely harmonized with the ringing in his ear. He flicked his flashlight over to the opening. 

"Ash?" His own voice startled him, deafeningly loud against the cavern's subtle symphony. What if the wendigo could hear? What if he was just broadcasting his presence?

C'mon, dude. Pull yourself together. Your nerves are fried. 

He thought maybe he heard something further down the side passage, but he wasn't sure what. It was hard to tell over the persistent ringing in his ear, but… it could have been Ash. Then again, didn't the stranger also say the wendigo could mimic human voices? If that was the wendigo, then Ash could already be dead, and he'd be walking to his own demise. Even if the thing hadn't gotten around to killing her yet, a rescue attempt would almost certainly end in his death. He wasn't even armed. 

But if it wasn't the wendigo… if Ash had fallen somewhere and couldn't get back up or something. If she was hurt, if she was calling for help... could he forgive himself for not checking?

Gingerly, he opened his mouth and felt the swollen skin from his cheek to his adam's apple pull tight in protest. The right hinge of his jaw popped enthusiastically. That was new. 

Ah, what the hell. He'd already sacrificed himself for Ash once tonight. Why not do it again? Maybe this time it'd actually matter. 

His free hand hovered over his jaw, afraid to actually touch it, lest it reawaken the fire in his skin. Bright flash, deafening bang, a ringing that drowned out Ashley begging him to shoot her instead. Shockwave smashing into his jaw and knocking his head back hard enough to give him whiplash. Burning agony in his face making him want to scream. But he wasn't dead. How was he not dead? 

He shook off the memory, "I- I'm coming, Ash. Hold on. I'm coming." And he limped forward.  

The entrance to the side passage wasn't level with the main passage, and Chris almost tripped over it. Which, he discovered, would have been very bad. There was a pretty sizable drop on the other side. He climbed onto the berm, hanging his legs off the far side, and just stared at the drop with his flashlight. You gotta be freaking kidding me. 

This was even higher than the drop in the main passage, and that one had hurt badly enough. Even if he didn't straight-up break his ankle, he didn't know if he'd be able to climb back out of this on his own. But, short of Ash noping back to the lodge without telling anyone, which seemed unlikely, there was no other direction she could have gone.  He should have just waited for her to close the grate. Dammit, he was such a moron. She was only lost because, after she’d refused to leave him behind, he’d gone right ahead and done it to her. There was no way he was going to abandon her again. 

That settled it. He took a deep breath and slid his butt off the berm. His stomach had an out-of-body experience for a second of freefall. His landing was rough and graceless, but he managed to keep his feet by reeling into a wall. There was a loud, painful pop from his ankle that he badly hoped was just his joint settling. His jaw snapped shut at the impact and its muscles seized up painfully, cutting his cry of pain into a muffled groan. His hand came up instinctively to massage the tension out of his fucked up jaw only to aggravate the burns. He hummed miserably through his nose. Damn it all. Josh, more than any one of them, should have known how dangerous blanks were at point-blank range. Chris wanted to believe that Josh, his best friend, hadn't meant for him to damn near blow his face off for a prank. But he also had a hard time reconciling that with all the rest of the batshit crazy bullshit Josh had pulled on him tonight. That and the fact that Josh seemed neither surprised nor particularly concerned by how badly Chris had been hurt by the muzzle flash. What chilled him to the bone was the very real possibility that Josh knew exactly what he was doing when he gave Chris a gun loaded with blanks and encouraged him to put it up to his own head and pull the trigger. He was damn lucky he'd decided to aim it under his jaw instead of at his temple. The latter probably would have killed him. 

Had Josh wanted that? Did he really hate Chris that much? God knows Chris had blamed himself plenty enough for his part--or lack thereof-- in Hannah and Beth's disappearance. If he hadn't had so much to drink, he might have been able to stop things before they got out of hand. Or at least he could have been the one to go after Hannah, instead of Beth. But no. He'd been too shitfaced to be of use to anyone. Classic Chris maneuver. Always present when things went tits up, but his presence was never beneficial. He'd had to find out what happened second-hand, despite being there. If Chris was being honest with himself, he deserved a good, healthy, superheated blast of explosive decompression to the face.

But if Josh felt that way, too, how had Chris gone a whole year without noticing? He wasn't completely blind. He'd known things weren't good with Josh, but he had no idea they were anywhere near homicidal levels of bad. Was he really so self-absorbed that he couldn't see how deeply his best friend was hurting? Had he been so busy pining after Ashley that he'd completely missed how much Josh hated him? 

That would make sense, wouldn't it? Just a couple hours ago, he'd literally sacrificed Josh to save Ash. Flipped a switch, knowing full-well that it would send a whirling blade of doom over to cut his best friend in half. It didn't matter that it wasn't real. He hadn't known that at the time, and Josh knew he didn’t know. And now Josh knew that Chris was perfectly willing to kill him for a girl. What an awful truth to discover about someone you thought cared about you. Chris knew he'd be upset if their positions were reversed. So perhaps this was his punishment for prioritizing Ash above everything else. After all, nobody would have been hurt if he'd chosen to shoot Ash, right? She'd been across the table from him; too far away to be affected by a blank. But no…no... the thought of shooting her… it was unthinkable. It made his stomach tie up in knots. Even now, knowing the gun had been filled with blanks, he'd still rather shoot himself. 

The pain in his jaw subsided as the muscles slowly relaxed. He pushed himself off the wall and limped through the tunnel, hoping there weren't any more branch-offs to complicate things. 

All right, jackass. You're down in a hole, playing hero to impress a girl who may or may not still be alive, armed with a flashlight and bad puns. You haven't even touched the wendigo yet, and you're already beat to hell. Like a dipstick, you left the shotgun back in the lodge. What, exactly, is your plan?

Find Ash? Not die? That was pretty much the extent of it. 

That's not much of a plan.  

Much as he hated his little Voice of Better Judgment and loved few things more than ignoring it, he had to admit it had a point. He'd be no help to Ash dead.

The earth shook. Like, legitimately shook, making him stumble. A deep rumble resonated into his very soul. Rocks big and small were shaken loose from the cavern's ceiling, pelting the ground all around him. One of the bigger ones nailed him in the shoulder. The blow, only slightly softened by the padding of his coat, drove him to one knee. 

"Shit!" he cried, raising his other arm up to shield his head. When the patter of falling pebbles tapered off, and it seemed the cave wasn't planning to collapse on him after all, he lowered his arm and tilted the flashlight beam up toward the ceiling. "What the hell was that?" But the stalactites above him had no answer. They just dripped menacingly, promising that, next time, one of them would fall on him and leave him with more than just a bruise. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Don't even think about it. I've got my eye on you. All of you." 

One of the stalactites dripped directly onto his glasses. "Aw, c'mon. Really?" He dropped his head and snatched his glasses from his face, unzipping his sweater to go to town on the soiled lens with his t-shirt. "Whyyy?" Chris did the best job he could cleaning them, but his shirt was drenched in sweat, and the water was… not clean. That lens was thoroughly smudged now. Wiping it might have actually made the situation worse. Squinting through that nonsense was gonna give him a headache in about three seconds. He put his glasses back on and glowered at the ceiling with one eye. "Not cool."

Defiantly, the stalactite dripped at him again, but this time he dodged it and got back to his feet, grimacing as he put weight on his right leg. "Onward and upward," he muttered and continued deeper into the tunnel. 

The tunnel wound and twisted. The floor was uneven and threatened to turn his ankle with every step. The walls and ceiling closed in around him, making him want to duck his head, to avoid the jagged rocks above. The path was so dark and claustrophobic, the beam of his flashlight seemed barely capable of cutting through it. Why would Ash ever come this way?

"Ash?" He paused to listen for any response, but the tinnitus was just too damn loud. He reached up to vigorously rub and bat at his ear, hoping to clear the stupid out of it, but, stubbornly, the ringing persisted. Who knew discharging a gun right next to your head could fuck up your hearing so bad? 

He sighed. Well… you knew that. That's why you always wear hearing protection at the range. But, like an idiot, you still did it. In fairness, though, he hadn't exactly been expecting to survive the gunshot. His hearing had been pretty low on his list of considerations. Now though? He was kinda starting to think maybe Van Gogh wasn't quite so crazy for cutting off his own ear.

The passage turned sharply to the right and opened up again into a room held up by mining beams. Moonlight filtered in through the cracks of a boarded up shaft, casting god-rays on a table beneath. In front of the table was a trap door, and in front of that…

"Oh no..." Chris blinked, not wanting to be sure of what he was seeing. Maybe it was just a trick of the light passing through his filthy glasses. He closed one eye, cutting off the interference from the lens smudged in cave crap, but that didn't help much. He'd have to get closer. 

But he really didn't want to get closer. Because that thing on the floor looked a lot like Ashley's beanie. And it was in a massive puddle of blood. If he moved closer, the comforting arms of doubt would vanish from around him. And he couldn't bear the thought of knowing something had happened to her. But what was the point? He already knew, didn't he?

"Oh my God, no..." his legs buckled, and he staggered forward to keep upright, dropping to his knees in front of the offending object, only faintly aware of the blood soaking through his jeans. There could no longer be any doubt. That was Ash's beanie, and it was covered in blood. The wendigo had gotten to her. Chris had seen what it does, how fast it works. He could see all the blood. So much blood. Surely nobody could survive that much blood loss. 

Ash. His Ash… with her long-suffering indulgence of his sense of humor, her big doe eyes, her adorable button nose, and the soft, warm lips he'd only just gotten to touch with his own…was....

The last beam supporting the mental dam that had been holding back his steadily mounting despair finally cracked. His grief came pouring out of his mouth in a flood of tears and sobs, unmindful of the danger he, himself, must be in. "Oh my God, Ash. No. No!" He scooped her beanie into his free hand,  feeling the soft wool slither over his fingers, leaving in its wake streaks of blood. Fresh blood. His hands felt like they were a million miles away, as he rubbed the blood-- Ash's blood-- between his fingers. The room around him wobbled and swayed; everything was surreal. It felt exactly like a nightmare. Yes. This was a nightmare. It had to be. But if so, why couldn't he wake up?? 

"I can't stand it…" he whimpered, his voice cracking. "None of this can be happening. This can't be real! Please tell me it's not real!" He lifted the beanie to his face, imploring it to respond. Begging Ashley to appear from around the corner or out of the trap door and tell him it was just a joke. A prank. A nightmare. That she was okay. But she didn't. The beanie reeked of iron, not corn syrup. Tears poured down his cheeks as he lowered the beanie and tucked it into his pocket. "No… no… no…" His eyes dropped to the cavern floor, looking for something-- anything-- to latch on to. Any sign that it wasn't hopeless. All he saw was a trail of blood connecting the puddle to the trap door, where it ended. If there was any chance whatsoever of finding her, it'd be down there. 

Numbly, he got back to his feet and shuffled over to the trap door. There was the gnawing sensation that he was just throwing his life away, but he couldn't be bothered to care anymore. If she'd died because he left her behind, then maybe he didn't deserve to survive the night. He bent down stiffly and opened the trap door. There were more support beams down there, some ancient, leaky hazmat drums, and pipes leading into darkness. The air was rank with the smell of must and whatever was coming out of those barrels. More blood pooled at the base of the ladder. Shit, there was so much of it. It trailed off in the direction the pipes were running. 

Setting the trapdoor down clumsily against the legs of the table, Chris started down the ladder. But after all the climbing, jumping, and… even just walking, his ankle picked that exact moment to decide it'd had enough. The first moment he put all his weight on it, it crumpled, and his foot slipped off of the rung. His hands, hampered by the flashlight, lost their grip on the ladder, and down he went, landing hard on his back. The air whooshed out of his lungs, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get his chest to expand and let new air in. 

God, this is how I die? By falling off a ladder that's like two inches high? After everything else, this is how it ends? For f-- Then his diaphragm started functioning again. His endless, involuntary groan stopped, and he took a huge, shaky breath. Nope. Not dying. His ribs hurt like a mother-- more than they already had-- but nothing in there seemed to be moving in an unnatural way, so he supposed he must be all right. Just knocked the wind out of himself. Slowly, he rolled over and fumbled for the flashlight that had flown out of his grasp during the fall. Once he found that, he rose unsteadily to his feet, his ankle grumbling like Yosemite Sam. 

With one hand, he rubbed at his leg conciliatorily; with the other, he cast the beam of the flashlight down to the pool of blood at the base of the ladder. Its structural integrity had been obliterated when he landed in it, but it was easy enough to follow the trail. 

He didn't have to follow it far. 

A few yards beyond the reach of the moonlight streaming through the trap door, his flashlight beam fell upon a big, red lump on the floor. Chris felt his stomach seize up into a tight ball and cram itself into his throat. For a long moment, he absolutely could not get his feet to move. When they did, they felt so heavy it was like moving through mud. Everything around the shape disappeared from his consciousness, and the closer he got, the more clear it became. Soon, it was impossible for him to deny the truth of what he was seeing. It was Ashley’s hoodie. But it was like those old crime scene photos from the Manson murders that Josh had shown him once. One of the victims was wearing a white nightgown so saturated in blood that the investigators initially thought it was red. Ash’s hoodie was the same way. You’d never know from looking at it now that it was gray. But there was something else wrong with it. It wasn't lying right on the cavern floor. It should be lying flat. Why wasn't it lying flat?

You know why, Christopher. 

"No," he hissed viciously. "It's just her hoodie. If she was in it, I’d see her head sticking out. Maybe her hoodie came off while she was fighting."

But down beneath the waistband of her hoodie were her shorts, and coming out the bottom of those were her leggings and boots, and those were definitely not empty. And there’s no way all of that would come off in a fight. But there was still nothing coming out of the collar of her hoodie! Then his eyes drifted down to her sleeves. Poking delicately out the ends were small, pale, crimson-streaked fingers. Unmistakeable. 

The ramifications of what he was seeing hit him like a ton of bricks. The stranger. Alive one second. Gone the next. His head toppling from his shoulders and thudding heavily to the snow. But it had Ashley's face when it landed. "Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God." He wanted to deny it. He needed to deny it, but no matter how hard his mind whirled for anything to latch onto, there was nothing but the truth.

Where was her head?? Letting out a horrible yell, he dropped his flashlight, fell to her side and found her hand, but there was no head to cradle. No eyes to look into. No hair to stroke. No cheek to caress. And her lips… the memory of her kiss haunted him, a ghost of warmth on his icy lips. The sensation was so intoxicating, and now he would never experience it again. He had no way to feel close to her but to take her blood-streaked hand and sandwich it between his own. 

Noise was coming out of him, maybe he was saying something, but hell if he knew what it was. He didn't even know if there were words, or if it was just a mindless outpouring of pure anguish. His vision swam as it locked in on the perfectly manicured fingers of the hand he held, took in the blood caked in the cuticles and under her nails. Was it hers or the pig's blood Josh had used to fake his death? Did it matter? Did anything matter? Then he couldn't see anything but vague blobs. His vision was obscured behind a flood of grief, and even blinking couldn't clear his eyes. So he closed them and doubled over into a hopeless, rocking ball. Unaware he was doing it, he pressed the back of her hand to his mouth, sobbing into it, washing away the blood with his tears. Her hand was still warm. Still warm! Maybe if he'd realized she was gone sooner… if he hadn't wasted so much time being an emotional wreck… if he hadn’t been an idiot and hurt his ankle in the first place… he might have been here in time to help… to do something…

To take her place. 

Yes. That, more than anything else, was what he wanted right now. He wanted to die knowing that she'd be all right because of it. But he'd never get to do that, because… because... Ashley was-- 

His mind recoiled violently from the word. He just couldn't accept it. This was clearly someone else's body. Someone wearing her clothes. One of Josh's horribly realistic dummies, maybe, with the head ripped off. He desperately wanted to cling to that idea. It felt warm and comfortable. But deep down he knew better. The smell of her hand, like peaches and vanilla mixed with old books. The soft warmth of her skin against his cold cheek. They were as familiar to him as the weight of his glasses on his nose-- impossible to mistake for anything else. For anyone else. There was no escaping the reality. This was Ashley’s body. Ashley was dead. Her words echoed back to him. 

It's just not fair!

His face stretched in a rictus of grief as he lowered his head to her chest, using it to muffle his sobs.

It's too late, Chris. What's the point?

Her chest was silent and still. No heartbeat to be heard. No whooshing of air through her lungs. No rise and fall of her breast. Each observation came like the fall of a hammer on a nail being driven through his heart. 

We've wasted everything. 

"Oh, God, Ash. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry." His voice was too high and broken, muffled by the fabric of her hoodie and coming out in quick, wavering gasps amidst the rapid heaving of his chest. "It should have been me. It should have been me. I should have saved you. I'm so sorry." His head was swimming. His face was heavy and tingling, and his lips were numb. His hands, still clasping hers, felt a million miles away. Chris was vaguely aware that he was hyperventilating again, but there was no stopping it this time; he didn’t want to stop it. He just didn't care anymore. If he died down here, what difference did it make? He’d failed in the one thing that mattered most to him; there was no living with that. Spots bloomed across his vision, even though his eyes were closed. Vaguely, he heard the sound of something clamoring in the room up above. He sat up, opened his eyes, and still couldn't see through the swarm of darkness blooming across his vision. At the movement, he felt the blood drain out of his face. Suddenly, his head lolled heavily forward, his shoulders went limp, and he slumped over Ash's body in a dead faint. 

[bezoarcureforpoison]

History Will Judge the Complicit: Why have Republican leaders abandoned their principles in support of an immoral and dangerous president?

Sometimes the point isn’t to make people believe a lie—it’s to make people fear the liar.

This Atlantic piece was a very interesting read, and applies to more than just US politics.

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On a cold march afternoon in 1949, Wolfgang Leonhard slipped out of the East German Communist Party Secretariat, hurried home, packed what few warm clothes he could fit into a small briefcase, and then walked to a telephone box to call his mother. “My article will be finished this evening,” he told her. That was the code they had agreed on in advance. It meant that he was escaping the country, at great risk to his life.

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Though only 28 years old at the time, Leonhard stood at the pinnacle of the new East German elite. The son of German Communists, he had been educated in the Soviet Union, trained in special schools during the war, and brought back to Berlin from Moscow in May 1945, on the same airplane that carried Walter Ulbricht, the leader of what would soon become the East German Communist Party. Leonhard was put on a team charged with re‑creating Berlin’s city government.

He had one central task: to ensure that any local leaders who emerged from the postwar chaos were assigned deputies loyal to the party. “It’s got to look democratic,” Ulbricht told him, “but we must have everything in our control.”

Leonhard had lived through a great deal by that time. While he was still a teenager in Moscow, his mother had been arrested as an “enemy of the people” and sent to Vorkuta, a labor camp in the far north. He had witnessed the terrible poverty and inequality of the Soviet Union, he had despaired of the Soviet alliance with Nazi Germany between 1939 and 1941, and he knew about the Red Army’s mass rapes of women following the occupation. Yet he and his ideologically committed friends “instinctively recoiled from the thought” that any of these events were “in diametrical opposition to our Socialist ideals.” Steadfastly, he clung to the belief system he had grown up with.

Anne Applebaum: Resist the urge to simplify the story

The turning point, when it came, was trivial. While walking down the hall of the Central Committee building, he was stopped by a “pleasant-looking middle-aged man,” a comrade recently arrived from the West, who asked where to find the dining room. Leonhard told him that the answer depended on what sort of meal ticket he had—different ranks of officials had access to different dining rooms. The comrade was astonished: “But … aren’t they all members of the Party?”

Leonhard walked away and entered his own, top-category dining room, where white cloths covered the tables and high-ranking functionaries received three-course meals. He felt ashamed. “Curious, I thought, that this had never struck me before!” That was when he began to have the doubts that inexorably led him to plot his escape.

At exactly that same moment, in exactly the same city, another high-ranking East German was coming to precisely the opposite set of conclusions. Markus Wolf was also the son of a prominent German Communist family. He also spent his childhood in the Soviet Union, attending the same elite schools for children of foreign Communists as Leonhard did, as well as the same wartime training camp; the two had shared a bedroom there, solemnly calling each other by their aliases—these were the rules of deep conspiracy—although they knew each other’s real names perfectly well. Wolf also witnessed the mass arrests, the purges, and the poverty of the Soviet Union—and he also kept faith with the cause. He arrived in Berlin just a few days after Leonhard, on another plane full of trusted comrades, and immediately began hosting a program on the new Soviet-backed radio station. For many months he ran the popular You Ask, We Answer. He gave on-air answers to listeners’ letters, often concluding with some form of “These difficulties are being overcome with the help of the Red Army.”

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In August 1947, the two men met up at Wolf’s “luxurious five-roomed apartment,” not far from what was then the headquarters of the radio station. They drove out to Wolf’s house, “a fine villa in the neighborhood of Lake Glienicke.” They took a walk around the lake, and Wolf warned Leonhard that changes were coming. He told him to give up hoping that German Communism would be allowed to develop differently from the Soviet version: That idea, long the goal of many German party members, was about to be dropped. When Leonhard argued that this could not be true—he was personally in charge of ideology, and no one had told him anything about a change in direction—Wolf laughed at him. “There are higher authorities than your Central Secretariat,” he said. Wolf made clear that he had better contacts, more important friends. At the age of 24, he was an insider. And Leonhard understood, finally, that he was a functionary in an occupied country where the Soviet Communist Party, not the German Communist Party, had the last word.

Famously, or perhaps infamously, Markus Wolf’s career continued to flourish after that. Not only did he stay in East Germany, he rose through the ranks of its nomenklatura to become the country’s top spy. He was the second-ranked official at the Ministry of State Security, better known as the Stasi; he was often described as the model for the Karla character in John le Carré ’s spy novels. In the course of his career, his Directorate for Reconnaissance recruited agents in the offices of the West German chancellor and just about every other department of the government, as well as at NATO.

Both men could see the gap between propaganda and reality. Yet one remained an enthusiastic collaborator while the other could not bear the betrayal of his ideals. Why?

Leonhard, meanwhile, became a prominent critic of the regime. He wrote and lectured in West Berlin, at Oxford, at Columbia. Eventually he wound up at Yale, where his lecture course left an impression on several generations of students. Among them was a future U.S. president, George W. Bush, who described Leonhard’s course as “an introduction to the struggle between tyranny and freedom.” When I was at Yale in the 1980s, Leonhard’s course on Soviet history was the most popular on campus.

Separately, each man’s story makes sense. But when examined together, they require some deeper explanation. Until March 1949, Leonhard’s and Wolf’s biographies were strikingly similar. Both grew up inside the Soviet system. Both were educated in Communist ideology, and both had the same values. Both knew that the party was undermining those values. Both knew that the system, allegedly built to promote equality, was deeply unequal, profoundly unfair, and very cruel. Like their counterparts in so many other times and places, both men could plainly see the gap between propaganda and reality. Yet one remained an enthusiastic collaborator, while the other could not bear the betrayal of his ideals. Why?

In english, the word collaborator has a double meaning. A colleague can be described as a collaborator in a neutral or positive sense. But the other definition of collaborator, relevant here, is different: someone who works with the enemy, with the occupying power, with the dictatorial regime. In this negative sense, collaborator is closely related to another set of words: collusion, complicity, connivance. This negative meaning gained currency during the Second World War, when it was widely used to describe Europeans who cooperated with Nazi occupiers. At base, the ugly meaning of collaborator carries an implication of treason: betrayal of one’s nation, of one’s ideology, of one’s morality, of one’s values.

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Since the Second World War, historians and political scientists have tried to explain why some people in extreme circumstances become collaborators and others do not. The late Harvard scholar Stanley Hoffmann had firsthand knowledge of the subject—as a child, he and his mother hid from the Nazis in Lamalou-les-Bains, a village in the south of France. But he was modest about his own conclusions, noting that “a careful historian would have—almost—to write a huge series of case histories; for there seem to have been almost as many collaborationisms as there were proponents or practitioners of collaboration.” Still, Hoffmann made a stab at classification, beginning with a division of collaborators into “voluntary” and “involuntary.” Many people in the latter group had no choice. Forced into a “reluctant recognition of necessity,” they could not avoid dealing with the Nazi occupiers who were running their country.

Hoffmann further sorted the more enthusiastic “voluntary” collaborators into two additional categories. In the first were those who worked with the enemy in the name of “national interest,” rationalizing collaboration as something necessary for the preservation of the French economy, or French culture—though of course many people who made these arguments had other professional or economic motives, too. In the second were the truly active ideological collaborators: people who believed that prewar republican France had been weak or corrupt and hoped that the Nazis would strengthen it, people who admired fascism, and people who admired Hitler.

Hoffmann observed that many of those who became ideological collaborators were landowners and aristocrats, “the cream of the top of the civil service, of the armed forces, of the business community,” people who perceived themselves as part of a natural ruling class that had been unfairly deprived of power under the left-wing governments of France in the 1930s. Equally motivated to collaborate were their polar opposites, the “social misfits and political deviants” who would, in the normal course of events, never have made successful careers of any kind. What brought these groups together was a common conclusion that, whatever they had thought about Germany before June 1940, their political and personal futures would now be improved by aligning themselves with the occupiers.

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Like Hoffmann, Czesław Miłosz, a Nobel Prize–winning Polish poet, wrote about collaboration from personal experience. An active member of the anti-Nazi resistance during the war, he nevertheless wound up after the war as a cultural attaché at the Polish embassy in Washington, serving his country’s Communist government. Only in 1951 did he defect, denounce the regime, and dissect his experience. In a famous essay, The Captive Mind, he sketched several lightly disguised portraits of real people, all writers and intellectuals, each of whom had come up with different ways of justifying collaboration with the party. Many were careerists, but Miłosz understood that careerism could not provide a complete explanation. To be part of a mass movement was for many a chance to end their alienation, to feel close to the “masses,” to be united in a single community with workers and shopkeepers. For tormented intellectuals, collaboration also offered a kind of relief, almost a sense of peace: It meant that they were no longer constantly at war with the state, no longer in turmoil. Once the intellectual has accepted that there is no other way, Miłosz wrote, “he eats with relish, his movements take on vigor, his color returns. He sits down and writes a ‘positive’ article, marveling at the ease with which he writes it.” Miłosz is one of the few writers to acknowledge the pleasure of conformity, the lightness of heart that it grants, the way that it solves so many personal and professional dilemmas.

We all feel the urge to conform; it is the most normal of human desires. I was reminded of this recently when I visited Marianne Birthler in her light-filled apartment in Berlin. During the 1980s, Birthler was one of a very small number of active dissidents in East Germany; later, in reunified Germany, she spent more than a decade running the Stasi archive, the collection of former East German secret-police files. I asked her whether she could identify among her cohort a set of circumstances that had inclined some people to collaborate with the Stasi.

She was put off by the question. Collaboration wasn’t interesting, Birthler told me. Almost everyone was a collaborator; 99 percent of East Germans collaborated. If they weren’t working with the Stasi, then they were working with the party, or with the system more generally. Much more interesting—and far harder to explain—was the genuinely mysterious question of “why people went against the regime.” The puzzle is not why Markus Wolf remained in East Germany, in other words, but why Wolfgang Leonhard did not.

Here is another pair of stories, one that will be more familiar to American readers. Let’s begin this one in the 1980s, when a young Lindsey Graham first served with the Judge Advocate General’s Corps—the military legal service—in the U.S. Air Force. During some of that time, Graham was based in what was then West Germany, on the cutting edge of America’s Cold War efforts. Graham, born and raised in a small town in South Carolina, was devoted to the military: After both of his parents died when he was in his 20s, he got himself and his younger sister through college with the help of an ROTC stipend and then an Air Force salary. He stayed in the Reserves for two decades, even while in the Senate, sometimes journeying to Iraq or Afghanistan to serve as a short-term reserve officer. “The Air Force has been one of the best things that has ever happened to me,” he said in 2015. “It gave me a purpose bigger than myself. It put me in the company of patriots.” Through most of his years in the Senate, Graham, alongside his close friend John McCain, was a spokesperson for a strong military, and for a vision of America as a democratic leader abroad. He also supported a vigorous notion of democracy at home. In his 2014 reelection campaign, he ran as a maverick and a centrist, telling The Atlantic that jousting with the Tea Party was “more fun than any time I’ve been in politics.”

Read: How Lindsey Graham stomped the Tea Party

While Graham was doing his tour in West Germany, Mitt Romney became a co-founder and then the president of Bain Capital, a private-equity investment firm. Born in Michigan, Romney worked in Massachusetts during his years at Bain, but he also kept, thanks to his Mormon faith, close ties to Utah. While Graham was a military lawyer, drawing military pay, Romney was acquiring companies, restructuring them, and then selling them. This was a job he excelled at—in 1990, he was asked to run the parent firm, Bain & Company—and in the course of doing so he became very rich. Still, Romney dreamed of a political career, and in 1994 he ran for the Senate in Massachusetts, after changing his political affiliation from independent to Republican. He lost, but in 2002 he ran for governor of Massachusetts as a nonpartisan moderate, and won. In 2007—after a gubernatorial term during which he successfully brought in a form of near-universal health care that became a model for Barack Obama’s Affordable Care Act—he staged his first run for president. After losing the 2008 Republican primary, he won the party’s nomination in 2012, and then lost the general election.

Both Graham and Romney had presidential ambitions; Graham staged his own short-lived presidential campaign in 2015 (justified on the grounds that “the world is falling apart”). Both men were loyal members of the Republican Party, skeptical of the party’s radical and conspiratorial fringe. Both men reacted to the presidential candidacy of Donald Trump with real anger, and no wonder: In different ways, Trump’s values undermined their own. Graham had dedicated his career to an idea of U.S. leadership around the world—whereas Trump was offering an “America First” doctrine that would turn out to mean “me and my friends first.” Romney was an excellent businessman with a strong record as a public servant—whereas Trump inherited wealth, went bankrupt more than once, created nothing of value, and had no governing record at all. Both Graham and Romney were devoted to America’s democratic traditions and to the ideals of honesty, accountability, and transparency in public life—all of which Trump scorned.

Both were vocal in their disapproval of Trump. Before the election, Graham called him a “jackass,” a “nutjob,” and a “race-baiting, xenophobic, religious bigot.” He seemed unhappy, even depressed, by the election: I happened to see him at a conference in Europe in the spring of 2016, and he spoke in monosyllables, if at all.

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Romney went further. “Let me put it very plainly,” he said in March 2016, in a speech criticizing Trump: “If we Republicans choose Donald Trump as our nominee, the prospects for a safe and prosperous future are greatly diminished.” Romney spoke of “the bullying, the greed, the showing off, the misogyny, the absurd third-grade theatrics.” He called Trump a “con man” and a “fraud.” Even after Trump won the nomination, Romney refused to endorse him. On his presidential ballot, Romney said, he wrote in his wife. Graham said he voted for the independent candidate Evan McMullin.

But Trump did become president, and so the two men’s convictions were put to the test.

A glance at their biographies would not have led many to predict what happened next. On paper, Graham would have seemed, in 2016, like the man with deeper ties to the military, to the rule of law, and to an old-fashioned idea of American patriotism and American responsibility in the world. Romney, by contrast, with his shifts between the center and the right, with his multiple careers in business and politics, would have seemed less deeply attached to those same old-fashioned patriotic ideals. Most of us register soldiers as loyal patriots, and management consultants as self-interested. We assume people from small towns in South Carolina are more likely to resist political pressure than people who have lived in many places. Intuitively, we think that loyalty to a particular place implies loyalty to a set of values.

But in this case the clichés were wrong. It was Graham who made excuses for Trump’s abuse of power. It was Graham—a JAG Corps lawyer—who downplayed the evidence that the president had attempted to manipulate foreign courts and blackmail a foreign leader into launching a phony investigation into a political rival. It was Graham who abandoned his own stated support for bipartisanship and instead pushed for a hyperpartisan Senate Judiciary Committee investigation into former Vice President Joe Biden’s son. It was Graham who played golf with Trump, who made excuses for him on television, who supported the president even as he slowly destroyed the American alliances—with Europeans, with the Kurds—that Graham had defended all his life. By contrast, it was Romney who, in February, became the only Republican senator to break ranks with his colleagues, voting to impeach the president. “Corrupting an election to keep oneself in office,” he said, is “perhaps the most abusive and destructive violation of one’s oath of office that I can imagine.”

Read: How Mitt Romney decided Trump is guilty

One man proved willing to betray ideas and ideals that he had once stood for. The other refused. Why?

To the american reader, references to Vichy France, East Germany, fascists, and Communists may seem over-the-top, even ludicrous. But dig a little deeper, and the analogy makes sense. The point is not to compare Trump to Hitler or Stalin; the point is to compare the experiences of high-ranking members of the American Republican Party, especially those who work most closely with the White House, to the experiences of Frenchmen in 1940, or of East Germans in 1945, or of Czesław Miłosz in 1947. These are experiences of people who are forced to accept an alien ideology or a set of values that are in sharp conflict with their own.

Not even Trump’s supporters can contest this analogy, because the imposition of an alien ideology is precisely what he was calling for all along. Trump’s first statement as president, his inaugural address, was an unprecedented assault on American democracy and American values. Remember: He described America’s capital city, America’s government, America’s congressmen and senators—all democratically elected and chosen by Americans, according to America’s 227-year-old Constitution—as an “establishment” that had profited at the expense of “the people.” “Their victories have not been your victories,” he said. “Their triumphs have not been your triumphs.” Trump was stating, as clearly as he possibly could, that a new set of values was now replacing the old, though of course the nature of those new values was not yet clear.

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Almost as soon as he stopped speaking, Trump launched his first assault on fact-based reality, a long-undervalued component of the American political system. We are not a theocracy or a monarchy that accepts the word of the leader or the priesthood as law. We are a democracy that debates facts, seeks to understand problems, and then legislates solutions, all in accordance with a set of rules. Trump’s insistence—against the evidence of photographs, television footage, and the lived experience of thousands of people—that the attendance at his inauguration was higher than at Barack Obama’s first inauguration represented a sharp break with that American political tradition. Like the authoritarian leaders of other times and places, Trump effectively ordered not just his supporters but also apolitical members of the government bureaucracy to adhere to a blatantly false, manipulated reality. American politicians, like politicians everywhere, have always covered up mistakes, held back information, and made promises they could not keep. But until Trump was president, none of them induced the National Park Service to produce doctored photographs or compelled the White House press secretary to lie about the size of a crowd—or encouraged him to do so in front of a press corps that knew he knew he was lying.

It takes time to persuade people to abandon their existing value systems. The process usually begins slowly, with small changes.

The lie was petty, even ridiculous; that was partly why it was so dangerous. In the 1950s, when an insect known as the Colorado potato beetle appeared in Eastern European potato fields, Soviet-backed governments in the region triumphantly claimed that it had been dropped from the sky by American pilots, as a deliberate form of biological sabotage. Posters featuring vicious red-white-and-blue beetles went up all across Poland, East Germany, and Czechoslovakia. No one really believed the charge, including the people making it, as archives have subsequently shown. But that didn’t matter. The point of the posters was not to convince people of a falsehood. The point was to demonstrate the party’s power to proclaim and promulgate a falsehood. Sometimes the point isn’t to make people believe a lie—it’s to make people fear the liar.

These kinds of lies also have a way of building on one another. It takes time to persuade people to abandon their existing value systems. The process usually begins slowly, with small changes. Social scientists who have studied the erosion of values and the growth of corruption inside companies have found, for example, that “people are more likely to accept the unethical behavior of others if the behavior develops gradually (along a slippery slope) rather than occurring abruptly,” according to a 2009 article in the Journal of Experimental Social Psychology. This happens, in part, because most people have a built-in vision of themselves as moral and honest, and that self-image is resistant to change. Once certain behaviors become “normal,” then people stop seeing them as wrong.

This process happens in politics, too. In 1947, the Soviet military administrators in East Germany passed a regulation governing the activity of publishing houses and printers. The decree did not nationalize the printing presses; it merely demanded that their owners apply for licenses, and that they confine their work to books and pamphlets ordered by central planners. Imagine how a law like this—which did not speak of arrests, let alone torture or the Gulag—affected the owner of a printing press in Dresden, a responsible family man with two teenage children and a sickly wife. Following its passage, he had to make a series of seemingly insignificant choices. Would he apply for a license? Of course—he needed it to earn money for his family. Would he agree to confine his business to material ordered by the central planners? Yes to that too—what else was there to print?

William J. Burns: Polarized politics has infected American diplomacy

After that, other compromises follow. Though he dislikes the Communists—he just wants to stay out of politics—he agrees to print the collected works of Stalin, because if he doesn’t do it, others will. When he is asked by some disaffected friends to print a pamphlet critical of the regime, however, he refuses. Though he wouldn’t go to jail for printing it, his children might not be admitted to university, and his wife might not get her medication; he has to think about their welfare. Meanwhile, all across East Germany, other owners of other printing presses are making similar decisions. And after a while—without anyone being shot or arrested, without anyone feeling any particular pangs of conscience—the only books left to read are the ones approved by the regime.

The built-in vision of themselves as American patriots, or as competent administrators, or as loyal party members, also created a cognitive distortion that blinded many Republicans and Trump-administration officials to the precise nature of the president’s alternative value system. After all, the early incidents were so trivial. They overlooked the lie about the inauguration because it was silly. They ignored Trump’s appointment of the wealthiest Cabinet in history, and his decision to stuff his administration with former lobbyists, because that’s business as usual. They made excuses for Ivanka Trump’s use of a private email account, and for Jared Kushner’s conflicts of interest, because that’s just family stuff.

One step at a time, Trumpism fooled many of its most enthusiastic adherents. Recall that some of the original intellectual supporters of Trump—people like Steve Bannon, Michael Anton, and the advocates of “national conservatism,” an ideology invented, post hoc, to rationalize the president’s behavior—advertised their movement as a recognizable form of populism: an anti–Wall Street, anti-foreign-wars, anti-immigration alternative to the small-government libertarianism of the establishment Republican Party. Their “Drain the swamp” slogan implied that Trump would clean up the rotten world of lobbyists and campaign finance that distorts American politics, that he would make public debate more honest and legislation more fair. Had this actually been Trump’s ruling philosophy, it might well have posed difficulties for the Republican Party leadership in 2016, given that most of them had quite different values. But it would not necessarily have damaged the Constitution, and it would not necessarily have posed fundamental moral challenges to people in public life.

In practice, Trump has governed according to a set of principles very different from those articulated by his original intellectual supporters. Although some of his speeches have continued to use that populist language, he has built a Cabinet and an administration that serve neither the public nor his voters but rather his own psychological needs and the interests of his own friends on Wall Street and in business and, of course, his own family. His tax cuts disproportionately benefited the wealthy, not the working class. His shallow economic boom, engineered to ensure his reelection, was made possible by a vast budget deficit, on a scale Republicans once claimed to abhor, an enormous burden for future generations. He worked to dismantle the existing health-care system without offering anything better, as he’d promised to do, so that the number of uninsured people rose. All the while he fanned and encouraged xenophobia and racism, both because he found them politically useful and because they are part of his personal worldview.

More important, he has governed in defiance—and in ignorance—of the American Constitution, notably declaring, well into his third year in office, that he had “total” authority over the states. His administration is not merely corrupt, it is also hostile to checks, balances, and the rule of law. He has built a proto-authoritarian personality cult, firing or sidelining officials who have contradicted him with facts and evidence—with tragic consequences for public health and the economy. He threatened to fire a top Centers for Disease Control and Prevention official, Nancy Messonnier, in late February, after her too-blunt warnings about the coronavirus; Rick Bright, a top Health and Human Services official, says he was demoted after refusing to direct money to promote the unproven drug hydroxychloroquine. Trump has attacked America’s military, calling his generals “a bunch of dopes and babies,” and America’s intelligence services and law-enforcement officers, whom he has denigrated as the “deep state” and whose advice he has ignored. He has appointed weak and inexperienced “acting” officials to run America’s most important security institutions. He has systematically wrecked America’s alliances.

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His foreign policy has never served any U.S. interests of any kind. Although some of Trump’s Cabinet ministers and media followers have tried to portray him as an anti-Chinese nationalist—and although foreign-policy commentators from all points on the political spectrum have, amazingly, accepted this fiction without questioning it—Trump’s true instinct, always, has been to side with foreign dictators, including Chinese President Xi Jinping. One former administration official who has seen Trump interact with Xi as well as with Russian President Vladimir Putin told me that it was like watching a lesser celebrity encounter a more famous one. Trump did not speak to them as the representative of the American people; he simply wanted their aura—of absolute power, of cruelty, of fame—to rub off on him and enhance his own image. This, too, has had fatal consequences. In January, Trump took Xi’s word when he said that COVID‑19 was “under control,” just as he had believed North Korea’s Kim Jong Un when he signed a deal on nuclear weapons. Trump’s fawning attitude toward dictators is his ideology at its purest: He meets his own psychological needs first; he thinks about the country last. The true nature of the ideology that Trump brought to Washington was not “America First,” but rather “Trump First.”

Maybe it isn’t surprising that the implications of “Trump First” were not immediately understood. After all, the Communist parties of Eastern Europe—or, if you want a more recent example, the Chavistas in Venezuela—all advertised themselves as advocates of equality and prosperity even though, in practice, they created inequality and poverty. But just as the truth about Hugo Chávez’s Bolivarian Revolution slowly dawned on people, it also became clear, eventually, that Trump did not have the interests of the American public at heart. And as they came to realize that the president was not a patriot, Republican politicians and senior civil servants began to equivocate, just like people living under an alien regime.

In retrospect, this dawning realization explains why the funeral of John McCain, in September 2018, looked, and by all accounts felt, so strange. Two previous presidents, one Republican and one Democrat—representatives of the old, patriotic political class—made speeches; the sitting president’s name was never mentioned. The songs and symbols of the old order were visible too: “The Battle Hymn of the Republic”; American flags; two of McCain’s sons in their officer’s uniforms, so very different from the sons of Trump. Writing in The New Yorker, Susan Glasser described the funeral as “a meeting of the Resistance, under vaulted ceilings and stained-glass windows.” In truth, it bore an uncanny resemblance to the 1956 funeral of László Rajk, a Hungarian Communist and secret-police boss who had been purged and murdered by his comrades in 1949. Rajk’s wife had become an outspoken critic of the regime, and the funeral turned into a de facto political rally, helping to set off Hungary’s anti-Communist revolution a couple of weeks later.

Nothing quite so dramatic happened after McCain’s funeral. But it did clarify the situation. A year and a half into the Trump administration, it marked a turning point, the moment at which many Americans in public life began to adopt the strategies, tactics, and self-justifications that the inhabitants of occupied countries have used in the past—doing so even though the personal stakes were, relatively speaking, so low. Poles like Miłosz wound up in exile in the 1950s; dissidents in East Germany lost the right to work and study. In harsher regimes like that of Stalin’s Russia, public protest could lead to many years in a concentration camp; disobedient Wehrmacht officers were executed by slow strangulation.

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By contrast, a Republican senator who dares to question whether Trump is acting in the interests of the country is in danger of—what, exactly? Losing his seat and winding up with a seven-figure lobbying job or a fellowship at the Harvard Kennedy School? He might meet the terrible fate of Jeff Flake, the former Arizona senator, who has been hired as a contributor by CBS News. He might suffer like Romney, who was tragically not invited to the Conservative Political Action Conference, which this year turned out to be a reservoir of COVID‑19.

Nevertheless, 20 months into the Trump administration, senators and other serious-minded Republicans in public life who should have known better began to tell themselves stories that sound very much like those in Miłosz’s The Captive Mind. Some of these stories overlap with one another; some of them are just thin cloaks to cover self-interest. But all of them are familiar justifications of collaboration, recognizable from the past. Here are the most popular.

We can use this moment to achieve great things. In the spring of 2019, a Trump-supporting friend put me in touch with an administration official I will call “Mark,” whom I eventually met for a drink. I won’t give details, because we spoke informally, but in any case Mark did not leak information or criticize the White House. On the contrary, he described himself as a patriot and a true believer. He supported the language of “America First,” and was confident that it could be made real.

Several months later, I met Mark a second time. The impeachment hearings had begun, and the story of the firing of the American ambassador to Ukraine, Marie Yovanovitch, was then in the news. The true nature of the administration’s ideology—Trump First, not America First—was becoming more obvious. The president’s abuse of military aid to Ukraine and his attacks on civil servants suggested not a patriotic White House, but a president focused on his own interests. Mark did not apologize for the president, though. Instead, he changed the subject: It was all worth it, he told me, because of the Uighurs.

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I thought I had misheard. The Uighurs? Why the Uighurs? I was unaware of anything that the administration had done to aid the oppressed Muslim minority in Xinjiang, China. Mark assured me that letters had been written, statements had been made, the president himself had been persuaded to say something at the United Nations. I doubted very much that the Uighurs had benefited from these empty words: China hadn’t altered its behavior, and the concentration camps built for the Uighurs were still standing. Nevertheless, Mark’s conscience was clear. Yes, Trump was destroying America’s reputation in the world, and yes, Trump was ruining America’s alliances, but Mark was so important to the cause of the Uighurs that people like him could, in good conscience, keep working for the administration.

Mark made me think of the story of Wanda Telakowska, a Polish cultural activist who in 1945 felt much the same as he did. Telakowska had collected and promoted folk art before the war; after the war she made the momentous decision to join the Polish Ministry of Culture. The Communist leadership was arresting and murdering its opponents; the nature of the regime was becoming clear. Telakowska nevertheless thought she could use her position inside the Communist establishment to help Polish artists and designers, to promote their work and get Polish companies to mass-produce their designs. But Polish factories, newly nationalized, were not interested in the designs she commissioned. Communist politicians, skeptical of her loyalty, made Telakowska write articles filled with Marxist gibberish. Eventually she resigned, having achieved nothing she set out to do. A later generation of artists condemned her as a Stalinist and forgot about her.

We can protect the country from the president. That, of course, was the argument used by “Anonymous,” the author of an unsigned New York Times op-ed published in September 2018. For those who have forgotten—a lot has happened since then—that article described the president’s “erratic behavior,” his inability to concentrate, his ignorance, and above all his lack of “affinity for ideals long espoused by conservatives: free minds, free markets and free people.” The “root of the problem,” Anonymous concluded, was “the president’s amorality.” In essence, the article described the true nature of the alternative value system brought into the White House by Trump, at a moment when not everybody in Washington understood it. But even as they came to understand that the Trump presidency was guided by the president’s narcissism, Anonymous did not quit, protest, make noise, or campaign against the president and his party.

Read: The saddest part of the anonymous ‘New York Times’ op-ed

Instead, Anonymous concluded that remaining inside the system, where they could cleverly distract and restrain the president, was the right course for public servants like them. Anonymous was not alone. Gary Cohn, at the time the White House economic adviser, told Bob Woodward that he’d removed papers from the president’s desk to prevent him from pulling out of a trade agreement with South Korea. James Mattis, Trump’s original secretary of defense, stayed in office because he thought he could educate the president about the value of America’s alliances, or at least protect some of them from destruction.

This kind of behavior has echoes in other countries and other times. A few months ago, in Venezuela, I spoke with Víctor Álvarez, a minister in one of Hugo Chávez’s governments and a high-ranking official before that. Álvarez explained to me the arguments he had made in favor of protecting some private industry, and his opposition to mass nationalization. Álvarez was in government from the late 1990s through 2006, a time when Chávez was stepping up the use of police against peaceful demonstrators and undermining democratic institutions. Still, Álvarez remained, hoping to curb Chávez’s worst economic instincts. Ultimately, he did quit, after concluding that Chávez had created a loyalty cult around himself—Álvarez called it a “subclimate” of obedience—and was no longer listening to anyone who disagreed.

Anne Applebaum: Venezuela is the eerie endgame of modern politics

In authoritarian regimes, many insiders eventually conclude that their presence simply does not matter. Cohn, after publicly agonizing when the president said there had been “fine people on both sides” at the deadly white-supremacist rally in Charlottesville, Virginia, finally quit when the president made the ruinous decision to put tariffs on steel and aluminum, a decision that harmed American businesses. Mattis reached his breaking point when the president abandoned the Kurds, America’s longtime allies in the war against the Islamic State.

But although both resigned, neither Cohn nor Mattis has spoken out in any notable way. (On June 3, after this article went to press, Mattis denounced Trump in an article on TheAtlantic.com.) Their presence inside the White House helped build Trump’s credibility among traditional Republican voters; their silence now continues to serve the president’s purposes. As for Anonymous, we don’t know whether he or she remains inside the administration. For the record, I note that Álvarez lives in Venezuela, an actual police state, and yet is willing to speak out against the system he helped create. Cohn, Mattis, and Anonymous, all living freely in the United States of America, have not been nearly so brave.

I, personally, will benefit. These, of course, are words that few people ever say out loud. Perhaps some do quietly acknowledge to themselves that they have not resigned or protested because it would cost them money or status. But no one wants a reputation as a careerist or a turncoat. After the fall of the Berlin Wall, even Markus Wolf sought to portray himself as an idealist. He had truly believed in Marxist-Leninist ideals, this infamously cynical man told an interviewer in 1996, and “I still believe in them.”

Many people in and around the Trump administration are seeking personal benefits. Many of them are doing so with a degree of openness that is startling and unusual in contemporary American politics, at least at this level. As an ideology, “Trump First” suits these people, because it gives them license to put themselves first. To pick a random example: Sonny Perdue, the secretary of agriculture, is a former Georgia governor and a businessman who, like Trump, famously refused to put his agricultural companies into a blind trust when he entered the governor’s office. Perdue has never even pretended to separate his political and personal interests. Since joining the Cabinet he has, with almost no oversight, distributed billions of dollars of “compensation” to farms damaged by Trump’s trade policies. He has stuffed his department with former lobbyists who are now in charge of regulating their own industries: Deputy Secretary Stephen Censky was for 21 years the CEO of the American Soybean Association; Brooke Appleton was a lobbyist for the National Corn Growers Association before becoming Censky’s chief of staff, and has since returned to that group; Kailee Tkacz, a member of a nutritional advisory panel, is a former lobbyist for the Snack Food Association. The list goes on and on, as would lists of similarly compromised people in the Department of Energy, the Environmental Protection Agency, and elsewhere.

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Perdue’s department also employs an extraordinary range of people with no experience in agriculture whatsoever. These modern apparatchiks, hired for their loyalty rather than their competence, include a long-haul truck driver, a country-club cabana attendant, the owner of a scented-candle company, and an intern at the Republican National Committee. The long-haul truck driver was paid $80,000 a year to expand markets for American agriculture abroad. Why was he qualified? He had a background in “hauling and shipping agricultural commodities.”

A friend told me that each time he sees Lindsey Graham, “he brags about having just met with Trump” while exhibiting “high school” levels of excitement, as if “a popular quarterback has just bestowed some attention on a nerdy debate-club leader.”

I must remain close to power. Another sort of benefit, harder to measure, has kept many people who object to Trump’s policies or behavior from speaking out: the intoxicating experience of power, and the belief that proximity to a powerful person bestows higher status. This, too, is nothing new. In a 1968 article for The Atlantic, James Thomson, an American East Asia specialist, brilliantly explained how power functioned inside the U.S. bureaucracy in the Vietnam era. When the war in Vietnam was going badly, many people did not resign or speak out in public, because preserving their “effectiveness”—“a mysterious combination of training, style, and connections,” as Thomson defined it—was an all-consuming concern. He called this “the effectiveness trap”:

The inclination to remain silent or to acquiesce in the presence of the great men—to live to fight another day, to give on this issue so that you can be “effective” on later issues—is overwhelming. Nor is it the tendency of youth alone; some of our most senior officials, men of wealth and fame, whose place in history is secure, have remained silent lest their connection with power be terminated.

In any organization, private or public, the boss will of course sometimes make decisions that his underlings dislike. But when basic principles are constantly violated, and people constantly defer resignation—“I can always fall on my sword next time”—then misguided policies go fatally unchallenged.

In other countries, the effectiveness trap has other names. In his recent book on Putinism, Between Two Fires, Joshua Yaffa describes the Russian version of this syndrome. The Russian language, he notes, has a word—prisposoblenets—that means “a person skilled in the act of compromise and adaptation, who intuitively understands what is expected of him and adjusts his beliefs and conduct accordingly.” In Putin’s Russia, anyone who wants to stay in the game—to remain close to power, to retain influence, to inspire respect—knows the necessity of making constant small changes to one’s language and behavior, of being careful about what one says and to whom one says it, of understanding what criticism is acceptable and what constitutes a violation of the unwritten rules. Those who violate these rules will not, for the most part, suffer prison—Putin’s Russia is not Stalin’s Russia—but they will experience a painful ejection from the inner circle.

For those who have never experienced it, the mystical pull of that connection to power, that feeling of being an insider, is difficult to explain. Nevertheless, it is real, and strong enough to affect even the highest-ranking, best-known, most influential people in America. John Bolton, Trump’s former national security adviser, named his still-unpublished book The Room Where It Happened, because, of course, that’s where he has always wanted to be. A friend who regularly runs into Lindsey Graham in Washington told me that each time they meet, “he brags about having just met with Trump” while exhibiting “high school” levels of excitement, as if “a popular quarterback has just bestowed some attention on a nerdy debate-club leader—the powerful big kid likes me! ” That kind of intense pleasure is hard to relinquish and even harder to live without.

LOL nothing matters. Cynicism, nihilism, relativism, amorality, irony, sarcasm, boredom, amusement—these are all reasons to collaborate, and always have been. Marko Martin, a novelist and travel writer who grew up in East Germany, told me that in the 1980s some of the East German bohemia, influenced by then-fashionable French intellectuals, argued that there was no such thing as morality or immorality, no such thing as good or evil, no such thing as right or wrong—“so you might as well collaborate.”

This instinct has an American variation. Politicians here who have spent their lives following rules and watching their words, calibrating their language, giving pious speeches about morality and governance, may feel a sneaking admiration for someone like Trump, who breaks all the rules and gets away with it. He lies; he cheats; he extorts; he refuses to show compassion, sympathy, or empathy; he does not pretend to believe in anything or to abide by any moral code. He simulates patriotism, with flags and gestures, but he does not behave like a patriot; his campaign scrambled to get help from Russia in 2016 (“If it’s what you say, I love it,” replied Donald Trump Jr., when offered Russian “dirt” on Hillary Clinton), and Trump himself called on Russia to hack his opponent. And for some of those at the top of his administration, and of his party, these character traits might have a deep, unacknowledged appeal: If there is no such thing as moral and immoral, then everyone is implicitly released from the need to obey any rules. If the president doesn’t respect the Constitution, then why should I? If the president can cheat in elections, then why can’t I? If the president can sleep with porn stars, then why shouldn’t I?

This, of course, was the insight of the “alt-right,” which understood the dark allure of amorality, open racism, anti-Semitism, and misogyny long before many others in the Republican Party. Mikhail Bakhtin, the Russian philosopher and literary critic, recognized the lure of the forbidden a century ago, writing about the deep appeal of the carnival, a space where everything banned is suddenly allowed, where eccentricity is permitted, where profanity defeats piety. The Trump administration is like that: Nothing means anything, rules don’t matter, and the president is the carnival king.

My side might be flawed, but the political opposition is much worse. When Marshal Philippe Pétain, the leader of collaborationist France, took over the Vichy government, he did so in the name of the restoration of a France that he believed had been lost. Pétain had been a fierce critic of the French Republic, and once he was in control, he replaced its famous creed—Liberté, égalité, fraternité, or “Liberty, equality, fraternity”—with a different slogan: Travail, famille, patrie, or “Work, family, fatherland.” Instead of the “false idea of the natural equality of man,” he proposed bringing back “social hierarchy”—order, tradition, and religion. Instead of accepting modernity, Pétain sought to turn back the clock.

By Pétain’s reckoning, collaboration with the Germans was not merely an embarrassing necessity. It was crucial, because it gave patriots the ability to fight the real enemy: the French parliamentarians, socialists, anarchists, Jews, and other assorted leftists and democrats who, he believed, were undermining the nation, robbing it of its vitality, destroying its essence. “Rather Hitler than Blum,” the saying went—Blum having been France’s socialist (and Jewish) prime minister in the late 1930s. One Vichy minister, Pierre Laval, famously declared that he hoped Germany would conquer all of Europe. Otherwise, he asserted, “Bolshevism would tomorrow establish itself everywhere.”

From the October 2001 issue: France’s downfall

To Americans, this kind of justification should sound very familiar; we have been hearing versions of it since 2016. The existential nature of the threat from “the left” has been spelled out many times. “Our liberal-left present reality and future direction is incompatible with human nature,” wrote Michael Anton, in “The Flight 93 Election.” The Fox News anchor Laura Ingraham has warned that “massive demographic changes” threaten us too: “In some parts of the country it does seem like the America that we know and love doesn’t exist anymore.” This is the Vichy logic: The nation is dead or dying—so anything you can do to restore it is justified. Whatever criticisms might be made of Trump, whatever harm he has done to democracy and the rule of law, whatever corrupt deals he might make while in the White House—all of these shrink in comparison to the horrific alternative: the liberalism, socialism, moral decadence, demographic change, and cultural degradation that would have been the inevitable result of Hillary Clinton’s presidency.

The Republican senators who are willing to express their disgust with Trump off the record but voted in February for him to remain in office all indulge a variation of this sentiment. (Trump enables them to get the judges they want, and those judges will help create the America they want.) So do the evangelical pastors who ought to be disgusted by Trump’s personal behavior but argue, instead, that the current situation has scriptural precedents. Like King David in the Bible, the president is a sinner, a flawed vessel, but he nevertheless offers a path to salvation for a fallen nation.

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The three most important members of Trump’s Cabinet—Vice President Mike Pence, Secretary of State Mike Pompeo, and Attorney General William Barr—are all profoundly shaped by Vichyite apocalyptic thinking. All three are clever enough to understand what Trumpism really means, that it has nothing to do with God or faith, that it is self-serving, greedy, and unpatriotic. Nevertheless, a former member of the administration (one of the few who did decide to resign) told me that both Pence and Pompeo “have convinced themselves that they are in a biblical moment.” All of the things they care about—outlawing abortion and same-sex marriage, and (though this is never said out loud) maintaining a white majority in America—are under threat. Time is growing short. They believe that “we are approaching the Rapture, and this is a moment of deep religious significance.” Barr, in a speech at Notre Dame, has also described his belief that “militant secularists” are destroying America, that “irreligion and secular values are being forced on people of faith.” Whatever evil Trump does, whatever he damages or destroys, at least he enables Barr, Pence, and Pompeo to save America from a far worse fate. If you are convinced we are living in the End Times, then anything the president does can be forgiven.

I am afraid to speak out. Fear, of course, is the most important reason any inhabitant of an authoritarian or totalitarian society does not protest or resign, even when the leader commits crimes, violates his official ideology, or forces people to do things that they know to be wrong. In extreme dictatorships like Nazi Germany and Stalin’s Russia, people fear for their lives. In softer dictatorships, like East Germany after 1950 and Putin’s Russia today, people fear losing their jobs or their apartments. Fear works as a motivation even when violence is a memory rather than a reality. When I was a student in Leningrad in the 1980s, some people still stepped back in horror when I asked for directions on the street, in my accented Russian: No one was going to be arrested for speaking to a foreigner in 1984, but 30 years earlier they might have been, and the cultural memory remained.

Republican leaders don’t seem to know that similar waves of fear have helped transform other democracies into dictatorships.

In the United States of America, it is hard to imagine how fear could be a motivation for anybody. There are no mass murders of the regime’s political enemies, and there never have been. Political opposition is legal; free press and free speech are guaranteed in the Constitution. And yet even in one of the world’s oldest and most stable democracies, fear is a motive. The same former administration official who observed the importance of apocalyptic Christianity in Trump’s Washington also told me, with grim disgust, that “they are all scared.”

They are scared not of prison, the official said, but of being attacked by Trump on Twitter. They are scared he will make up a nickname for them. They are scared that they will be mocked, or embarrassed, like Mitt Romney has been. They are scared of losing their social circles, of being disinvited to parties. They are scared that their friends and supporters, and especially their donors, will desert them. John Bolton has his own super PAC and a lot of plans for how he wants to use it; no wonder he resisted testifying against Trump. Former Speaker Paul Ryan is among the dozens of House Republicans who have left Congress since the beginning of this administration, in one of the most striking personnel turnovers in congressional history. They left because they hated what Trump was doing to their party—and the country. Yet even after they left, they did not speak out.

They are scared, and yet they don’t seem to know that this fear has precedents, or that it could have consequences. They don’t know that similar waves of fear have helped transform other democracies into dictatorships. They don’t seem to realize that the American Senate really could become the Russian Duma, or the Hungarian Parliament, a group of exalted men and women who sit in an elegant building, with no influence and no power. Indeed, we are already much closer to that reality than many could ever have imagined.

In february, many members of the Republican Party leadership, Republican senators, and people inside the administration used various versions of these rationales to justify their opposition to impeachment. All of them had seen the evidence that Trump had stepped over the line in his dealings with the president of Ukraine. All of them knew that he had tried to use American foreign-policy tools, including military funding, to force a foreign leader into investigating a domestic political opponent. Yet Republican senators, led by Mitch McConnell, never took the charges seriously. They mocked the Democratic House leaders who had presented the charges. They decided against hearing evidence. With the single exception of Romney, they voted in favor of ending the investigation. They did not use the opportunity to rid the country of a president whose operative value system—built around corruption, nascent authoritarianism, self-regard, and his family’s business interests—runs counter to everything that most of them claim to believe in.

Just a month later, in March, the consequences of that decision became suddenly clear. After the U.S. and the world were plunged into crisis by a coronavirus that had no cure, the damage done by the president’s self-focused, self-dealing narcissism—his one true “ideology”—was finally visible. He led a federal response to the virus that was historically chaotic. The disappearance of the federal government was not a carefully planned transfer of power to the states, as some tried to claim, or a thoughtful decision to use the talents of private companies. This was the inevitable result of a three-year assault on professionalism, loyalty, competence, and patriotism. Tens of thousands of people have died, and the economy has been ruined.

Anne Applebaum: The rest of the world is laughing at Trump

This utter disaster was avoidable. If the Senate had removed the president by impeachment a month earlier; if the Cabinet had invoked the Twenty-Fifth Amendment as soon as Trump’s unfitness became clear; if the anonymous and off-the-record officials who knew of Trump’s incompetence had jointly warned the public; if they had not, instead, been so concerned about maintaining their proximity to power; if senators had not been scared of their donors; if Pence, Pompeo, and Barr had not believed that God had chosen them to play special roles in this “biblical moment”—if any of these things had gone differently, then thousands of deaths and a historic economic collapse might have been avoided.

The price of collaboration in America has already turned out to be extraordinarily high. And yet, the movement down the slippery slope continues, just as it did in so many occupied countries in the past. First Trump’s enablers accepted lies about the inauguration; now they accept terrible tragedy and the loss of American leadership in the world. Worse could follow. Come November, will they tolerate—even abet—an assault on the electoral system: open efforts to prevent postal voting, to shut polling stations, to scare people away from voting? Will they countenance violence, as the president’s social-media fans incite demonstrators to launch physical attacks on state and city officials?

Each violation of our Constitution and our civic peace gets absorbed, rationalized, and accepted by people who once upon a time knew better. If, following what is almost certain to be one of the ugliest elections in American history, Trump wins a second term, these people may well accept even worse. Unless, of course, they decide not to.

When I visited Marianne Birthler, she didn’t think it was interesting to talk about collaboration in East Germany, because everybody collaborated in East Germany. So I asked her about dissidence instead: When all of your friends, all of your teachers, and all of your employers are firmly behind the system, how do you find the courage to oppose it? In her answer, Birthler resisted the use of the word courage; just as people can adapt to corruption or immorality, she told me, they can slowly learn to object as well. The choice to become a dissident can easily be the result of “a number of small decisions that you take”—to absent yourself from the May Day parade, for example, or not to sing the words of the party hymn. And then, one day, you find yourself irrevocably on the other side. Often, this process involves role models. You see people whom you admire, and you want to be like them. It can even be “selfish.” “You want to do something for yourself,” Birthler said, “to respect yourself.”

For some people, the struggle is made easier by their upbringing. Marko Martin’s parents hated the East German regime, and so did he. His father was a conscientious objector, and so was he. As far back as the Weimar Republic, his great-grandparents had been part of the “anarcho-syndicalist” anti-Communist left; he had access to their books. In the 1980s, he refused to join the Free German Youth, the Communist youth organization, and as a result he could not go to university. He instead embarked on a vocational course, to train to be an electrician (after refusing to become a butcher). In his electrician-training classes, one of the other students pulled him aside and warned him, subtly, that the Stasi was collecting information on him: “It’s not necessary that you tell me all the things you have in mind.” He was eventually allowed to emigrate, in May 1989, just a few months before the fall of the Berlin Wall.

What would it take for Republican leaders to admit to themselves that Trump’s loyalty cult is destroying the country they claim to love?

In America we also have our Marianne Birthlers, our Marko Martins: people whose families taught them respect for the Constitution, who have faith in the rule of law, who believe in the importance of disinterested public service, who have values and role models from outside the world of the Trump administration. Over the past year, many such people have found the courage to stand up for what they believe. A few have been thrust into the limelight. Fiona Hill—an immigrant success story and a true believer in the American Constitution—was not afraid to testify at the House’s impeachment hearings, nor was she afraid to speak out against Republicans who were promulgating a false story of Ukrainian interference in the 2016 election. “This is a fictional narrative that has been perpetrated and propagated by the Russian security services themselves,” she said in her congressional testimony. “The unfortunate truth is that Russia was the foreign power that systematically attacked our democratic institutions in 2016.”

Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Vindman—another immigrant success story and another true believer in the American Constitution—also found the courage, first to report on the president’s improper telephone call with his Ukrainian counterpart, which Vindman had heard as a member of the National Security Council, and then to speak publicly about it. In his testimony, he made explicit reference to the values of the American political system, so different from those in the place where he was born. “In Russia,” he said, “offering public testimony involving the president would surely cost me my life.” But as “an American citizen and public servant … I can live free of fear for mine and my family’s safety.” A few days after the Senate impeachment vote, Vindman was physically escorted out of the White House by representatives of a vengeful president who did not appreciate Vindman’s hymn to American patriotism—although retired Marine Corps General John Kelly, the president’s former chief of staff, apparently did. Vindman’s behavior, Kelly said in a speech a few days later, was “exactly what we teach them to do from cradle to grave. He went and told his boss what he just heard.”

Read: John Kelly finally lets loose on Trump

But both Hill and Vindman had some important advantages. Neither had to answer to voters, or to donors. Neither had prominent status in the Republican Party. What would it take, by contrast, for Pence or Pompeo to conclude that the president bears responsibility for a catastrophic health and economic crisis? What would it take for Republican senators to admit to themselves that Trump’s loyalty cult is destroying the country they claim to love? What would it take for their aides and subordinates to come to the same conclusion, to resign, and to campaign against the president? What would it take, in other words, for someone like Lindsey Graham to behave like Wolfgang Leonhard?

If, as Stanley Hoffmann wrote, the honest historian would have to speak of “collaborationisms,” because the phenomenon comes in so many variations, the same is true of dissidence, which should probably be described as “dissidences.” People can suddenly change their minds because of spontaneous intellectual revelations like the one Wolfgang Leonhard had when walking into his fancy nomenklatura dining room, with its white tablecloths and three-course meals. They can also be persuaded by outside events: rapid political changes, for example. Awareness that the regime had lost its legitimacy is part of what made Harald Jaeger, an obscure and until that moment completely loyal East German border guard, decide on the night of November 9, 1989, to lift the gates and let his fellow citizens walk through the Berlin Wall—a decision that led, over the next days and months, to the end of East Germany itself. Jaeger’s decision was not planned; it was a spontaneous response to the fearlessness of the crowd. “Their will was so great,” he said years later, of those demanding to cross into West Berlin, “there was no other alternative than to open the border.”

But these things are all intertwined, and not easy to disentangle. The personal, the political, the intellectual, and the historical combine differently within every human brain, and the outcomes can be unpredictable. Leonhard’s “sudden” revelation may have been building for years, perhaps since his mother’s arrest. Jaeger was moved by the grandeur of the historical moment on that night in November, but he also had more petty concerns: He was annoyed at his boss, who had not given him clear instructions about what to do.

Could some similar combination of the petty and the political ever convince Lindsey Graham that he has helped lead his country down a blind alley? Perhaps a personal experience could move him, a prod from someone who represents his former value system—an old Air Force buddy, say, whose life has been damaged by Trump’s reckless behavior, or a friend from his hometown. Perhaps it requires a mass political event: When the voters begin to turn, maybe Graham will turn with them, arguing, as Jaeger did, that “their will was so great … there was no other alternative.” At some point, after all, the calculus of conformism will begin to shift. It will become awkward and uncomfortable to continue supporting “Trump First,” especially as Americans suffer from the worst recession in living memory and die from the coronavirus in numbers higher than in much of the rest of the world.

Anne Applebaum: A study in leadership

Or perhaps the only antidote is time. In due course, historians will write the story of our era and draw lessons from it, just as we write the history of the 1930s, or of the 1940s. The Miłoszes and the Hoffmanns of the future will make their judgments with the clarity of hindsight. They will see, more clearly than we can, the path that led the U.S. into a historic loss of international influence, into economic catastrophe, into political chaos of a kind we haven’t experienced since the years leading up to the Civil War. Then maybe Graham—along with Pence, Pompeo, McConnell, and a whole host of lesser figures—will understand what he has enabled.

In the meantime, I leave anyone who has the bad luck to be in public life at this moment with a final thought from Władysław Bartoszewski, who was a member of the wartime Polish underground, a prisoner of both the Nazis and the Stalinists, and then, finally, the foreign minister in two Polish democratic governments. Late in his life—he lived to be 93—he summed up the philosophy that had guided him through all of these tumultuous political changes. It was not idealism that drove him, or big ideas, he said. It was this: Warto być przyzwoitym—“Just try to be decent.” Whether you were decent—that’s what will be remembered.

This article appears in the July/August 2020 print edition with the headline “The Collaborators.”

ANNE APPLEBAUM

is a staff writer at The Atlantic, a senior fellow of the Agora Institute at Johns Hopkins University, and the author of

Twilight of Democracy: The Seductive Lure of Authoritarianism

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[mustafaalifics]

The Lottery

Title: The Lottery

Summary: Mustafa Ali runs into an old friend after a Smackdown Live show

Archive Warnings: None

 Smackdown Live was in Cleveland and we had seats right by the entrance ramp. It was the end of June and it was hot as hell, and I didn’t particularly care to be trapped in a crowd of screaming sweaty people. That, and watching a live wrestling show made me uncomfortable—angry, was more like it. It was a painful reminder of what my life could’ve been, my hopes and dreams that had been crushed by the weight of reality.

It was my daughter’s tenth birthday and she was a huge Charlotte Flair fan, so I could suck it up for one night to make my daughter happy. Besides, my mother paid a lot of money for these tickets so I figured I should stop pouting and just enjoy myself. As I was starting to get into the show, Mustafa Ali’s theme music hit. My insides tightened and twisted. I briefly forgot that he was on the Smackdown Live roster, which was I don’t know how I forgot. I could never forget him. I had never forgotten Adeel Alam.

I was originally from Chicago, and I grew up a huge wrestling fan. I trained and worked hard, and eventually got into the indie circuit. That’s where I met Adeel. His ring work was impressive, even back then. I loved watching him work, and one day he noticed me watching and started a conversation. That conversation lead to several more, and before we knew it we were the best of friends. We would perform then go pig out on burgers and greasy fries, or go back to my tiny apartment to watch DVD copies of Wrestlemania. Of course this was all in between work shitty jobs and taking college courses, just in case this wrestling thing didn’t work out.

“You know, we have a better chance of winning the state lottery than we do making it to WWE.” I said to him one day after a show.

Adeel just smiled at me. It was that bright, optimistic smile that was just contagious. “We’ll make eventually. We just have to keep trying.”

That was 11 years ago. Adeel had made it, he was living his best life—dream job, loving wife, beautiful children, fans that admired and adored him. I was happy for him, truly—he was a great guy who deserved every moment of this. I just couldn’t help but feel the tiniest sting of envy. I was a single parent working a desk job, making a decent wage but most of the time I was at my wit’s end. Bouts of depression and crippling anxiety left me wrecked, both mentally and physically. I worked out when I could. I wasn’t overweight but I definitely gained some weight since the last time he saw me.

I hadn’t seen him in 11 years, and the last time we saw each other was very awkward to say the least. I had made the decision to move to Cleveland with my mom to help take care of my sick grandparents. I tried working the indie circuit there but bookings were few and far between. I got pregnant by a guy a few months after moving to Cleveland and ended up dropping wrestling altogether. It sucked but hey, that’s life I guess. The night before I left Adeel and I went for one last pig out session and a movie. I always thought there was a little something between us, but neither of us acted on it. Whether it was out of fear of ruining our friendship or just plain being busy, nothing ever happened. So I was taken by surprised we ended up hooking up that night. The intimacy was amazing and the sex was great, but when morning came we both had no idea what to do or say, so I just said goodbye with a quick hug and kiss on his cheek. I never saw him again until that moment.

As he made his way to the ring I suddenly felt very self-conscious about my outfit and mentally scolded myself for wearing a tank top and yoga pants. I actually put on a tank top and fucking yoga pants as if I was lounging around my house. I immediately crossed my arms over my stomach and put my head down in attempt to not be noticed by him. It was too late, though. I heard people around me screaming and looked up to see Adeel directly in front of me. He had his light up mask on but I knew he was smiling. That man could smile with his eyes.

Neither of us said anything. He just waved at me then ran into the ring. He was even better in the ring that I remembered. He was amazing to watch, and I was flooded with so many fond memories.  When it was all over and he won his match, he came back over. My heart beat wildly in my chest as he high fived my daughter then turned his attention to me. He leaned over the barrier and hugged me. I felt tingles roll up my spine as I hugged him back. The fans around me were screaming at the top of their lungs so he had to press his lips to me ear and whisper, “Meet me at the steakhouse down the street in two hours?” I nodded and he took off for the locker room.

I dropped off my daughter with my mom and met Adeel at the steakhouse. I made sure I changed my outfit and did something decent with my hair before I got there. I even threw on a little bit of makeup so I wouldn’t look a mom zombie—a mombie. I arrived a whole half an hour early, because my anxiety wouldn’t let me be normal. He arrived right on time, freshly showered and looking amazing. His hair was still wet and thrown into a bun at the top of his head, making me roll my eyes.

“You and your perfect hair.” I said with a scowl.

He grinned and ran a hand over his hair. “You’ve always been a hater.”

I rolled my eyes and laughed. “Maybe just a little.”

Adeel laughed and pulled me into a hug. He felt warm and smelled so good. “You look great, Syd.”

“I don’t, but thanks.” I replied.

He pulled back and looked at me sternly. “You do. Now come on and let me buy you a steak.”

The restaurant was nice and not too crowded, which I was a huge relief. Then we were sat by a window, which made my anxiety flair up again. I tried to keep my face neutral, but I realized I was failing miserably when Adeel called me out. “Are you okay, Syd?”

“Yeah, I’m totally fine.” I replied with the best smile I could muster. I opened the menu and looked down, hoping to hide my face.

“No you’re not. You look….are you uncomfortable?” He asked incredulously.

“No, no, it’s not not that!” I struggled to find an explanation, but ultimately my brain failed me and I just confessed. “Yeah, I am—but its not you! It’s other people. I—I—don’t want anyone taking pictures of us together and posting them on the internet. You know how people like to gossip and spread rumors. I know you’re married and have kids and I just don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

Adeel stared at me for a second, then burst out laughing. “I’m not that famous, Syd! Trust me, the paparazzi aren’t chasing me down for my picture!”

I could feel the heat rise in my cheeks as my face turned red. I felt like an idiot. “I’m sorry. I feel so stupid…”

He reached over and grabbed my hand. “Hey, don’t feel stupid. I get it, it’s a perfectly understandable fear. Thank you for considering my reputation. And don’t worry, my wife knows I’m here with you. I told her everything.”

“Everything?” I asked. I didn’t exactly mean to say it, but I kind of felt it would be better addressed early on and release some of the pressure in my head.

He withdrew his hand from mine and folded his hands on the table in front of him. “You mean did I tell her that you and I had sex over a decade ago? No, I didn’t. I don’t think it matters at this point in our lives.”

My heart dropped a little at hearing him say that, but I plastered on a fake smile. “You’re right, it was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter anymore. We had fun and we moved on.”

“Sydney—”

“Can we get some wine? I think we need some wine—or a beer?”

For a moment it looked as if he wanted to say something, but ultimately he just smiled and nodded. “Yeah, beer sounds great.”

We spend the next hour and a half eating and talking like we used to. We talked about old friends, wrestling, and our families. He talked about his life with so much joy and pride. He practically glowed as he talked about becoming a husband, becoming a cop, a father and ultimately a WWE Superstar. He was so enthusiastic as he told stories about the things he experienced and the people he encountered. I was genuinely happy for him, and proud of the man he had become. I could listen to him talk forever, but he stopped and stared at me.

“Holy shit, I just realized I’ve been talking about myself this whole time.” He said, looking guilty.

“Oh no—please continue. Your life has been way more interesting than mine. I’m living vicariously through you.” I laughed, and he looked sad. “Don’t give me that look, Adeel. I’m fine. I know I’m not living my dream but I’m okay.”

“I know. You’re tough, Syd. I just always pictured us doing this together, that’s all.”

“You feel like you left me behind?” I asked. He nodded. “Don’t. Yeah, life sucks at times and I’m still a little bitter about what could have been, but I have a decent job and a happy and healthy daughter. I’ll get over myself eventually.” This time I reached over and grabbed his hand. “I’m just happy that one of us got to win the lottery. I’m happy of you, I’m proud of you, and you deserve this. Keep showing the world that heart.”

He gave my hand a squeeze. “Thanks, Syd.”

I smiled, then sighed. “Look, I hate to eat and run but I need to go home. I’ve got to work in the morning.”

“Yeah, me too. My flight is pretty early tomorrow.” Adeel said. “Can I walk you to your car?”

He paid and we made that short trip to the car in silence. We didn’t need to talk. We both knew what was about to happen. There would be no empty promises about keeping in touch, no half-ass attempts at getting together for dinner. Our lives were way too different and too busy for that. We had our moment in the sun and now it was over, our ships had finally passed. Only this time there was no awkward hug and no weird kiss on the cheek. Our hug was long and meaningful, and when we pulled back he kissed me on my forehead.

“That night did mean something, Syd. It was special.”

“Yeah, for me too.”

We exchanged one last smile before I got into my car. “Take care of yourself, Syd.”

“You too, Prince Mustafa Ali.”

I could hear him laughing a little as I drove off. He watched me until I was out of his sight, which he always did. I cried a little as I made my way home, but they were happy tears. I knew I most likely would never see my old friend again, but at least this time we got to say a proper goodbye.