#this is such a nice distraction from packing and stressing over moving thank you internet friends

[we-return-in-waves]

Sunflower emoji

who are you lovely anon?!! i haven’t gotten an anonymous message in years

i spend an entirely too large amount of time trying to envision what my online friends might look/sound/be like in person — what their smile might look like, their eye colour, how tall they are, what perfume/cologne they like to wear, the way they might walk and how their hands move. it’s one of those probably-definitely-extremely-weird mental pastimes but it brings me a completely unexplainable joy to try and imagine?

and then on the rare occasion i do receive or stumble across a photo or video im always so excited because it’s like for a moment that person is less an abstract concept and more… real? i don’t know if that makes sense. i just want to meet all my online friends and admire them and tell them how much i value them all the time dksjdhdjsjk

[jasmine-cottage-uk]

Aziraphale/Crowley prompt: one of them is hiding a secret talent from the other Can be as innocent or smutty as you like ;)

Back in September, the week before I got married and started grad school, I had the immense hubris to ask for fic prompts, and we all know how that went. Well the wedding is over and I dropped out of grad school so I’m now finally getting round to these. 

Darling @ineffably-effable - it took me a while to sort out what exactly the secret talent would be, but I hope you enjoy!

-----

“I’m back! What have you been up to?”

Shit. Aziraphale’s voice reverberates up the stairwell and into the sitting room above the bookshop where Crowley has been whiling away the afternoon, quite moodily, on his own. As footsteps indicate Aziraphale is ascending the staircase to the flat, Crowley stands, frantic. Had he not been so distracted, had he not been so focused on the task at hand he might’ve remembered that he could miracle the evidence of this away, but instead, like a proper dunce, he shoves the trappings of his activities under a couch cushion, rearranges the soft throw in such a way that it almost masks the fact that the cushion is now on a sharp angle.

“Did you hear me, I asked what you’d been–” Aziraphale stops as Crowley spins around and runs a hand through his hair, breath ragged. 

He places his hands on his hips in a fashion that he quite hopes communicates that he is extremely casual. “Oh, hi. Hello. I’m uh, just, shh, uh, hanging out.”

“My dear,” Aziraphale starts, voice laced in concern. “You seem winded. Are you quite alright?”

Crowley can feel his ears going warm and pink. These human bodies have a mind of their own. Defective, that’s what they are. “Yep. Just… peachy.”

“Oh, peachy? Now I know you’re up to something.”

Damn. He wasn’t sure when he had started adapting an Aziraphale-esque vocabulary when stressed, but it was the worst kind of give away.

Aziraphale’s eyes narrow, then land (very annoyingly) on the couch behind Crowley. He takes three steps, closing the space between them. He leans past Crowley for the blanket and Crowley, in desperation, launches a plan that is sure to be failsafe.

Placing his hands firmly on Aziraphale’s biceps, he pulls him in for a kiss. There is something a bit frenzied about it at first, Crowley’s tongue searching Aziraphale’s mouth, teeth nipping the sensitive flesh of Aziraphale’s lower lip in the way he knows his angel loved. 

Aziraphale melts into him, releases the smallest moan, and Crowley could almost forget that this (while being extremely nice) is a tactic, a strategy, a–

“Aha!”

“No!”

The bastard has beaten Crowley at his own game, slipped from the kiss and shoved his hand deep into the recesses of the couch. The blanket lies on the floor, discarded. In Aziraphale’s triumphant outstretched hand, he holds a ball of grey-blue yarn and two metal knitting needles entwined in a half finished project. It was about 18 inches of a simple ribbed scarf, and Crowley has been working on it every single time Aziraphale has left the apartment for about a week.

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, bringing the knitting to his chest and running his other hand down the demon’s arm. “Crowley.” His face goes soft like when he sees a very new baby. It’s unbearable.

-----

In the early nineties (1990s, to be clear) Crowley had created the must-have toy, strategically released in the months before the Christmas season. He liked to describe it as high concept, and he was terribly proud of it. Tickle-Me-Elmos? That had been Crowley. Furbys? All Crowley. Parents throwing fists in department stores, little Billy or Sally screaming bloody murder on Christmas morning because Santa hadn’t procured the one thing they had asked for. Bloody brilliant if you asked him. 

He had taken a break from the toy beat for a few years – quit while you’re ahead, you know – until he had a stroke of genius.

Fidget spinners.

Within the week something that hadn’t existed the month before was in the hand of every child. They were truly annoying and Crowley was impressed at his own brilliance.

Colour him surprised when it got back to him that they were, of all things, helpful. Apparently there were children that used them to help focus in school. Just needed something to do with their hands, was all. A discrete fidget spinner improved the classroom for all. That hadn’t been the point of course but humans were thoughtful, creative. His intention didn’t really matter once they got their hands on his work. 

Curious, he bought a spinner from a pound shop. A surprisingly heavy, metal contraption that made a pleasant whirring sound when it spun, pinched between his fingers. He found himself slipping it into his pocket when he left his flat, pulling it out when he was stuck in traffic, when he went to the movie theatre, when he was waiting for Aziraphale in the park. Lo and behold, having something to do with his hands soothed his constant nerves. He liked the ongoing and even humm, the moving of his fingers in repeated patterns.

But he got tired of the spinner eventually and went to the internet for alternatives. A YouTube video featuring a sunny lady named Brenda who lived in New England extolled the virtues of knitting, and so quietly, alone in his flat with his phone propped up for instructions and his television on a rerun of the Golden Girls he had seen maybe two hundred times, Crowley taught himself to knit.

-----

“You knit,” says Aziraphale, voice liquid warm and tender.

“Stop it,” Crowley responds, chest tight. He makes a useless grab at the knitting but Aziraphale takes a step back, holds it away.

“Don’t be embarrassed, my darling.” Aziraphale examines the beginnings of the scarf, rubs the soft wool between the pads of his immaculately manicured fingers. “This is very nice. When did you learn to do this? It’s excellent work for a first crack at things.”

“Don’t,” groans Crowley, uselessly. He’d be found out now, Aziraphale would never stop talking about it. He collapses back onto the couch, defeated.

Secretly of course, he loves this. Aziraphale’s excitement at the things Crowley does, the nice things, the thoughtful things, the things very unbecoming of a demon that lit him up in Aziraphale’s eyes. But he couldn’t be seen to like it, could he? He had a reputation to maintain.

“Where did you learn to do this, love?” Aziraphale sits beside him, still holding the scarf as if it were a holy relic.

“Internet,” Crowley grumbles, crossing his arms.

“How marvelous.” He hands the knitting back to Crowley, and smooths his hand along the demon’s leg, as if to say there, there. “You’ll have to make something for me when you’re up for it.”

Crowley looks at the hand on his leg, considers the angel it belongs to. He had loved him forever. Since the world was made. “I already made you something,” he says, pushing himself to standing.

In the closet there were boxes of Crowley’s things. Things he had brought to Aziraphale’s flat when he finally stopped paying for rent on the place in Mayfair. He’d never gotten around to unpacking them, because what did he need anyway, other than Aziraphale? 

Crowley unearths the box he’s looking for. An opaque plastic bin with a lid. Aziraphale hovers over his shoulder, curious as could be. With a dull pop, the lid comes off, revealing a packed mess of cable knit scarves, several pairs of woolen mittens, and a fair isle sweater that Crowley had knit and undone so many bloody times to make the pattern just so. They are all in Aziraphale’s colours. Beige and light blue and camel. 

“Oh,” breathes Aziraphale, something of reverence in his voice. “My dear boy.”

-----

They are at a coffee shop when the barista handing Aziraphale his cocoa quirks her head to the side and says “I like that scarf you’ve got on. Looks cozy.”

She is maybe just making polite conversation, angling for tips, but Crowley doesn’t care because the look on Aziraphale’s face is transcendent. Brighter than the sun, than twin stars, then any stupid lit up thing Crowley can think of.

Aziraphale brings his hand up, touches the ribbed scarf that does not go with the rest of his ensemble, and says “Thank you, my dear. My husband made it for me. He’s very talented.” His eyes flick to Crowley, mischievous and proud.

Crowley musters up a less than minor miracle to keep the all too human blush from rising to his cheeks. “Come on, angel. Let’s get you home.” He offers his arm to Aziraphale, and drags him back in the direction of the bookshop.

[where-dreamers-go]

“Literature And Conspiracies” Riley Poole x Reader

(A/N: Anon asked: “I’d love a Riley Poole x reader where she’s a professor of literature and Ben and Abigail set them up when he wants to do research for his book” -&

Not entirely sure if this was what you had in mind, but I hope it’s entertaining.

Word Count: 2,864)

“Riley seems a bit stressed lately,” Abigail spoke.

Abigail and Ben were enjoying a dinner at home surrounded by their love of history. History that took over the house from the floor to the ceiling.

“It’s his book he’s planning. Well…writing.” Ben took a sip of his drink. “He knows what he wants to write about, but he needs to find the right sources, set it in a proper format and….I might know someone that can help. I can send her an e-mail.”

“She?” Abigail quirked an eyebrow.

“I met her at the (__) lecture last week. She’s a professor of literature.”

“Oh. Do you think she’d be willing to help Riley? Professors have their own research to do, Ben.”

“I know, I know. Although, she seemed nice….in a friendly normal way.” He gave his thoughts aloud. “Riley shouldn’t be too distracted.”

Abigail rose her eyebrows with a smirk.

. . . 

“Awh, come on, Riley. They already answered back and they’d be happy to help you.”

“Ben, you didn’t think to ask me first before you made an appointment at some school?” Riley rolled a pencil across the table between them. Books stacked haphazardly across the surface.

“The thought did occur.”

“Ben. I can find someone or…search online how to format my book. It’s what that professor will probably scold me about when I get there.”

“No. I already said they’re nice.” Ben watched as Riley moved aside another book. “Her name’s (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

Thump

Ben smiled triumphantly.

. . . 

You deleted another e-mail as you sat behind your desk. Filling any minute of free time with small tasks was skill you’d acquired through many years in school. Although having your own office was definitely a perk in its own right.

Knock knock

“Come in,” you called and closed out of the Internet browser.

“Hello.”

In walked a brunette man in a dark navy jacket and backpack straps visible over his shoulders.

“Hello,” you stood from your seat and extended your hand. “I’m (Y/N) (Y/L/N). You must be…”

“Riley,” he grasped your hand in a light shake. “Uh. Riley Poole.” He released your hand and shrugged off his backpack before sitting down.

You returned to your seat.

“Nice to meet you, Mister Poole. I understand from your friend’s e-mails that you’re writing your first book.”

“Yeah—yes, I am.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“That’s exciting,” you smiled. “Are there any questions you might have? Regarding research and sources, perhaps?”

“Ye—…a lot actually.”

“Oh, well in that case, let’s start with the subject of your book. That will help move things forward.”

Mister Poole changed his position on the chair more than once. His eyes looking passed you in an attempt to delay the inevitable. Taking a short breath, he returned his blue-eyed gaze to you.

“Government conspiracies and urban legends.”

Your eyebrows rose at his unexpected response.

Conspiracy theories and urban legends were anything but boring to you. Sure, it wasn’t something you discussed with co-workers. You were a professor of literature for crying out loud, and conspiracy theories were not lighthearted conversations to have while walking into the building in the morning. 

“That sounds like a deep subject with many specific ideas to pick out. Most definitely a large subject to write about, that much is certain. It’s brave and intriguing. Especially to anyone interested in theories, urban legends, and history to connect them together.”

“Yes…exactly.” He straightened up and gauged your expression. “You’re not…making fun of it…?”

“No, not at all, Mister Poole. Every writer has their own right in what to have in their work. Added that both legends and conspiracy theories are quite intriguing in their own rights. I, myself, enjoy the more ancient theories in the world.”

“Oh. Okay then.” Riley seemed genuinely surprised and more relaxed by your reaction.

You smiled at him.

The following minutes ticked by without the attention of you nor Mister Riley Poole. Time was spent talking, discussing, giving him suggestions, suggested websites, and a library nearby with good resources. All the while, he took notes and you two shared knowledge on theories, if only partially. It was easy to talk with him. Fun even.

When your eyes happened to check the time on the clock, you realized you needed to grab your things and head over to teach a class soon. Extremely soon.

“Shoot,” you muttered under your breath.

“Hmm?” Mister Poole glanced up from his notes.

“I have a class in seven minutes.” You started shutting down your computer and reached over for your bag. “It was a delight to speak with you today. I’m glad we had a chance to meet, Mister Poole.”

“It was nice to meet you.”

He gathered all of his belongings and shoved them into his backpack in one go. Standing up, Mister Poole shrugged on his bag.

You stood away from your desk with your bag hanging off of your shoulder.

“If you should need any more assistance with your book,” you plucked a business card off of your desk, “please don’t hesitate to contact me.” Extending your hand, you handed him your card.

He took a glance at it.

“I teach most of the afternoon in either lectures or meetings, however I do get off work after four thirty. Again, please don’t hesitate to contact me,” you smiled.

“Thank you.”

“Not a problem.”

Stepping around the wooden desk, you followed him out of your office.

“I hope to see you again, Mister Poole.” You said as you turned to lock the door.

“Me too.”

His smile was soft and genuine.

. . .

Back home, Riley called his best friend, Ben Gates.

“So, how did everything go?”

“Great actually. Although, you could have mentioned that she was pretty.”

“Now, Riley, why would I do that?”

“Because it would have prepared me to focus more on my notes.”

“You took notes? Good.”

“Ben.” Riley paced around his living space.

“Oh, come on. You can handle being around another person.”

“Yeah, I know that, but I didn’t expect to be telling a cute and smart person what I’m having difficulties with in writing a book about conspiracy theories.”

“So you told her?”

“Yes, she took it really well. I think she was serious. Didn’t bring up Bigfoot or anything like that.”

“That’s good. Did you get all of your questions answered?” Ben asked.

“Pretty much, and she said that if I needed any more help, that I can contact her,” Riley flipped the small business card between his fingers.

“She gave you her number?”

“In case I need more help. Yes. Also that she works basically all day until four thirty.”

“Call her after four thirty,” Abigail’s voice came through the phone.

“Uh, hi,” Riley said and sat onto the couch. “Why?”

“Ask if she is busy after work, but call at four forty, so that way she has some time to herself after leaving work. And you don’t want to seem too desperate.”

“Desperate? What are you two talking about?” Riley spoke louder into the phone. “I can handle writing a book.”

. . .

You sipped from a refreshing drink at a back table at a pizza place just off of the school campus. Surprisingly, Mister Riley Poole had called you a quarter to five and asked if you were busy after work. He was a bit short on words, but he had said he had more questions in regards to gathering proper research for his book.

With no papers to grade and not minding helping him once more, you had accepted.

The pizza place had a slow flow of hungry students and other pizza-lovers. Silverware clinking onto plates and glassware thunking onto the tables.

Hungry as you were to order pizza, you were patient. This was your time off the clock, which gave you breathing room. You were keeping an eye out towards the entrance of the place as you waited for Riley Poole. Hands rubbing together and fiddling around as time ticked away. Although, once your eyes spotted a familiar navy jacket, you figured Riley was not one to be late. That was refreshing.

He walked inside and gave the place a once-over. It took him a few moments to spot you in the back.

Standing up, you waved Riley over after gaining his attention.

The man smiled before weaving through the tables and people to reach you. Lacking his backpack from earlier in the day seemed to have made his task a little easier.

“Hi,” he smiled once more.

“Hi again.”

You both automatically sat down across from one another. The metal chair legs screeching against the flooring.

“How was your day?” You asked.

“Ah��good. Sorting my notes. They were really helpful. You were really helpful.” He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

“It’s not a problem. Really.”

You looked passed Riley as a server approached your table.

“Hello,” they greeted with a notepad in hand and looked to Riley. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Oh, uh—. Water would be fine.”

“Okay.” They scribbled a note down. “And are you two ready to order?”

“Yes.” You and Riley answered simultaneously. It briefly dazed you even as an amused smile curved your lips.

Riley pulled on the trim of his jacket.

The both of you had finished ordering a pizza of your choice. Leading to open conversation as you would wait for dinner.

“Did…did your lectures—class go good?” Riley asked, fingers clasped tightly on the table.

“Yeah, they did. I did two lectures today. Although I did end up going over time—not that the class had ended and I went on and on.” You explained, “I didn’t stop as early as I would have liked. About five minutes before class ends. I like to give my students time to take notes and actually pack their things before they have to head off to another class, get lunch, or…well some have a job too.”

“That’s really considerate. Don’t some teache—professors go until time’s up? Getting all their time in?”

“Some do. I mean the ones I had, but I don’t have to worry about that anymore.” You grinned, a light and relieved feeling in your chest. “I have my own classes and my own way of running a class. Which means I know that students have more than one class and an actual life.”

He sat mirroring your grin. Little crinkles beside his eyes.

“Was becoming a professor your type of rebelling against them?”

You barked a laugh louder than you would have preferred.

“In a way,” you pressed your lips together to hide another grin. “I also give advice sometimes. It’s not exactly what they go in expecting. They…they call it ‘words of wisdom’, but only on Wednesdays. I just….say what actually happens or had happened. They need someone to be real with them. What actually happens in the world outside of school. It’s something I would have really benefited from.”

“Could you give an example?”

“Uh. Maybe something it terms of…Well, let’s say I was telling them to find good sources for a paper. Right? I can’t just say, ‘go forth’, I need to give them a better direction. Where to find it and more importantly why. So I’ll probably go on a mini rant about why finding a source and a reliable one is so important. Telling them how if they were to read someone’s paper to learn something, but then realize that more than half of it was not factual or wasn’t checked properly, that they’d feel cheated. That goes for fiction too, but it needs to have some foundation and have its own rules.”

You took a moment to breath after that half-winded explanation. Looking to the man across from you, he seemed thoroughly interested and not lost from your words. In fact, Riley looked somewhere between amused and impressed.

“Though…um…,” you grabbed your glass, “that’s probably a topic more related to the class. Unlike, where to go have your taxes done.”

“Is that why you have a lecture hall and not a classroom? Like, there’s always a lot of students?”

“A part. Maybe. But being a professor sure helps.” You took a sip of your drink.

“Do you prefer a lot of students—all in one class?” He asked, leaned on the table’s edge.

“More students, more learning, but…I’d really prefer a small class size so that each student had a better opportunity for one-on-ones. But everyone’s rotating between classrooms and lecture halls. I want to help, just that everyone is almost always rushing around the campus needing to do something. Like that of one class that could not wait for someone to calmly leave another.” You exhaled, “the class I teach is generalized and therefore made into a lecture hall style.”

“That su—.”

“Here you go,” the server returned and gave Riley the drink he ordered. After a short moment, they left the table once more.

“So,” you started, “what about you? Anything you’re glad changed in your life?”

His dark eyebrows rose as he took a long drink of the water.

“…Too personal?” You asked.

“No,” he coughed. “No, I..uh..I actually…well let’s just say I was stuck in a cubicle for a while.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, no, it’s better now. Great actually. Who knew treasure hunting with my best friend would work out in the long run.” He offered a smile.

Ah, he must mean the Templar’s treasure, you thought. He hadn’t brought that up at the meeting earlier. Not the bragging type. Cool.

You had already met Ben Gates, Riley Poole’s best friend, the week prior at a lecture. Therefore, you knew that Riley was involved with finding the treasure, but that wasn’t something you were going to bring up in conversation out of the blue nor during a meeting to help him know where to source proper research. It would have been really odd and unprofessional if you did.

“Is the Templar’s treasure something you’ll put into your book?” You asked.

Riley’s eyes widened only for a second before answering, “I will. It’s a large historical find.”

“Added that the treasure is something a lot of people are still talking about. I’m sure it’ll be studied and talked about for years. So…maybe being the first to write about it will be really good. Get your foot already in the door.”

“Exactly.”

There was something endearing about how he talked about his future book. The hint of joy and deep knowledge in his eyes.

“So…may I ask what happened? I mean, I’ve read the articles and I talked briefly with Mister Gates, but was it really like a movie? Adventure, clues, and danger?”

His fingers played against his glass of water as he sat up straighter.

“There were definitely a lot of clues. That’s all we started with, finding the Charlotte, but then Ben and I were running between staying alive and getting to the Declaration of Independence. Our main…objective was to save the Declaration of Independence. We couldn’t let Ia—the other people harm the Declaration, looking the next clues on the back.”

“On the back of the Declaration? Huh…You never know I guess.”

Your attention veered over as the waiter arrived with a tray of pizza.

“It’s hot,” they warned. They set the silver tray on the table’s end before walking off again.

Like the two hungry adults that you were, you each grabbed your own slice.

Once yours was on your plate, you dabbed the pizza at least three times with napkins. You ordered pizza, not grease.

About a minute of salivating into your meal later, you continued into a conversation with Riley.

“At least everything worked out in the end.”

“Huh?” He looked up from taking a bite of pizza.

“With the Templar’s treasure. You were all okay.”

“Oh, yeah. Thank goodness for stairs and not being charged for anything was nice. That would had been great.” He made a face looking elsewhere before taking another bite of pizza.

This Riley Poole appeared to be quite the sarcastic, smart, funny, and not to miss acknowledging his seemingly random knowledge about topics. You were starting to think that if you spent anymore time with him, that you’d like him in a different way.

Kindly, you pushed the small stack of napkins in his direction.

He smiled. Then the pizza slice broke away from the crust and dropped to the plate. He made an unamused sound in his throat.

Nevermind. That boat had set sail.

You took a long sip of your drink.

“You can call me, (Y/N). This isn’t exactly a strict setting,” you said, breaking through the calm quiet that fell between you.

. . .

“So…I just realized something.”

“What?” He asked.

“We never spoke about resources or anything,” you mused with a smile.

“Oh.” His shoulders fell two inches along with his happy grin.

You laughed at the genuine realization on his face.

“Maybe we can…?” He scratched behind his neck.

“Try this again?”

“Yeah.”

“I’d like that.”

~~~

(If you love my writings and want to support me, I have a Ko-Fi where you can buy me a coffee. I would be eternally grateful. coffee

Best wishes and happy reading.)

[writings-of-dumpy]

The Princess and the Pirate - Chapter 4

A/N: What’s a Descendants fic without a bit of kidnapping after a day of pining?

“Bye, mum! Bye, dad!” I said goodbye to my parents as they headed out for spring break to Arendelle.

“Bye, darling! Have fun on your trip, too!” my mother said to me as she left with my father.

I smiled and headed back to my dorm where Evie was frantically packing. It had been a full three months since the engagement ball and Evie had become increasingly stressed by the day. She and Ben were to get married once school was over, and with only two more months until her wedding date, everything was chaos for the Queen-to-be.

“Evie. This trip is supposed to be a distraction, not an even bigger stressor,” I told her as I watched her pack her suitcase for the twelfth time.

“Well.. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to the Isle and I’m not sure if everyone there will like me and Ben’s last trip to the isle didn’t go well at all…” Evie said frantically.

“Evie… It’s going to be alright. Just relax and enjoy the beach like you’re supposed to,” I calmed. Evie took a deep breath with me and nodded. “Yeah, you’re right… The second I see Ben, everything is going to be totally fine.”

“Exactly. This trip is for you and Ben… and apparently the rest of the school,” I mused.

Evie giggled and hugged me. The entire student body met by the bridge to Isla New Auradon, and once everyone was accounted for, we all began to walk across the bridge.

“So, who did you end up rooming with since Evie and Ben are bunking together?” Carlos asked me on the way.

I shrugged. “Whoever is left, I suppose.”

“Hey, that’s what Harry said, too! You guys should room together,” Jay said and smiled.

“I guess so,” I said and smiled at Harry, who I found was walking next to me. He smiled at me and we all kept walking.

“Didn’t think I’d be back here so soon... But it feels like a lifetime,” Harry commented once we reached the cabins by the beach on the Isle.

“Ray, you’re in the cabin next to mine and Ben’s!” Evie shouted from a few meters away at the doorstep of her cabin. I could tell that she was much calmer now.

I smiled and walked with Harry to the cabin adjacent to Evie and Ben’s.

“I swear t’God if I hear even one peep out’a ye, I’m comin’ over with the hose, got it?” Harry jokingly threatened Evie and Ben, who then laughed and went into their cabin.

I playfully shoved Harry and rolled my eyes. “Don’t be crass.”

Harry laughed and opened the door, then allowed me to enter first. The room looked nothing like a cabin on the inside. There was a huge king-sized bed off to one side of the room and on the other side there was a closet, bathroom and small kitchen space. The cabin’s interior was more like a hotel suite than a cabin on the beach.

“Well, that complicates things a bit,” I said, gesturing to the one bed in the room.

“Wha, ye don’t want te cuddle me?” Harry joked and feigned a pout.

I blushed and rolled my eyes. Of course I wanted to, but I couldn’t let him know that. Ever since the night of the engagement ball, Harry and I have been closer than ever, which made the feelings I harbor for him even more of a burden and pain in my chest.

“Come on, we’re adults,” I said, completely giving up and setting my stuff on one side of the bed. Harry set his belongings on the other side and then changed into his swimsuit to meet the guys on the beach. Being as vampirically pale as I am, half of my suitcase was sunscreen products. I changed into my swimsuit and loaded up my bag and met Evie outside her cabin.

“That’s so cute, is it new?” she asked me and gestured to my black one-piece with an open back.

“Nope, had it for years, but I’ve never used it! Yours looks totally new!” I commented on her blue and white two-piece.

“Thank you! It’s what I’ve been sewing!” she said.

We smiled and linked our arms together and walked to the beach, following behind the boys.

“Uma, you don’t have a swimsuit?” Lannie asked her girlfriend.

“I do, but it’s under my clothes,” Uma responded. “Also, if I’m not careful, my tentacles will take over the beach, so I might stay out of the water today.”

“Oh, come on, give yourself some credit! You’ve got full control over those, my sea queen,” Lannie encouraged her with a peck on the cheek and an endearing embrace.

We claimed a spot on the beach and laid our towels down. I looked over and saw that the boys were already about six meters out beyond the shoreline. I saw Harry and Carlos begin a splash war and Ben and Jay join in quickly.

“Sometimes I think they just wander off into their own world…” Lannie noted with her eyes on the group of men. We all giggled at that. Suddenly, we could no longer see Ben or Harry, but then they both emerged from the water and were walking towards the dry sand where Evie and I sat. I looked Harry over and I felt a blush come across my face. He had told me about how he, Jay, and Ben had started going to the gym on campus more and it showed. His muscles were toned and defined, but not overly bulky. His eyeliner stayed on perfectly thanks to a trick Evie taught him and his hair looked like a disheveled wet mess, but on him it was god-like. Over all, I hadn’t ever seen Harry look so... downright hot. I felt guilty for objectifying him in this way to myself, but I couldn’t help but stare at how incredible he looked with seawater running down him and his shorts hanging dangerously low on his hips, weighed down by the water the fabric had absorbed.

“Hey, wait—AH! Ben!!” Evie screamed as Ben scooped her up and carried her into the water.

I laughed and then felt wet and strong arms lift me bridal style and I saw Harry’s cheeky grin close to my face. His breath was surprisingly sweet smelling and his cocky smile made my heart melt. He was so close to me that if I had moved towards him, his lips would be on my cheek.

“Care for a swim?” he asked in a sing-song tone and started to walk towards the water. I barely had time to catch my breath before Harry sunk down into the water and pulled me with him.

When we surfaced, there was laughter all around and Uma yelled, “Every time a man flirtatiously throws a woman into a body of water, the Devil himself cries a single joyous tear of axe body spray, okay?!”

“You stole that from the internet!” Jay accused.

Uma raised her arms as if to challenge the larger man and laughed. I giggled and realized that despite being in water, Harry’s hand was still placed on the small of my back, which sent a shiver down my spine.

“Cold?” Harry asked me when I turned to him.

I shook my head. “No, it’s like 100 degrees on this island.. The water is nice. I wonder what kind of aquatic life are in here…”

Harry laughed and shook his head. “Always thinking.”

After a pleasant afternoon spent on the beach and in the ocean, our group decided to host a campfire with s’mores on the beach. Evie and I dragged logs to sit on while Jay and Carlos started the fire. The rest went to grab supplies for s’mores and extra blankets. As night settled in, the air got colder and colder and I was soon shivering in just my swimsuit and coverup.

Once the fire was lit and rolling, Harry sat next to me on a log and wrapped a blanket around me.

“Thanks, I actually was cold this time,” I mused, which earned me a smile from Harry as he rubbed my back and pulled me against his side. I felt safe there in Harry’s arms. The way the fire lit his face made butterflies in my stomach form, so I forced myself to look away in fear of revealing my feelings for him to anyone who happened to glace over at me.

The group talked and made s’mores and we all stayed on the beach well past when we were probably supposed to, but we were all having such a great time just being together. It felt natural to me to be in Harry’s embrace and despite various teasing looks from Uma, Lannie, and Evie, Harry’s arm remained around my waist. Before long, I fell into a blissful slumber with my head on his shoulder.

~Harry~

“Oh I know for a fact that did not happen,” Uma corrected Jay’s story of valor that he had concocted to impress Celia.

“How do you know? You weren’t there!” Jay challenged.

Uma laughed. “You know, Tourney matches usually have audiences…”

Jay blushed in embarrassment and Harry laughed and looked to the woman in his arms to see if she also found Jay’s storytelling amusing. He noticed her head had fallen onto his shoulder and her body had completely relaxed against his, and he soon found out why—she had fallen asleep. Harry couldn’t blame her, though, it was quite late.

“Dude, just marry her already,” Carlos joked in Harry’s direction.

Harry sent him a dirty look and threw a marshmallow at him. “We’re jus friends, ye know that.”

Uma groaned. “Yeah, okay, lover boy… But Ray’s got a point—I’m hitting the hay.”

“Yeah, we should all turn in before it gets too late. Good night, see you guys tomorrow!” Evie said and waved to them all.

Instead of waking her, Harry gently placed his arms under Rayla’s sleeping form and carried her to the cabin they shared. Harry’s heart was beating loudly as he held her so close to him. He could feel the breaths she took and smelled her coconut lotion that she had applied to her porcelain skin hours before. Harry smiled and set her on the bed they were to share for the next week. For a moment, he was lost in her beauty and cleared a strand of auburn hair from her face as she slept peacefully. He couldn’t help but leave his fingers on the side of her cheek for just a moment longer and wondered if he’d ever get a chance like this again. He knew she only saw him as a friend, and probably a dumb student given that he didn’t even know how to read or write before she generously offered to teach him. He sighed and decided that this incredible moment had to end before he hurt worse—he knew he couldn’t have her because she didn’t want him.

“You’ll be the death of me, I swear, siren,” he muttered to himself before stepping into the bathroom to shower the salt and sand away. He heard movement outside of the bathroom and surmised that Rayla had awoken and decided to change. He got out of the shower and dried himself, then threw on a pair of boxer briefs and headed into the main room.

“Hey, sleeping beauty, did.. Ray?” Harry spoke and then noticed that the door was open and Rayla was nowhere to be seen. He walked out the door and looked up and down the beach.

“Rayla?” he called. He noticed large footprints in the sand and what appeared to be blood next to them.

Harry’s pulse quickened and he ran towards the beach only to be met by Ben, who was already there.

“Ben! Have you seen Rayla? She’s not in the cabin, I think she’s hurt, there was—”

“Evie’s gone too. They left a note…” Ben said through tears and handed Harry a handwritten note.

The note read: Bring the spellbook and dust to Skull Rock if you ever want to see your precious Queen of Auradon and princess of Arendelle again. We have a score to settle.

[ecotone99]

[RF] Morning Chemo

I open my eyes to the light streaming through the lace curtains, it must be morning. My shaved head is cold again, the hoodie I sleep in has slipped down to my neck bunching with the scarf I wear everywhere, a gift from a good friend. Extracting my arm out from under the pillow where it sleeps I pull the hoodie back over my head and snuggle deep into my blankets. Its been getting colder the last few weeks, I don't really like the cold, I am probably a lizard.

At some point after dozing and mentally going over my day I realise that I need to actually figure out the time; I need to check my social media for updates; I need to check the news for any interesting developments. Scratch that, they are useless time wasters in this never ending waste of time I occupy these days, somewhere between lazy, procrastinate, and cancer side effects, the cancer side effects being the lesser of the three. I roll over and fumble for my phone, it is in the usual spot on my bed, attached to the charging cable, good! I have batteries. The teenage cat, Atticus, that sleeps next to me has long since woken up to chase imaginary creatures around the house. I Reorient myself, press buttons, swipe patterns, open the browser. Screen glare in the morning is unpleasant, and so is the lack of new information since I grudgingly put my phone down hours before. What did I expect? refresh. refresh. Didn't I want the time? oh yeah. its early, and I don't need to get up. I roll over and snuggle the blankets.

At some point, either when I reach peak boredom, get a pang of hunger, feel my bladder, hear the sounds of house-mates(preferably accompanied by the sounds of a kettle) or just because, I pull the blanket off my body, rotate ninety degrees and melt off the exceptionally high bed into a standing position. With the change in orientation comes the sensation of my organs pressing up against my bladder, time to find the loo, is my genitalia appropriately covered? My friends don't care, I could probably walk out naked and they would wink and tease me in good nature. Like a morning zombie looking for brains in a mug of coffee I stumble forwards bleary eyed into the kitchen, a pink nightgown is at the bench facing away from me, I mutter good morning before moving towards the loo. I'm wearing my fisherman's pants, so a little re-arrangement and I'm focused on the stream and the sensation of relief, so practised over so many years, of making as little noise as possible, pondering to myself how so many times at work there is piss all over the floor, what are they doing? do I even want to know? Fisherman's pants don't always cooperate with me when it comes to re-arranging and I may need to undo and re-do them entirely, juggling my hoodie out of the way, it's an awkward dance. The blue hand wash is almost empty.

The zombie feeling persists, I stumble out of the loo looking for the pink dressing gown, It will be sitting at the kitchen table, at the kitchen bench, in the study. I reach out and embrace it, hugs are an important part of our morning ritual, a grey tracksuit appears, another hug, a pair of underwear, another hug. each one with its own special style, each one with its own need for affection to bring us back from the dead of unconsciousness. one more person exists in the house, with a large smile like Totoro, I don't know this person well enough for a morning hug.

"Anyone for a coffee" the underwear asks, "yep", "yes please", "yes thanks babe" come the answers, soon I will not be a zombie, the feeling is already fading, the coffee will remove the last vestiges of the undead, like decapitating it after beating it and filling it full of gunshots. While I wait for my doom, I'm going to just lay down on this couch and enjoy the voices of the humans.

More mundane stuff happens, some arrangements are made.

I've just sat on the couch again, dressed in comfortable clothing, laptop and drugs in bag, "Alright, time to go!" my best friend Annie says with a smile. Up I hop walk down the corridor, give the fluff monster Atticus a race, and then a cuddle before picking up the sunglasses and helmet from Annie who waits at the front door for me. We talk constantly to each other but about normal every day things. She re-arranges the bike as I put the sunglasses on and pull on the open faced bike helmet, I swing a leg over, grab her backpack and put it on, secure belongings around myself, my feet are on the back forks and my hands are around her waist. she gives the engine a little rev and we lift off from the driveway into the street, I feel the rush of g-forces as we lurch forwards, I feel the vertigo of sideways motion as we corner around the car park making our way to Prospect Road, and as we merge with traffic the chill of the air on my face as we pick up speed. Annie's warm body in front of me is comforting the chill air is refreshing, the speed up and slow down of traffic exhilarating. I'm not sure it would be as fun if I was by myself on the bike. The wind finds its way easily behind the sunglasses making my eyes water. it's the best way to travel to chemo.

I stride through the entryway with my confident swagger learned from years of dancing, chest out, chin high, after all, today is the best of the days I have left. Up the elevator I wait, walk with confidence to the cancer day centre, I've been here many times before, and am lucky to have not been here too many times like the people I see around the ward, years into treatment. At the main counter I greet the staff with a cheeky smile, and get my wristband attached for the party ahead. 5 minutes in the waiting room, the TV is off, maybe they listened to me? a random staff member calls my name and greets me as the person who will be taking care of me today. I try to remember their names, it's not easy. I make small talk, I want this person to like me, I want them to feel good about their job, I hope they aren't too stressed or distracted. We choose a chair for me to occupy for the hours I will be here, I sit down, plug in my laptop power, arrange my equipment and take off my shoes, it's important to be comfortable. My nurse brings over a little tray, a strap and some other bits and bobs to insert the cannula, she explain that blood results take 40 minutes, and we need to test before starting treatment, we check my name tag multiple times, and then comes the apology for the stinging. The insertion of the cannula is interesting in that I truly feel that the nurses are always upset that they need to stick you with needles, they are always gentle and over my time have only messed up once, the pain from the needle is entirely intellectual it hurts, but it's not dangerous. They hold my hand, strap my arm and ask me to clench my fist a few times before relaxing in a fist, they touch my arm gently inspecting the veins, able to detect things i can only imagine, they settle on a spot to insert the device, and then swab the area. I ask them about their week, how their schedules are tracking today, try to find some way to interact, often time I feel they keep themselves at arms length for good reason. They apologise and with a sharp intake in breath I indicate that what they are doing hurts, and then it's done, they connect tubes like its lego, extract some blood and then hook up a drip of saline before attending to other people.

I spend the next hour on my laptop browsing the internet again, being bored, wanting to study but unable to concentrate, oh well, sometimes I get in 10 minutes of productivity. A friendly and familiar nurse named Shafi walks past and says hi. Then Lou, Peter, Jess and more I can't remember. The volunteer staff ask me whether I would like some soup, what flavour? tomato, chicken and corn, beef, vegetable. I refuse most days, and ask for apple juice instead, it helps with the taste of the chemo drugs.

During the whole thing friends and family visit and sit next to me, we converse, it's good to have company, it's a blur.

My bloods come back good, and within a few minutes the chemo drugs are here, being hooked up to the pump stand, the tubes all being connected together like some weird irrigation system, maybe I will grow into a nice ripe fruit? begin the pumps, refrigerated liquid pumped into my arm at too high a rate is uncomfortable, so I ask the nurse to slow it down. The taste in the back of my throat is like the back of a chemical cupboard in the shed, so I sip on apple juice, I try to keep myself busy on my laptop, browsing things, trying to program, talking to staff, talking to visitors. Did they stick the tubes into my bladder? extracting myself from blankets, laptop cables etc, I take my robotic companion pump to the loo with me, several times a day. Clickity clack, clickety clack, the pumps talk to each other plotting their eventual take over of the human race for world dominance. I browse the room, looking into the windows of other people's lives who are also touched by cancer, mums and dads, sisters and brothers, families are there, mostly old people, there's nobody I can relate to, no friends to make. The time wears on, my pump suddenly gets all huffy and starts beeping, the nurse comes over and calms it down with some caressing of its face. My body bulges from the extra two litres pumped into my veins, it's not as intense as the first time.

It doesn't take long, between 2-4 hours I am finished and I can escape the robotic pump overlords. they pack up the chemo bags and tubes and throw them in a purple bin, they untape and slide out the cannula, and always press too hard on the cotton wool bud intended to stop the flow of blood from my veins, seriously calm down. and then i'm free to go. I stumble back to reality, down the lift, out the doors and into the street.

Tomorrow its likely I will get a lift home, but when I go to work, or when I catch a bus home I have a surreal experience of having quite serious medical shit going on and the world being completely oblivious to me, like if you were a super hero, nobody would know or care for everyday shit, I guess clark kent had it right with the glasses.

submitted by /u/enetheru [link] [comments] via Blogger http://bit.ly/2Jv5nWq