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caiuscassiuss · 4 years

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Birched⎮D. Sicheng (M) P.2

Description: There was something that lurked beneath that pretty boy smile of Dong Sicheng— something dark, something dangerous… something you knew you would get pulled into once you got too curious. (Or, your ill-tempered coworker turns out to be your dominant.)

Part One is HERE

Genre: BDSM/ enemies to lovers winwin! smut | romance | angst WC: 11k+ Warnings: graphic smut (dom! sicheng + sub! reader, BDSM (Bondage, Dominance, Submission, and Masochism) choking, rough sex), taboo relationship, blatant sexism, TW: mentions of an abusive relationship

(A/N: Thank you to my amazing beta @won-markiepooh-woo for helping me. This wouldn’t have been possible without you!)

Saturday February 1st, 2020

Y/N’s Apartment

10 AM HKT

The little jingle of a FaceTime call echoed through your silent apartment, and you snuggled into the sheets of your bed.

“Hello? Kun huang?”

A flash black hair and a sweet smile appeared within the view of the camera.

“Huang Gua!” you exclaimed.

Instantly, the happy smile slipped off his face and transformed into an annoyed expression.

“Can you not? We’ve been over this,” he complained.

“Oh come on! It’s so funny,” you jibed.

“It’s not.”

“You only used to eat cucumbers for years. You earned that name yourself.”

“So?” he snorted. “You used to eat shrimp chips as a kid. I don’t call you shrimp, do I?” A devious expression flashed over his face.

“Kun Huang…” you warned.

“Maybe I should start now. Right, shrimp?”

“Oh my god, stop!”

“No, shrimp. I can keep going, you know.”

“Okay, fine, fine. I submit!” You laughed.

He chuckled. “That’s what I thought.”

“So how are you now, Hendery? How’s your mom and dad? Oh my gosh, Hengwai!”

“I’m doing fine, as are mom and dad. Hengwai misses her little sister. They all want you to call them more. Sometimes I think they miss you more than me.” He pouted.

“Awww, poor baby. But give them my well wishes too! I miss everyone so much,” you said. For some reason, tears welled in your eyes.

Obviously, Hendery could tell you were about to start crying and started to panic.

“Y/N? Talk to me. Oh, you know I can’t take it if you start crying!”

He never really could. Even after many years spent together in your childhood, he was still awkward as hell around your tears.

You waved him off, swiping the tears. “I’m fine, I’m fine. It’s just so lonely around here.”

“Y/N…”

“I’m fine! I swear!”

“Literally, one word and I’m on a flight to Hong Kong. I’m not playing,” he said gravely.

“Hendery, no. Besides, don’t you have some farms to run? I would never expect you to do that.”

“One word, Y/N. Just one.” He looked you dead in the eye.

You looked away. “Anyways, how are your farms going?”

A smile split his face and his eyes sparked. “Guess who just got their hundredth farm?”

Your jaw dropped. “No way, you’re fucking joking! One hundred?! I’m so proud of you! Kun Huang!” you squealed.

“Yeah, I know right? It’s so weird knowing so many people depend on me for their livelihoods now. I get sort of scared when I sit back and think about it…”

As Kun Huang went on about his day to day troubles in agriculture, a small, wistful smile played upon your lips. Why didn’t you just stay back and fall in love with Kun Huang? It would have been so easy. Being with Kun Huang was like breathing, and you could’ve spent the rest of your life like this. No Minghao, no BDSM, and most importantly, no… him.

Dolos.

Master?

Sicheng.

You hated how smoothly the puzzle pieces fit together. Sicheng always left early on Fridays, even though he always stayed late. At office parties, he lacked a significant other by his side, even when many would drop everything if he so much as winked at them.

It was hard not to think about him. You had started to feel an increase in your heartbeat whenever you thought of Dolos before Wednesday. You had originally wanted to know who was behind Dolos’ mask and if he returned those feelings. But, fuck, he would be so mad if he found out who you were.

Not to mention, how humiliating it would be if he knew. You had staked everything on being a cold-hearted bitch when Sicheng took particular pleasure in sneering at “the inherent submissiveness” of her gender. So if he found out Dove, who liked to be slapped during sex, and her, the la dame sans merci of the company, were the same person, it would destroy any chance of credibility you may have had in his eyes.

This was all one big mess. One big, gigantic and catastrophic mess. For so long you had rigorously kept your professional and personal lives apart, but the universe had conspired against you: to make the best dominant you ever had to also be your work nemesis.

Some higher being was laughing at you, you knew it.

Sunday February 2nd, 2020

The Dong Family Villa on the Shek O Peninsula, Hong Kong

1 PM HKT

A curl of disgust twisted his lips as he looked down on the lawn party going down below him.

“Don’t you look happy, Sicheng.”

Sicheng acknowledged ChengCheng out of the corner of his eye and went back to glaring at the party in contempt.

“This is not how I wanted today to go.”

His childhood friend snorted and plopped himself down in a lawn chair, contemplating the blond haired man.

Sicheng spun around and picked up his glass of wine, downing the drink in one gulp. He settled himself next to ChengCheng with a frown.

“I just wanted to come here and fucking relax, but, no, my parents just had to use it for the fucking party. Fete. What-fucking-ever.” He exhaled loudly and ran his hands through his hair.

Chengcheng looked over the balcony railing curiously. “Looks like a luncheon to me.”

“Fuck off.”

“Christ, what’s up your ass?”

“Just some work stuff. It’s nothing.”

The brown-haired man frowned. “Then why aren’t you at Black’s then? Nothing can’t be resolved by a good fuck.”

At the mention of the club, a pained expression flashed over Sicheng’s face and his knuckles inadvertently tightened around the stem of his glass. The tension that had been in shoulders wounded itself up even more and this clued ChengCheng in.

Something other than work had Sicheng in knots. Very rarely did the blond man ever show he was angry—not even when his father lashed him as a child, nor when the family forced him to work for the company—so he was evidently very troubled by this ‘something’.

Sicheng’s phone rang and broke the silence. The man himself fished it out of his back pocket irritatedly.

“Excuse me for a moment, ChengCheng. I need to take this phone call.”

“Sicheng speaking,” he spoke as he stalked into the study.

“Hello sir, how are you—”

“Did you get the information or not?” Sicheng asked, cutting off the family’s retainer. His leg bounced, as he sat against the desk and he ran a weary hand through his hair.

“A-ah, unfortunately, Black’s doesn’t record pseudonyms digitally or on paper…”

“Fuck!” Sicheng yelled. Mr. Lau just had to be fucking careful, he thought irritably.

“... However, sir, I was able to obtain a membership list since the club was digitally updating their monthly list. I then compared it to the list from the previous month and found several missing names, indicative of them terminating their membership. I have compiled a dossier of several females that match your description of Dove and forwarded it to you.”

Sicheng quickly logged into his laptop, his blood rushing through his ears. The identity of the most perfect submissive he’s ever had could literally be sitting in his inbox right now.

With trembling fingers, he opened the attachment.

Wang Fang, age 25—

“Sir?”

The blond man glared at his phone. “Thank you for your service, Liu Wei. Goodbye.”

Wang Fang was a tall, spindly woman with a face like a horse. The policy of privacy by masks was kind to her at Black’s. However, the jaw was all wrong and he knew in his gut she was not his Dove.

He scrolled to the next page. Leila Williams, age 27—British expat, was absolutely gorgeous. But, even through the screen, she exuded an unshakable aura of self-assurance. A dominatrix, probably, so that excluded her from his search.

He went through 2 or 3 more documents; each one too plain or too ordinary to be Dove.

Y/N L/N, age XX.

Sicheng blinked rapidly, sagging into his office chair.

Y/N is—was—a member at Black’s?

The picture provided was the one from her LinkedIn profile: a professional headshot with a grey background. She was smiling tightly, coldly—just as she was in the office. The other image provided instantly tented his pants.

It was her, clearly on a night out. She was in attire that flattered her body and he could easily see himself running his hands over her. Y/N looked fucking fantastic with her unbound hair, so unlike her tight updos at the office. However, what drew his eyes was the most vibrant shade of red painted on her lips, which was parted slightly as she was laughing.

He recognized that lipstick. The same shade of firetruck red had been smeared across Dove’s cheeks many, many times. YSL Rouge Satin Lipstick—the one he told her he liked and she, like a good girl, had religiously worn.

Could that mean…?

Glancing at the side bar, he noticed there was one more page left in the dossier. Please let the next one be Dove…

His hopes were instantly deflated. Kwon Myunghee was too old and too artificial to be his gorgeous submissive.

With his heart in his throat, he scrolled back to Y/N’s page. Enlarging the picture of her laughing, he put a hand over her eyes and leaned back to observe.

Sicheng would be an absolute fool if he did not recognize that mouth. Red fuck me! lipstick on an equally fuckable mouth parted in pleasure, or screaming his name while strung up on a cross. He would be an absolute fool if he did not recognize that neck, covered in purple and red hickies or his fingermarks. An absolute damn fool.

Yet, at this moment, he would’ve given anything to be one.

He felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. Y/N was… Dove? And Dove… was Y/N?

So why did she leave? How did she end up at Black’s? Did she know? Did she end up there on purpose? Why—

Eventually, all the questions piled up in his head until he was left winded. Sicheng buried his head in his hands, pulling at his blond locks and breathing heavily. Something was bubbling in his chest and—

He started to laugh. He cackled, howled, at his shitstorm of misfortune, luck, and confusion until he was sprawled undignified on the Oriental carpet, staring up at the intricate wood carvings on the ceiling.

Monday February 3rd, 2020

Sinochen Enterprises, Chater House, Central, Hong Kong

6 PM HKT

Shutting the door to your office, you collapsed into your chair and massaged your temples.

Today was the day Mr. Lee had left the office, leaving his official resignation. The top sales officials (including an off-color, brooding Sicheng) gathered in his office to congratulate him and give him an official goodbye. What was supposed to be a quick meet-up turned into afternoon drinking when Mr. Lee pulled out the good liquor from a secret cabinet underneath his desk. You accepted a drink with a grimace, but Sicheng declined and remained uncharacteristically detached the entire time. Granted, you too were detached from the conversation, uncomfortable with the lewd retirement and mistress jeers spouted by the older sales officials as they steadily got drunker and less inhibited.

As the time ended and a consensus to leave had been reached, you thought you could escape and actually work... that was until Mr. Lee walked alongside you and stuck himself in the elevator with you.

The bastard had the audacity to grope your ass in the crowded elevator. You shivered, remembering the awful and grimy feeling as his hot breath whispered in your ear that he was available any time for a “catch-up”.

This day was a mess. You had a shit-ton of work to catch up due to that fucking meeting and you had been sexually harrassed; you were also anxious about the promotion and, on top of that, you couldn’t seem to stop thinking about Sicheng.

Huffing, you ate some red-bean bread as you powered up your desktop. This was fucking ridiculous. You knew Sicheng had noticed your odd, reticent behavior around him and this skittishness was impeding your ability to work. Well, no better way to forget about your problems was to solve other ones at work.

For the next two hours, you slogged through work emails and analytics as the sun set over Kowloon Bay. Your hair had been unbound and your blazer had been messily thrown over the back of your chair as your work progressed. Since most of the office had left by now, you figured it was safe to relax in your office.

It was night time by the time you had finished your last project and you sat back in your chair, staring at the skyline. Was this how your life destined to be? At the top, surrounded by the comforts of life, but alone?

A knock sounded at the door, jolting you out of your thoughts.

Who the fuck would be at the office at 8 PM?

“Come in.”

You caught sight of a golden head of hair slipping inside of your office and you sighed. Of course, it was Sicheng.

He took a seat unbidden and stared at you with an indecipherable expression on his face. His eyes roamed the contours and curves of your features.

You arched an eyebrow. “Can I help you with anything, Sicheng? I’m about to leave the office.”

He fought with himself inwardly, his mouth opened and closed several times before he finally settled on what he wanted to say. “I’d like to ask a question.”

You adjusted yourself in the chair. “Feel free.”

From his blazer’s pocket, he pulled out an aged sheet of paper and slowly opened it, before setting it in front of you. Sicheng settled back in his chair and steepled his fingers over his lap, the lights of the Hong Kong skyline playing across his face and making his sharp features stand out.

“Do you recognize this?”

The blood literally froze in your veins as your eyes caught sight of your handwriting in the letter, along with the tear-stains that blotched the paper and the text. Your heartbeat rose to your throat and all you felt was the blood rushing in your ears.

“Y/N?” he prodded.

You gulped and straightened out your top, your fingers trembling as you did so.

“No, I don’t. W-who’s Dolos? Why does this concern me?” you lied, stumbling a bit.

He watched you, his eyes narrowed and his lips pursed.

“Don’t lie to me, Dove.”

“I-Dove? My name is Y/N,” you replied shakily. Grabbing your purse, you hurriedly stuffed all your personal belongings in while avoiding catching his seething stare. “Excuse me, I’d really like to get home.”

His jaw clenched and his palm twitched as he saw you had no desire to come clean.

“Look at me.”

Unthinking, you ceased all movements, put your trembling hands in your lap and looked up at him. “Sir?”

Your eyes widened and you slapped a hand over your mouth; your eyes darted around the room in search for an escape. You felt akin to a caged animal as he grinned meanly, incongruous on his cherubic features.

“That’s what I thought.”

“No—”

“You thought you could get away with this? You thought you could fucking play me?!”

You were aghast at seeing Dolos and Sicheng finally merging together in front of your eyes, and the result was grotesquely beautiful. His grin slipped off his face and twisted into a malevolent sneer. The naked fire in Dolos' gaze was finally unveiled in Sicheng’s eyes and, for the first time, you could see who Sicheng really was.

“Answer me, Dove—Y/N! Fuck, I don’t even know who you are anymore!” Sicheng shouted, running his hands through his hair while he paced around your office.

You stared unblinkingly at the bookshelf at the corner of the room. Fuck, this was all your nightmares coming true. You were going to be ruined and he was going to laugh on and on now that he knew you and Dove were the same.

“It was never supposed to end up like this,” you whispered hoarsely, tears welling up underneath your lashes.

“How was it supposed to end, huh? Fuck, you strung me along for six months—half a fucking year—”

“I didn’t fucking know, you ass! I wouldn’t have touched you with a ten foot pole if I knew who you were!” you hissed.

He laughed harshly. “You did a hell of a lot more than touch me, Dove. But after you got your fix, you pretended that this never happened.”

“You would’ve done the same, so this never did happen. Walk out right now and this will have never happened and we can go back to our normal, spiteful dynamic—”

“You’re out of your fucking mind, if you think—”

“You don’t understand, Sicheng! Can’t you see I’ll be ruined by this? That we’ll both be ruined by this? I can’t afford that!”

“So you thought to just leave me? With just a fucking letter and nothing else?”

“I didn’t know, okay! I didn’t know what to do!”

“You lied to me, Y/N. Fucking lied to my face!”

“I had to! Because you and I were never supposed to find out!”

Sicheng moved to yell, but clamped his jaw shut. “You lying, cheating, slut,” he seethed.

Your mouth trembled for a moment at the sheer vitriol that sprouted from his lips, but you stood tall. “You know what? Maybe I am. But I can live with that if you’d just fucking let it go!”

“You think I’d be able to let go of this?!” He cupped your jaw roughly and pulled you into a hungry kiss.

It wasn’t a smooth kiss—not one with even a hint of finesse. Lips smashed into lips, with tongue and teeth grappling against each other as his hands bruised your wrists.

Your back hit your desk and he swept your belongings off the desk haphazardly, letting go of your chin to lift you onto the desk with no effort.

“Forget my tongue on your skin? Forget my hands in between your thighs?” he murmured between hungry dips of his tongue. “I’ll fucking show you.”

He kissed down your neck, stopping to nip at your collarbone, and left a trail of stinging lovebites all over your shoulders. Sicheng’s hips pinned you into the desk as he popped each button of your blouse, hurriedly ripping it to the side to leave more hickies upon your chest and breasts.

You moaned as he pushed the cups of your bra down, using his wicked tone to swipe complicated patterns but never once touching your tips. Finally, he nipped at them hard causing you to squeal embarrassingly.

“S-sicheng,” you whimpered, gripping his hair as he pushed up your skirt.

The blond man carelessly pulled your underwear aside and thrusted two fingers in.

“Fuck!” you gasped, as you buried your red face in the crook of his neck.

You couldn’t see it, but you knew he was smirking smugly so your hands drifted down to his tented trousers and gripped his erection hard.

“You wanna fucking play? Let’s play, baby,” he grunted and hastily unbuckled his belt. His glorious cock sprung up in the space between your thighs.

Sicheng pushed your back down onto the desk, leaving him to tower over you. Without warning, he roughly pushed his cock into your slit.

You both groaned at the pleasurable friction. Fuck, how could you forget this? His length stretching you out deliciously? His broad shoulders heaving in exertion?

He bottomed out slowly, stilling as his hips pressed into yours. A sly smile glanced over his face as his hand drifted over your neck.

“Sicheng! You asshole, fucking move!” you said to him, thrusting your own hips weakly for effect.

His devilish smile split his angelic features, and he shook his head. “Wrong name, Dove.”

His hips pushed into yours roughly and you whined, scratching at the edges of your desk. Sicheng withdrew just as quickly and thrusted in again, watching the lust ripple upon your expression. He had missed the way your left eyebrow ticked when he brushed against your G-Spot, your nose scrunching as you clasped his shoulders. Finally seeing your full expressions fulfilled something in him that he didn’t care to reflect upon.

After deep, staccato thrusts that had you gasping for breath, he settled into a smooth rhythm. You slapped a hand over your mouth as your back bowed, thrusting your breasts up to his hungry perusal. Unable to resist temptation—the godless Tantalus he was—he settled his plump lips over your nipples, raised his eyes to yours, and sucked.

Even with your palm practically stuffed in your lips, your keen echoed around the room loudly and slick dripped down your thighs, making the desk underneath your bottom sticky and wet.

He tsked, lifting his head up and looked deeply into your eyes. A slight grin settled over his lips and Sicheng tilted his head mockingly. “Oh sweet girl, haven’t you forgotten we’re in an office?” His eyes darkened even more. “I’ll have to keep you quiet, then, whore.”

His featherlight touches on your rib cage was replaced with a bruising grasp to your throat, stealing the air out of you. His wrist settled into your collar bone and his slender fingers mimicked playing the piano, placing pressure on different parts on your throat to an unheard rhythm. The blood rushed to your ears, the dizzying sensation of it blurring your sight and distorting your thoughts. The veins on his forehand, twisting and rippling in the light, caught your vision and he moved—ever so roughly—into you.

Sicheng set a new pace, stretching your legs even wider and your head fell back onto the desk with a thunk. You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe; you just felt the numbing sort of pleasure that radiated from your pussy.

“Fucking slut,” he gasped. “You’ve bewitched me, haven’t you? Wrapped yourself around my brain and haven’t let me so much as breathe without thinking about you.” His grip tightened around your neck. “I’ll show you.”

Suddenly, your phone on the floor rang and you both froze. He released the grip on your neck and bent down.

His back was like one of those old sketches the masters of the age practiced with, the light played upon his back and his muscles rippled under his skin—belying the power hidden within him.

“Who the fuck is Kunhuang,” he said flatly, wrath bubbling in his words.

You sat up. “H-he’s a friend. Nobody. No one.”

“See you soon, love,” he read mockingly. “Call me when you have time.”

Sicheng crowded into your space, your eyes jumping around to avoid looking at his incensed face.

“Kunhuang.” He spat like it was filth upon his lips. “You left me for him?”

Feeling his constrained fierceness and his frantic gaze, you pushed harshly at his chest and bared your teeth at him. “It’s not like that. He’s my childhood friend!”

His rage bubbled to the surface and his nostrils flared. It was all the warning you had before he suddenly took your hips and flipped, forcing a scream out of you.

Your chest and breasts now pressed against your desk. Sicheng tugged you down to his hips, lifting one of your legs to rest on your desk and exposed your core to him shamefully.

“I’ll take you from behind like the whore you are,” he stated. His rough tenor the grating upon your ears and scraping upon your skin.

He lined up and thrusted hard and you bit your lip, cheek against your deck and tears streaming down your face. It felt so good to be in his embrace, feeling every vein and ridge of his cock rub against your muscles.

Soon, you felt that feeling rising in your stomach, burning behind his eyelids as your orgasm began to build. His hands grasped your throat and he pulled, bowing your back to his chest and forcing his mouth to yours.

Teeth and tongue clashed and his cock hit this spot in you and you screamed into his mouth, tensing up beneath him as you shuddered painfully.

A grunt left him as he felt your muscles nearly strangle his cock and he only lasted a few, staccato thrusts until his vision went white.

Wednesday, February 13th, 2020

Sinochen Enterprises, Chater House, Central, Hong Kong

7 AM HKT

You purposely did not look into Sicheng’s office window as you strode briskly down the hall with a coffee in your hand.

A few days ago felt like a watershed moment, but after you two had caught your breaths, the sheer amount of emotions in the room—frustration, satiation, anger, hunger—weighed upon your lips and forced them shut. He had quickly dressed himself, not saying a word, but he casted a glance in your direction that was undecipherable and left.

You, at the moment, did not know how to feel. Hurt? Angry? Sad? But you settled upon your usual solution: ignoring that anything had happened and resuming the normal.

Alas, the fates were unkind. They neatly disposed of your plans to avoid the man when the two of you were scheduled to meet with other sales heads in the afternoon. Unfortunately, when the time came to be, you and Sicheng were the first ones there.

He studiously avoided looking at you, busying himself by opening up his laptop and flipping to a new page on his legal pad. You ignored him as well, scrolling through the latest news on your webpage. However, as the seconds ticked by, you could not resist resting your eyes upon him. It felt like a damn magnet was pulling your gaze to him.

He looked good today, from the brief glances you stole at him. Freshly shaven, his hair was styled neatly and he was in a dark green, cashmere sweater. Was this your fate? To be shamefully attracted to a man that equally repelled you?

“Interesting.”

The both of you shot a look at the door, where an unrecognizable, lanky man with a proud, straight nose was peering down upon you and swinging a plastic bag in his hand.

“Chengcheng? What the hell are you doing here?”

Completely ignoring Sicheng, he settled his lidded gaze upon you before his eyes lit up in recognition.

“So you’re the one that has shaken him, then.”

Dead silence permeated the room. He looked at the two shocked faces, both ashen. “What? Are you going to tell me I’m wrong? Please. I’d have to be deaf, blind, and dumb to ignore the way you two gravitate to each other.”

Your two quick glances that were meant to be unnoticed clashed, resulting in your eyes meeting. You both turned your eyes away.

Chengcheng snorted, as if that moment confirmed everything for him, and he chucked a bag at Sicheng.

“You forgot your lunch, remember?”

Sicheng’s jaw tightened. “Thank you.”

Once again, awkward silence reigned and ChengCheng’s eyes switched back and forth between you like a particularly exciting tennis match.

“You two need to talk. You’ll both age prematurely at this rate, with the angst you two are producing. Talk.”

He left with a wave, striding down the hall casually and stealing many of your female coworkers’ gazes.

“... He’s right, you know.”

Sicheng’s eyes flicked up to yours and he focused his full attention on you. Intensely, he contemplated you, tongue poking at the sides of his mouth.

“I agree. We can meet—” he cut himself off, looking around surreptitiously. “—at Black’s.”

You sucked your lip in between your teeth. “Fine. Neutral ground.”

He took a good, long look at you, like a man seeing water after seeing nothing but sand.

“Tonight. At 8.”

Thursday, February 13th, 2020

Black’s

7:50 PM HKT

Strangely enough, you felt comfortable despite the jittery nerves under your skin as you walked into Black’s.

The receptionist had given you a knowing look as you repeated the guest password, letting you in without question. You strapped on the standard, white lace mask and steeled yourself, opening the mahogany doors.

The club was abnormally busy; the guests and members crowded the couches and loitered on the floor. The quiet string music that could usually be heard was masked by the loud chattering of the people in the room.

“Is that you, Dove?”

You spun around to see the smiling, wizened face of Mr. Liu.

A grin broke out on your face and you took his hands. “Mister Liu! It is wonderful to see you.”

“I am happy to see you as well.” He chuckled with his eyes gleaming fondly at you. “Have you decided to visit this old man?”

Playfully, you lightly smacked his shoulder.

Mr. Liu was an important figure to you. All those months ago, when you arrived at Black’s to be screened, as a potential member and straight out of a relationship with Minghao—broken, shattered, hollow—he took one look at you and said no.

Why? You remembered asking tearfully. Am I not pretty enough? Rich enough?

He searched your pale, wan face, as if seeing the emotional scars Minghao had lashed into you, before sighing.

You shouldn’t be asking me that. Are you enough for yourself?

Confused, you had asked him to elaborate. He sympathetically replied that he could see you were entering the club for the wrong reasons. You were different, he’d said. You looked so innocent that he could not morally allow you into the club, despite the depraved patrons that gained membership. He knew, at the time, entering the club would cripple you.

So, what now? You asked, confused. He said he would keep your file open until you came back ‘at the right time.’

The ‘right time?’

You will know it when it comes.

And somehow, you did. After a few months of picking the pieces of yourself together and stabilizing your life, you had grown into a physically and emotionally healthy person. The “right moment” came and you sat in his quaint little office again, opposite of a smiling Mr. Liu as he stamped his approval.

After chatting a few moments, the volume in the room increased slightly and you frowned.

“Why is it so busy today?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Do you know what today is?”

“No?”

“Today is the evening before Valentine’s day, dear girl.”

“... Oh.”

New information in hand, you looked at the scene more closely. You could see that some couples in the crowd seemed to curl into each other, the affectionate brushes and knowing glances giving you a sick, sick feeling.

And that’s when you saw Sicheng.

Even masked, he drew attention from the members—attached and non-attached. His lean, fit form struck a figure and you couldn’t turn away from him.

He looked directly into your eyes and only a few seconds passed by as you two observed each other.

“Sicheng somehow found out, hm? Clever, devious boy.” Mr. Liu observed the dynamic much like ChengCheng earlier. His gaze was enraptured how the two of you clashed yet sunk into each other, the way two tidal waves—in a rare moment of offbeat rhythm—struck each other and subsequently merged. Push, pull, push, pull.

“Listen to him and he will listen to you. You two match more than you think,” he advised, bowed, and sunk off into the backrooms.

“Sicheng.”

“Y/N.”

Frustratingly, his face was unreadable. Nevertheless, he offered you his arm (a surprising show of manners) and he led you to a place you had never seen before.

This place was much less pristine than the rest of the club. The wallpaper was older, much more faded, and the wood looked much more worn.

This was one of Mr. Liu’s apartments.

The pair of you entered a comfortable sitting room with the lights low, to which only large candles had been lit.

He made sure you were properly ensconced into an armchair before he turned his back towards you and made his way to the drink carts.

“Would you like something to drink?” Sicheng asked, voice measured.

“A gin tonic would be wonderful.”

After carefully making your drink and pouring himself a healthy 4 fingers of bourbon, he handed your glass to you and sat down in the chair opposite of you.

Silence permeated awkwardly and you turned your eyes towards the tapestry in the middle of the room, giving yourself something to do.

“Were those feelings true?” he asked, not looking at you.

“Elaborate, please.”

“The last night…” He looked quickly at you, before turning his eyes away and clenching his jaw. “The last night we were together.”

“Ah.”

Absolutely, unequivocally. Dolos was everything you had searched for in Minghao and, while your relationship was unusual, you could not deny the string between you two.

Something burned at your eyes and you bit the inside of your cheek.

“Yes. Then and now,” you stated, opening yourself up for an attack.

His eyes widened and the twitching in his fingers stopped.

“And you, Sicheng?” you enquired boldly.

“Always,” he stated without hesitation. “It was never something as trivial as pillow talk.”

Seeing as he was on the brink of closing off, due to his rare moment of vulnerableness, you wrapped your hand around his.

His eyes shot to yours, then to your linked hands, before tightening his grip.

“I don’t know where to start,” you confessed. “I… One thing that has always been on my mind—why did you dislike me so much?”

He smiled bitterly. “Sometimes, I forget that you don’t see the way I see you. You are a smart, dauntless woman, who’s pushed all my buttons. It all just built and built upon each other until I found you—Dove—here.” He pauses. “I projected my frustrations onto Dove—you—here. But never, for a moment, doubt my feelings aren’t genuine.”

You pursed your lips. “Forgive me, but I cannot accept your accusations of me being the office slut—very rude, by the way—were without malice. You constantly pushed me down, clashed with me in the workplace and you were just plain classist.”

Sicheng’s eyes were casted down, but his grip was steady. “I will not lie. Those words I spat at you were with malice. But now, in retrospect, they were nothing more but words of immature frustration that I channeled towards you. I know that I cannot take them back and they will forever linger in the air between us, but I can apologize and recognize those words were completely unacceptable.”

He angled his body fully towards you and clasped your hand in both of his. “I am sorry for my actions. My anger was misplaced and the sentiments do not represent me anymore. I am sorry and I hope you can forgive me.”

“And then what? What do you want now, Sicheng?” An edge of desperation tinged your voice.

He smiled bitterly at you. “Everyday, the smell of you lingers and I, like Pavlov’s dog, cannot help but feel an ache in the marrow of my bones when I see your crimson red lips. Every night, when I go to bed, you are seared across the back of my eyelids and I cannot escape you, even in my dreams.” He paused. “I want you, or whatever scraps you’re willing to toss me.”

A sharp exhale left you nose and you blinked rapidly. “I don’t want to get hurt. You get off on hurting people.”

“With your consent.”

“Say I want a completely vanilla relationship,” you challenged. He didn’t flinch. “What about then?”

Sicheng clenched his jaw and held your gaze fiercely. “Anything.”

“I hate that you are all I’ve wanted in a man,” you admitted unwillingly. He hummed. “Will we be each other’s destruction? Or will we be each other’s maker?” you pondered nonsensically.

“Aren’t we already both?” he retorted.

Slowly, without releasing his hand, you rose from your chair and lowered yourself into his lap. His eyes traced your every movement. For a few, brief moments, you looked into each other’s eyes without the obsurance of a mask or the encumbrance of a workplace rivalry. Your left hand cupped his cheekbone and stroked the skin underneath his eye.

“This will be interesting,” you said.

He gave no sign of reaction, but tilted his head into your palm and closed his eyes. “After us, the flood,” he recited.

Monday, March 2nd, 2020

Sinochen Enterprises, Chater House, Central, Hong Kong

7:50 PM HKT

A secret grin tugged at your lips as you looked across the table at Sicheng, who was intensely focused on the presentation your coworker was giving. Perhaps he’d felt the weight of your gaze on him as he chanced a glance at you and gave you a small smirk.

The past month in your relationship with Sicheng was equally fulfilling and frustrating. There were times where both of you deliberately looked for a fight or misinterpreted each other, but there were also times you could shed your layers and just be yourselves with the other.

Even each fight, where you or Sicheng stormed out, or broke things, you came back to each other at the end. Pushing, pulling, pushing, pulling relentlessly. The flood, indeed.

You focused back in on the meeting and contributed to the smatter of clapter for the end of your coworker’s presentation. As he turned off the projector and people stood up to leave, Xiao Daiyu—the interim head of the Sales department—stopped you and Sicheng.

“Y/N, Sicheng, please stay back for a moment. I’d like to talk to you about Mr. Lee’s replacement.”

You and Sicheng glanced at each other and you sat back down. A while ago, you had both agreed the decision wasn’t going to break the quiet relationship you had built. It was going to be sour. You knew, when someone was chosen, things could get messy and awkward. But this… this was too good.

Daiyu sat down and put her hands together. “After much decision and going through your interviews, the CEO has stepped in and we are sorry to say neither of you are getting the position.”

You jerked your head around to Sicheng and he did the same—wild confusion and anger in both of your eyes. Both your years of loyalty and dedication are being passed over?

“Instead, we have decided to hire outside the company for some fresh intake. He may be young, but it comes to us that he’s highly recommended and would fit in with our culture well.”

A sour feeling came to your stomach and you narrowed your eyes, resisting the urge to frown. They had decided to hire outside the company? This is how they decide to reward their workers? This was betrayal.

Glancing over, you could see Sicheng felt the same. His right hand grasped the arm of the chair tightly and you could see his knuckles turning white.

“I’d like to meet him and he’s coming—” She took a glance at her watch. “—right about now.”

A knock came from the door and a head of messy black hair peaked into the room.

“Daiyu laoban, great to see you.”

No. This could not be happening to you.

The wire glasses. The tall, lanky frame that filled the doorway. The almond shaped eyes hiding behind pitch-black hair, as black his shriveled little heart.

Daiyu, like the little bitch she was, giggled. “Y/N, Sicheng, please meet your new Sales Head: Xu Minghao.”

His eyes focused on you and your world suddenly felt tilted, careening sideways while the nausea hit you all at once.

“Nice to meet you,” he said cheerfully.

You could feel Sicheng’s concern radiating from him at your ashen face and look of shock, but you couldn't even think as flashes of blood and tears and pain shuddered throughout your body.

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m pleased to be working with you!”

(”After us, the flood” or “Aprés nous, le deluge” is an expression from Madame Pompadour, King Louis XV’s lover.)

And it’s finished. Thank you. Please don’t forget to read, comment, and reblog. I love you all and goodbye.

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heavenunderthemoon · 3 years

Text

Growing Pains {Chapter Four}

Warnings: None, I believe.

Prologue, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three

Nevada 1992

"I'm thoroughly spooked, can we go now?"

You rolled your eyes at the ten year old beside you. His whines had risen an octave over the last five minutes, the cause most probably being the increasing proximity to the house before the two of you, all of them had been ignored as you pedaled faster, hoping to reach the dilapidated structure before sunset.

The boy's scrawny arms looped around your waist, tightening to an almost suffocating degree every time you rode over a pothole and almost making you wheeze from discomfort. Spencer's bike was out for repair- 'out for repairs' was just a silly way of saying Spencer had all but begged your older brothers to take a look at the broken chain and then paid them $15 (probably too much, but he was desperate) to fix it. The bike was being looked at now, actually, but that still left the Reid boy without transportation. You had practically had to force him onto yours.

'I hate when you steer, you ride into every puddle you see and I didn't bring my rain boots-'

'Jesus, Sherlock, I'll go around them-'

'But, you don't have a helmet-'

'You can borrow my dad's-'

'Is your bike even registered?'

All of his questions had made you groan, almost pulling out your hair and all but shoving him onto your bike, taking up the front while he stood on the pedestals allocated for passengers in the back. Your bike wasn't anything flashy. In fact, it was a hand-me-down from your brothers, the seat sitting just a bit too high at the moment, though your dad claimed you would grow into it.

You pulled over, your worn tires coming to a halt in the over-grown grass, weeds poking up from every direction and basically engulfing the lawn before you.

"We just got here, Spencer, please, five minutes?" You shot a pleading look to the boy behind you, your father's helmet consuming the entirety of his head. His glasses, cracked from when Peter Thompson had socked him in the lunchroom the other week, slid down his nose and he pushed them back up as he hopped off the bike. His hands went to his shirt, wiping them across the material as he sighed. You liked when he did things like that, kid things.

"Fine, five minutes." He seceded, and you put the kickstand in place before hopping off the bike yourself, leading the way to the sagging building.

1497 Columbia Drive.

The house was practically a local hub for folklore. All ghost stories for the children in your community originated from this house in particular. Your dad said it was all hocus pocus, nothing of substance. It was probably just a bunch of kids trying to get a good laugh out of scaring the little kids, he even lectured you on the history of the house, no murders or strange incidents ever occurring on the property. But still, you had asked Spencer to come with you to check it out.

Your feet crunched the gravel beneath it, poking around the house here and there.

"What do you think you're going to find, Y/N? A ghost hiding under the rock?" His tone was condescending, as it was sometimes. Though, that was something he didn't quite know he was doing. You knew that. You knew that if he knew that he came across like that, like he thought less of you, he would never do that. His attitude was a little bit worse today than usual. His mother wasn't doing too well, her rants becoming longer, her paranoia keeping the boy from hanging out with you on most days. You had taken to climbing into his window to hang out, or sneaking him out when you could. But the tone still stung a bit. "This is stupid." He continued.

A small sigh escaped your lips as you kicked at a rock, shoving your hands into your pockets. "How come everything I want to do is stupid?" It was petty. Petty, and emotional, and a million other things you never were because you liked to keep things in, but your insecurities began pouring out of you like a broken spout. "Why are you even friends with me? I'm too dumb for you, you have to explain things to me a million different times and even then, sometimes I still don't get it. You're gonna go away someday, because you're smart and you're better than...than here. Than this. So, why do you even hang out with me?" The words fell sloppily from your lips, only angering you further because you knew how eloquently Spencer would've been able to express his thoughts.

And this was something that had bothered you for a while. Since you had met him, actually. Because you were different. Spencer Reid was different. And while everyone else in town thought that him being different was a bad thing, you saw it as something good. Good, because he was going to be something. He was going to be something big, something bigger than anything you could ever be, whatever he wanted, whatever he wished for, because he could. Because he was Spencer. And you were just...you. You didn't skip grades or read books super fast or have a photographic memory. You weren't a genius, your brain didn't move a million miles per minute, and how boring it must be for Spencer to have to hang out with you.

Your eyes stung with tears, quickly welling and spilling hotly down your reddened cheeks and you were grateful that your back was still to the boy because he had never seen you cry, not even when you broke your index finger playing baseball two years ago, and you weren't entirely sure that Spencer would know how to comfort you if he saw you crying.

But, he did know. He didn't say anything to acknowledge it aloud, probably because he feared you might turn around and deck him right then and there if he did, but he noticed. He saw the way your shoulders had tightened as you spoke and then began shaking lightly when you finished. He noticed the tremor in your voice, the small sniffles escaping your figure. He noticed your clenching fist, your nails digging into your palm, and the stiffness in your body, as if pleading with yourself to stop. He had never seen you cry. Come to think of it, he had never seen you sad. And it was then that he realized that he had never seen you sad because you tended to turn that sadness into anger. You turned your tears into insults and your wounds into punches because it was easier that way. He realized that you weren't as invincible as he thought. You weren't some fearless, perpetually angry girl who finished every fight she started. You were human, you were vulnerable. And this revelation made him feel better, as much as he hated to say it. Because he had always felt incredibly inferior to you. He felt inferior when he saw you speaking to your other friends at the park or the library. He felt inferior when he saw your family, two brothers and a father (all of which seemed to speak in grunts and were constantly shoving food into their mouths whenever Spencer saw them). No matter how cave-man-like your family was, they were there. They were present. They weren't grabbing your shoulders, screaming about aliens, or the government, or tiny microscopic societies that he couldn't see- something Diana did often. He felt inferior when you stood up for yourself, or for him, when you weren't afraid to tell people to shut up, or ask for help, which was something he could never quite bring himself to do.

And this, these tears, these insecurities, brought you down to his level, gave you a fall from grace that was just enough to make him brave, even if it was for a split second, to grab your shoulder, and pull you into his embrace. His hug was bony. He smelled like cheap laundry detergent, lemon shampoo, and a bit of sweat. He had begun growing, just the tiniest bit, that year and it was enough to put you both at the same height. Two ten year olds standing in front of that allegedly haunted house, a scrawny little boy with a brain far too big for his own good and a girl who had been previously crying but was now just standing there, stunned, unsure of what to do in Spencer's embrace.

"What are you doing?" And for once you weren't loud. You weren't loud, or obnoxious, or confident. Your voice was tiny, small, and confused, because Spencer didn't like touching, and neither did you, really. You didn't hug each other. You gave each other high-fives, or fist bumps, or small nudges to the other in greetings or farewells, but never hugs.

Spencer didn't move, keeping his stance the same, his arms wrapped around your shoulders, his cheek to your shoulder. "Why am I your friend? Why are you mine? Everyone in town thinks I'm weird, and they tease you just for being my friend. Why put up with that? Why be friends with the kid who has to make multiple trips to the library each week and gets upset when he has to return them? Why be friends with the kid who can't even act like a kid. I get along better with adults, and those are the ones who don't talk about me behind my back. Why are you friends with me? Because I'll tell you why I'm friends with you. Because you ask me to explain things to you a million times, because you care so much about what I'm saying that you want to understand it too, even if its boring or complicated. You listen when I talk about nerdy things, and you ask my mom how she's doing- you aren't afraid of her like every other kid in your grade."

Your tears had stopped now, and you weren't entirely sure if it was due to the shock of Spencer hugging you or the shock of Spencer practically yelling as he let go of you, grabbing you by the shoulders and looking you in the eye.

"You're my best friend, and I'm sorry I said this was stupid. I would much rather do a million stupid things with you than be a genius alone."

He was a little breathless at the end of it, eyes still glued onto your face for some kind of sign that you weren't still sad, or angry. But it was blank, and suddenly his mind was rewinding through everything he said. Did he say something wrong? And just as he was going to apologize profusely for hugging you, you were pulling him into your own embrace. You were strong, his body hitting yours with a thud. You smelled like mechanical oil, probably from your dad's garage, and a hint of vanilla. Your hair, collected into a pony tail, though baby hairs clung to your forehead in a pool of sweat, brushed his nose and tickled his nostrils. You squeezed him when you hugged him and he didn't hesitate to wrap his arms around you in reassurance. He had never had a friend apart from you, never had a person to tell about his day, about his dreams, about the weird thing he read that day. He had you, and he didn't now what life would be like without you, but the thought scared him. It terrified him to think about a future without you in it, and so he clung to you tighter.

"Let's go home. Nothin' special about this house, anyways." You pulled away, elbowing him lightly in the ribs, the tiniest of smiles on your face and he beamed, because he did that. He made you smile.

"Eh, I thought it was pretty cool." Spencer said with a shrug, walking back to the bike.

QUANTICO, January 2012

The plane ride back from the case was bumpy, turbulence instantly shaking the large aircraft, causing it to be physically impossible for the team to sleep on the way home- well, unless you were Rossi. You could swear that David Rossi could sleep through just about everything. After grabbing his usual drink from the jet bar, the old man had chosen his usual window seat, only a couple rows back from where you sat with JJ, Derek, and Emily, snoring peacefully within twenty minutes.

You groaned in envy, tilting your head back to rest on the cushion as you did so. The blonde to your left chuckled at your dramatics, having gotten used to your behavior by now, Derek and Emily in tow. The three were the trio you had found yourself most acquainted with on the team, well, them and Penelope. You had a soft spot in your heart for the quirky technical analyst, the woman all but forcing herself into your life by digging through your personal files and inviting herself over for breakfast before long cases. How strange it had been to open the door to your apartment and find Penelope and Derek on the other side.

"Good morning!"

Your hair was sticking up in about twenty different directions, something the two agents found rather astounding, but chose not to comment on. At the office you were...put-together, to say the least. You were professional, a military woman through and through. You showed up to work early, your paperwork was always done, your shirts were always ironed, your laces were always tied. Penelope would argue that she never saw you blink- something that had made Derek laugh and JJ roll her eyes at, but Emily secretly agreed, because, man, did you?

At this point you had only been working for the BAU for a week or so, and still, they knew nothing about you. And so, here she was, gift-basket in hand while Derek carried along three steaming hot lattes that you could smell even from this distance.

Your eyebrows knitted together, head tilting in a manner that was scarily akin to their boy wonder- another thing they chose not to comment on. After that first day, the introduction between the two that had gone very strangely and the obvious avoidance on both of their parts, the team had chosen to skirt around the Reid boy and the Y/L/N girl. Things like that had a way of working themselves out. Besides, it hadn't affected their work and so personal matters were to remain...well, personal.

"Uh, good morning?" You stepped aside, allowing the two agents to enter your apartment. It was a one-bedroom, close to work so the commute wasn't too bad, and extremely empty. Penelope could've guessed it would be that way before entering. Your desk was the same way, only a picture of what she assumed was your dad and your brothers and you in your uniform to adorn your small space. Furniture, a lonely sofa, beige and boring, and a coffee table severely lacking anything other than a newspaper that Derek could see was three days old. The crossword section was flipped open, only three words filled out. Strewn across the floor were boxes, emptied out, mostly, but the few that remained full were labeled 'BOOKS' and 'SUMMER ClOTHES". The latter gave the two agents a headache, the very action of attempting to envision you in anything other than your usual jeans, leather jacket, and boots too difficult for their brains to process.

Your apartment was pristine, another thing that was predictable. It smelled of coffee, and as the three agents ventured further into the apartment, it was apparent as to the source of the smell; a half-empty pot sitting on the marble countertops.

"I'm sorry there isn't breakfast, if I would've known you were coming over I would've made...cereal."

Derek's eyebrows scrunched at the food choice and you let out an awkward chuckle.

"I can't cook. I'm horrible, like, burn down the house horrible." Your hand grabbed the coffee he was extending, giving a grateful nod as you looked to Penelope.

"Sorry for the short notice-"

"No notice, actually." You corrected with a smirk, eyes looking over the rim of the coffee lid as you took a sip.

"Right- no notice. I just, I figured if I gave you notice it would give you a chance to say no, and that's fine! if you want us to leave or anything we can, but we really need more women in the office and you seem like some badass, aviator wearing, leather jacket having, military chick and I really feel like we cold be good friends! I always text back, and I, for one, am I a good cook, so I can help you with that...oh, and I am amazing at remembering birthdays! I brought a gift basket too! I wasn't sure if you liked chocolate, or cheese, or fruit, this has all three-"

"Give her a second, babygirl." The Morgan shook his head, throwing a look to you. It was kind, an understanding look that meant he understood just how overwhelming his blonde counterpart could be but but also pleaded for understanding. Understanding of how Penelope was, of how good of a friend she could be.

But he didn't need to do that.

He didn't need to ask you to understand, or to be patient, or to give someone a chance He didn't need to because she reminded you all too much of a scrawny little kid with his nose in a book, a mouth far too smart for his own good, and a lack of any defense system.

The paper cup landed onto the countertop gently as you placed it down, arms crossing over themselves. Your arms were a bit chilled, nothing but a t-shirt and boxer shorts worn to bed, and a lazy smile quirked at the corner of your lips at the strange, kind, lovely blonde before you.

"I like cheese and chocolate and fruit." Penelope visibly relaxed at the comment. "Stay, I'm in need of some good friends."

"I'm tired." You mumbled grumpily, chin coming to rest on your hand.

JJ snorted, digging further into the small bag of chips she had managed to snag from the vending machine at the airport before the jet had taken off. "You could sleep."

With a click of your tongue, you smiled sarcastically, nodding your head. "Good idea, I didn't think about that." As another snore reached your ears, you tossed a glare back to the sleeping Rossi, rolling your eyes. "Jesus, does he have to rub it in?" You snapped.

Emily tucked a curl behind her ear, cracking a grin. "You can sleep when you get home, the flight's only three hours out."

"No, because when I get home I have to shower first, the plane makes me feel gross." Your shoulders gave way to a shiver that made Derek laugh. "Should I sleep or should I shower? I could sleep in the shower- but I'm also hungry."

A light tap on your forearm alerted you to the chip bag being shoved onto you, an offering by the Jareau woman. Perhaps if you hadn't known her for as long as you had- which, admittedly still wasn't that long, but you digressed- you would have taken one. Yes, JJ was offering, but JJ and her chips was not a love you came between and if you took one now she would tell you that you owed her a chip bag when you next passed a vending machine and the woman, small and kind as she was, was not as forgiving when it came to being owed chips.

With a tired wave of your hand you stood, stretching your arms for a moment, fingertips grazing the jet ceiling, before turning on your heel. "I'm gonna go find some peanuts or something."

You made your way to the back of the jet, toward the coffee machine station and bar set up. Cabinets above and below the both of them had you suspecting that there was a secret stash of peanuts- or, perhaps, a five-course meal that no one else knew about. Day-dreaming of a roasted turkey and baked Mac and cheese you hardly noticed a person exit the bathroom as you searched the cabinets. At the exact moment they had, the jet hit a spot of turbulence.

Your body, too tired to react quickly enough, lurched backward, directly into the body behind you.

Spencer yelped quietly, reacting on instinct and grabbing your body. The momentum of your body in addition to the swing of the jet had him stumbling into the wall, his hands securely around your waist, body pressed tightly against yours.

His touch wasn't foreign, perhaps that was why you stilled the way you did. As if you were frozen in an instant, neither of you moved as the plane shook for a moment, righting itself almost immediately and leaving the two of you staring, eyes entranced in one another.

For you, it was his touch. His touch that made you still, his touch that made you forget the search for food, the whines of exhaustion, the impatience to go home. His touch, one you knew quite well as a child, one you associated with friendship, childhood, and safety. One you associated with trust, and companionship. One that was returned to you in an instant, a feeling that you forgot after all these years- no, not forgot. You hadn't forgotten his touch, or, at least, your body hadn't. No, your body remembered Spencer Reid quite well. Your body remembered climbing into Spencer Reid's window, your hands calloused and hardened from the long climb to the top of the tree beside it. Your body remembered biking around town with him, thighs and calves burning as you pushed yourself harder, the amount of books he had loaded onto your bike because his couldn't fit all of them on his own weighing you down. Your body remembered bloodied knuckles, busted lips, or black eyes, all of them your victory trophies because you were hotheaded, impulsive, and protective when the other children had something to say about him.

And he stilled because of your scent. As strange as it sounded, it hadn't changed after all these years. Unlike you, his mind hadn't tricked him into forgetting it. He didn't think it was possible for him to ever forget it. Mechanical oil and a hint of vanilla. It enveloped him like a warm blanket, a large tidal wave of the familiar scent hanging in the air, threatening to overtake him until the wave broke and it pulled him under with it. The scent consumed him, filling his nostrils, overtaking his senses and for a moment it was too much. It was too much for his brain to process because one moment he was walking out of the bathroom and the next you were in his arms and he was catching you.

You didn't know what to say. What was there to say? You missed him. You saw him at work everyday, you passed by him when you dropped off paperwork to Hotchner, you nodded at him in passing, and you stumbled into him when the jet hit an air pocket. How could you miss him if you did all of that, every single day?

But Spencer Reid was a person to be missed. Spencer Reid was a person you thought about. You thought about him every day, every hour, every minute, because how could you not? How could you just pretend you didn't know him? The boy who read you Sherlock Holmes on hot summer days, or slow danced with you in your father's basement? The boy who gave you pinky promises and made wishes on stars, and taught you the constellations. A boy you had known was extraordinary from the beginning and had turned out to be just that? A boy who was no longer a boy anymore, because the world didn't take well to boys with exceptional minds and sick mothers, the world turned boys like that into men, men who were different, even if just a little bit. That little bit was enough to let all the fears flood back in, the fears of the ordinary, the fears of not being enough. The fears that were solidified in your not-so-welcome welcoming.

The memory coursed through your veins, activating them as if it had been a shot of adrenaline.

Clearing your throat, you moved, standing up properly, pushing yourself out of his embrace and crossing your arms. "Thanks. Turbulence caught me off guard there."

For a moment he had you, just you and him and then you had turned to sand in his hands and once again he was losing you. Your expression had hardened. In another lifetime he had been the one to soften you, a person who had been able to break down those walls you worked so hard to build, but now he was the one locked out.

"What we really need to worry about are microbursts - a sudden downburst of air associated with thunderstorms - but small craft like this one, if we hit one of those at the wrong altitude..." He was rambling at this moment, rambling so badly he wished he could stop but he couldn't. His hands mimicked an explosion, his voice coming out much smaller, more reluctant. "Get pulverized."

Spencer Reid didn't like being vulnerable. And that's what he was around you, vulnerable. And being vulnerable did things to him, made him say things and do things that make him embarrassed, or ashamed, or even feel guilty. Just as he started to simultaneously feel all three of these things, you did something he hadn't quite expected.

You laughed.

"Jeez, Sherlock, ever so morbid, aren't you?" It was a soft chuckle, a tiny little snort, short-lived and gone in an instant, but it was enough to make Spencer grin.

His lips parted to respond. What he was going to say, he didn't know- something, anything- but, he never got to find out.

The pilot bell dinged over the speaker system.

"Passengers, this is your Pilot speaking. There are rough windstorms ahead, I'm receiving advisement to land immediately, please buckle your seatbelts, this will be a rough landing."

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Message me to be added to the taglist! Hope you enjoy:) xx Toby

#spencer reid x reader #Spencer Reid fic #spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #Criminal Minds #growing pains

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moolovesyou · 4 years

Text

Crush Culture | JJ Maybank

Request: Hey i really really love your write it's so good,can i request a imagine with jj please? like they are friends since kids and start catching feelings for each other and all this tension between then

Author’s Note: this was fun. i hope i you like it :D thank you for requesting!!

Genre/Type: Fluff

Warnings: Cursing

Word Count: 1,629

“JJ GET THE FUCK OFF ME!” I tried to sound angry but failed when I laughed. I couldn’t breathe. JJ was tickling my sides and I couldn’t take it. I snorted loudly, which caused him to stop. He fell back laughing at the noise I let out. I pouted crossing my arms over my chest.

“You’re mean...” I shoved my face into a pillow, trying to hide my flushed face.

“Nooooo, don’t hide.” He flipped me over, but I still held the pillow to my face. “It was adorable.” I could hear the smirk in his voice. My face reddened even more.

“JJ! Come out here and help me mow the grass. I can barely walk around here without grass poking at my ankles...” Pope complained. JJ groaned, mimicking Pope.

“I’ll be back for you.” He deepened his voice, causing both of us to giggle. Once I heard the door close, I took the pillow off my face.

Recently, I’ve been feeling different about JJ. And I’ve known him since the womb basically. We used to play in the same park everyday when we were younger. Then it turned to constant play dates. And then going to the same school. We were inseparable. He was very protective of me.

<+++>

I skipped over to the swings, where JJ was going to meet me. It was a Saturday so we always go out to play. I was rocking back and forth before I was shoved off the swing.

“Ow! JJ that was mean...” I rubbed my scraped knee, my lip quivering. I looked up and noticed it wasn’t JJ. It was one of the mean rich kids, Rafe or something...

“Your little boyfriend isn’t here.” He mocked me. Two of his friends snickered behind him. “This is our park, go back to your bust in the cut.”

I stood up abruptly, walking away with my head down. I felt a hand grab mine. I looked behind me and saw the familiar blue-eyed boy I knew. His face was red. He gripped onto my hand and pulled me back to the swing set.

“Hey Rafe, you can’t tell us what to do! I can go into whatever park I want around here.” JJ hissed. The other kids laughed. I rolled my eyes at them.

“I’ll get my dad to kick your butt outta here.” Rafe shot back. JJ let go of my hand, his fist clenching. Instead of punching him, he pushed Rafe down to the ground.

“Yeah, go and run off to your daddy.”

Rafe stood back up, his face fuming. He was as angry as much as a 9-year-old could be. He looked back at his friends. The three of them all leaned down grabbing some pebbles and rocks from the ground. They launched the rocks at us. JJ ran over to me, grabbing my hand and running away. We laughed, hearing the kids grumbling in the back.

“Did you see the look on his face!” I snickered, heaving from running. JJ snorted.

“I love messing with that idiot.” He boasted. His face dropped when he looked at my knee. “You’re bleeding! Come on, we need to go get you fixed up. I’ll also need to kiss it to make sure it won’t hurt.” He pecked my knee, looking back up at me with a determined look.

I nodded. “It worked!” I hugged him tightly. He smiled widely.

<+++>

We used to be able to hug and kiss each other on the cheek without thinking twice about it. Now, it had a weird tension. He’d hug me and linger for more than before. I’d kiss his cheek and they would flush with a peachy color. Kie would even tease me about it, but I wouldn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what was happening between us.

I heard a ruckus outside, so I got up and went out. John B and Kie were throwing stuff at each other and cackling. I saw Pope mowing on the east side of the lawn. Then I looked over and saw JJ. My breath hitched. I had to lean on the door frame.

His hair was hanging over his face. His eyebrows were furrowed deep in concentration. His hands gripped the handle of the lawnmower tightly. The veins on his biceps popped out. My eyes trailed down to his abs. Am I drooling? It was like he was perfectly sculpted. I felt a coil in my chest springing.

“Hellooooo? Earth to Y/N?” I heard JB’s voice tease me. Kie was waving her hand in my face. I moaned on accident, making my eyes widen. I buried my face in my hands.

“What is going on with me...?”

“I can’t help but think you have a little crush on our JJ” Kie poked fun at me. I scoffed.

“Before you defend yourself, maybe you don’t believe you have a crush on him. Maybe you don’t wanna admit it.” John B pointed at me, an eyebrow raised at me. I stuck my tongue out at them.

“Yeah, you guys can dream it.” I flipped them off.

“What are we talking about?” JJ walked over, wiping his sweat down with a towel. I looked down to avert my eyes from the godly sight in front of me.

“Well, Y/N-”

“THE ROYAL MERCHANT! We should definitely go back tomorrow morning to find it...We could be lucky this time.”

“I’ll go, I got nothing else to do anyways.” He rubbed his hands together menacingly.

“Greeeat...”

“Well, I can’t go I have to help my dad at The Wreck.” Kie shrugged.

“Yeah, and I have to work out a problem with foster care y’know..” John B added. Oh, I see what they’re doing. These little shits.

“I think I can go-” Pope began, but both Kie and John B glared at him. His mouth formed into an ‘O’ shape and then smiled. “I can’t. I just remembered I have to help my dad clean up.”

“It’s just you and me, sweetheart.” JJ wrapped an arm around my shoulders. I laughed nervously.

This is gonna be awful...

<+++>

“I cannot do this, I can’t. ABORT THE FUCKING MISSION!” I hid under my blanket, fully dressed. Kie had woken me up for my ‘date’ with JJ. No one said it was a date! Now I was surrounded by everyone except for him, he was probably waiting down at the dock for me.

The blanket was ripped off of me, and I was met with determined eyes. “Come on, hurry up. Your man is waiting!”

“Oh, shut up!” I stood up reluctantly. I was pushed over to the front door. I turned around to look at my friends for one last time before they slammed the door in my face. “Traitors!”

“Good luck!” They yelled simultaneously. I huffed.

Walking over to my bike, I hopped on and reluctantly pedaled to the dock. I could make out the figure of JJ standing there. He was looking down, toying with his fingers. I smiled instinctively, my heart tightening.

“Hey blondie!” I teased. His head snapped up and he grinned. I got off my bike and dropped it. He ran over to me and hugged me tightly. I could smell the scent of cologne on him. “Did you put cologne on?”

“No? Yeah- Maybe.” He sniffed himself quickly. JJ cleared his throat and jumped into the boat. I was about to go in but he stopped me. He held his hand out for me. “M’lady...”

“Wow...such a gentleman.” I put a hand to my chest, acting shocked. He smirked at me. JJ started the engine. He steered the boat farther into the water. Far enough no one could hear us but close enough we wouldn’t get lost. He dropped the anchor down under. “So are we really gonna try to find it or do you just wanna catch some fish?”

“You know me so well.” He pat my head. I scrunched my nose at him. He started to look around for the rods but his face dropped. “Fuck, they’re not here...”

“That’s great. We’re gonna sit here and do nothing now.” I complained.

“Am I that boring?” JJ put a pained look on his face. I nodded a yes. “Oh, really? Even though every time you’re with me you have that adorable smile on your face? And any time I say something you let out that cute little laugh of yours, sometimes a snort too? It seems like you have a lot of fun with me. I can see the way you look at me, Y/N...”

I was in shock at what he just said but I tried to play it off. “And how do I look at you?” I smirked at him. Our faces were close, his breath fanning over my lips.

“Like I’m the only thing in the world.”

“How cocky of you...”

“And I look at you the same way, babe.” He tucked my hair behind my ear. I looked into his eyes, but he was looking at something else. His eyes flickered to my lips and back to my eyes. The both of us leaned forward, connecting our lips. It was the release I never knew I needed. I pushed into it more, grabbing locks of his hair with my fingers. He put his hands on my waist, tightening his grip. I squealed at the pressure. We pulled back, breathing heavily.

“That was...”I panted. “I needed that.”

“Me too.” He drummed his finger on my hips. “Now there’s only one more thing to ask...”

I grinned. “And what’s that?”

“Would you, I don’t know, wanna be my girlfriend?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” I kissed him again on the lips.

“So, is that a yes?” He mumbled against my lips.

Tagging some lovelies: @thatboogiebro @anxietyismyspiritanimal

#jj maybank #outer banks #outer banks imagine #jj maybank imagine

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bonesthebeloved · 4 years

Text

Complicated- creativitwins

Digging up old drafts baby here we goooo.

The father in this story doesn't have a name so you can imagine it as anyone you'd like/ as simply a stranger. Happy reading.

Trigger/ squick warning: father figures, complicated relationship with parental figures, mention of screaming, child services mention (in like...one sentence) mention of crying, mention of animal death (bunnies) mention of homophobia. <- if I missed any let me know.

Edit: I did not check spelling. We die like men

Pappa had always been with them.

When they were three and just formed their first memories they might remember in distant futures when all was quiet and nothing was holding them back from reminisent, they would remember about the time they’d gotten two big stuffed bears bigger than themselves When Papa had still been alone and Dad hadn’t been with them yet.

They would remember the soft fur in their little hands as they cuddled close to the things when it was naptime.

Pappa was always there for them

When Roman was five and he woke up from a nightmare where a squirrel was chasing him around the playground pappa was there to wrap his long arms around him and tell him that he was safe and that he would get his squirrel catching gear out of the supply closet the man they had started calling Dad had built for them, first thing in the morning.

When Remus faked being sick the first day of school because a kid in his class had laughed at the white streak in his hair he'd had since birth pappa had come and picked him up, explaining that poliosis is nothing to be ashamed of and laughing warmly as his son tried to pronouns the word.

Pappa would always protect them.

When Roman first talked about his pappa and dad in school the teacher had looked like she'd eaten something nasty. Later on Roman was moved to the same class as his brother, his own teacher saying she didn't want to be associated with his kind.

When Pappa came to pick him up that day Roman asked what that ment. And for one of the first times in his life he'd seen pappa frown.

They baked a cake to celebrate them being the same class that evening and Pappa and dad lifted the two of them high up in the air and twirled them around while cheerful music played.

When Remus got told off by a teacher for the first time because he had pushed another kid in his class he had to sit in the corner for ten minutes.

When he was allowed to go back to his spot Roman thanked him for protecting him and Remus threw the paper ball that had been thrown at him right back.

When Pappa came to pick him up he and the teacher had a long talk and they left quickly afterwards. Pappa holding both his and Roman's hands in his own big one's and telling them about how they had done the right thing.

Pappa would always comfort them.

When Roman came back home with scrapped knees and an attitude Pappa had asked him what had happened.

Roman hadn't answered and his brother had later told their dad's that he had seen Roman getting pushed around by some older kids. The had been yelling a word he didn't know the meaning of. When he had told it to pappa he had looked angry. And told his boys that those kids were mean and to never use that word because it made fun of good people.

When Remus began to get more friends his pappa asked him to include Roman in all of their games.

His brother had trouble connecting to people and was quickly becoming the bullied kid. And while Remus would gladly take any bullets for him he couldn't protect him at all times.

And while Remus played star wars with his friends, running around the playground and pretending to know the characters, Roman sat and drew in the little notebook pappa had given him for school.

And Remus bought him a new one with his own pocket money when a mean kid threw it in the lake nearby when they went there to explore with the class around the time that eggs would magically appear in their garden and they pretended like it was a bunny putting them there.

Pappa would always be with them.

When they went to highschool and Remus his friends could no longer play starwars with him because one moved away, one said she’d never liked him and two others went to the same school but suddenly forgot about their being friends, he sat with his brother more often.

And when Roman got friends that he wasn’t sure he liked but hung around anyways because it was better than sitting alone, Remus was left sitting at a table at lunch, other kids coming to sit at the same one in the hopes he would get up and leave.

When he had refused to do just that they’d began whispering about him pretending he didn’t hear them. And when he acted like he didn’t hear they had began calling him mean things.

After two months at the new school they came home and both called for their Pappa with shaky voices too quiet to bare any sort of good news.

And when Remus showed off his bruised wrist he’d gotten when a kid had grabbed him harshly and Roman told him about how his friends hadn’t been friends but bullies in a trenchcoat and a mustache to make him think they were friends before telling him he was too weird to hang around, Pappa had brought them both into his arms. Whispering something like ‘oh my poor, brave boys,’ before holding them a bit tighter and then telling them that sometimes, the world was mean like that and that, sometimes, it takes a while before you find the right people.

And when they went to bed that night they laid in the room and stared at the same ceiling. Both pretending they couldn’t hear Pappa arguing with Dad in the hallway.

Both pretending they weren’t crying silently until they fell asleep to Dad accusing Pappa of being a vile and horrible human being.

Pappa didn’t have all the answers.

They learnt that when they were on their second year of highschool and both of their pet bunnies died in the same night.

Roman had sniffled and stood near the gardendoor as he watched them dig a deep hole all the way at the back of their garden.

Remus decided that he would be sad about this at night when nobody would see or worry and stood close by Pappa as he put the two bunnies in a shoebox and put it in the hole. Saying they had probably died because of the rat poision Dad had spread across the lawn and that the mice must’ve gotten into their food somehow.

They learnt this when Dad and him had sat them down after breakfast that had strawberries to tell them that sometimes love died and that weddingrings would rust and be put in two seperate homes in two seperate boxes that would never be opened again.

They learnt this the fifth time that Remus came home with bruises and Roman began to listen to darker music and emote less dramatically. Unlearning all the expressions he’d picked up from those animated childrens series they weren’t allowed to watch but watched them anyways. He faked having imagined a happy place when the woman that was supposed to help them through the divorce told him to invision one. Instead invisioning Remus, and how he should have punched the guy that had made him drop his books the moment he saw it happening.

Pappa was a human being.

They realised this more clearly than ever when he’d found out why Remus only wore long sleeves and got sent to therapy after their Pappa had hysterically cried over it and begged his son not to leave them before he could grow old.

When Roman stared at the ceiling after he’d taken 14 paracetamol and googling how many it would take to leave them before he could grow old, only to find that he would probably be fine and go to school the next day feeling as empty as usual. Pappa had yelled at him when he had gotten back to be more careful and not get invloved with his brothers troubles after he’d shown off the scratched shoulder from where he’d been thrown against a fence when he'd tried to stand up for him.

And when Remus got diagnosed with dyslexia and Roman with depression they said nothing. Roman shaking his head when the doctor suggested therapy and Remus sitting quietly as they explained that he might have adhd aswell.

Their father wasn't perfect.

They learnt this when Remus came back from school with a black eye and a failed math test and the test was all that was focused on. Shouting not unlike the one they'd heard all those years ago when love began to die and rings began to rust booming through the house and piercing through the music Roman was listening to in his room. A bottle cap with water falling off his desk and the little growing plant in it falling with it.

They learnt this when Roman said he was asexual aromantic and their father said that he should consider therapy again because surely that couldn't be normal.

And when Roman told him that maybe they weren't normal he'd been send to his room. Doors slamming shut and noises too loud for Remus to process.

Their father was wrong sometimes.

They realised this when Remus first brought a friend home and jokes about countries the kid wasn't from were made around the otherwise uncomfortably quiet dinner table. And when religion was brought up in a house full of atheists Remus stood and took his friend's hand, saying that they'd eat something at a foodtruck and storming of, leaving Roman to feed little stripes of unseasoned meat to the cat.

Their father was bad sometimes.

They learned this when the both of them started college and the racist microagressions turned into jokes about how they'd never make it since they were both going to art schools.

And when Remus showed him his homemade costume he huffed and said it looked great in a tone that Implied anything but. And when Roman showed him the finished piece he'd worked months on he said it looked nice even if it had mistakes while pointing at every single one of them while his son, hands still stained with markers and pencil smudges, gave a watery smile and the artwork was put in a art map to never be looked at again.

Their father wasn't good for them.

They realised this. Finally realised this, when Remus was twenty and had decided to move out, getting a small apartment would have been to expensive had his brother not eagerly asked him if he could come with him.

And they told their father while their bags were already packed and the rent was already payed.

And their neighbours registered a noise complained and whispered about calling childservices when their father started another screaming match to tell them how much he didn't want them to leave and how they wouldn't make it.

And they painted the walls mint green while Roman painted a mural around the spot where their couch would be.

And they ate lukewarm noodles from the plastic canisters while sat on the empty apartment floor.

And Roman bought a dozen succulents to take care of and make it feel more like home.

And the wall was always covered in outfit designs and storyboards as the jar they had put the sticker 'for a couch' on slowly filled up.

And they still send him Christmas cards but didn't plan on visiting that house for a long long time.

And their father would have killed them for the mess they made of the apartment sometimes.

And they preferred it that way.

This is both an extremely specific vent and goes out to all the kids with complicated relationships with their parents.

You're allowed to not like your caretakers. You're allowed to not want contact with them after you've moved on. You're allowed to think how they treated you was unjust because it probably was.

Taglist

@purp-man @crazycookie13o @deceitifullies101 @sapphire-knight @ragingdumpsterfiremess @chronophobica @lance-alt @mylifeisadeceit

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biillyhargroves · 5 years

Note

"Don’t you dare touch him!” + harringrove ???

take it out on me(fic requests open)

tw: depictions of child abuse & violence against minors. mildly graphic.disclaimer: this is one of the most intense fics I’ve written and I’m sorry.

Neil Hargrove is not supposed to be home.

Steve knows this. It is a Thursday night, and the Hargrove patriarch can only ever be found at Shanahan’s Pub on Thursday nights. He tucks in after punching the clock and remains there well past happy hour, well past last call. On some Thursday nights, Mr. Hargrove does not find his way home at all. He has been known, occasionally, to stay the night in the small gravel lot outside the bar and, more than once, been discovered there by Chief Hopper or one of the local patrolmen in the early hours of a Friday morning and been sent on his way. Susan Hargrove remains unfettered by her husband’s Thursday night disappearances. She enjoys the quiet, it seems. Sometimes, she works late; her husband cannot complain when he is not home to expect dinner, and she often orders pizza or an overwhelming amount of Chinese food to the house, or gives a couple of fives to her children, so that they do not go hungry in her absence. Steve has ridden shotgun on enough burger runs, has broken enough fortune cookies on enough Thursday nights to know that Neil Hargrove is never, ever home.

The house is always warm. Sometimes, El comes over, or Lucas sneaks in through Max’s window (a habit, he murmurs, when Billy reminds him that the front door is right there, shithead and that he doesn’t always have to break in like some criminal - “Look who’s talking,” Steve has teased, reminded of all the times that Billy has squeezed himself through second-story windows). The night is always quiet, Steve might even call them peaceful, when Neil Hargrove is not home.

And tonight, of course, is a Thursday night. Neil Hargrove is not supposed to be home, so it strikes Steve as rather odd that his battered old Ford is sitting in the driveway.

Steve wonders if perhaps the truck had broken down this morning. Maybe, after cursing at the damned piece of junk, Neil Hargrove had taken his wife’s car to work. Steve circles around the block once, twice, tries to see inside the yellow windows of the Hargrove house. He can see no shadows inside; no shapes besides the back of the couch, the living room lamp. Steve parks a few streets over, just to be safe.

Also to be safe, Steve creeps around the backyard. There is no light on in Billy’s bedroom, but there is in Max’s. Steve sees something- someone -dart inside the dimly lit room. He hears a door slam. Max jumps, almost screams, when Steve taps on her window. He apologizes her she even opens it.

“I’m sorry, I’m sor-”

“Shh!” Max hisses. Steve can hear yelling deeper inside the house. There are two voices, both of them male, one of them Billy’s. Steve cannot make out what he is saying but he doesn’t like the pitch of it, the tone of it, the way the words sound raw at their edges. “What are you doing here?” Max whispers.

“I-” Steve starts, and he lowers his voice when she glares at him- not in angry way, Steve notices. She looks scared. “It’s Thursday,” he says plainly.

Max only considers this for a fraction of a second before she says, “You need to go.”

Behind her closed door, there is a loud bang! and a subsequent thud! that makes them both jump. The walls shake. There is another shout- something between a grunt and a yelp -followed by a loud, angry bellowing sound. “You need to go,” Max says again, and her voice shakes like the walls. She starts to push Steve outside, but he grips the windowsill. She starts to close the pane but he grabs onto her wrist.

“Wait,” he says, and when she keeps trying to shove him away he says, “No, no, no. Hey, come on. What the hell is going on?”

“Steve, just go,” Max says desperately.

“No,” Steve says firmly. “No, I’m not just gonna walk away.”

“Steve,” Max says.

“No,” Steve repeats. “How bad is it?” he asks. “It sounds bad.”

“Steve, you have to go,” Max begs. But Steve has made up his mind. He pushes away from the window and instead of closing it like she’d wanted to, like she’d so desperately been trying to, Max leans her head outside. “Steve!” she calls, still trying to stay quiet. He is crossing the lawn, rounding the corner. “You’ll make it worse!” she says, but she doesn’t think he can hear her. Her step-father, though, could. He calls her name.

“Maxine!” he shouts. “What the fuck is going on in there?”

Without thinking, Max scrambles out the window. She is running around the house, following Steve’s path, by the time Neil Hargrove gets her bedroom door open. She hears him scream her name again and her heart jumps up into her throat. She thinks she might throw it right up, that all of her insides might come spilling out, and she swallows them all back down when she catches up with Steve.

“Steve, stop it,” Max pleads. He swings around and grabs her shoulders and she freezes. Steve hates the fear in her eyes, hates that he’s the one causing it- right now, at least, in this moment.

“Go to the Byers’,” he tells her.

“Steve,” Max says. Her voice is small, so very childlike, and for a moment Steve realizes that he has forgotten how young she actually is. She looks younger still with her eyes that wide, with tears in them, with her bottom lip quivering.

“Go to the Byers and call Hopper,” Steve says. “Make sure it’s him. Can you do that?”

“I-” Max starts, “Steve-” And then, in an instant, her face hardens. “Okay,” she says.

“Is your mom home?” Steve asks.

“She’s…” she starts. “No. No, she’s out of town.”

“Good,” Steve says. “Go.”

“You really should’ve gone home,” Max says.

Steve says nothing to this. Instead, he tells her, “Go. Mrs. Byers will help.” When Steve lets go of Max, she lingers for a moment. She stares at Steve with a look he can’t quite place. It’s not disappointment, but perhaps uncertainty. Disbelief, maybe. And, Steve thinks, even the tiniest spark of hope. She looks to the house and, when they hear Neil Hargrove shout again, she takes off down the street.

Steve opens the front door. He sees a shadow slip against the hallway wall, big and tall and monstrous. He hears Neil Hargrove growl, “Where’d she go?” he is demanding. “Is she covering for you, you God damned piece of shit? Where the fuck did she go?”

“Billy?” Steve calls, and this makes the yelling stop.

There is a momentary silence, so quick it seems like an illusion. Steve is frozen in the open doorway. His heart is hammering; he can hear it in his ears, can feel his own pulse throb through every vein. He can taste bile at the back of his throat and prays to whatever deity might deign to listen that it stays put. The shadow grows against the wall again, and it is followed by the thumping footsteps. Steve sees Neil Hargrove’s boots first, scuffed up and dirty, and then he sees his fists with their red knuckles. His face looks less like a man and more like a monster, like something out of the horror movies Max always made them watch. His eyes are hard and his glare feels like daggers drilling right through Steve’s head. He snarls, and Steve half-expects some animal growl to come out of him.

“Who the fuck are you?” Neil demands.

“Where’s Billy?” Steve counters. He looks behind Neil, but he cannot see anything in the dark hallway. Steve takes a step into the foyer. “Billy?” he calls again. “Billy?!” He doesn’t realize how far he’s moved into the house until Neil Hargrove is butting the stubby tips of his fingers against Steve’s chest. Steve stalls. He stops searching for Billy and looks at those knife-edge eyes.

“Get out of here, son,” Neil Hargrove says, voice low and downright sinister. Each syllable sends its own chill snaking down Steve’s spine. Steve opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out- not a word, not a squeak, not a scream. “Go on,” Neil Hargrove tells him.

But Steve doesn’t go.

Neil Hargrove hangs his head. A breathes a heavy sigh and then, turning slightly toward the hallway, he shouts, “Billy! You want to come out here and tell me who this asshole is?” There is no answer. Steve tries to listen, tries to catch even a small rasp of Billy’s breathing, but his ears are ringing and he can’t hear anything else. Neil looks to him again, a kind of sideways glance, and Steve feels another tremor shudder through him. “I’ll call the cops if you don’t get out,” Neil warns, but instead of finding a phone he shouts over his shoulder, “Billy! You get your ass out here!”

This time, there is movement; a small shuffling, a shifting of shadows. Steve watches Billy emerge from them. He presses one hand against the wall for support and his other warm is wrapped protectively around his middle. One eye is puffy and swollen, and Steve thinks he’s watching it swell right shut. Billy’s lip is bleeding - or perhaps it’s coming from his mouth, because his teeth look bloody when he opens his mouth.

“Don’t,” he says.

“Don’t what?” Neil asks, almost teasing. Billy glares at him. “You don’t look at me like that. I didn’t tell this kid to break into my house, now did I? He did that of his own volition.”

Billy looks down. Steve has never seen him so sheepish; so frightened. He looks to the door, still open to the black night outside. He thinks about Max. Would she be at the Byers’ yet? How fast could she run?

“Billy,” Neil Hargrove says in a sickly sing-song voice that makes Steve’s blood curdle. Steve snaps his head back toward Billy, who is just-barely holding himself up, his hair hanging over his face as he looks to his father. Neil’s voice is low and dangerous when he says, “You want to tell me who this is?”

“Some asshole,” Billy bites out.

“Some asshole,” Neil repeats. “Now, that might be the first right thing you’ve said all night.” He turns his attention to Steve. He tilts his head, considers him, and then he asks, “Now what are you doing barging into my house and calling after my son?” he asks. “Were you creeping around here?” he asks. “Looking for my boy?” he demands. “Were you in my daughter’s window, too?” he presses. Each question is punctuated with a shove; it is not harsh, just a jab of Neil’s fingers against Steve’s chest, and he advances with each strike. Steve steps backward, backward, backward until his heel almost slips off the lip between the door and the front stoop. Steve grabs the door jam to stop himself from falling, breaking eye contact only briefly to glance outside. When he looks back, when he finds Billy over Neil’s shoulder, Billy’s is glaring at him. Why are you here? his eyes say. Why is your stupid ass even here?

“It’s Thursday,” Steve murmurs, even though Billy had not asked.

“What was that?” Neil asks. Steve looks at him. He tastes the bile again; he doesn’t think he can hold it down. “It’s Thursday?” Neil asks. “Is this some kind of routine for you?” This time, when he shoves Steve, it is harsh. Steve loses his balances. He is thrust outside, tumbling ass over teakettle down the front steps and onto the walkway. His teeth catch his lip when he tries to curl his head away from the cement and now he tastes blood, too.

“Don’t!” he hears Billy yell, though he sounds about a million miles away. Neil Hargrove is looming over Steve, a great big shadow blocking out the moon and the stars and the soft yellow glow of the streetlamps. He hears footsteps, stumbling ones, and suddenly Neil is torn away. “Don’t you dare!” Billy snaps. “Don’t you fucking touch him!”

Steve lifts himself up in time to see Billy one land one good punch before Neil throws him away- literally throws him, like a rag doll, and Billy lands with a crash that shakes the whole damn floor. Neil rounds on him; he rises, towers over his son, raises his fists.

“No!” Steve screams. He forces himself to his feet. He is shaky, and he bumps into the door on his way through it. He throws himself at Neil. He, too, is easily flung away.

“What the fuck is this?” Neil demands. He is rounding on Billy once more. Steve staggers to his feet, reaches for Neil, grabs fistfuls of the man’s black jacket. Neil twists around, his cracked knuckles scraping Steve’s cheek, his jaw, and when he can’t Steve off of him he slams Steve against the wall. Steve loses his grip. He falls to his knees. The shadow over him grabs the front of his shirt and hoists him up. “Who the fuck are you?” Neil Hargrove growls.

“Get off of him,” Billy snarls. He is on shaky feet, too, and Steve wishes he could just stay down. This isn’t Billy’s fight anymore, Steve things. He thinks about Max, about how she’d have to have called by now. He thinks that Chief Hopper must be on his way, he has to be, it’s been long enough. He looks at Billy, wants to plead with him: just stay down. it’ll be over soon. stay down. But Billy doesn’t. He beats his fists against his father’s back, pleading, “Get away from him!”

Again, Billy is thrown off. This time, when he lands, he doesn’t move. Steve’s heart jumps up, but he cannot move. Neil Hargrove still has him pinned to the wall. He glares, hard, at Steve.

“I’m gonna ask you one more time,” he says slowly. “Who. The fuck. Are you?”

Steve does not answer. He can hear car tires in down the street, the distance wail of sirens. He waits. Waits, waits, waits in silence until he hears the tires screech around the corner of Cherry Lane. Red and blue light washes over the dark street outside and the moment Steve sees them, the moment the first rogue beam shines through the window, Steve smiles.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Neil Hargrove asks, and Steve laughs.

Behind them, Billy is slowly crawling to his hands and knees. He looks confused. He watches the door, watches Chief Hopper’s beige car slide up to the curb. Neil Hargrove lets go of Steve and, without that strong grip wrinkling his shirt, Steve collapses to his knees. Billy looks at him. “What did you do?” he asks. Steve does not have a chance to answer. Chief Hopper is already taking long strides up the front law, is talking about a call about a disturbance at 4819 Cherry Lane. He is already peering inside, catching sight of the boys. There are cuffs in his hands and soon they are around Neil’s wrists.

Steve moves towards Billy, reaches for him, but Billy shrinks away.

“That was fucking stupid,” he spits.

“I had to do it,” Steve says. Again, he reaches for Billy, but this time Billy slaps him away.

“You shouldn’t have done anything,” Billy says, but the anger that is normally present in his voice, in his very being, isn’t there. He isn’t even looking at Steve. He is watching his father shout at the chief, is watching two uniformed officers tugging him away. Outside, the back door of Chief Hopper’s car swings open and Max emerges, Mrs. Byers following. Mrs. Byers stops at Hopper, who is saying something about waiting in the car. Max, though, practically runs into the house.

“Billy,” she says, and Billy’s eyes snap up to hers. Something close to a sob catches in her throat when she says his name again and throws her arms around his neck. She buries her head against him, mutters apologies that he does not answer. This time, when Steve reaches for Billy, Billy lets him touch his back- even lets him put an arm around his shoulders. Steve can feel Billy uncoiling beneath him. When Billy breathes out, Steve thinks the smallest cry comes out of him - disbelief and relief expelled in a single exhale. He leans forward and Steve moves to catch him, to secure between himself and Max.

“It’s okay,” Steve says. He will not say he’s sorry. He holds Billy, feels Billy’s free hand- the arm not wrapped around Max -close around his own waist. “It’s okay,” he says as Billy begins to cry.

#harringrove #harrigrove fic #harringrove fanfic #harringrove fanfiction #billy hargrove #max mayfield #steve harrington #welp. the deed is done.#wndasmaximoffs #answered #lex writes fics

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spnsmile · 4 years

Note

Cas will smite everyone who insults Dean's freckles

Yes yes he will! No questions asked! 👀

But shit just went down here, anon! Still sweet end, don't worry ✨ For you 😅

--------------- 👀

Castiel likes it when Dean is honest with himself.

Since their first kiss, their first night, both confessing how they always wanted each other in every way, Castiel made Dean agree they both stop their 'wishful thinking' and start doing as they please. They wasted time dancing around each other, Castiel is not about to condition Dean on his own wants. He wants Dean. Permission was given. Castiel trusts Dean and that's about everything they needed to know.

So he likes it when Dean steals kisses while in the middle of a stressful hunt. Likes it so much when Dean entwines their hands while doing manual research. Best, of course, is when he can pin Dean on the wall without much as a blink. Gets thrilled when Dean pushes his chair and straddles his lap without warning.

It happens anywhere in the Bunker: the library, the kitchen, even the upper entrance where they set the chessboard game. He loves Dean's honesty, it makes his whole face brighten and make Castiel feel like sunshine is flooding his soul.

So it's true. Honesty is the best policy. Except for Sam. Sam needs limits. Sam says he needs his peace of mind so honesty is not for all. Sam who caught them by the ham radio panel once, twice by the telescope too- needs his rules. They had to make sure Sam is safely out of the way.

So when Dean stands up from his chair and walked to him while Castiel sits on the couch by side table, Castiel smiles too. Sam is out for the night. And Dean wearing his cheeky little grin and twinkling green eyes suggestively makes Castiel's invisible broken wings to flutter in excitement.

Dean takes the book from Castiel's hand and threw it away. Angel's eyes follow where it landed (in case he needs to retrieve it before a dog eats it) before falling on his knees. Castiel watches Dean, mesmerized as he unbuckles his belt and unzips his pants. Their eye contact is glazed and intense when Dean looks up before kissing the tip of its head.

Castiel exhales for the blessing. Leaning back on the chair, he cards his hand on the hunter's hair. Dean is beautiful. Much beautiful with cheeks flushed and lips wrapped around his cock. But it's not this that gets Castiel staring fixedly.

"I love them. Your freckles."

It's the first time he's said it.

Also, first time to see Dean glare up to the angel's surprise. His movement did not cease but the pacing grows bolder and quicker that Castiel is throwing his head back breathlessly, fingers digging on the hunter's hair till he comes. Dean draws more from him, Castiel wonders if its Dean telling him to stop talking.

Dean's lips certainly can and when the hunter smirks at Castiel's wrecked form, the angel thought nothing of it anymore

Until the next hunt.

***

The impala door slams shut, scaring off squirrels on the nearest lawn in the middle of a hot suburb.

"What's the plan, Samwise?"

"Shut up, Dean. We need this done pronto. We already know the demon's inside the house holding two college students hostage-"

"-who happened to play around with a book of witchcraft and eventually summon an actual powerful demon-" Cas supplies flatly.

"Good times." Dean rolls his eyes.

"Is it?" Cas is confused.

"Guys, listen," Sam pursed his lips "we still have to know what kind of demon they summon okay? From the description of the mother, the book she saw is ancient-"

"That's my boy remembering all the nerdy stuff." Dean pats Sam's shoulder who scowls.

"I was thinking they could've summoned an old demonized pagan god which means it's going to be a little tricky."

"Can't I smite it on the spot?"

Dean beams at Cas, full of heart eyes.

"That's why I love that you're here, Cas. You've no idea of half the shit Sam and I went through when we deal with the old bitch stuff as pagan gods." Cas only squints.

Sam shakes his head. "No, Cas. If we can catch it that's much better. We don't know what happened to the third kid."

"And there's a third kid." Dean sighs. "There's always a third kid. Cas, we can't have the demon ganked until we have the whereabout of the kid, okay?"

"Understood."

"You can smite it when things got out of hand," Sam adds. Castiel relaxes. "Dean will work on the trap downstairs while I tackle it wherever the hell it is."

"Definitely not in hell." Dean snorts humorously but nobody laughed. He scowls.

"Cas can cover the back of the house, Dean can go front while I clear what's the second floor, see if the kids are there. And Dean. Don't kick the door, please." Sam finishes.

Dean winks at Cas. "Sammy does the search and rescue while we get the tough job."

They do the drill.

Dean is the first to reach the living room. Castiel hears him kick the door. Rolling his eyes, he walks through the kitchen, searching high and low. But he stops when he feels the evil energy contained in the space ascend so he hurries to Dean.

Dean has it in a devil's trap. It has shed the mortal body to its gruesome true form of bile and wood, an old pagan indeed. Probably after Sam exorcises it.

The demonic voice did not surprise him he hears it talking to Dean. He hears the threats, the convulsing energy that wants to harm, but when the demon starts cursing at Dean, Castiel steps forward. The demon saw him and yells curses in his direction.

"I got it, Cas," Dean says.

"You?" spits the demon, "Yoke of the yellow eyes with his tongue's mark on your skin, got me? Freckled fuck-"

Castiel's whole form flares with anger. He sees Dean flinch, sees the color drain from his face as the demon went on with insults but it's over in a second. Castiel smites the demon, holy grace exploding in blinding rage. His eyes stay on Dean who blinks at him in surprise. They stand there not talking till Sam appears telling them third kid is not upstairs.

"Cas! I told you we need him!" Sam says, crestfallen at the empty devil's trap.

"It got out of hand," Castiel says tone leveled. "Dean?"

"Uh... Yeah, yeah out of hand. Let's find thirdy." Dean reverts to his business tone, hunter first mode but Castiel sees through him.

Turns out the third kid is dead.

***

That night when in the safety of Dean's room, after Castiel strips all but the necktie on his neck and granted Dean's fantasy, when the hunter is in a better, relaxed mood, Castiel asks Dean about it.

Honesty is what they needed most.

"It's not that. I love everything you say, Cas." Dean says with the left arm at the back of his head, the other Castiel's pillow while the angel stared up at him. "I just don't like it getting pointed... During, you know, sex."

"Why not?"

Dean looks away. "I know they don't look good. Not in the dark, not with fire-"

"What? Some mortal you had sex with said it's not?" Castiel couldn't imagine the fire at first, wondering how some one- nightstand can make Dean Winchester doubt the perfection of every part of his body.

Dean doesn't answer so Castiel pushes himself to look Dean in the eyes. His green eyes look somber and hurt. It confuses the angel.

"Dean."

"It's not exactly mortal." he points out.

"Anna?" Castiel chastises.

"No."

"I can recite all the supernatural beings in the world Dean, both in Alphabetical and numerical order. Also in symbols even Enochian if you want. So unless you want me to start the vigil-"

"I think you'll get there easy with demon A plus torture, y'happy now?" Dean snaps, turning his body away from the surprised angel.

But Castiel is a bottle of rage. He wants to climb out of bed and charge hell once again. Destroy everyone who made Deam suffer. But this is not about him.

Castiel's inside flounders at the gravity of the meaning. He stares at Dean's shrinking form, his exposed back where he can see the lovely sunspots graced by heaven's light even in the darkness of the room.

The remark of the demon hits him hard. Even when it's been years, scars of words don't easily heal...

He feels Dean's anguish, can see the brightness of Dean's soul slowly diminish. And it's easy to fall prey to your own demons sometimes, much easier than loving yourself after what happened.

It hurts the angel.

"Dean." he places a gentle hand on the hunter's shoulder possessively, glad Dean isn't pulling away. "Dean, when I put you together from hell when I touched you right here," he squeezes the shoulder, "I cleansed your soul from any damage and residue that hell brought you. That's what an angel's claim means to do. To purify and renew. Any sin you committed before then has been... Um, in your words, turned a clean slate. There was no doubt you came out from there intact and cleansed."

"Let's not talk about it." Dean fumes. "Not in the sack. Don't mention it, please, Cas.."

Castiel looks brokenheartedly at Dean. He rubs his hand gently on Dean's skin before finally pulling the man's back flat on the bed. His heart ached when he sees the blurry green eyes swimming in silent unshed tears.

Castiel frowns deeper. Dean is beautiful and no kind of demon will ever see that. It takes amount of love to see it. Dean needs to see it. So he leans down. Crawls over the man, their bodies parallel, his knees on each side of Dean's hips and then worships him

Lile how Dean deserves it.

He catches Dean's eyes. Makes Dean see the intensity of his love. Presses a gentle kiss on Dean's eyes, his nose, his cheeks. Dean's lips he brushes with his own.

"I love them. They are beautiful," he repeats firmly, confidently.

Dean swallows hard. Castiel crushes his lips on Dean to a bruising kiss, distracting Dean further when he presses their body together, igniting the flame dampened by a cursed memory. But Castiel won't let Dean continue believing his freckles are Taboo. He loves Dean's freckles. Loves everything that is Dean.

So he repeats it when he touches Dean and makes him come. Repeats it when he takes Dean apart. Whispers it when Dean falls asleep in his arms. Knows Dean starts believing when he says it repeatedly on his ears and Dean smiles.

"I love them, okay?"

Dean pecks on his lips and murmurs, "I love everything you love, Cas."

"That means you."

Dean looks him in the eyes softly. Castiel waits, embracing Dean closer like doing so would keep Dean's heart together. Then-

"Mm kay. I love myself too."

Castiel tucks his face on Dean’s neck.

"Fuck, Cas - babe, you cryin?"

It's between that and smiling.

#anon #anon asks #creative anons #destiel ficlet #ficlet destiel #dean x castiel #destiel #casdean #deancas

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darker-soft-starker · 5 years

Note

Can I request a starker no-powers au where Peter watches construction worker Tony from his bedroom window as the older man works across the street ?

His name is Tony.

Peter knows this tidbit because he heard it yelled once or twice as he’d walked by the construction lot, the same dark haired man perking up at the name.

Work had begun on the old house across from Peter a few weeks ago. The weathered colonial used to belong to old Christiansen, a bitter and lonely man who used to yell at Peter as a kid for the frisbees that used to land on his lawn.

When the elderly man had passed no immediate family had come to claim the property, and for three months while his estate was settled it stood empty.

One day, a brother and sister duo, estranged cousins of the late William Christiansen arrived to declare the property as theirs, as so declared in his Will.

A month later the old property was being gutted by heavy machinery. Bricks tumbled into a splintered, woodwork carcass, noisy bobcats scraped and upended the earth until a new landscape was formed.

Once the last of old Christiansen house had been razed, there stood the skeletons of three, tiny townhouses, cluttered close on the same lot.

In the beginning, Peter had only watched the proceedings with a vague sense of interest. He’d mourned the disappearance of the old house and quietly seethed at the likely uptick in traffic three new houses would bring.

It wasn’t until one afternoon, walking home early from his last class of the semester, that he notices the crew of workers wrapping up for the afternoon. The weight of academia off his shoulders and in no hurry, Peter had peered curiously at the workmen and their seamless teamwork.

Just as his fill is fulled Peter’s attention is hooked by a man emerging from the bare bones of one of houses. A sagging bag of concrete is slung over broad shoulders, biceps exposed from the cut of his shirt. Peter doesn’t mean to stare at the sway of the mans hips as he moves, lugging the bag around like it doesn’t weigh a thing.

He must be staring longer than he thinks - the man abbreviates his path, sunglasses sliding down his nose to wink at Peter lasciviously before continuing on his way.

Struck, Peter’s heart had skipped a beat at the attention, mind replaying the way the mans eyes crinkled in the corners, the easy confidence of his smile.

That had started it all, really.

Sat by the bedroom window that overlooks the street, Peter props his hand on his chin and looks out upon the building site in the waning sunlight.

It’s been six days since the guy, now known as Tony, winked at him. It’s been six days, each one spent with his free time by his bedroom window, watching as the man lumbers logs of timber around over his shoulders like they were matchsticks, watching the smooth swivel of his torso as he strikes old drywall with a sledgehammer.

Window cracked upon ever so slightly, the good-natured banter amongst the crew can be heard between the music and the mayhem. Tony quips and cracks witty one-liners and in his colleagues respond in kind.

And so summer begins.

—-

Having an active construction crew in close proximity to your sleeping quarters eliminates the ability to lie in, Peter quickly discovers. He’s heard more AC/DC, Black Sabbath, Cold Chisel and Dr. Hook in the last few weeks than he’s heard in his entire twenty-one years.

Once, Mrs Cunningham from three doors down tried to scold them for the bass laden 9:00am wake-up-call, but Tony’s scathing, insouciant response was to tell her to contact her local council.

She didn’t come back.

May also grumbles at the noise and disruption, but Peter still catches her swaying her hips and mumbling to lyrics on the odd occasion, so he thinks she doesn’t really mind all that much.

Nonetheless, it provides adequate gossip fodder for the old neighbourhood. It hadn’t really changed in the last fifty years, the same families growing up and out and back in again. So, whether it be bemoaning the line of trucks that clutter the street, querying the one woman who works among the crew or her pegasus emblazoned truck - or the inevitable unsightliness of the yet-to-be finished project - it gave everyone something to talk about.

Personally, Peter has never had such incentive so to study until now.

Oh yes, his window allows the perfect sum of sun into his bedroom for poring over textbooks. If anyone asks, he’s being proactive. Just trying to get a head start on next semesters readings.

And maybe when he looks up from his books he has the perfect view of the worksite across his house. There’s nothing shifty about it, just people watching during a study break.

Maybe he procrastinates and watches too long, long enough to hear the entire EP of an obscure band Peter has never heard before. It’s not his fault the crew sometimes use their hammers to amusedly imitate drumsticks or sing vulgar renditions of the tunes on their playlist.

Mostly, Peter finds it endearing how Tony appears to oscillate between the most theatrical or the most withdrawn, depending on the day.

Peter tries not to feel all Rear Window about it. There’s just something weirdly magnetic about the way the man moves so animatedly and is almost never still. Even sat upon the curb for a break, cigarette dangling between his lips, he’s captivating.

There are worse ways to pass the summer, right?

It’s not weird, no matter what Ned says.

“It’s kinda weird,” Ned says, sat beside Peter on one of the wooden chairs on the front porch.

“It is not,” Peter insists, bringing a pretzel to his mouth, snapping it in half with his teeth. He chews thoughtfully, gaze once again drawn across the street to the site. “I’m just making sure that they’re, y’know, doing it properly.”

“What, their jobs?”

“Yeah,” Peter nods, licking the salt off around his lips. “That.”

“With all your experience and expertise in construction?”

Peter grins, offering the bag out to Ned who takes a handful. “Hey, I built some mean Lego back in the day, didn’t I?”

“My mistake,” Ned rolls his eyes, directing his attention back to the noisy site. “So, which one are you hot for?”

“What?”

“Which one has you hot and bothered.”

Peter rolls his eyes, ��I’m not hot for any of them.”

Neds eyes slide over to him in a glare laden with such scathing judgement it makes Peter feel like he’d just sinned in church. He shrinks back in his chair.

“….The one with the black hair,” Peter replies meekly.

With renewed interest Ned peers back over, rising up on his seat a little. The grimace on his face once he settles back down is telling, however unappreciated. Ned’s never shared Peter’s predilection towards older men.

“Gross, but okay. Are you going to ask him out?”

Peter snorts incredulously, shoving a handful of pretzels into his mouth to avoid answering the question.

“Dude,” his friend prods. “Have you even spoken to him?”

“Yes,” Peter answers defensively. “Last week he said ‘hey, watch out’ so I wouldn’t walk into my letterbox, and I said ‘thanks’.”

The stink eye returns. After years of friendship that’s all that is needed for Peter receive the condemning message, properly cowed. They fall back into staring out at the lot, transfixed by the shrill screech of the buzzsaws.

It’s not that Peter is never going to say anything, he just hasn’t figured out how to do it yet. How precisely does one approach an older man to tell him you’d like to bang his fine ass, but would also like to pet his hair and take care of him long-term?

Something about the guy makes a giddiness swell in his chest, reminiscent of his boyhood crushes where he would doodle hearts in his notebooks and find reasons to be in the same room as his infatuation.

“Gotta suck working in this heat though,” Ned says, interrupting his thoughts.

“You’re right,” Peter nods, an idea forming in his brain. “It would.”

Standing up suddenly and startling Ned, Peter rushes back inside the house, into the blissful airconditioning and aims for the kitchen.

Ned finds him there after following his bee-line, torso half emerged in one of the lower cupboards as he rummages through it.

“Peter?”

He studiously ignores his friend in favour of hyperextending his arm into the bowels of the dusty cupboard, crowing with delight when he finally grasps the still-sealed stack of plastic cups.

Quick as a fox, he fills each with water from the sink, placing cubes of ice from the freezer in each. Hands trembling with excitement he places them all on a tray and nods at his friend who only extends him a look of fond exasperation.

Anticipation sets his nerves aflutter, his feet flighty as he carefully balances the tray out the front door, Ned trailing behind him.

His face flushes as he crosses the lawn, hands tightly clutched around the handles as he mentally rehearses an introduction.

I’m Peter Parker, I bring some water - no, wait - I’m Peter, you’re really hot and I’d like you to drink my fluids - definitely not - I am Peter and I have water, you must be thirsty - better.

All his efforts are for naught in the end.

Upon pausing to check the road is clear he catches sight of old Mrs Carrington and her young, pouting grandson carrying perspiring pitchers of lemonade and a tray of sandwiches into the lot. The workers suspend their work to greet them with surprised glee, and Peter feels his own smile dropping off his face.

He looks down at his own pitiful offerings, the ice having all but melted in the cheap, plastic cups, bobbing sadly as they lose form.

“Better luck next time,” Ned says from behind him, patting his back in consolation.

Peter nods. Yeah, next time.

—

Unwilling to be disheartened, Peter tries his hand the following day. A renewed vigour jumpstarts his efforts early, already in the kitchen before the guttural vocals of Thunderstruck start playing.

Ned’s right. He’s an adult now - there are no lockers to leave love notes, no one is going to ask him to the prom. This is what real adults do - they see who they like, they ask them out. Simple.

But Peter has never been a locker love-note kinda guy. He wouldn’t know how to craft a slick pick-up line, doesn’t have the arresting good looks that do the talking for him.

Eager not to be bested by an ailing octogenarian again, Peter uses an entire loaf of bread and a full pound of half-price bacon to create a veritable tower of BLT’s. With their one sharp knife he cuts them into perfect angles, remembering the amputee he’s seen on site he ensures they can be gripped easily with a single hand.

The only two pitchers they own are poured full with freshly-squeezed orange juice, Peter’s wrists working themselves into a strain to drain the fruits dry.

May stumbles in sometime around nine in her sleep clothes, hair wild like a lion’s mane. She fixes him an odd stare as she fumbles for a cup of coffee.

“A bit hungry, Pete?”

“Oh, it’s not for me,” is all he says, shaking his head and adding a plate of apple slices to a tray for good measure. “By the way, we’re out of bacon.”

It must require a lot of energy doing all that work, Peter thinks. It gives him a warm feeling, providing, thinking his efforts might go some way into nourishing someone else. He’s a Parker through-and-through after all.

Even if the guy doesn’t like him that way - it’s fresh, good food. Far better than that delivery truck thing he sometimes sees stationed out the front of the site that sells greasy, microwaved meals. At least the whole crew will have something wholesome and heartfelt, if nothing else.

Stomach squirming pleasantly Peter lifts the two trays, balancing the items precariously as waddles on, opening the front door with a kick his foot.

This is it. He’s finally going to have a reason to say hello, to introduce himself, maybe ask Tony out on a date, if he’s single and willing. Peter smiles to himself as he imagines having the guts to do it in front of the entire crew.

It takes a bit of coordination to get down the porch steps without spilling anything, eyes trained on the ground for any impediments, but he makes it - this is it.

Except, when he looks up from his feet to glance across the street his heart sinks.

Mrs Dawes from four doors down is already there. She’s set up a fucking portable table and brought a feast; sautéed vegetables, breakfast potatoes, scrambled eggs, bacon and toast. All accompanied by fruit salad and a variety of brightly colored smoothies. As appetizers.

Appetizers.

From where he is rooted in spot Peter can hear her say with all honey sweet modesty: Oh, it’s no problem! You are doing such a good job, it’s my absolute pleasure.

Looking at his own offerings Peter can’t help but pout, a feeling of inadequacy sinking down his spine. Briefly, he entertains the idea of coming back for the lunch period instead, but knows by then the apples and lettuce will be an unpleasant brown, the bread soggy.

Shoulders slumping, he sighs and turns on his heel, looking up at his house with weary consideration. His arms are beginning to hurt with the weight of his aborted efforts.

A dark, doleful strain of self-pity wells up inside him before his gaze slides to the house next door. Mrs Martinez has four kids home for the summer and her husband is still on tour - suddenly his heart is twinging for a whole other reason.

Diverting his course, Peter rings their doorbell instead.

He can’t be too disheartened he decides later that afternoon, taking a break from his laptop to stare outside the bedroom window again.

He’ll try again tomorrow.

—

It doesn’t occur to Peter the next day, halfway through icing a luscious three-tiered chocolate cake, that it is Saturday.

Mournfully, he eats the cake himself.

—-

The next attempt at wooing - at providing - comes Monday morning.

This time Peter is prepared. He’d already gone to the store the night before, had bought everything he required with a too-eager swipe of his credit card - and okay, sure, he’s going to have to cover a few extra shifts at the bookstore, but it’s worth it, right?

If all else fails, at least someone will appreciate the food - if not his neighbours then at least he and his aunt will have food for the week.

The Parkers are not particularly renowned for their prowess in the kitchen, if he’s honest. Their friends and family are treated to many an over-seasoned dish or charcoaled toast to have any sort of claim over that domain.

But the one thing they can master is the work of Peters great grandmother, a recipe handed down from generation to generation, perfected over decades - a bastardized version of goulash, brimming with hearty beef chunks bought especially from the butcher, copious potatoes and carrots, noodles, some secret spices. It’s a home-run every time.

The key is to pour your heart and soul into it, his family would always say, that was the most special ingredient. Sure, stock and a generous helping of paprika were crucial, but it was the love you put into it that made the meal a veritable gustatory delight.

Maybe it’s the fond memories that make it anything but a chore, a highlight reel of his childhood playing as he cooks. When the stew is finally done simmering Peter prepares a loaf of fresh bread from the bakery, cutting it into satisfyingly thick slices, adding a side of oil. He has homemade iced tea ready in the fridge, and a bowl of diced watermelon as a palette cleanser.

To round it all off he has chocolate chip cookies made from scratch, still gooey and soft in the centre.

By lunch time he was done. Sweating a little from the steam, Peter transfers the goulash into a big, portable container and beams proudly down at his work.

Everything has his soul infused into it, like he was taught. He has a really good feeling about it this time.

Eager anticipation makes his stomach swoop. He double checks his reflection in the glass cabinets, attempting to tame his wayward curls into something a little less wayward, baring his teeth to make sure nothing is stuck in between them.

Finally, he smooths down the cotton of his tee he gives himself a shake. He’s going to do it this time. Mrs Dawes is at work and Mrs Carrington is at her crochet group. He’s checked, all the schedules line up - it’s his time.

So he grabs the two trays, food precariously towering upon each other in a quivering porcelain pyramid and takes slow, cautious steps towards the front door.

To save the trays from hitting the unlatched door he turns backwards to use the breadth of his back to push the door open, carefully reversing onto the porch.

“I have a delivery for –”

Peter whirls around quickly.

It’s a mistake because the next thing he does is roughly collide with a solid body, the trays under his arms slipping from his grasp. Everything goes crashing to the ground with a shriek of shattering porcelain and the sad gurgling of all the upended liquid.

“Shit, kid, I’m sorry,” the mailman says, but Peter doesn’t hear him, staring in abject horror at the food splattered all over the porch.

None of it salvageable.

He spent eighty dollars and four hours on this. He poured his heart into this. He was going to share this, he was gonna -

“It’s not meant to be,” he whispers to himself, slowly lowering himself into a squat, holding his hands out uselessly.

“Kid?”

Peter looks up in sorrow at the greying FedEx worker. “It’s not meant to be,” he repeats.

“Um… I just need you to sign for this.”

Peter wordlessly takes the small parcel and signs the E-POD, still staring at the perverse Jackson Pollock impression all over the woodwork. The parcel isn’t even for him.

Once the mailman has left and the fast-food truck has pulled up to the construction site with a giddy toot of it’s horn, Peter has accepted it.

It’s just not meant to be.

—

“You taking up bird watching or something?” May asks from where she is leant against his doorway three days later.

Peter shakes his head, abandoning his forlorn gaze to give his attention to her.

“Or something. What’s up?”

May holds up a stack of envelopes and smiles wryly. “We keep getting Mrs Carringtons mail.”

“Still?”

“Yeah. I can’t tell if it’s her mistake or the mailman though.”

“Probably the mailman,” Peter mutters.

She shrugs. “In any case, I gotta get ready for work. Would you be able to take these over to her?”

“Sure,” Peter says, stretching as he stands, taking the stack from her hands.

She sniffs him subtly. “It will do you good to get out of this room. It smells in here.”

Taking his aunt’s comments to heart he freshens up in the bathroom first, brushing the grime off his teeth and fixing his appearance, making himself feel somewhat presentable.

Cooped up indoors all day didn’t prepare him for how exceptionally balmy the weather was outside, sweat already forming at his hairline by the time he crosses the road. He studiously ignores the urge to look over at the construction site as he makes his way to his neighbor, however conditioned he is to do so at the Black Sabbath riffs playing through the air.

Mrs Carrington greets him with a smile when he knocks and invites him inside. She has her frail fingers circled around his wrist before he can begin to decline the offer, pulling him in, already talking a mile a minute.

Inside, it smells overwhelmingly like potpourri and her floral perfume.

“Thank you for bringing these over,” she says, leading him to the kitchen. “I don’t know why it keeps happening. I’m sorry for the trouble.”

“It’s no problem, Mrs C,” Peter assures, setting the mail on the counter.

She dodders past him to grab a cling-wrapped plate, holding it out to him with trembling hands, her gait noticeably uneven.

“Would you do me another favor?” She implores earnestly, pressing the plate into his hands. “Would you take these to those hard working folks next door, please? I’d go myself, but my hip…”

Clutching the plate, he looks through the layers of transparent cling-wrap to spot a dozen or so home-baked lemon slices.

His heartbeat accelerates, thinking that he’s finally going to talk to get a chance. But of all the moments he’d imagined, it wasn’t here and now, clutching an elderly lady’s sickly sweet lemon treats arranged on a floral plate.

When he looks back up to see her eager expression he knows he can’t turn her down.

“Yeah, sure thing, Mrs C - can I help with anything else?”

She squeezes the outside of his hands gratefully. “You’re a good boy, just this is fine. You help yourself to one too, okay?”

“Sure.”

Despite Peter’s protests, she walks him to her door, patting his back gratefully as he departs. He waves her off with his free hand, pretending like his nerves doesn’t have his stomach doing somersaults.

Pulse pounding, he enters through a gap in the construction site fencing, immediately drawn to the dark haired man that caught his attention all those weeks ago.

A few of the others notice his approach and tell him to watch his step, but Peter can’t hear them over the booming echo of his heart in his ears.

Tony straightens from where he’d been penciling in marks on a long slat of timber, crossing his arms over his chest as Peter nears. The movement shows off the impressive swell of his biceps and for a moment makes him forget why he’s there.

“Umm, hi,” Peter says.

Tony slides his sunglasses upon his crown to look at Peter, the full attention of his big, brown eyes making Peter’s mouth go dry and his palms sweat.

The man smiles, slow and appreciatively, stance loosening when Peter smiles back.

“Hi yourself,” Tony responds, placing his hands on his hips. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“P-Peter. Parker. I’m… Peter Parker.”

The mans grin at his inelegant introduction has Peter’s face flaming, his hands shaking.

“Nice to finally meet you, Peter Parker. I’ve seen you around, but you never come and say hello like the rest of your neighbors.”

“You have?”

Tony nods, ambling closer. “I didn’t know if I should be offended or not.”

“Oh, I –”

“I forgive you, in case that was an apology,” Tony interrupts. “So, what do we owe this pleasure?”

Heartfelt explanations rise and are arrested in his throat, recalling the humiliating discomfort of all his failed attempts at courting. Instead, he extends the plate to Tony, holding it out like a sacrificial offering.

Tony accepts it, looking dubiously down at the garrish floral design before looking back at Peter.

“You make these yourself, doll?”

Stomach squirming at the attention, Peter shakes his head. “No, uh… my neighbour –”

“Oh thank god,” Tony says, indelicately dropping the plate on the nearby worktable. “Everyone in this neighbourhood is crazy nice or whatever - I have never been more well fed in my life –“

“Don’t lie,” one of the workers yells from behind them. “I’ve seen your high school photos.”

“Hey fuck you, Barnes,” Tony calls back, shaking his head. “Anyway, baby fat aside, I didn’t want to break your heart when I say I’m definitely more of a beef and potatoes kind of guy.”

“You are?” Peter perks up. “Me too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I make a mean goulash. It’s really good.”

“That so?” Tony scratches his beard, stepping closer. “I do like goulash.”

Steeling his nerves Peter inches forward, he can smell the sweat and musk from the man and the pursuing undertones of nicotine and cologne.

“Maybe I could make it for you sometime.”

“Like on a date?” Tony asks, dipping his chin to catch Peters eyes.

Heat floods his insides when he nods. “Yeah…you could come over? I’ll cook for you.”

Tony’s fingers comes up to toy with the cigarette tucked behind his ear, nestled amongst the black hair. He twirls it deftly between two calloused fingers, a crooked smile illuminating his features as he drinks Peter in.

“I’d like that a lot, Peter Parker.”

“That’s good. I mean - y’now, me too.”

The smirk Tony sends him is utterly devilish, corrupting Peter in the best of ways.

“Wish you’d come by and asked sooner, darling. Woulda given me more time to appreciate your pretty face.”

Cocking his head, Peters mouth stretches into a grin.

“Guess it was never the right time.”

—-

Two days later Tony knocks on his door donned in form-fitting dark denim and a button-down shirt. His usually wild hair is neatly combed back and arranged into a quaint quiff.

A smile breaks out on Peters face when notices the bouquet of red roses held in one of Tony’s hands, a box of expensive chocolates occupying in the other.

“Not the most original,” Tony concedes, kissing Peter on the cheek when he lets him in, passing the gifts over. “But it’s still heartfelt, I assure you.”

Tony looks at him with genuine fondness that Peter doesn’t have to taste to know it’s true. Peter leans in to place a chaste, tentative kiss on the corner of the mans mouth.

“It’s perfect.”

#starker #starker fic #fluff #tw: food #reluctantly loving thy neighbour #construction worker tony

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fourletterworld · 3 years

Text

Chapter 1 - Is this Real? Was a Big Brother

I had a dream where I was laying on my back in a monorail, watching telephone poles pass by through the windows as I stared at distant clouds. I can't remember what lead to this scenario, but I soon heard Cody's voice speaking to me from no particular location. It was as gentle and near as ordinary conversation, yet I never saw his face.

"Dust?" he called out, questioning, as though this connection was as strange to him as it was to me.

I remember calling back excitedly; the incredible apathy I had been feeling during this point in time evaporated. I felt pure like I was a kid, as I immediately entered into a long conversation with him, asking him things he couldn't explain.

"What do things look like where you are?" I'd asked, and I could tell he had a semblance of an answer, but I imagined he didn't want to invalidate anything with words. Cody often wouldn't explain something for fear of not doing it justice. I fear putting our conversation into true dialogue for the same reason.

I remember asking if he was okay, which he said he was with certainty and positivity. The majority of our conversation faded in the mist where most of my dreams fall behind, but I recall clearly that his voice was light like it had never been in life. It had an intoxicated enthusiasm, but with absolute clarity of emotion and speech. It felt, to me, like he'd become the man he was supposed to be. The man he would have been had the pangs of chemical torture never got such a grip on his brain.

Cody had mental problems throughout his whole life. When he was young his ears would burn red hot and he would go into hysterical fits of laughter that would bleed into crying. He had a lot of allergic reactions that affected him emotionally, and he always had a hard time focusing and sitting still. When we were kids, I recall many times sitting next to him in restaurants, where he would get agitated toward the end of the meal. He'd lay back on a booth and start bicycle kicking me. The age gap made it unfair for me to fight back, and so I resorted to needling him: like asking him if other kids in his school looked like old women or if it was only him. He'd try to mask a grin with an evil expression, and then sit upright to throw body punches. I'd laugh and try to grab his wrists, while my Mom tried to yell at us from across the table. If my Dad was ever there, he'd make the ordeal into a scene which would embarrass my mom, scare the shit out of Cody and I, and promptly put a stop to the nonsense.

The psychological abuse I retaliated with was just as unfair as hitting back, but in 2019 before Cody passed we talked about this over phone. Cody told me I was always such a bastard growing up, but he always thought the shit I said was funny, and he attributed this to our unified sense of humor.

I didn't usually make fun of him though. I was really sympathetic most of the time, and he knew he could come to me when he was having problems. I think about one time in particular. Cody was eleven years old and he knocked on my bedroom door. When I let him in he was shaken like he wanted to cry and I was immediately alarmed.

“What’s wrong Codes? Are you okay?” I thought maybe he’d gotten hurt, but what he told me dazed me momentarily and took me a second to grasp.

He said he was laying on his back and started thinking about what life is. He was stricken with rudimentary existential questions, like why are we here, and what is life, and is life even real? When I say these are rudimentary questions, I don't mean at all that the experience of these questions are uncomplicated... They are vast and overwhelming to deal with if you are emotionally invested and living them, and Jesus Christ, especially if you are eleven years old and afraid of things as simple as being kidnapped.

Though, I didn’t understand that at the time. I was having trouble understanding how something theoretical could bring you to tears. I could wrap my head around what he was telling me easy enough, but it was the difference between someone explaining free falling from an airplane or actually being the person that jumps from the hatch. I think a lot of people who discuss things philosophically forget that understanding the premise of something existential isn't the same as living through it, and when Cody was explaining this to me, I was still years from experiencing anything similar myself, and still, to a lesser degree than I believe he had.

I listened to what he told me, and amidst my concern, I kept thinking about what a special brain he had. This was before he started experimenting with drugs, so all of his thoughts were uninfluenced in that way. I mean, I can't stress it enough, the kid was eleven. I don’t think I had an unprovoked thought until I was in my twenties. I still can't decide if whatever unlocks these intense ideas about the human condition comes from the imagination or some kind of fucked up rationale... The same kind of rationale that comes to the conclusion to put a gun to your head to erase all the anguish.

It is sick to say, but I imagined him dying prematurely many times before he did. He was tremendously encumbered by life, but rather than to become sluggish and uninspired, Cody was restless, which I correctly considered to be a terrifying combination.

After high school, I had moved away to Oregon for less than two years, in an effort to continue a relationship that hadn't been working. During this time Cody began to drink and smoke pot regularly. We talked on the phone often, and he subtly told me what he was getting up to, and I felt worried about him. I was selfishly torn between being his friend and being a good older brother. I was also selfishly torn between being a hypocrite and being a good older brother.

One day, my friend went to his then girlfriend's mom's house, who had a younger sister Cody was friends with. Fourteen-year-old Cody was passed out on the front lawn in the middle of the day next to patch of his vomit. My friend called me and warned me about this situation, and it was at this point I told my Mom. Neither she nor I controlled the situation at all.

Oddly enough, this friend that discovered him on the lawn was also the same friend that discovered his body on the dirt road after he had overdosed. He was called to the scene as an EMT, on a day which he was randomly working in the area when he shouldn't have been. This coincidence is maddening to me, as though God or the Universe or whatever is saying that it meant to happen... But usually when you think of things meaning to happen, the unifying idea is supposed to bring you peace, but to me, it was a slap in my face that I deserve. To me, it was only meant to be because I didn't stop this from going off the tracks when I was warned first. It's a strange and fucked up parallel I can't get out of my head. Then sometimes I think, is any of this even real or am I drawing spiteful lines between a meaningless constellation?

When my Mom and I were in the hospital, we discussed his addiction problems at length to a doctor as we sat by Cody's bed. The Doctor then asked, knowing the answer, "You never put him into a rehabilitation program?" He looked at me. His eyes and tone brimmed with sympathy, but his question was built without any emotional integrity. Though, being a guilty human being, I did get casted with shame, but additionally swelled with momentary rage at the doctor’s useless blame. I was very close to cruelly criticizing the doctor, and had I been a person that indulged in self-gratifying drama, I would have. I instead didn't answer the question, but my Mom did, and it hurt her, because the answer was, of course, no.

I then apologetically kissed his forehead. I remembered smelling his oily hair, and I then cried onto his rough hand, holding it and hoping it would miraculously squeeze mine back, but of course it never did. I'm still there each day in disbelief. I've personally experienced this and it still feels like someone had to explain it to me.

So, I'm lying on my back in the monorail in my dream, and I look up and say into the nothing, "Cody I want to hug you", and all he could do was say "I love you Dust".

So I said, "Cody, how do I know and of this is real?" and he replied with something meaningless, and I woke up.

#nonfiction #confessional #writers #writing #grief #griefjourney #brothers #brother

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spyvstailor · 4 years

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GRAVEYARD DIRT & SALT

CHAPTER FIVE: BENNY

“South Carolina abouts they have this critter called a 'Boo Hag', said to be a skinless sort of vampire and they like to ride you to death and steal your breath. If they like you, they keep you alive, sucking your air, sustaining themselves. But if they don't, if you struggle or make them angry, they skin you and wear your skin. Just walk around like they wear pants or such. But they can't stay riding you forever, they gotta be home and in their skin before sunrise or they become trapped forever without skin.”

Please support me, I’m still out of work because of COVID, so anything you can toss my way can really help. I’m going to need to feed my kitties soon! Reblog this if you can’t donate to please support a nearly starving author!

Read the newest chapter here below the cut if you want, since ko-fi can be unreliable!

Chapter Five: Benny

When everything went to hell, Benny had been at the top.

Maybe he still was? He had no idea how Vegas handled the swarms of the dead.

Probably no better than Atlanta.

God, what a fucking hole in the ground to be caught undead in. Why had he even agreed to come here to the middle of Satan's nutsack to make a deal?

By the time he waded through the packed streets, filled with fleeing idiots, days had passed and the wave of infection had spread.

When he made it to the edge of the city, it was almost completely overrun.

And his private helicopter, that last hope he had of leaving Georgia, was useless, no pilot. So, he was wading his way through the land of good ol' boys and peaches, heading home.

Because what else did he do? Just stay stuck in Georgia with the undead on his ass? Forever? The idea seemed to tickle him. It was divine retribution for all his sins. This was hell. He was in hell. Well, thanks but no thanks. He'd take his chances back in Vegas with his well-stocked warehouse and his penthouse in The Golden Rose.

God, he missed The Golden Rose. Melody's pretty little voice chirping 'Hello, welcome to The Golden Rose', every time he passed through the lobby, or the weird night gamblers bellying up at the bar around two in the morning, sipping on complimentary Flash-bang's, the signature drink created by Bruce behind the bar. Sure he had more employees than Melody and Bruce, the others, the late-night workers who always were just a little bit off, but friendly enough. The kids fresh out of school, old enough to work at the casino, who tried too hard to impress the boss. Sven in the kitchen, who never seemed to leave, always yelling at him for coming down and making those 'nasty little sandwiches' as he called them, the open-faced ones made with peanut butter and sliced bananas on plain white bread, the sandwiches Valerie had gotten him hooked on when they were first dating. They were her favourite midnight snack and they had fast become Benny's too.

Valerie.

Ten years. Holy fuck had it been ten years?

Plucking at a stretchy beaded bracelet he wore, Benny snapped it hard and shook off his thoughts of Valerie. They didn't do him any good in this new society.

From where he sat. Perched on the railing of the bell tower, looking down across a darkened Georgia, barely peeking over treetops that surrounded the convent, Benny exhaled.

Annie had given him the stink-eye at their new spot, full of bird shit and leaves and any kind of crap that the winds blew into the little tower, but Benny had sat her down gently onto the bearskin rug and the sleeping bag on top of it and promised her they would clean it up in the morning.

He didn't tell her what he was thinking, he didn't tell a lot of people what he thought, no one wanted to hear his bullshit. His old man used to say 'if I want your opinion, I'll beat it out of you' and he meant it.

The truth was, the trouble on the wall, the nun dying, had reminded him how dangerous it was. He had become too soft and spoiled lately, the dead were thinning out and he had forgotten what it was like when the outbreak first happened when it was really bad.

They were safer in the tower, should anything happen to the gate, there was a heavy church door to open and a narrow ladder to climb before anything could get at them.

And, sitting on the trapdoor that led to the ladder, Benny knew Annie was safer here than anywhere else.

It had been a long, long time since anyone had relied on Benny and he took his job seriously. Nothing would happen to Annie as long as he was alive and kicking.

During his flight from Atlanta, he had somehow wound up arm in arm with Annie and her mother Laila. They had sort of run across each other and just kept running in the same direction.

Benny had immediately liked Laila, she was tough as hell and he had to admire that about her. Not that he knew much about her or the kid, they weren't real big on talking and he also had to admit he liked it that way.

But Laila had his back and he had hers and they made a good team, but when she went out one morning to scrounge for breakfast and never came back he didn't think for a second the dead had gotten her. He knew her, she was a survivor.

Something else happened.

So he stuck around the area, hoping he'd find something which would let him know where Laila had gotten off too. And somehow, sticking around the small town, he wound up running into that marine and that Grayson kid, and when the kid started talking about men taking his sister, Benny started thinking. He wasn't a gambler by nature, despite him living in a casino in Las Vegas, but he would bet everything he had that when they found these men, he would find Laila.

And Jesus, if he didn't also kind of like that marine.

Not that he'd ever admitted that out loud. Admitting you liked someone, admitting you wanted to be someone's – what? Drinking buddy? At his age? Embarrassing.

But he liked him just fine. The Cajun was a tall puppy dog, but there was something about his optimism that balanced Benny's nihilism nicely.

On the wall below, three nuns kept vigil over Sister Mary Patrick's body. They couldn't retrieve her until morning, so they kept a quiet, mindful watch.

And just like those nuns, Benny would keep a silent watch over Annie all night long, he would sleep when she was old enough to take care of herself.

Sitting by the nuns' water pump in their convent yard the next morning, he watched Annie as she brushed her teeth, brushing his own with the travel toothbrush he kept in his jacket pocket. He liked to travel as light as possible, gun, bullets, knife, toothbrush and tube of toothpaste, and while he'd never admitted it, reading glasses for emergency reading, because fuck if he wasn't getting old.

He noticed the marine traveled with a goddamn apartment on his back and that was just fine for him. Marines were trained for distance and roughing it, they were pack mules. And just as dumb.

He needed more bullets for his tidy little Springfield, come to think of it.

“She's a good kid,” someone said from his left. It was a male voice and not Grayson's.

Benny ignored the marine for a moment, not wanting to chat about the fucking weather or some bullshit, spitting his toothpaste foam into a bucket of water to be dumped over the wall with the rest of the handwashing and face washing water.

There was a nun's body being buried out behind the church right now and he didn't feel like jibber-jabbing.

“We did our best last night,” the Lieutenant said, easing down beside him on one of the folding chairs the nuns had set up around their water source. For what? Water pump gossip? Maybe.

“Dead nun though,” Benny replied, sipping at some water to rinse his mouth.

The marine was quiet beside him, gazing out across the dewy lawns.

“I didn't mean to put the squeeze to you,” he began. “Yesterday in the church. I know you don't like talking about yourself.”

“Sure you did,” Benny returned.

Withdrawing for a moment to regroup, the marine went on, “fine. I did a little, but...it's hard trusting people nowadays, yeah?”

“Hard to trust people before this bullshit,” Benny shot back.

“Fair.”

There was a tension to the marine that told Benny he was gearing up for something, angling to reach for something during the entire conversation.

“You got something to say, don't pussyfoot,” he said calmly.

“Not that I don't believe you, but I want a reassurance that you're not trying to fuck us on this deal with the copter,” the marine said.

Benny nodded. “Yeah, I thought you'd think that. I wouldn't blame you. But it's real.”

“Well, we go in smart then,” the man stated.

“We go in smart,” Benny agreed, stretching out his legs and resting them on another chair across from him.

Beside him the marine remained seated, quiet in the growing daylight.

“We done?” Benny inquired.

“You ever hear about the boo hags?”

“The what?”

“And the moral of this story is...?” Benny prompted.

The Lieutenant shrugged, folding his arms. “Nothing really, I just think about the Boo Hags sometimes.”

“My granny used to tell me about this guy she knew from Corpus Christi, used to hate wearing pants. He wasn't crazy or anything, just said they were too hot and itchy, so he'd walk around in his boxer shorts everywhere.”

Around them, the nuns went about their morning routine, chores, and preparing for their morning mass after burying their fellow nun.

“Well,” Benny said. “Maybe he was a little crazy, I guess.”

Annie came to him and climbed into his lap, watching the activity around them quietly. It was a strange sort of calm to the morning, despite the funeral. It felt like the soft morning's Benny had at his grandparents, warms sunlight, peace, and quiet before the hectic activity of the day. It brought him back home to a home he mourned every single day of his life, a home he had only fleetingly as a boy before it was replaced with the boozy smelling mornings of his parents home.

“Mornings like this feel like my Mamere getting ready for church,” the Lieutenant said. “She used to sing when she was getting ready in the mornings, and she'd sing,

There's a land that is fairer than day,

and by faith we can see it afar;

for the Father waits over the way

to prepare us a dwelling place there.”

In his lap Annie rest her head against Benny's chest, listening to the marine as he sang in a fine, deep baritone. Benny knew the song well, it was his grandmother's favourite. When she finally came and took him home, to his real home with her and his grandfather, away from the chaos of his mother and father's lives.

They were the only people who ever really loved him.

The hymn brought back memories of Sunday mornings dressing for church, of Sunday evenings with the smell of roast chicken and his granny's baked apples, sweetened with brown sugar, butter, and cinnamon, sticky and warm.

He didn't live with them long. They were hit by a drunk driver and killed two years after he moved in with them. Benny went back to the chaos and Edna and Merle were buried in Oak Grove.

At the sound of the gentle singing, a few nearby nuns gathered in closer, curious, and quiet. Raised Baptist by his grandparents at least, Benny joined in with the marine, singing only very, very faintly, as though he were doing it for his granny and no one else. He would sing in a voice only barely above a whisper.

It was Annie who joined in the singing, almost eager and happy to do something that wasn't fighting and surviving.

In the sweet by and by,

we shall meet on that beautiful shore.

In the sweet by and by,

we shall meet on that beautiful shore.

We shall sing on that beautiful shore

the melodious songs of the blessed;

and our spirits shall sorrow no more,

not a sigh for the blessing of rest.

In the sweet by and by,

we shall meet on that beautiful shore.

In the sweet by and by,

we shall meet on that beautiful shore.

To our bountiful Father above

we will offer our tribute of praise

for the glorious gift of his love

and the blessings that hallow our days.

“My granny used to sing that one too,” Benny finally admitted, in the stark silence at the end of the song. “Yours lived with you?” He asked.

The Lieutenant nodded. “Yeah, my grandparents raised me.”

“Where were your parents?” Benny asked.

“Due to circumstances beyond my control, nowhere in sight,” the Lieutenant replied, a grin in his voice. “My ma was hospitalized most of my young life,” he added in a more serious tone. “The man who impregnated her was...not important.”

“Pump and dump?”

“Of sorts, not really given permission for it though,” the Cajun finished tentatively.

Benny felt his blood chill a little. “I get you.” He said, not wanting the marine to have to open up old wounds.

“You?”

“I lived with my grandparents for a while, yeah. My parents were...selfish pricks, they lived in Galveston.”

“I get you,” the marine repeated his own words. Easing back in his chair, the Cajun asked, “where you from? Where'd you grow up? You said you lived in Forth Worth?”

“My grandparents lived in Fort Worth, so I guess I moved between there and Galveston mostly.”

“What happened to the twang? You lose it or hate it?” The Lieutenant inquired.

Benny chuckled. “I haven't lived there for years.”

“Can never really shake the twang though, yeah?” The Lieutenant teased.

“I guess not. You? I know Cajun when I hear it, but where you from in Louisiana?”

“Eunice.”

“Eunice? That's...down south, isn't it? Way down the bayou,” he mocked the Lieutenant's accent, prompting the marine to laugh.

“Yeah, yeah it is.”

“Annie,” he turned to the kid in his lap. “Why don't you head inside the infirmary, okay? I'll be right there to get you set up for the day.”

The girl slipped down to the ground and nodded, heading obediently for the building where Grayson was already getting his shit together.

Sullen, a little pissed that he was forced to face things he had buried long ago in Texas, Benny remained quiet for a good long time. Long enough that eventually the anger dispersed.

Benny sat still and silent so long that eventually, it was just him and the Cajun, who remained, squatted down on his haunches, resting.

“We're running on a very short timeline,” Benny finally said to the man.

The marine nodded. “Yep.”

“That girl, if she is still alive, won't be so young and vibrant if she's with these men, I can tell you that right now. Feel like with no law, men will become animals, women will become prey.”

“What's going on in that tiny bird brain of yours?” The Cajun asked.

“You need to stay here and train up some of these damned nuns, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Think you could trust me?” Benny asked suddenly, turning away from the middle nothing he was staring at and pining the Cajun with a look.

For a good long while the marine eyed him back, blue-grey eyes hard and scrutinizing. At rest the man's face was regal, but villainous, betraying his genuine kindness, at rest his face was the face of a man you didn't want to fuck with.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“You're going to have to know so,” Benny urged.

“Alright, I know I can trust you.”

“It might be riskier, but time is important, isn't it?”

“What's your plan, fancy man?”

“When I was poking around the church earlier, I spied some priest shit, a get up for a proper man of the Lord. Might give me a pretty good shield, might get me close enough to those men if I can find them, to get inside their group.”

“Espionage?”

“Whoa, slow down there Bayou-bred, that's a big word for you.”

The two men hushed up as Grayson began to head over towards them.

“Fuck off, Grayson!” Benny shouted.

“Fuck you, assclown!” Grayson snarled back, veering off in anger towards the wall and the gate.

“That kid is going to murder you in your sleep some night, paon.” The Lieutenant mused.

“Ah well, he's a good kid, needs toughening up. Mouthy little fuck though.”

The two men settled a little again, their ruffled feathers smoothing out in the tranquility that followed the exchange between Benny and Grayson.

“You could get yourself killed ducking in on a group like a priest. If they find out you're not or if they happen to find out what you're up to.”

“I know,” Benny replied. “But I'm good at it.”

“Good at it?” The Lieutenant asked.

Benny smiled. “Getting into places I shouldn't be as someone I'm not.”

The Cajun was quiet, before sighing. “Okay. Cut the shit, what the fuck are you?”

“I'm goddamned good at what I do. You just worry about these nuns. When I head out, you need to do one thing for me. You just need to trust that whatever happens once I leave this convent, I'm not going to fuck you over. Annie will stay here, she'll be my guarantee that I won't let anything happen.”

“Okay.”

“You tell anyone you need that I ran off in the night, just not Annie. You tell her I'll be back. You need to do this for me. Can you do this?”

“I don't like handing the reins over, but...you're right. Time is important and these nuns can't be left alone. Splitting up might be the best bet for everyone. I'll play my part.”

“Pact?” Benny offered, holding out his hand. He knew it was childish, but he wanted God (if there be any) to witness his honesty. For once in his goddamned life of other names, other faces, he wanted some higher power to see his bluffing ass telling a truth.

The Lieutenant leaned back a little, before saying, “brothers. It makes you blood. You don't cross blood.”

“Brothers,” Benny swore, the two men shaking hands firmly.

Releasing hands, the two men sat back a little, trying to look like two men just sharing a conversation, as Mena poked her head out of the convent cloister and started their way.

“We meet up tonight, dead of night when everyone is asleep, in the back room of the church,” Benny said softly, hurrying before Mena could join them.

The Lieutenant nodded.

“Gentlemen,” Mena greeted in the high toned, pretty magnolia blossom voice of hers. Pure sugar, pure south. “Good morning.”

“Why Miss Mena, you're as pretty as a bluebell this morning,” Benny teased, mocking her southern accent.

She offered him a stern, but sparkling warning look, the corners of her mouth lifted a little like a cat. She looked like she was grateful for the teasing distraction, grateful because otherwise, it was pure mourning and fear that remained should she not have anything to distract her from it. “You may mock me all you want, Mr. Malone, but I lost one of my flock last night and I'm not in the mood. Now, we've buried the poor woman, and we were promised training. The sooner the better, I think.”

“Are you thinking of staying? You and Annie are very welcome to.”

They had gotten the nuns started with whatever makeshift weapons they could find and while the Lieutenant gave them a rifle handling and maintenance crash course, Mena had once more sidled up beside Benny as he stood in the shadows of the eastern side of the church, watching the chaos, while idly thumbing through a small bible he had found in the church.

“You're thinking of the wrong man,” he replied, motioning with his head at the marine. “He's probably yours for life though.”

She smiled. “We love having you here, Mr. Malone. All of you.” She hesitated, before adding, “I sort of forgot how boring convent life can be until you all arrived to shake things up. Granted, we suffered a loss, but...I think we're stronger with you and the Lieutenant and even Annie and Grayson. We're no longer cloistered, we're a community center, a...a home.”

He opened his mouth about to say something, before considering it, finally he relented. “I know a nun's faith is sacred to her, but...why did you become a nun? You seem...unhappy with your lot.”

“I wouldn't say unhappy,” she replied. “I'm ungrateful in a small way. I became a nun to help people. Work missions and aid the poor and those most unfortunate. I suppose, I just...never felt like I was helping much here. Feel sort of immured behind these walls.”

“Immured?”

Before Mena could answer his question, the Lieutenant joined them, easing against the church for a rest in the shade.

“So?” Benny asked him.

“Well, they don't like the idea of hitting anyone, seem hesitant, but I think when push comes to shove they know how to do it.”

Scoffing, Benny turned to Mena. “What about you, debutante? Wanna fight with the others?”

Mena laughed. “I'm afraid I don't care much for fighting.”

“You need to learn how,” he went on.

“I know how to throw a punch, Mr. Malone,” Mena argued gently.

Inhaling calmly, Benny scooped the nun up easily in one move and had her stomach perched on his shoulder as she dangled over it in shock, her legs and knees digging into his chest in shock.

“So you're telling me,” Benny began as Mena struggled to be put down, trying to maintain her dignity while being treated like a sack of flour, “you know how to prevent being carted off by someone like this?”

“Mr. Malone, please?!” Mena shouted, panicked. Her ever calm facade breaking into a sort of girlish embarrassment. Shrill and just a little tremulous.

“Don't break the nun,” the Lieutenant warned with a small grin.

Sensing the rest of the nuns' attention and maybe wanting to cheer them up just a little with a distraction from the death of Sister Mary Patrick, Benny perked a little more, hefting the woman on his shoulder as she squirmed.

“Are you kidding me?” He demanded loudly. “I'm two steps away from giving her a noogie. This is fun. I'm going to hold her down and snicker-snag on her if she can't break away.”

“Don't you dare! Put me down!” Mena shouted as the rest of the nuns began to notice the noise and started wandering over towards them curiously.

“Look at how small she is,” Benny laughed. “I could toss her over the wall into a pile of leaves like a little mouse. Hey, give me a hand, I want to try playing keep-away with this shrimp.”

“Are you seriously bullying me right now, Mr. Malone?” Mena demanded, still draped over his shoulder, her veil fluttering to the ground, all dignity lost. “Lieutenant, please?”

“I can't step into another man's training ring,” the Lieutenant lied. “It's not courteous.”

“Courteous?!” The nun hollered.

“Think if I put her down and follow her she'll lead me to her pot of gold?” Benny asked, spinning with the nun.

A stray knee from the poor nun hit Benny in the mouth and he reeled back a little, blood drawn.

“Alright, play time's over, kids,” the Lieutenant stepped in, moving to take Mena from Benny.

As soon as the Cajun set Mena right again, kneeling to get her veil for her, she was puffing up like a little ruffed grouse and twirling around to poke at Benny in the chest.

He was too distracted by the taste of blood on his lip to notice.

Behind them the nuns that had gathered were all trying to conceal their amusement at the scene, a few of them giggling into their veils, some turning their soft laughter into mild coughs.

“Serves you right,” Mena stated. “The indignity!”

Benny, idly licking at his torn lip, grinned and held his hands up. “Hey, okay. Put the guns away, shrimp, you win.”

“Blood has been drawn, no harm done,” the Lieutenant said. At Mena's sharp look, he amended that statement to a soft, “maybe?”

“I am an Abbess,” Mena snarled, whirling on Benny again, her little finger pointed at him like a rifle. “I deserve a modicum of respect.”

“A what?” Benny asked, pocketing his hands. “Hey, don't get mad, country mouse, you said you could handle yourself, and boy, did you sure prove me wrong.”

“I,” Mena began, a little louder than her normal soft-spoken Southern belle coo. She stopped short and seemed to inhale, calming herself. “I...will not let you goad me into a fight, just to prove myself capable, Mr. Malone.”

“One punch,” he pushed. “Just one solid punch and I'll leave you alone.”

Mena was quiet, still trying to smooth her habit and veil back into place after her manhandling.

“It might give you back a bit of that lost dignity,” Benny added in a whisper, leaning towards her.

“Sock him, Mother!” One of the older nuns shouted.

“And just like that the teachings of peace and forgiveness of Christ have been forgotten,” Mena murmured.

“If you punch him then he'll stop being a bully,” another nun suggested.

“I don't think Sister Mary Patrick would approve of this,” another nun pointed out.

“Like it nothing, she'd love to see this cheeky man popped in his cheeky face,” yet another nun added.

“I will not,” Mena declared. “We are not animals and I refuse to hit a man without due cause.”

“He just picked you up like you were a duffle bag, just hit him in his pretty face and get it all over with,” Sister Mary Agnes, one of the few nuns Benny could tell apart suggested. “I would,” she added, before crossing herself quickly in a form of silent absolution.

“Aw,” Benny gushed. “She thinks I'm pretty. Come on, Abbess, just give me one solid punch and prove yourself capable. Come on,” he went on, “I know there's an animal concealed under those robes of yours, let the lioness out.”

“Lieutenant?” Mena asked.

The tall man sort of took a thoughtful step back on one foot and considered it quietly, before he answered with a simple, “hit him.”

Mena was quiet, sizing up Benny for a bit.

He could see her small hands curling into fists at her side and tightened his jaw to take the hit.

Instead, Mena's hands relaxed and she shook her head, turning to Annie who was watching.

“We don't hit people who don't deserve it,” she explained to the child. “A lady must always take the high road.”

“As short as she is, the high road would be the best option,” Benny murmured.

Mena leveled her chin almost indignantly, still looking at Annie.

“Good for you, Mother,” Mary Elizabeth said. “Remember Matthew 5:39. But I say to you, do not resist an evil person; but whoever slaps you on your right cheek, turn the other to him also.”

“If he keeps taunting her I'll show him both cheeks,” one of the older nuns grumbled.

Benny laughed to himself. He didn't know much about each individual nun yet, but he knew he liked the older nun with just that one sentence.

“We are not a boxing club,” Mena went on. “Though we will train to defend ourselves, senseless violence is never the right path. Despite how much a man may want to be hit by a lady.”

“It's always been my dream,” Benny added playfully.

“I'm gonna hit him for you,” the Lieutenant broke in.

Laughing, Benny backed away, hands up. “Okay, I wanted to get hit, not knocked out today.”

This seemed to break up the gathering, nuns moving off, heading back to their training.

Mena, still a little fired up, remained for a moment.

“No hard feelings, Thumbelina,” Benny said. “I just wanted to see your form.”

“I'm sure you felt enough of my form while I was riding high on your shoulder,” she returned a little bitterly, before walking off.

Benny sidled up beside the Lieutenant, still grinning. “She was real mad.”

“Yeah.”

“Has kind of a temper.”

“Yeah.”

“I kind of liked it.”

“Easy now.”

“Don't tell me you've never thought of picking her up,” Benny went on. “She's so fucking small.”

The Lieutenant smiled. “I mean, I could.”

“Hell yeah, you could. You could pick me up, big guy.” As they walked off, heading for the infirmary, Annie following behind, the fancy man added, “but don't ever fucking try, because I will lay you out.”

Chuckling, the Lieutenant opened the infirmary door for the shorter man and said, “you could never, little fancy man.”

Inside the infirmary Grayson sat on his cot, reading a well-thumbed copy of some real crime book, looking bored and still angry.

“Hey kid,” Benny greeted. “You need to learn some fighting too or do you think you'll pull some karate moves out of your ass when the time comes?”

“Could kick your ass,” the kid grumbled.

“Want to give it a try?” Benny offered sincerely. “See what you got?”

“You have, like, thirty years on me, think I'd win, grandpa,” Grayson replied.

“Only one way to find out.”

“You think you'll be ready to head out tomorrow morning?” The Lieutenant asked the kid, playing his part perfectly to Benny's delight. At least the marine had a poker face. “We have to get to that airfield before noon if we want to find proper camp before dark.”

“I was ready two days ago, what have you two been doing?”

“Keeping these nuns safe first and foremost,” Benny said. “You know, about eleven lives versus one? Using our brains.”

Grayson glowered at him.

“Can the shitty attitude, we're trying,” Benny went on firmly.

“Tomorrow,” the Lieutenant said firmly, breaking up the tension, “we will continue on the hunt for these men. Right now, I have to head out to get something for dinner for all of us.”

“Not taking your life partner with you?” Grayson asked.

“Surprisingly progressive, kid,” Benny mused, folding his arms. “I don't even think it's an insult.”

“More observational than insulting,” the Lieutenant added.

“You could do worse than me,” Benny teased.

“Could do better too, paon.” The marine retorted dryly, offering Benny a small grin as he grabbed up his rifle. “Don't kill each other while I'm gone, yeah?”

“Can I hang him from a flag pole again?” Benny asked. “Seems to be the best way to take the bite out of him.”

“Fuck you, Benny,” Grayson growled.

“That is no way to speak to your elders, son!” Benny replied.

“Come on, kid. Let's head out for a hunt.” The Lieutenant said, stepping in calmly.

Grayson jumped up, eager to finally help, but couldn't resist grumbling, “don't call me 'kid', old man.”

“Don't call me old, son,” the Lieutenant murmured, ducking out of the infirmary after the boy.

Alone in the infirmary now with Annie, Benny inhaled and turned to her.

“You like those two?”

She shrugged.

Looking at the child in his care, Benny wanted to say something to her, to emote. But emotions were never his thing, once he opened that pandora's box they wouldn't stop. So he reached out and ruffled her hair, the two puffs on top, at least.

He liked the kid, he really did. Hell, he could almost admit to himself that he loved her and if it wasn't for circumstances and his fucking weak need to be helpful, he wouldn't be leaving her at the convent.

There were mornings, before they ran into the marine, that he would wake up from light, cautious sleep, to find her sitting up and watching him.

She never said much, and he always wondered what was going on in her undeveloped little noodle, she didn't even really speak much even when Laila was with them. Horrors, he assumed, something that kept Laila on edge and wary of their surroundings, haunted the two of them and when Benny found the mother and child, or rather when they had found him, they were almost feral.

He assumed it was something to do with the wedding ring on Laila's finger, of the way it took Annie months to finally take his hand without him telling her to.

She kept close to him now, she had lost her father – as far as Benny knew, and now her mother and the child was wafting on the breeze, drifting around with no moorings. Nothing to tether her to safety and comfort, but for him.

And Benny hated that it had to be him that poor girl relied on. He wasn't reliable, not to people who loved him – at least. He had cut his moorings a long time ago, or...maybe they had rotted with Valerie. Moldering in the grave with his beautiful wife, her cold hands clutching the last strands of the rope that had kept him from drifting.

He didn't mind being tethered by Valerie, he liked it even. Whenever he'd go off and come home, he had a home to come to. She would be there, bright and smiling, her flower garden always in bloom, it seemed, even in the cold Rhode Island winters, when the wind came across the Atlantic frigid and cruel.

She had died in the winter, or the early spring, rather. March. The witches tit of a month, the cold, brown spring.

Valerie wanted to be buried, not cremated, so they had to wait another month before she could be buried.

Benny was gone long before that. He had left the night she died, just walked away.

He liked the poetic idea of their beautiful home and everything in it rotting with his wife, like the idea of her garden drying up and withering. No one deserved her things, or her garden or even dare come near anywhere she had walked.

If he could, he would have built a stone wall, higher than the one that kept them safe at the convent, wider than it needed to be, all around Rhode Island. He would have kept everyone from that state. It would become a shrine to Valerie. His angel. Patient and sweet and everything he didn't fucking deserve.

So with no option to do any of that, he burned Rhode Island from his mind, it didn't exist in his world. It was a crater, with his wife dead in the center.

Everything he owned, everything that remained clinging to him when he walked away, was thrown into the ocean to fucking disappear. Except for his wedding band, wrapped like a napkin ring around a rolled-up photo of her, that he kept in his sock, secured by the knife strap he wore.

When he began to feel too alive, he would torment himself, like a form of self-harm, only instead of cutting his body, he wounded his soul. He would unroll that photo and wear that ring and he would feel every moment of sorrow all over again.

Was that healthy? Was grieving like that right? No. He knew it was sick.

But life was fucking sick, because she was good and he was not, and she died, starving to death because the cancer that had started in her uterus had swept viciously through her body, into her stomach and everything she ate, would be thrown up, black and diseased. And she withered fast, like a rose when the frost touches it.

But she didn't wither fast enough not to suffer.

And even now, with the fucking infected, or the dead, whoever you asked, when they ravaged and tore people apart, he somehow lived. At first, he wanted to live, it was human nature to fight to survive.

Valerie wanted to live too, and she died. So he would live for her if only to eat all the pain he couldn't eat of hers.

And then he had Annie and Laila, and while they were never anything more than people surviving together, Benny had formed an attachment, the first kind of real attachment to the two of them. He had begun to re-weave that tether that had rotted away from Valerie and then one morning, Laila was just gone.

She had left a note, she always did when she went out on her own to scavenge.

But she never came back.

And Benny felt another tether begin to rot.

He was a man struggling to hold on to a handful of sand in a wind storm.

So he held Annie's tether tight because he knew she held his just as tight.

Yes. He did love the child.

He wished the world was better for her, but he thanked the chaos and the randomness of numbers that he had her, and if these men had Laila, if she fell prey to them, he would get her back if she was alive and he would hand over the tether that Annie held that connected to him, back to her mother.

But he was still stunted and fucked up emotionally, so all of this, loving the kid and wanting everything for her, came out in a hand rubbing the top of her head. Because Benny's parents didn't hug and Benny didn't know what to do with a child, he and Valerie had never had one and they never talked about having one. And then she died and he had never been around children except when he was one.

So he tousled her hair and thought to himself that maybe someday he'd be able to express himself to someone else.

Maybe someday Rhode Island would exist on his maps again. Maybe Valerie would finally rest in peace because he could move on and grow and learn to be a human being.

Or maybe he would die trying to get Laila back to her mother and that girl back to her brother and maybe there would be no lesson for him to learn, no more room for him to grow.

Maybe Georgia would become to Annie what Rhode Island was to Benny. Not because of him, he didn't assume the child held any love for him, she was only clinging to him because she was lost, no perhaps she would bury Georgia behind a wall, because of her mother, because of her father, because of the dead and because every day she woke up, she had to see a corpse.

No child should ever have to live in a real nightmare.

Or.

Or maybe someday, Annie would stitch Georgia back together, maybe there could be hope for her future. The dead were thinning out and maybe her mother would return and maybe she'd find happiness, though he knew she would still have nightmares about the dead, he had nightmares about the dead, about Laila and Valerie and Annie, all roaming across the wastelands of his dreams, their eyes cloudy, milky with rot, because the cornea's had no blood flow, their fingertips turning black, their skin waxy and bloated.

Since it had begun, Benny had seen too many children among the dead, small forms, corpses that hungered, but never seemed to eat, only tear and shred and maim.

The thing was, the dead or the infected didn't make very loud sounds. They shuffled and they slogged, their feet dragging, but they didn't moan like the movie zombies, they would give off mewl-like moans. Something almost like the air just rising up from their bloated bellies. It was soft enough to miss if you weren't listening for it. And it wasn't often like they were sleeping and then would moan or when they mimicked and exhale of air. They were near silent forms moving like manifest destiny towards eternity.

Beside him, Annie was very much alive and he would make sure she stayed that way. Benny was nothing if resourceful and he could use those resources to the best of his ability.

If brute strength and survival were what the Lieutenant did best, Benny's abilities were subversive action and artful manipulation.

#novel #support an author #Graveyard Dirt & Salt #zombies #sorry it took me a while to post my friends and supporters i had some mental health set backs due to being laid off and jobless #but im back!

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adventuresinwonderlust · 4 years

Text

Title: Big Brother- “The New Kid” Part 2

Pairing: Yoongi x OC aka Tessa Ft. Tae (Brother) Ft. Jin (Bros BFF)

Warnings: abusive language, slight bullying, fluff, angst, lots of cursing, slow burn/ build-up

Rating: 18 and over

“TESSAAAAAAA!!!!” I jump up at the sound of Tae yelling for me from downstairs. I leap out of bed and rush down to meet his call. “What’s going on?” I ask between breaths. “Check this out.” He waves me over, calmly now, from the kitchen window. I take my place beside him and peer out the window to see Yoongi in the backyard at Mrs. Mark’s place mowing the lawn. “Don’t be a creeper Tae. Is that what you hollered for? You scared me!” I punch his arm. “She hired help,” Tae looks over at me like a hurt kid, “Why? I was helping just fine. Maybe I did something wrong.” I roll my eyes. “Oh god Tae. He’s her exchange student. I saw her yesterday. He just moved here; he’s going to be staying here. She doesn’t need your help anymore.” I open the fridge and find nothing to eat. “We need to do a store run.” I say to the back of Tae’s head as he stares out the window again. “Hello,” I call out to him, “Earth to Tae!” He turns to me looking puzzled. “So, like, he’s gonna live with her? That’s weird no?” “Why is that weird? She’s doing something good for someone in need.” I cross my arms and stare at Tae who looks as if he is solving a math equation. “So, he’s some poor kid looking for a handout?” “No, you’re just some poor kid looking for a handout. He’s is an educated mind in need of a helping hand.” Tae scoffs. “We should go say hi.” He suggests. “I introduced myself yesterday. Let’s focus on eating. We need to do a store run.” “You’re right sorry.” “Cool, so let’s make a list and get some stuff done.” I pull out a piece of paper and a pen. I look up and see that Tae has left. “Shit, Tae!” I call out.

I head out the front and towards the back of the house. Tae is leaning on Mrs. Mark’s fence waving to catch Yoongi’s attention. I see Yoongi appear at the fence stone face and sweaty with a black cap on backwards. He dries his face with his sleeve. I catch up and jump in front of Tae. “Hey Yoongi!” He nods at bright wave. Tae shoves me over. “I’m Tae, Tessa’s brother, she was telling me that you just moved here and will be living with Kelly. So, what’s your deal man?” I shoot Tae a ‘What the fuck’ look. Yoongi looks at me and then Tae, not a wink of emotion on his face. I chuckle nervously. I look back at Tae whose eyes shift from me to Yoongi. “Well? What are you a mute?” Tae looks at me. Yoongi licks his lips looking rather annoyed. “Mute? No. I just have hard time understanding your dumb down slang. I have no…uh…. Deal as you say.” He gives a small smile and I can’t help but laugh at his sarcasms. Tae’s face shift and I straightened up. He reminds me of my father when he’s mad. “Well Mandu, I’d be sure to not have a deal. I’m not exactly the type of guy you wanna fuck around with, get me?” Yoongi scoffs. “Mandu? That’s good. I have never heard this one. So…. original.” He looks from Tae to me and walks back over to the mower, starting it up again and moving back across the yard. I punch Tae in the side. “What the fuck Tae? You’re such an asshole!” I say walking back towards my house. Tae follows behind me. “Oh, I’m the asshole. That kid is a fucking asshole, he seems like he can handle himself just fine. You saw how he egged me on.” “Leave him alone Tae, I’m warning you.” I shoot him a mom look. “Now get ready, we are doing a store run!” I shout heading up the stairs.

Tae and I drive over to the supermarket in our moms old Rav4. Dad fixed her up and gave it to Tae as a gift. “Why do you think Mrs. Mark’s didn’t tell me about this Yoongi kid?” Tae asks suddenly as we park. “Who gives a fuck Tae? She has other things to worry about. At least it gives you more time to focus on football and getting that scholarship. That is what’s important right now.” He doesn’t say anything as we walk into the market. We walk around and fill our cart with the essentials for survival. “Tessa, Tae, hi!” Mrs. Mark’s appears and waves us over. Tae seems to straighten up. “Hey! How are you?” I ask. “We met Yoongi this morning.” Tae blurts out. “Oh, yes! I spoke with Tessa about Yoongi, and I have been meaning to talk with you as well Tae.” Just as she goes to explain further Yoongi appears with an arm full of things and loads them in the cart. “Oh! It’s my new friend, Yoongi!” Tae says brightly reaching his hand up for Yoongi to high five. Yoongi chuckles suspiciously but obliges. “Tae my friend. They have Mandu here. In the frozen section, I hear you are big fan.” Yoongi says with a smirk. Tae chuckles and looks over to Mrs. Mark’s. “Maybe I should come by during the week and clear the gutters. We can chat and what not.” Tae says to her. “Uh. Well, Yoongi has been a huge help already so, uh, maybe we can grab lunch and I can say thank you for helping me so much this summer.” Tae nods.

I can’t help but feel the tension rise up in Tae, twin senses. Just as I go to interject in their conversation, I can’t help but feel watchful eyes on me. I turn to see Yoongi staring in his famous pose, right hand holding his left arm. I make my way closer to him. “I’m sorry about what Tae said earlier. He can be a jerk sometimes. He means nothing by it though.” I whisper. He nods and looks me up and down. “So, Tessa, what’s your deal?” He teases. I can’t help but appear taken aback by his use of Tae’s line from earlier. Suddenly he bursts out laughing. I can’t help but join in, it’s the most emotion I’ve ever seen on his face. “We should hang out tomorrow. I can show you around town.” I blurt out. He composes himself and looks over at Tae. “Big brother won’t like that.” He points towards Tae. “I’m older actually, by two minutes, and fuck Tae. He’s not the boss of me.” He looks at me again stone faced. “Twins,” He nods, “I don’t know. I will text you.” “Fair enough.” I say. “Tae,” I interrupt his and Mrs. Mark’s conversation, “Let’s get home.” He nods clearly annoyed and we all go our separate ways. We drive back in silence.

After putting away groceries, I hit my laptop and start writing. I am off to a great start when I hear the faint sound of music from my window. I walk over to the other side of my room and sit at my vanity. I lean down into the window sill to try and see into Yoongi’s window. I can hear the music better and immediately know it’s coming from his piano. “You hear Picasso over there?” I hear Tae from my bedroom door. I lift my head slowly and shake my head. “You’re an idiot Tae. Good thing you don’t need a brain for football.” I respond. “What? You don’t seriously like that kid Tess? He’s a weirdo.” He says, plopping down on my bed. “Why,” I shrug, “He is just getting acclimated to a new everything, you on the other hand, are a fool who has no clue that Picasso was an artist not a pianist.” My phone vibrates. ‘Ok stalker. Tomorrow.’ The unsaved number says. I look over to Yoongi’s window to catch him waving at me and then walking away. “I need the Rav4 for tomorrow.” I blurt out. “Uh. Uh. I’m meeting Jin tomorrow.” He shakes his head. “Ok, so tell him to pick you up in the morning.” I argue. “What do you need it for?” He inquires. “Do I ask why you need the car Tae?” “It’s my fucking car!” He shouts. I scoff. Suddenly an idea pops into my head. “Mrs. Mark’s asked if I could take Yoongi out tomorrow. I feel bad but I guess I’ll have to tell her no.” I sigh. Tae’s expression changes. “Really? Sheesh. Alright Tess. Maybe she needs a break from that kid already.” “Maybe,” I reply, “So, you’ll lend it to me? Have Jin come get you?” “Yes, Tess. You can borrow my car but just a few hours.” “Yay!” I exclaim and hug him. “Gross. Pay me back by making dinner, how about that?” He shoves me away.

The following morning, I am up and ready early, trying to sneak pass my drunk father, who once again is passed out on the couch. I head into the kitchen and grab a couple bottles of water. I make my way to the door. “Where you headed girl?” My father grumbles, sitting up and rubbing his head. “I’m going out with friends.” I say. There’s a knock on the door and my heart drops. “I have to go.” I say to him. He doesn’t object and I run to the door. I slide out and see Yoongi standing on the porch. “I didn’t know you were coming over here. I would’ve come to get you.” I tell him. “It’s not proper for the lady to pick up the man.” He says. I laugh nervously. “Well, let’s just go.” I whisper and hurry over to Tae’s car. “Why do you whisper?” Yoongi asks, looking around. “No reason.” I jump into the driver seat and he into the passenger seat. “So, where are we going?” He asks. I nervously move the gear shift and hit the gas and we careen towards the house. “Woah, woah! STOP!” Yoongi yells as I quickly hit the brakes. “Sorry.” I say and move the shift into reverse. “Do you know how to drive? Is this your first time?” He questions. He is in full panic mode, still bracing himself in his seat. “Like riding a bike.” I smile as we speed off. Yoongi eases now but side-eyes me the whole time. “So, tell me about yourself? You must miss your mom and dad?” I poke, curious as to his personal life. “I call my mom one time every week. To check in.” He replies. He opens his window slightly and the rush of wind blows his hair around.

“Only once a week. That isn’t a lot. She must be worried. New country, different language. New people.” I’m really prying. “No. She is a busy woman. I am getting older. She wants me to get a good education.” He states plainly. “How about you? Tell me about you. Most popular girl.” He quickly shifts the focus. “Well, I grew up here. It’s me, Tae and my dad. My mom passed away a year ago. It has been hard, but we get by. My dad owns the car shop in town. Tae is going for a football scholarship this year. He’s good, like really good. The school is whatever. Like most I’m sure. I think you’re gonna fit in just great honestly. It’ll be nice to get some fresh meat in this boring old town.” Yoongi doesn’t say anything. I continue. “I figure we can grab breakfast and walk around town. There are a bunch of cool spots to see and a shopping complex.” I look over to him and get nothing. “Earth to Yoongi. What’s going on in that big brain of yours?” I ask. “I am not so interesting,” He says, “Not much to tell. Not like you. So much insight.” “Look, if this is going to work, I am going to need a little more than clipped responses from you. I want to be friends. So, just be yourself. Tell me something no one knows.” I implore. “I like pancakes.” He says and I begin to worry that this may have been a terrible idea.

I grab a parking spot outside of Taylor’s Diner, a local spot in town that a lot of the school kids frequent. We grab a booth by the window and are given menus by Gladys, who’s been a waitress here since I was little girl. “Hiya Tessa. Who’s your friend?” She smiles at Yoongi, who gives her a small tight smile. “I’m Yoongi. Nice to meet you.” He says and I am shocked that he even responded. “Well, welcome Yoongi. It’s great to meet you. Any idea of what you’d like to eat or drink?” He looks down and then back at Gladys. “Iced coffee please and pancakes.” He closes his menu and hands it to her. “Perfect, and for you Tessa?” She looks at me. “Uh. I’ll have the same.” She nods, takes my menu, and heads off. “Wow, I think it’s the most you’ve spoken ever.” I say sarcastically. “It’s not polite to be rude to elders.” He says to me and looks out the window beside him. He swallows hard and begins to pull nervously at his ear. “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Big brother.” He replies. I look up and Tae and Jin enter the Diner. “Well, well, well. Tessa! You get more gorgeous every day I see you.” Jin says sliding into the booth beside me. Tae slides in next to Yoongi. “Jin meet Mandu, our next-door neighbor.” Tae laughs. He goes for a high five but Yoongi just ignores him this time. “Why don’t you knuckle heads get lost?” I spit at Tae. “I had to check in on my girl.” Jin says, putting his arm around me. I shove him away. “Not even in your dreams.” “Hey Mandu, I better not find out your messing with my girl. Got it!” Yoongi doesn’t say anything. He just stares at Jin as if he could kill him with just his gaze. “Fuck off Jin! Tae!” I look at my brother. “Alright, alright. Let’s get out of here. You two have fun. Don’t fuck up my car Tess.” They get up and Jin points two fingers at his eyes and then one at Yoongi.

Yoongi whispers something. “What?” I ask him. “I said they are assholes.” I feel my face flush. This is not turning out well. “I’m sorry.” I say. “Why you are always sorry?” Yoongi utters. I am taken back by his comment. “Here you go.” Gladys says dropping our food and coffee off. I take a deep breath to keep from crying. “My brother isn’t….” I go to respond. “Yeah, he is,” Yoongi cuts me off, “Maybe you don’t know your brother the way you think you do.” He shoves his plate away from him and stares out of the window again. “I can’t eat unless you do. It’s rude.” I quip, trying to turn this breakfast around. “I guess you will starve.” He says to the window. “I am really trying Yoongi but you’re not making it easy.” “Oh no, imagine a world not made easy for the most popular girl. Such a tragedy.” He looks at me with red eyes and I can see he’s hurt. “We can just leave then if you want.” “No, someone made this for us so let’s eat. Celebrate friendship,” He cuts and shoves a huge piece of pancake in his mouth, “I love pancakes.” He says sarcastically with a hard swallow.

After paying the check and leaving the restaurant, I point over to the end of the road. “The shopping complex is that way.” I say. “We should get back.” Yoongi says, pointing to the car. “Uh. Ok.” We head to the car instead. This time I successfully get on the road without trouble. “I hope that we can do this again. I know today was rough but I would like to get to know you better.” I say to Yoongi. He just nods. “Thank you for breakfast. I owe you.” I pull into Mrs. Mark’s driveway and let Yoongi out. “See ya.” I say. He hops out and slams the door, walking into Mrs. Mark’s house. I pull out of her driveway and into my own. Once up in my room, I get on my laptop and facetime my friend Alice. “Hey girl! How’s your summer?” She exclaims when she answers. “Good. Getting a lot of writing in. Can you believe this is our last year?” “Oh my god! I can’t wait!” She says brushing her hair out of her face. “How’s Italy?” I ask. “Gorgeous girl. I met a man.” She giggles. “A man?” “His name is Arnand. He’s tall, dark, handsome, ugh, everything you read about in the books. He wants me to move here next summer and live with him.” I bust out laughing. “That sounds insane. How old is Mr. Everything?” I inquire. “38 but that’s not really old.” “Oh my god Alice! He is way too old for you! What will your mother say? She’s gonna freak out!” “No way! She will give me shit for a week and then ask how much he makes in a year, which is a lot by the way. He’s some hedge fund guy. Besides, I don’t have talent. I need a sugar daddy. I’m not smart like you or athletic like Tae and Jin. I have nothing lined up for after high school. This face is my money maker.” She circles her face with a finger. “Still its creepy and you can do anything you want. You just gotta focus on one thing.” I try to assure her. “Ha-ha. Yeah right Tess! Why have one thing when you can have them all?” She twirls around with her phone making me dizzy. Alice has always had her head in the clouds. “So, how’s the shit town?” She asks me. “Uh, same ole. Mrs. Mark’s got a foreign exchange student from Korea to move in with her. He starts this year at the school. She asked me to befriend him and show him around.” “Is he cute?” She asks and I immediately blush. “I don’t know?” I reply. “Yeah, he’s cute. So, what’s the problem? Is it Jin?” “What no? Jin and I are over, and you know that. He’s just, I don’t know, weird. He hardly talks and when he does, he’s sarcastic and dry. I don’t know. He’s hard to read.” “I see, so Tess has met her match and she uncomfortable.” My eyes pop open at her accusation. “Oh Tessa, my baby, my bestie, my love. Just get over yourself. You miss out on so much because you’re so stuffy.” I scoff. “I am not stuffy.” “Oh yes you are! You think because you’re smart and beautiful, people should just fawn over you. That works for some like Kim Seokjin, but you are going to meet people with actual brain cells that are going to force you to do some of the work.” “Whatever.” “This is constructive criticism Tess. Don’t get all offended.” “I have to go.” I blurt out. “Okay, well don’t tell anyone about Arnand and give that foreign boy your number! Love you Tess.” I smile and disconnect the call.

I pull my phone out after thinking about what Alice has said. ‘You are a puzzle, but I am going to solve you.’ I think for a second too long and start to delete it. ‘Don’t forget, you owe me!’ Before I think too much, I send it. I look towards Yoongi’s window from my desk. My phone vibrates. ‘Stalker.’ I start laughing. I finally save the number in my phone. Maybe Alice is right. I am used to getting my way. Jin made things way too easy. Maybe what I need is a challenge. Welp Min Yoongi, challenge accepted.

#bts fluff #suga x reader #suga x you #yoongi fluff

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cat-brodsky · 4 years

Text

The Secret History: Abridged (part 1)

Fair use disclaimer: The following text is intended as a parody and literary commentary of the published book “The Secret History” by Donna Tartt. Some direct quotations from the book, constituting a very low percentage of the original, have been integrated in the parodic text where appropriate. The author of this text neither profits nor intends to profit from it.

Dramatis personae

Richard Papen, the narrator, a perpetually starry-eyed youth with all the agency of the proverbial sexy lamp

Julian Morrow (played by King Julian of Madagaskar), a Greek professor who doesn’t actually teach

The Toffs, as viewed through Richard’s rose-tinted glasses:

Henry Winter, a young genius, deeply devoted to Julian

Bunny Corcoran, an uncouth older student with a heart of gold deep inside

Francis Abernathy, a refined yet sensitive youth

Charles Macaulay, a young man who sometimes has a bit too much to drink

Camilla Macaulay, an exquisite beauty, the only girl in the clique

Judy Poovey, the only character in the book with both brains and heart

Georges “I told you so” Laforgue

the greek chorus (played by a person in a floral bedsheet toga with two sockpuppets)

The Fans, seated in the front row of the audience

The farmer, brutally murdered by four rich kids on a drug trip

Chapter 1, in which Richard joins a cult (and the greek chorus monologues)

Richard: My name is Richard Pipen and I like pretty things. Maybe that’s cause my childhood was real poor and real awful.

Richard: I even picked Hampden College cause it looked pretty in the recruitment brochure. I have no friends, I failed pre-med, and the only thing I’m okay at is Greek language. …Guess I’ll take Greek.

Georges (the French teacher): Monsieur, I’m afraid zat will be a problem. You see, ze Greek teacher is incredibly… selective about his students. And by selective, I mean on a personal level.

Richard: oh, so he’s gay.

Georges: Non! He isolates his students, he grooms them to have ze same views as himself, and ze only reason ze school puts up with him is because he refuses his salary!

Richard: I dunno, my dad beat me before and after dinner, so this sounds perfectly healthy to me. Guess I’ll go knock on his door.

Richard: knocks on Julian’s door …Please let me study Greek.

Julian: Why, that’s rather quaint of you, young man, but I’m afraid my class is filled to the brim. Only got space for five people, you see. Very rigorous, that. Anyway, excuse me, I have a princess to tutor. Istrami royalty, though I don’t assume you would know. pauper

Richard: But-

door slam

Henry and the Four Toffs: stroll the campus, looking pretty

Richard: drools

But I watched them with interest whenever I happened to see them: Francis, stooping to talk to a cat on a doorstep; Henry dashing past at the wheel of a little white car, with Julian in the passenger’s seat; Bunny leaning out of an upstairs window to yell something at the twins on the lawn below. Slowly, more information came my way. Francis Abernathy was from Boston and, from most accounts, quite wealthy. Henry, too, was said to be wealthy; what’s more, he was a linguistic genius. He spoke a number of languages, ancient and modern, and had published a translation of Anacreon, with commentary, when he was only eighteen. The twins had an apartment off campus, and were from somewhere down south. And Bunny Corcoran had a habit of playing John Philip Sousa march tunes in his room, at full volume, late at night.

Not to imply that I was overly preoccupied with any of this.

the greek chorus: yeah riiight

Richard: totally not eavesdropping on The Four Toffs studying Greek

Bunny: Ablative!

Charles: That’s Latin, you dumb-

Richard: Excuse me? I’m sorry, but would the locative case do?

Bunny: Thanks, man, you helped a lot. Wish you were in our class.

awkward silence

Henry, appearing out of nowhere: Ah, yes, the archaic locative. Are you a Homeric scholar?

Richard: …I like Homer.

Henry: Oh, you “like” Homer? Name all the 1,186 ships in the Catalogue.

Henry: fake fans smh

Richard: All my life, I’ve dealt with poor jerks, so dealing with rich jerks sounded way more appealing. I figured I’d do what worked with my old man - lie my ass off. Excuse me, Dr. Roland, I need uh two hundred dollars from my financial aid? It’s for my uh car, it’s the uh transmission.

the greek chorus: that’s 548 dollars in 2020 money. also, is everyone in this book named after a historical figure?

Richard: knocks on Julian’s door again, having bought one hundred [274] dollars’ worth of expensive clothes

Julian: Oh my, and to think I mistook you for a peasant the first time. Come in, young man - any relation to French kings? Are you from California? What do you do in California?

Richard: Oh, you know… money, orange groves, money, ennui and more money - wow, he’s actually buying it.

Julian: Even Plato knew that class and conditioning and so forth have an inalterable effect on the individual. cough that’s why I only tutor rich and classy students. cough I’m afraid my students are never very interesting to me because I always know exactly what they’re going to do.

the greek chorus: fly, you fool

Richard: listens with stars in his eyes

Julian: Young man, I will take you on as a student, but you must take me on as your academic counselor, drop all your classes and pick up the ones I tell you to. Most of them are going to be with me - you know, a great diversity of teachers is harmful for the young mind.

Richard: Oh wow, that sounds elite and exclusive and totally not like a weird cult.

Georges “The Voice of Reason” Laforgue: Mon Dieu, are you serious? Do you understand how isolated you’ll be from ze rest of ze college? What if you have a disagreement? What if he is unfair to you? And this man is so elitist - why, that’s ze first time he’s accepted a student on financial aid! …Does he know you’re on financial aid?

Richard: I’m not gonna tell him.

the greek chorus: annnd he switches majors

Francis: Cubitum eamus?

Richard: what? who?

the greek chorus: did he just say “Wanna fu-”

The Fans: oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooohh!

Bunny: Get a load of this guy. Henry actually bought himself a Montblanc pen just cause Julian loves them. And he used to say they were ugly. What was it, three hundred [822] bucks?

Henry: You “studied” Greek? Recite every single Greek poem.

Henry: fake fans smh. Now I’ll speak Latin and flex on you some more.

Bunny: Don’t be a prick, Henry.

Julian, coming in fashionably late:

He was a marvelous talker, a magical talker, and I wish I were able to give a better idea what he said, but it is impossible for a mediocre intellect to render the speech of a superior one – especially after so many years – without losing a good deal in the translation.

the greek chorus: do you know what it means when someone talks big and beautiful and yet you can’t remember the talking points? means they’re talking nonsense

Julian: Though after all your Xenophon and Thucydides I dare say there are not many young people better versed in military tactics. Because, as you know, ancient Greek battle tactics are still valid in our modern age! Do you feel sufficiently special and superior, my lab m- lovely students?

Henry: The six of us could conquer Hampden town!

the greek chorus: this is new england, you’d get shot like deer

Richard, stars in his eyes: Awwwww he said six of us!

Camilla: recites from Aganemnnon

How quiet he sinks now - his soul starts from his mouth:

with one jerked gulp he brings up his own blood,

spatters me dark with the scarlet dew in his breath.

And that dew falls on me as the gods’ spring rains

fall and bless harvest back to the long-parched earth.

Julian: Now, why is this so beautiful?

the greek chorus: cause there’s no mention of the dying king voiding his bowels

Francis: It’s the meter - iambic pentameter.

The Greek Chorus: In a way, the discussion that follows is some pretty hefty foreshadowing. The subject is horrible - a dying man gurgling, choking on blood, spits it out all over his killer - but the way it’s described is poetic and makes the reader enamored with the act of murder.

This is exactly what Tartt does later on.

Five rich, entitled young people have a drug-fueled orgy, trespass, and beat an innocent farmer to death. But call an orgy a bacchanal, and it’s suddenly classy and beautiful.

Henry: Death is the mother of beauty.

The Fans: oooooooooooohhh!

Julian: And what is beauty?

Henry: Terror.

The Fans: OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHH!

the greek chorus: this toxic belief is so not gonna backfire

“Are we, in this room, really very different from the Greeks or the Romans? Obsessed with duty, piety, loyalty, sacrifice? All those things which are to modern tastes so chilling?”

I looked around the table at the six faces. To modern tastes they were somewhat chilling. I imagine any other teacher would’ve been on the phone to Psychological Counseling in about five minutes had he heard what Henry said about arming the Greek class and marching into Hampden town.

the greek chorus: richard, you idiot sandwich

Julian: The Romans’ genius and fatal flaw was their obsession with order! The Greeks knew not to deny the irrational! This is why Romans, usually so tolerant of foreign religions, persecuted the Christians mercilessly – how absurd to think a common criminal had risen from the dead, how appalling that his followers celebrated him by drinking his blood. The illogic of it frightened them-

The Greek Chorus: The Romans valued loyalty to the state, which meant practicing the state religion. Local beliefs were okay as long as they didn’t contradict that.

Christians placed their god, monotheistic God, above the emperor. The First Commandment forbids the worship of other gods, and this includes refusing to take part in feasts, to offer incense to the emperor - this was disloyalty to the Empire. Judaism, it seems, got a pass on the same because of the ancient origin of the religion.

Furthermore, the persecution of Christianity was sporadic until Decius’ decree mandating participation in public sacrifices, and even then this edict was not universally obeyed - the Empire was far too large and too diverse. Not to mention, a lot of the accounts of persecution and martyrdom were invented by Christian historians.

Julian is full of it, and a five minute Google search can tell you as much.

Richard: wow, #deep

Julian: …And that’s why Bacchanals are good fun for the whole family!

Chapter 2, in which Bunny invites Richard to dinner (and then nothing happens)

Judy: So you’re hanging out with those posh guys now?

Richard: What if I am

Judy: I don’t know, they’re bad news. Like, I was at a party, everyone was slam dancing, and this girl was walking across the dance floor for some reason and got mad when I slammed into her. And like I threw a beer at her, it was that kind of night, and this Henry guy and her brother Charles came to yell at me? And my friend Spike saw that and came to defend me, and then Henry and Charles beat Spike to a pulp. Those people are crazy.

Richard, stars in his eyes: Gee whiz, Henry is badass.

Judy: Aren’t you hot in this tweed jacket? Like, here, you can have another one for free if you like it.

Bunny: Nice jacket, dude

Richard: Thanks, it’s a family relic

Bunny: Anyway, why are there so many [slur omitted] working in restaurants? Oh man, I remember when we pulled a dine and dash here, all in good fun, and then Dad took us here for drinks and it’s a good thing he was so soused he didn’t notice the waiter putting it all on his bill.

the greek chorus: boy, it sure is a good thing the cops don’t get called on rich people

Bunny: And Henry’s so damn smart, you know? He was in a bad car accident, had to stay in bed reading all those old books, and now he’s really into it and he speaks seven to eight languages, even reads them hieroglyphics.

Richard: well, Bunny’s kind of an ass but he’s not an ass to me, sounds good

Bunny: Whoops, forgot my wallet.

Richard: …never mind

the greek chorus: the bill is, quote, two hundred and eighty-seven dollars and fifty-nine cents [786 dollars]. without the tip. twenty percent more is about tree fiddy [950 dollars]

Bunny: …I’ll call Henry. He’ll be chuffed to bail us out.

Henry: is not chuffed Bunny freeloads off people all the time.

Richard: wow that’s… imagine doing that haha

Richard: totally not eavesdropping again

Henry: Should I do what is necessary?

Julian: You should only, ever, do what is necessary.

the greek chorus: this will definitely not be taken at face value

if richard had a tweeter

“Reading The Great Gatsby. #relatable #billionaire-life”

“Attended a party, mingled with the hoi polloi. Plebs. How I long to be elsewhere.”

Camilla: Come to the country house with us

Richard: totally not freeloading

if the secret history was a movie

Happy times montage. Classical music plays over the country house; it is revealed that Charles, quite drunk but still composed, is playing the piano. Henry and Camilla are in a rowboat together, with Henry monologuing, unheard to the viewers, as she listens with rapt wonder. Bunny is pouring champaigne from a teapot. Occasional moments of foreshadowing in between the happy times - a pot of laurel leaves boiling on the stove, Richard wandering the house in the middle of the night and finding that everyone is gone - and back to happy times, playing cricket, fancy dinners with Julian. Everything looks pretty, classy, and expensive.

Chapter 3, in which Richard is more an idiot than usual

The Five Toffs: leave for the winter holidays

Richard: I need a place to stay. Henry’s place is empty, I could ask my other friends to sublet to me, or split the bills with somebody… Nah, there’s this hippie who lets you live for free in his warehouse. I’m in.

The warehouse: literally has a hole in the roof

The Hippie: It’s all a metaphor, man. The situation is obviously dysfunctional, but Richie boy just assumes that it’s normal and he’s gonna be fine. Deep, man.

Richard: I’m sure I’ll be fine. gets pneumonia

Henry: Good thing I came back early, or you’d be dead.

Richard: Y-you saved my life, man. …Can you please bring me a mag to read?

Henry: …You must be raving. Here, I brought you a Pharmacology Update from the lounge.

Bunny: comes back

Henry: is avoiding him

the greek chorus: that’s all, really

Chapter 4, in which something finally happens

Bunny: Richard, man, Henry is not who he pretends to be. Be careful.

Richard: You mean, he’s gay? That can’t be right. My gaydar says it’s Francis; Henry’s straight. And I’m not gay, but if I was, Bunny wouldn’t be attractive. I mean, he’s handsome, but he’s rough trade, you know what I mean. Not my type.

Richard: Oh no, I left my book in Henry’s apartment. I’ll have to find it there. …Weird, why does he have a flight to Argentina reserved? And why were the four of them, minus Bunny, absent from classes?

cheesecake in the fridge: please don’t steal me, I’m on financial aid

Bunny: Mm, too lemony but tastes better flavored with tears.

Richard: Haha, screw the poor

Bunny: Man, Henry’s a bit of a Jew. I like him tho.

Bunny: keeps making weird crime-and-punishment jokes before class

Richard: Good old Bunny, such a jester.

The Toffs: tell a weirdly rehearsed story about their absence

Julian: notices absolutely nothing

Henry: Don’t you want to know about our trip to Argentina? By which I mean, I know you snooped.

Richard: Man, why the secrecy? It’s not like you murdered someone.

Henry: Yeah, about that...

flashback time

Henry: The four of us must flee to Argentina. But there’s no way I can get my hands on more than thirty thousand [80,418 dollars]. Francis, you have a trust, right?

Francis: Yeah, I can withdraw one hundred and fifty thousand [402,090] a year. ...Bad news, my mum cleared it out.

The Toffs, in unison: What? Do you mean we’d have to live like the poor? Or worse, resort to menial labor? That is inconceivable.

the greek chorus: and they didn’t go to argentina.

Henry: We had but a meager five thousand [13,403 dollars] between us. Anyway, why did you cover up for us?

Richard:

Henry: So yeah we decided to take drugs, party, and fornicate, like everybody else in this college does. Except we’re rich and smart and we’re calling it a bacchanal, because it’s classier that way.

Henry: Julian knew and approved, by the way, but you’re not gonna learn this until chapter five.

Henry: And Bunny just wasn’t taking our posh rave seriously. I caught him eating when he was supposed to be fasting. Barbarian.

Henry: Anyway, when we all came down from our trip, we were drenched in blood and there was a corpse of a middle-aged middle-class man with his neck broken and his brains splattered and a huge gash in his stomach. And worse, he was wearing an ugly plaid shirt.

Henry: I haven’t been so upset since I hit a deer with my car. Oh, hi, Francis.

Chapter 5, in which we forget about the farmer

Francis: oh no did you just tell him

Henry: Oh yes I did.

Richard, still starry-eyed: Why didn’t you call the police?

Henry: Yeah, right. We’re too rich to be judged by poor people.

Francis: It was just an accident, a little harmless fun.

Henry: Imagine being tried for my life by a Vermont circuit-court judge and a jury box full of telephone operators.

Francis: They’d just say that we are a bunch of rich entitled kids who got high and trespassed on private land and tore an innocent man to pieces.

the greek chorus: THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT YOU DID

Henry: If Bunny snitches, we’re dragging him in too. He has no alibi. Can’t prove he wasn’t with us. He saw us dressed in bedsheets and covered in gore and got upset for no reason at all. Dropped a pint of ice-cream on my antique rug. Honestly, that was the last straw.

Henry: I paid for our trip together in Italy to shut him up, but then he found my diary - in which I happened to write a poem about our Bacchanal in iambic pentameter. I didn’t think the rube could even read. I slapped him rather hard, and he took offense to that. And now we have no choice but keep letting him mooch off us!

Francis: It's a terrible thing, what we did. I mean, this man was not Voltaire we killed. But still. It's a shame. I feel bad about it.

Henry: But not bad enough to want to go to jail for it.

Francis: snorts No, not that bad.

Henry: So... wanna play cards?

the greek chorus: here comes a turning point in the story. will richard do the moral thing, will he turn his friends in?

the greek chorus: yeah, right

The Toffs: Time for a road trip!

Richard: It’s odd how little power the dead farmer exercised over an imagination as morbid and hysterical as my own. Oh well, nobody cares about poor people.

Julian: In America, the rich man tries to pretend that the poor man is his equal in every respect but money, which is simply not true. A poor man who wishes to rise above his station is only making himself needlessly miserable. And the wise poor have always known this, the same as do the wise rich.

Bunny: You don't care about a goddamn thing, do you? Not a thing but your own self, you and all the rest of them!

the greek chorus: edmund corcoran, the bigot, the idiot of the group - the only one who cares about the murder

Richard: And now Bunny’s acting like a huge ass to me and to my friends. Gee, that’s no fun at all.

Richard: He’s nagging Charles about him being a drunk, Francis about him being gay, and me about being poor! And Camilla about being a girl, but women are inherently inferior in Greek language, nothing personal. And he’s implying the twins sleep together!

the greek chorus: all of these are true

Henry: I know! I shall poison my traitorous friend with death cap mushrooms mixed in with fun trip mushrooms. The ancient Arabic treatises on poisons must still be relevant.

the greek chorus: textbook high Intelligence low Wisdom

Henry: Richard, my friend, weren’t you in pre-med?

Richard: Uhh I guess, let me just... add the number of mushrooms, carry the one - jeez, that’s some advanced calculus...You know, the concentrations in chemistry are measured in moles, so we have catch a mole first...

Henry: I tested it on two dogs. Sadly, one lived.

Richard: Oh, Henry, you’re such a rascal. First a farmer, now a dog? Anyway, those mushrooms are just too funny-shaped. It’s just too hard.

Henry: Why don’t you weigh - you know what, nevermind, I can see I’m dealing with a genius.

Julian: I’m so concerned for young Edmund! He’s such a lovely and smart boy...

Richard: yeah, right - I mean, bright. Very bright.

Julian: I fear he may be about to convert to Christianity! Not even Catholicism, but something plebian. He keeps asking me about sin and forgiveness - how very... not Greek of him.

Bunny, piss drunk in the middle of the night: Richard, man, I can’t take it, I just have to confess - they killed a man! Tore him to pieces!

Richard: Guys, this is bad, Bunny just told me.

Henry: Welp, got no choice but to kill him. He’s acting so irrational.

Richard: Yeah, and he’s been real racist and bigoted lately -

Charles: I know, right? Why can’t he be more like us and hate on poor, classless people instead?

Henry: re-rolls wisdom We’ll push him into the ravine in the forest he conveniently loves hiking in. Piece of cake.

Judy: Rich, there’s gonna be a big party, come have fun!

Henry: Who’d have known there would be a party? Aside from, I mean, everyone who doesn’t live in their own Greek bubble. Oh well, guess I’ll dig for ferns instead.

Bunny: Hey, guys, whatcha doing?

Henry: Oh, you know... killing time. Now, who wants to see a flying rabbit?

#the secret history #donna tartt #dark academia #henry winter #tsh

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ashis2gay4u · 5 years

Text

I Am Not A Robot (In One Post!!)

Nico di Angelo stared out his window, the skull head ashtray in his lap overflowing with ashes, cigarette butts, and burnt out joints, yet instead of ashing out the open window, he continued to ash into the tray.

He was sat on the ledge of the bay window, it being big enough to be a bed for an average height person. He gave a huff as he watched the boys playing soccer on the lawn across the street, smiling and laughing.

He can't remember the last time he laughed. Hell, he doesn't even remember what it sounds like.

Don't even get him started on his smile, because he's sure he'd rip his face in half if he even tried.

He put the ashtray aside, pulling his knees to his chest. He nestled his chin between them, continuing to watch.

One of those boys turned to look at him, and Nico froze as the others turned to stare him down.

"Hey!" one kid shouted, his black hair untamed, like he had just rolled out of bed, "Wanna join? Might be more fun than watching!"

Nico shook his head, "No, I'm good-"

Another boy, a Latino, shorter than the first, spoke up next, "But why not? We're one player short of a team, anyways!"

Nico stood up and leaned out the window, staring at the five boys there. "No, I'm good, thank you very much."

The blonde boy shrugged, "He doesn't want to play, guys."

"Awe, man!" the Latino said.

The Chinese boy shook his head and spoke up, barely loud enough for Nico to hear, "If he doesn't want to play, he doesn't have to... Plus, he kinda scares me."

At that, Nico slammed his window shut, glaring at them all. He flipped them off, and went to sit on his bed.

Curled up on his purple comforter, he fell into what he hopes will be a dreamless sleep.

He woke up the next day in a cold sweat. Everything was fine, up until he fell into that dark hole.

He hated that hole, with all it's horrid hallucinations and ghastly smells and horrifying noises.

He quickly threw the blanket away- how did it get on him and not below him?-, and stood up, going to take a quick shower.

He stared at his reflection afterwards, glaring into his own eyes.

He proceeded to brush his teeth, his eyes never leaving the stare into his own soul.

He had mastered this technique. Why? It was a distraction.

He quickly got dressed, before heading to his window, opening them up and sitting on the ledge, grabbing his lighter, smokes, and ashtray from beside him.

Just as he had taken the first inhale, a knock sounded at his door, followed by a sniffing sound.

"Dammit, Nico! I told you not to smoke in the house!" came the voice of his step-mother, Persephone.

He hated her, she was always switching between nice and mean with him.

"Fuck off, you bitch, I don't have time for you."

She slammed open the door, glaring at him. "You dare? I should call your father right now and-"

"And what? He won't fuckin' pick up. He never picks up. Not since Mamma and Bianca died, right?" he said coolly, smirking as she tensed up.

"Don't you dare mention her-"

"Suck it up, he cheated on you with her. Twice. And then once more with Hazel's mom. Yet you hate me the most. How so? Why not hate the man who cheated on you, because you aren't enough?"

Persephone merely walked over and smacked his ashtray out of his hand, his smokes and lighter flying out the window with it.

A loud crash rang out as the crystal skull broke.

"Don't. Smoke. In. My. House. You. Insolent. Brat!"

Nico pushed her away, grabbed his satchel from where it was perched against the windowsill, and nodded, "Fine. Next time, I'll smoke in your room, and leave all the ashes in your makeup and burn holes through all your favorite dresses. Cunt."

She was about to smack him, he could tell, so he did what he always did when she attacked him.

He jumped out the window, landing in her garden and rolling to his feet. He smirked up at her, "I think I crushed those pretty tulips that just bloomed! Sorry!"

She started screaming at him, but he was already in the garage, starting up his motorcycle. He took off down the street, heading towards his favorite place in the world.

The graveyard.

When he got there, he parked his bike and tossed his helmet to the side, sitting on his haunches in front of the gravestones before him.

"Hey, Mamma, Bianca. It's been a while."

He sighed, moving to sit with his legs crossed.

"I know I shouldn't break her rules, and I know I shouldn't fucking snap at her and piss her off, but she does everything she can to hurt me. I hate it."

He could feel the tears starting to fall, hitting his hands which were clasped so tightly in his lap he swore he was about to snap his own fingers in half.

"I had the nightmare again, Mamma, about-" He stopped himself, choking back a sob.

"I miss you, Mamma, Bianca. Sometimes I... I just want to be emotionless, like a robot."

"Hey, Nico... I heard from Persephone what had happened, I'm sorry she broke your ashtray, I know how much it meant to you," Hazel said softly, sitting on the edge of his bed.

"Whatthefuckever, she can do what she wants..." Nico mumbled.

"You don't always have to be on top, you know," she replied, gently taking his hand in hers.

"I feel like I have to-"

"Because you can't show weakness, right? It's okay to be vulnerable, you don't have to act like the tough guy all the time."

Nico said nothing, merely stared out the window where his new plastic ashtray sat.

"You've been smoking a lot, lately."

"I know."

"You're just a baby, Nico. You shouldn't smoke so much..."

"I'm seventeen, Hazel."

"I know, but your lungs aren't fully developed yet."

"If I wanted advice, I'd go to a counselor or a medical professional," he snapped.

"...Better to be hated, than loved for what you're not," she said, before standing up.

He snatched his hand away, and she left, closing the door behind her softly.

It's been a year since he started watching the boys.

He sat perched on his window ledge as per usual, a new (although metal) skull ashtray sat in his lap. Persephone was gone, so she couldn't yell at him.

He stared out the open window, and noticed the black-haired boy and his friends were out front again, playing some demented form of tag.

The Latino looked up at him, and waved.

Despite his better judgment, he waved back.

He was just being polite, is all.

"Yo!" the blonde boy yelled, "Wanna play with us now?"

"What the fuck are you idiots even playing, anyways?" Nico questioned.

"TV Tag!" the black-haired boy said, smiling goofily.

Nico's heart stopped at that look on his face.

No, no. Not today. Begone, thoughts.

"What the fuck does that mean?"

The Latino stepped forwards, grinning wildly. Nico's heart did a flip.

"It's when you yell out a TV show name, and crouch down. The person can't idle by you, or tag you until you stand up. You can only crouch for ten seconds, though, but it's fair play to yell out another right afterwards!"

"That doesn't sound very fair at all, that should be illegal."

The blonde boy laughed, loud and booming. It made Nico's cheeks heat up.

Fuck, they're all hot.

"I like this kid!" he said.

The black-haired boy grinned, "Frank isn't here today, so if you want, you can fill in for him!"

Nico thought for a second, before putting out his smoke. He stood up, and promptly closed his window, disappearing from their sights.

"Awe, man! Percy, you scared him away!"

"I'm sorry, Jason, I didn't mean to! Besides, Leo probably did it, not me!"

"Hey! Jason, are you going to let him talk to me like that-"

"Gods, it's like watching a buncha old married couples. Maybe I should just go."

They all stopped talking, and turned to face Nico, who stood a few feet away, a smoke hanging from his lips.

"Smoking kills," the blonde boy- Jason, Nico recalled-, said.

"Exactly."

Jason made a choking noise at the blunt tone, and the Latino- Leo, the black-haired boy had called him- laughed.

"Cat got your tongue really good, eh, Superman?"

"Shut up, you stupid Christmas Elf."

"Jason, how could you?" he said, faking a sob. He turned to the black-haired boy, "Percy, are you going to let him talk to me like this?"

Percy rolled his eyes, "No, Repair Boy. Jason, play nice. Leo, stop being dumb."

Leo gave a gasp, falling against Jason. Jason caught him, rolling his eyes in turn.

Percy turned to look at Nico, "Hey, name's-"

"Percy," Nico said, smirking. "The blonde is Jason, and the tiny shit is Leo. I pay attention, you know."

Leo gave a cry, "You've embarrassed me in front of the hot goth! how could you!"

Jason dropped him, "Well, it does give Percy an advantage."

Nico stared at the three, "What?"

"Why do you think we've been spending so much time outside since we first noticed you?" Percy said, chuckling. "Me and Leo thought you were cute. Everybody's been trying to help both of us win a chance, well, except for Frank, who's apparently dating your-"

"Oh fuck no. That's Frank Zhang? Holy shit, that kid is dead-"

"Wait! He's really nice, we swear-" Jason said.

"No, he borrowed my Myth-O-Magic cards a few months ago from Hazel and spilled pop on them. Hazel's kept him away from my wrath for this long, but no more. Dead, he will be."

They all stared at him for a few moments, before collapsing to the grass in fits of laughter.

"That's why you want to murder him?" Leo said, wiping tears from his eyes.

"We... We thought-"

"That it was cause of what he said last year," Percy managed to get the whole sentence out, before giggling uncontrollably once more.

"I'm surrounded by idiots," Nico deadpanned.

"Yep, indeed."

"Wanna play that game?" he asked.

Leo's face lit up, "Si, indeed!"

They all stood up, exchanged looks, and then yelled in almost perfect unison, "NOT IT!" before taking off in different directions.

Nico soon learned physical activity was not meant to be done in skinny jeans.

"Hey, Mamma, Bianca."

It's been two months since he's last visited them. He'd been so busy running around with Leo, Jason, Percy, Grover (Percy's best friend), and Frank (who turned out to be really cool, even replaced his deck with a limited edition one), and had completely forgotten his promise to visit them every day.

The first time since he was ten, nonetheless. He's eighteen now.

"I made some... Ah, friends, I guess," he said, not sure how he felt about having friends.

The word tasted strange in his mouth, he doesn't think he's ever had any friends, not like the five friends he had made.

"...I kinda like them..."

"Awe, we like you too!" Leo Valdez said, appearing at his shoulder.

Nico almost had a heart attack, "What-? Why-"

Jason Grace, Percy Jackson, and Frank Zhang stood next to Leo, each with a bouquet of flowers. Nico stared at them all.

"My Mama died when I was seven, she was buried just over there," Leo said, smiling sadly, "Next to my twin brother."

"My mom died when I was about eleven, I think, I was abandoned outside this military facility- nobody claimed me-, so I didn't find out until I ran into my sister out on a mission with Leo, who I had picked up along the way with my girlfriend, Piper."

"And you?" he asked, turning to Percy.

"Here for emotional support," he said, brandishing two bouquets of red roses.

Nico stared at them all silently, "So-"

"Maria is a nice name," Leo said, sitting down next to where Nico sat hunched in front of the graves, "And if she had even a bit of your face on her, I bet she was gorgeous, too..."

Percy sat on the other side of him, placing a bouquet in front of the graves, "I'm sure Jason's mom won't mind. Bianca... That name sounds familiar. Was she an archer...?"

Nico nodded solemnly, "One of the best. At such a young age, she was already on the waiting list for the Olympics."

Percy went pale, "I knew her. I met her and you at a casino years ago."

"You- You were the boy with the blonde? That boy you left with was-"

"Grover, yeah. Annabeth is my other best friend, but nobody can compare to the G-Man."

Jason stood off to the side, and silently slunk off to his mother's grave.

Leo sighed, "Guess we've all met each other before, then. I remember her, too, she and Hazel used to play hide and seek with me and my brother Sammy Jr. all the time, up until he died."

"Sammy... Jr...? The kid she had a crush on?"

"Yeah, I had a crush on her, too, until I met my ex Calypso. Boy, that went to Hell-"

"-when he found out she had tried to seduce me while I was on-and-off dating Annabeth," Percy finished.

"Woah... We've got some fucked up connections, don't we?" Nico said, smirking.

"Yeah, we do," Percy replied, leaning back against the grass.

"Where'd Jason go?" Leo asked, looking around.

"Over here!" came the voice of the blonde.

"Oh, he's paying respects. Come on, Leo, let's go do that, too."

"...I'll come with, I can talk to them later," Nico said, standing up with the other two boys.

"Are you sure? You seemed to be having a decent one-sided conversation with the dead, Neeks," Leo said, chuckling silently.

"Yeah, yeah, Valdez. Let's go."

"Happy birthday, Baby Bat Wings!" Leo cried, waving a party streamer around.

Percy laughed and swung his arm around his shoulders, Leo following suit.

Soon enough, Nico had six boys hanging off of him, Jason, Frank, Grover, and Will Solace- who was the latest addition to their little group- soon joining in on the group hug.

Nico can't remember when he smiled so hard, but he'd gladly accept his face splitting in half if this was the reason why.

He blushed a deep crimson red as his two crushes, Leo and Percy, kissed each of his cheeks respectively.

"You've been hanging with the unloved kids a lot," Persephone accused, glaring at her step-son. "You've never really trusted or even liked them before, what happened?"

"He's just magnetic, he picks up all the loose pins," Hazel says, smiling sweetly at the wickedly bi-polar step-mother.

Persephone sniffed, "Yes, but he really shouldn't. I looked them all up, they all have criminal records or bad school reputations!"

"I'm nineteen now, Persephone. I can do whatever the fuck I want."

She got a wicked gleam in her eye at that, "Yes, you're right. So, you're an adult, now... Get the fuck out of my house.”

Nico stared at her, before turning to Hazel, "Can she do that?" he questioned, looking like he had just witnessed the most fucked up thing in history.

She shrugged, "'Dunno."

"Call Dad, then, see what he says!"

"He won't pick up the phone, and you know it," Persephone replied. "You have twenty-four hours to get the fuck out of my house, before I call the cops for thievery, breaking into my house, and vandalism!"

"Excuse the fuck you-"

She pulled out her phone, dialing 911. "Try me, Nico. Where's your mother to save you from my wrath now? I should have kicked you out as soon as you turned sixteen."

Nico glared, and rushed up the stairs, calling Leo to come get him. He grabbed all his clothes, pillows, and blankets and threw them out the window, packing his more fragile stuff and personal items into his multiple backpacks, his satchel, and his one suitcase, and dragged them all downstairs.

He spat in her face before leaving, Leo and Percy (who had offered his much bigger six-seater as a substitute for Leo's pick-up), helping him load up all his stuff.

They drove off, and Nico felt truly alive for once.

"Don't be so pathetic, Nico, just sing! Come on!"

"Shut up, Jackson, I will not-"

"You called?" Leo sang, prancing into the room, dressed entirely in Percy's clothes. He wore a black towel wrapped around his head.

Percy rolled his eyes, "Oh gods, not this again."

"Oh gods, not this again," Leo said in a mock imitation of Percy, "Look, I'm Perseus Jackson! All tough, all sexy! Dumb skater boy!"

Nico laughed, "He was a skater boy, she said seeya later boy-" he stopped himself, realizing he had been singing the lyrics.

The two boys stared at him, "Wow..."

"Such beauty," Leo said, smiling.

"Amazing..." Percy said, in awe.

Nico blushed, "Guys, come on... I'm not that good-"

"Better than Percy, he sounds like a dying whale!"

"You wound me, you shit."

"Suck it, Aquaman."

"When, where, how ha-"

Nico let out a squeak, "P-Percy!"

"Jealous, much?" the sea-green eyed boy said, smirking.

"I'm gonna be sick," Leo said, fake gagging.

"Both of you are dumb, absolutely not," Nico said, noticing how Leo's face lit up and Percy's face fell.

Oh boy, was he as smitten with them as they were with him.

Another nightmare, and Nico woke up screaming, thrashing at his blankets as he tried to sit up.

The sounds of footsteps came echoing down the hall, and Leo burst in, wearing nothing but a white tank top covered in grease stains and a pair of red Deadpool boxers, Percy appearing behind him wearing Superman pajama pants.

"What's wrong?" Leo asked, concerned.

Percy looked anxious, "Nightmares, buddy?"

Nico couldn't help it when he started crying, reaching out to them like a pathetic baby.

They both swooped in and hugged him, Percy settled behind him and Leo nestled up against Nico's chest, both mumbling soft, soothing words and holding him tight, but not too tightly as to trigger a flashback of any sorts.

"Mamma... Bianca... And I-"

"Shh, take your time..." Percy whispered, rubbing his cheek against Nico's hair.

"Yeah, Neeks, don't rush yourself."

"I felt so... Vulnerable... In that cave. We got stuck down there for a week on a field trip to Greece, there was this gas..."

Percy tightened his grip around Nico's waist, and Leo burrowed deeper against Nico's stomach, his cheek pressed against it.

Nico took a deep breath, before continuing.

"We were trapped for five days. Mamma... Got sick first. The gas created hallucinations, and... Her heart couldn't take the horrors. She started screaming about a lightning storm, shoved us out of the way, and then... She tripped and fell, landing face first on those ground spike things..."

Percy looked horrified, but Nico didn't see, so he continued on.

"Bianca got sick next. The smells really got to her. She thought she was in a metal scrap yard, and got... The ceiling collapsed on top of her," he said shakily, "I was left alone for the next three days, until they found me. I was malnourished and traumatized, and Dad... He left. Business trip after business trip.

"Last time he called me was when I was eleven... He said he wished I had died instead of Bianca, she wouldn't... She wouldn't have been as much of a failure as I am," Nico said, his whole body shaking as sobs wracked his body, occasionally breaking free.

He felt vulnerable, so very vulnerable.

"The noises were what fucked me up the most, mixed with the smells and hallucinations of monsters and demons and... And my dead family..."

He broke down entirely, turning slightly to latch onto Percy. Leo sat up and clung to them both in turn, tears of his own spilling down his cheeks.

"I'm so sorry," Leo mumbled, "I know what it's like to watch people you love die... I watched Mama and Sammy die in a fire... I started it..."

"I watched my mom get strangled to near-death as a kid... Stayed by her side in the hospital for a few days before I went off with Grover and Annabeth. Ran away to find the sick fucker who attacked her, this guy named Minotaur, he called himself..."

"We're all fucked up," Nico gasped, laughing silently.

"And vulnerable," Leo added.

"But that's good," Percy said, smiling softly through his own tears, "That means we aren't robots."

"Can you teach me how to feel?" Nico asked softly, "Can you turn my power back on...?"

"We'll try our fuckin' best."

After a year of living with the two, Nico said something that made the two boys stop and stare.

"I like you both. Fuck, I'm in love with both of you."

"What-" Leo questioned, ears going bright red.

"How-" Percy questioned, dropping his lucky pen Riptide, which he's had for years but never really used.

"I. Love. Both. Of. You," Nico said once again, even more bluntly than the first. "And I don't know how, I just know I do."

The two boys shared a look, before they both broke into huge smiles.

"Fuck. Yes," Leo said.

"So... How the fuck do we smash? Do we take turns or-"

"Percy!" Nico scolded, face flushing.

"Why don't we find out tonight?" Leo asked, smirking. "Would be a great way to celebrate our three-way."

"Wait, so-"

"Yes, Ghost King, I'd happily share you with Repair Boy," Percy said grinning.

"As long as I can be a bottom, I hate topping," Leo said.

Nico laughed, and instantly crashed onto the couch between them, moving the resumes they had been filling out.

The two snuggled up against him, and Nico smiled.

I am not a robot.

{La Fin}

~Ashton Bende

#perleico #percico #valdangelo #nico di angelo #percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #heroes of olympus #leo valdez #leo/nico/percy

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