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shih-coulda-had-it · 3 years

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This is not officially from the tropes list, but... Third Wheel/Not A Date with Inko and Toshinori, featuring Gran Torino as the shortest and oldest third wheel known to man.

All Might - no, he’d introduced himself as Yagi Toshinori, so it would only be polite to refer to him as Yagi in public - called Inko two weeks into U.A.’s endeavor to protect their students. Politely, he asked if she would like to have lunch and talk about Izuku’s situation in further detail.

Inko, being a widowed housewife experiencing a severe case of empty nest syndrome, only hesitated for a few seconds on whether to accept.

Did teachers normally arrange parent-teacher conferences outside of the school?

Surely not. Yet Izuku was a special case; Inko didn’t think other parents received a one-to-one visit from All Might.

“Midoriya-san?”

“Yes,” she hurried to agree. “Would you prefer to eat in private? I could visit the school grounds, if you think that would be safer.”

“Well,” Yagi said, just a tad nervously, “I believe your comfort should be of higher priority. I’ve invited my own teacher - the pro-hero whom Midoriya-shonen interned with - to share some insights into Midoriya-shonen’s capabilities.”

“Oh,” said Inko, but before she could respond, there was a brief yelp of surprise.

And then, a gravelly voice. “Hello. This is Gran Torino. If it’s no trouble, we’ll visit you. Visitor protocols at U.A. eat up too much time. Toshinori will bring take-out from Lunch Rush, won’t he?”

“I - yes, of course, but - Gran Torino, please don’t drop my phone - ”

“That works for me,” said Inko, blindsided by the fact that All Might could be cowed into emitting a teenage-like whine. She tried to recall Izuku’s internship week, but in a year where it seemed every other week was an escalation of danger, Izuku’s time spent with Gran Torino did not register immediately.

“Anything Toshinori can get for you?” Gran Torino asked briskly, to the tune of Yagi straining to recover his phone.

“Ah… anything simple will do? Katsudon?”

“Hn. We’ll see you soon.” A perfunctory click punctuated Gran Torino’s goodbye, and Inko bewilderedly set her phone down. A second visit from All Might? Accompanied by All Might’s own teacher?

Inko stared at her home and the accumulated clutter of two weeks’ worth of arts and crafts, her attempt to distract herself from Izuku’s chosen career. Then she sprang into action.

“Leave your jacket,” barked Torino, leaning hard on his gimer stick.

Toshinori, burdened with carrying both the take-out Lunch Rush had thoughtfully whipped up and a thick binder full of his and Torino’s collected observations about Midoriya Izuku, was obliged to set down everything. He stripped off the yellow blazer and draped it over a chair.

“The tie, too?”

“Hm.” Torino’s critical eye was as terrifying as ever. Self-conscious, Toshinori picked up the plastic bag and what he had privately christened the DEKU Report. “Did you wear it the last time you met Izuku’s mother?”

“Um,” said Toshinori.

“Sounds like a yes. Tch. Off.”

“It was a joke,” he begged. “Can we please go already? The food’s getting cold.”

“I can see the steam coming out of the bag, and I can see the All Might embroidery in the tie. Off with that. Was it some gimmick your marketing team came up with? Was the mug and calendar not novelty enough?”

Toshinori sighed. He set everything down again in order to undo his tie.

He was grateful that all this was happening inside his U.A.-given apartment; what his colleagues would think, seeing All Might literally be dressed down? What would his students think, having never seen All Might in less than his suit? (With the exception of Midoriya, of course.)

“I’ll need to find another tie…”

“No time,” said Torino shortly. He tapped Toshinori’s ankle impatiently. “The food’s getting cold.”

“You just said - ”

“Ignore what I just said! We’re trying to fix Midoriya Inko’s first impression of Yagi Toshinori, and bringing her cold food will have the opposite effect!” Torino squinted at Toshinori’s hair, and appeared to give it up as a lost cause. He made to pick up the DEKU Report, and Toshinori’s dusty, rusted habit of helping elders revived; he scooped up both items before Torino could concern himself.

“We should get a taxi.”

“Fine.”

“No argument?” Toshinori joked, leading the way outside his apartment. Torino followed. Their pace was slower than usual, constrained as they were by health and certain delicacies in Toshinori’s hands.

“You wanna go?!”

“No, no, it’s fine, we’re fine!”

When Izuku first mentioned his mother to Sorahiko, it had been to explain the origins of his costume. (The origins of his strange pro-hero title, Sorahiko left alone.) Tailored after one of All Might’s uniforms, further accessorized by the U.A. Support students - yes, the fabric was easily torn and often scorched, but Izuku could hardly give it up.

His suit was a sign that his mother finally believed in his dreams of becoming a pro-hero. It was an undeniable pillar of support.

Reminiscent of Nana’s first gift to Toshinori. That’s what Sorahiko thought, hearing Izuku tell the story. And that’s really all Sorahiko would believe to be a parallel, between Midoriya Inko and Shimura Nana.

He didn’t expect them to look similar.

When the door opened, Sorahiko felt himself pale; he had to readjust his grip on his walking stick and blink until the colors filled in. It was the hairstyle that threw him, but with a few seconds more of examination, Sorahiko could recognize it was different.

Green, like Izuku’s. The bangs were shorter. The half-updo was tied higher, and not as heavy-looking as Shimura’s. Her eyes were as much of an open book as her son’s.

“Torino-sensei,” murmured Toshinori, and Sorahiko reassembled his sense of self.

“Hello,” he said, and Midoriya Inko welcomed them into her apartment. They took their shoes off by the door, and Toshinori helped her arrange their lunch into sharing plates. Sorahiko took a seat in the dining room, observing Toshinori’s inner awkward teenager surface after decades of suppression.

Toshinori maintained a generous bubble of personal space, presumably attempting not to loom over Izuku’s mother. This had the result of cramming his skeletal frame into the crooks of counters or hunching over to look smaller than he really was.

Sorahiko noticed a faint flush to Toshinori’s ears after Midoriya passed over a serving spoon.

Aha.

“Allow me,” Toshinori said, scooping up the platters of food with the ease of a waiter. He then proceeded to say, “My homeroom operated a maid cafe in my third-year of U.A., and I was one of their best servers!”

“A maid cafe,” repeated Midoriya, trepidation for the fate of her son evident.

“It was a long time ago,” Sorahiko hastily interjected. “And for the purposes of charity.”

“I imagine it was very popular.”

“With the ladies especially,” he said. In spite of how rude it was, Sorahiko settled his cane on the chair to his left. There were only four chairs at the square table, and with Sorahiko taking two of them, Toshinori would be obliged to sit near Midoriya. Some news deserved to be broken with an outlet for rage nearby. “Whose idea was it to have the boys in dresses and the girls in butler coats?”

“The truth is lost to history,” said Toshinori, setting one plate down with a forceful clatter. Too late. Midoriya had clearly latched onto the anecdote.

“The boys in dresses?” she asked.

“There was a competition among the boys to have the bounciest skirt,” Sorahiko reminisced. “They were begging the girls to help them sew more and more ruffles to the skirts.”

“I don’t remember begging.”

“Then you certainly didn’t win the competition, did you?”

Toshinori puffed up. “I earned the most tips out of all the servers!” he protested. “I had my priorities in order, Torino-sensei!”

“Then sit,” said Sorahiko. “Don’t keep a lady starving.”

A flustered burst of apologies later, and in the midst of eating, Sorahiko stopped prodding Toshinori into conversation. Toshinori was regaling Midoriya with tales of her son cleaning up Dagobah Beach, and recounting some of the shenanigans he and his friends had already pulled in the Heights Alliance buildings.

Given how engrossed Midoriya was at hearing how her son thrived with his newly manifested Quirk, Sorahiko thought it prudent not to betray the truth about Toshinori’s initial shoddy teachings.

Still.

Sorahiko had agreed to take time off tracking down Shigaraki in order to talk business, not to hear two unconnected parents wax eloquent about their shared child. He was too old to play chaperone, and if Toshinori possessed a single suave bone left in his body, he could test the dating waters on his own time.

#bnha #toshinko #midoriya inko #yagi toshinori #all might #gran torino #torino sorahiko #shih.txt #asks #thisauthorisscreaming

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avengerscompound · 5 years

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The Big Guy

The Big Guy: A Bruce Banner Fanfic

Series Masterlist

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing: Bruce Banner x F!Reader

Word Count: 1419

Warnings: Slight Angst, Fluff, Pregnancy, Smut (F|M, Vaginal sex)

Synopsis: Meeting the big green guy wasn’t exactly a normal day, you didn’t expect it to you leading a life on the run and keeping your child’s nature from the world.

The Big Guy

The first time you met the Hulk you had been sitting out in a field at the edge of the forest that bordered the land your family cabin was set on. You had come up here to disconnect from the world. To paint. To write. To just be alone with your thoughts.

The cabin was perfect for it. There was no phone or internet. There wasn’t even signal on your cell. You were completely removed.

The first morning after you had arrived you were sitting in the field painting the sunrise coming up through the trees. There was a blanket of mist over the ground and the way the soft pink light of the just rising sun played off it was almost ethereal. The forest was noisy, with the early morning animals and birds up and chattering.

There was a sudden crash followed by a low rumble and what looked like hundreds of birds burst out of the canopy. You only had enough time to look up and register what had happened when the green, giant of a man came crashing out into the field, pushing a tree right over as he smashed through the fence.

People always say there’s a fight or flight response to danger. You had neither. The Hulk stood, staring at you with a look of pure rage on his face. He was hunched over and breathing so heavily his whole body rose and fell. He roared at you. The sound filled the whole area making birds fly up from the forest all around. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t run. You didn’t put your hands up to defend yourself. You just stared at him. Frozen.

There’s a theory that if ever faced with a much larger predator who is not hungry, it’s best to just stand your ground. Don’t fight, because then they see you as a threat and they attack in self-defense. Don’t run either because then catching you becomes a game. Just show no fear and stand your ground. They’re not threatened by you and they don’t see you as easy prey so they leave you alone.

Whether this is actually true or not you have no idea. But what happened that morning was, he roared again but quieter this time. He huffed, shaking his body and ran off into the forest on the far side of the field.

The second time you saw him, you were trying to untangle a deer stuck in your fence by its horns. It was proving very difficult because no matter what angle you came in on him at, he’d spin around and try to kick you.

You became aware of something watching you and saw him skulking in the shadows. Eventually, he came over and held the deer in one of his enormous hands. For a moment you thought he was going to take it and eat it. Instead, he just held it still and looked at you. You approached slowly untangling the horns and he let it go into the forest. He looked down at you and you stared up into his bright green eyes. He nodded and he was gone.

The third time you were outside cooking on the grill. You’d taken a trip into the town and gotten some fresh supplies and decided it would be nice to eat out in the sun. The smell of the food cooking must have drawn him out. He came over to you a little like a scared animal. Dashing forward, slinking back again. Until he was right up near you looking from you to the grill. You didn’t think there was anyway what was on there could be enough to feed him, but you got a plate and filled it and held it up. He tentatively approached and took it taking it a couple of feet away from you. He sat down on the ground heavily, and then very daintily started eating the food. You touched your chest and said your name. He stopped eating and looked at you. His hand went to his chest. “Hulk.” He said.

“Do you want more?” You asked.

He nodded his head and you added more food to the grill.

And so it went. He came around more and more, until the point you were spending whole days together. He started becoming more verbal with you. Telling you things he liked and things he didn’t. You rigged a hose off the solar hot water so he could shower outside and bought a big bar of berry scented soap. It was from a place that sliced it off a large wheel. You ended up buying half the wheel even though it was ridiculously expensive. He was quite grateful and would shower behind your house every day. You bought fabric and very roughly sewed him new pants. He wore them happily.

One day he lay in the sun and let you paint on him like he was a canvas and then take a photo of the end work. You played games with him. Roughhousing in a way where you knew he was actually being extremely gentle and play acting getting hurt. Like mother lion teaching her cubs how to hunt. You got him his own large paints and he painted the side of the old barn. Big childlike paintings in bright colors.

You had originally planned to only stay on your retreat for a month. In the end, you extended it to two. You didn’t know what to do. Even though you knew the Hulk could look after himself, he was in so many ways like a huge toddler. You felt protective of him. But more than that. He was your friend, and you were worried about leaving him alone.

The two of you sat in the field and you made a daisy chain as he watched on. “I really like you, big guy. You know?” You said, as you diligently threaded the stem of on flower through the next.

“Hulk like you too.” He said in his deep rumble. “You fun.”

“Thank you.” You said and held the now completed chain up. He dipped his head and you put it on him like a crown. “Looks good.”

“Hulk want to see.” He said.

You took a photo with your camera and held it out to him so he could see the preview screen. A huge grin spread across his broad face. “Hulk like.” He said.

You ran your palm down one of his fingers. They were so large that even at the broadest part of your hand it didn’t cover his finger the whole way. “I have to go away, Hulk.” You said.

“You shop? Buy Hulk candy.” He said.

“No, big guy. I need to go back to my job.” You explain.

“When come back?” He asked furrowing his brow.

You looked up into his eyes. The green looked muddier now that he’s worried. You continued to rub your hand over his fingers. “Maybe next year.” You suggested.

Hulk pulled his hand away and stared at you. “No. Stay. Hulk want you to stay.” He rumbled.

“I can’t. I’m eating into my savings. I need to go back to work.” You tried to explain, not even sure if Hulk understands the concept of money or not.

Whether he did or not, he wasn’t happy. He got to his feet and doubled over in pain. “No. No. Hulk stay with you.” He roared, slamming his shoulder into the ground. His body seemed to twist and convulse and you rushed to him.

“What’s happening? What’s wrong?” You asked putting your hands on him and running them down his large arms as the muscles and bones shifted under them.

“Hulk stay!” He roared even louder, but at the same time, it sounded far off. He reached up to hold onto you. His hands wrapped around your arms and he clung to you desperately. “Hulk stay!” He repeated, this time more like a plea.

“What’s happening? What can I do?” You asked running your hands along his jaw. His whole form changed in front of you until instead of the huge, green, muscular Hulk, there was a small, scared, pale man cowering in front of you. He looked around wildly as you scrambled back away from him.

You both stared at each other holding your hands out defensively. He was sitting in a pool of the fabric that had made up Hulk’s pants. You both start speaking at the same time.

“Who are you?”

// NEXT

#bruce banner #bruce banner x reader #hulk #hulk fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #reader insert #the big guy

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ethereal-addy · 5 years

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{ about addy; the musical angel, good omens oc }

name: addy

title: principality addy / the angel of song / music

appearance: she has caramel toned skin and dark chocolate brown eyes. while the eyes are nothing special from afar, they have little flickers of gold in them that tend to flare up when she gets passionate, she has short pixie cut hair that stands at a very light blonde almost white color. she also tends to wear very harry potter-esque glasses with a black frame and large lenses that are moreover for looks rather than actually seeing as she's an angel with perfect vision.

fashion / style: when around other angels, addy tends to wear a very masculine type of formal outfit consisting of a white fitted button up shirt, a light almost pale blue bowtie, a light-toned grey fitted blazer jacket, light-toned grey dress pants, and white mens funtasma platformed shoes. she also has light blue suspenders to match her bowtie and while it's only visible when she takes off her blazer jacket, she almost never tends to take it off so it's more of a given aspect of her outfit. / when in public and back on earth she tends to wear outfits that are more reminiscent of korean fashion or 'soft' fashion as it has been referred to as by mortals. she will usually wear either white or light pastel short sleeved croptop or longsleeve white croptop sweaters with different logos and words upon them of all kinds, and these tops will usually be tucked into or be paired with a checkered pencil skirt, shorts, or faded light blue denim jeans. however if she's feeling a bit more confident, she will wear more vibrant, dark colors such as a black long-sleeved sweater with the sleeves rolled up and a watch on the wrist, dark blue denim jeans, a black and white grey-toned flannel tied securely around her waist and black platformed boots. that is something that doesn't really tend with her outfits, as she tends to wear either light pastel, white, or black formed boots or shoes of some sort to make herself appear taller.

height: addy stands at 5'0, so she's a little on the short side

sensitive(?): physically wise, her skin is very tender and sensitive so she bruises easily, but she tends not care or just wears outfits that cover it up. mentally wise, she's actually a very sensitive person, known to blow certain things out of proportion. but she's also sensitive in the sense that she tends to instantly become happy or her day and eyes just sparkle and brighten whenever someone calls her a nickname or something of the sort, the same thing for when she's sad, but she usually just isolates herself and breaks down. ( can we sense a bit of a.. espresso depresso angel who tends to repress her feelings? )

wings: as addy is smaller than the average angel, her wings are shorter as well. while the average angel wings are usually maybe double their actual height hers are only a foot larger than her actual height. her wings can outstretch to 2 meters ( 6 feet ) and when folded behind her back, they are a good foot above her head to show the height. her wings are a very light shade of pink, close to being white and have small glitters of gold in them that are more prominent when in the sunlight

flying(?): while angels are known for flying as per their wings and the human depictions of them, addy can't fly as well as other angels. flying city to city is no problem for her, but state to state or country to country is too much for her to handle and is more of a miracle thing. of course whenever armagedon is coming and addy goes back up to heaven, she has to gear up for a fight, but she's not a strong flyer, so instead they had be a healer ( where are my mercys at? )

abilities: of course being an angel means that she can perform miracles and heal people, her healing abilities differ as she is an angel of song. from healing broken bones, healing bruises, reviving wilted flowers and fixing uprooted trees, her healing abilities are a little different than other angels. she has the ability of being able to manipulate / control life energy to heal or restore living beings back to their original state, and while it sounds a bit overpowered, her powers are weak. she can't do anything worthwhile without her abilities, the most she could do is heal a cut on your arm from scissors. but with music involved? now we're talking. when she plays an instrument, her powers are conducted through the instruments making them stronger than before, but it doesn't automatically get amplified, it also depends on how into a song she is. for example, she was once in an old park, one that hadn't been cared for in many a moon, so whenever she came along with a guitar in hand began to play and sing a song? butterflies came back to a garden that was once again filled with life. yellowing grass brightened to a vibrant green, dulling flowers bounced back to life with color and went into full bloom, and birds were chirping along with her singing as she closed her eyes, getting into the song. now that being said, her powers are a bit unstable, out of control you might say, so she really has no control over what they might do whenever they kick in

voice part: as the angel of song, she's well versed in all voice parts, however her vocal range is an alto, but she does have experience singing other parts and can sing them if needed

instruments(?): of course's able to play a wide variety of songs and all types of instruments, she tends to stick to a few of her all-time favorites, those being the ukulele, piano, guitar, and the violin. however as they are her own, usually they're either pale pink, white, or wood with white lace designed across them for design.

favorite music genre(?): that being stated, addy knows and loves a wide variety of music, however her more recent favorites are: rock, pop, remixes / dubstep, and alternative / indie

sexuality / gender: as addy is an angel, she normally should've even be thinking about love, right? angels don't even think about getting together with other angels, let alone mortals as it's not necessarily against code, but it's a stupid thought to think about in simple terms. but nevertheless, addy has found herself open for love, as she has related herself with the term: 'pansexual' as she doesn't have a preference about who loves her, she just wants it. / addy might be a female angel, but she mostly refers to herself as 'they / them' and although most of the other angels don't listen, she's managed to get gabriel to at least correct himself from time to time if she gives him a pointed look. however aziraphale has actually freely called addy 'they' without her having to tell him twice. but she doesn't mind 'she / her' she just doesn't prefer it as much.

relationships: she gets along well with mortals despite not having to be on earth, and not even supposed to be there, but she is. mostly for her musical purposes with her instruments and all. however with angels.. she doesn't exactly have the best relationship with them. gabriel is someone that she feels as if she can call friend, the only issue is she has been told by the angels several times that her using instruments does't help her abilities, when in reality is has, so she can't exactly tell him that she uses music to conduct her healing abilities. but other than that, she does tend to talk to him and she would call them good friends, but unbeknownst to her he does know that she uses music for her healing abilities and honestly has grown to be okay with it. he's just waiting for her now to tell him so he can accept her and apologize her about the past. aziraphale, on the other hand, is someone who is fully aware of her using music and honestly loves it. whenever she does tend to sing on her own and he's around, he seems to tear up, as her voice was practically sculpted by the gods. while her speaking voice is normal, her singing voice has that affect on others. but he and her are the best of friends, she tends to spend most of her time at the bookshop and usually sings to herself while singing or just plays a little song for aziraphale when days are harsh at the shop. crowley is someone who addy never saw herself getting along with, but eventually the two became the best of buddies, like how she is with aziraphale. the three of them are like the three musketeers in a sense, however addy usually gets the feeling that she's more of a third wheel and crowley tends to assure her that she's not and has been a shoulder for her to cry on more than once. michael is someone who isn't very fond of addy. she tends to keep her distance from her and while she likes her sense of style, she doesn't enjoy her company. it's more among the lines of addy being lower than her, rather than her personality. while her personality is a whole 'nother thing on it's own, she's mostly distant because she's a higher rank than her, but when in public, they're mutual. uriel is someone that actually gets along with addy. it's surprising to be honest as uriel is very strict and rarely smiles, but addy and her are acquaintances, but at least it's better than being mutual. the two can hold a conversation for at least 10 minutes before having to part ways, but they'll get there one day. now sandalphon, he's someone who almost.. detests addy, is that the right word? they're both unsure, but he doesn't like her. while addy has been known to make him laugh, he tends to glare at her in disgust out of the corner of his eye. the most interaction they'll have is give a nod saying that they acknowledge their existence but that's about it.

physical affection(?): so as angels aren't supposed to get together with mortals or anyone for that matter because of the whole immortality thing, she's actually really touch deprived. she's good at giving physical affection but mostly loves to receive it as she tends to literally craves affection and if you accept or give her a hug, she will cling to you for 5 minutes, so just be prepared for that. but she's honestly all for it, being a shoulder for you to cry on, someone to just hug and break down on, she's all for it, anything that will get her closer to having somebody to love and care about her

verbal affection(?): she isn't very good at giving it to be perfectly honest, she's more of a receiver on this part, she loves being called a nickname or being complimented. some people tend to just compliment her, this being aziraphale or crowley because they love to see her eyes light up and sparkle with those flecks of gold

favorite color(?): anything pastel, however her more favorite colors are anything purple, mostly violet and lavender, it's part of the reason why her and gabriel get along as she tends to compliment him about his eyes and his wings bc they're lilac and she really loves them, she even started writing a song about purple because of him

favorite foods(?): while angels aren't normally meant to like food, or 'gross matter' as gabriel puts it, addy has a few selective foods that she'll eat. these foods are: tiramisu, salads, bubble tea, ice cream, and vietnamese sandwiches

caught up on human culture(?): given that human culture is hard to keep up with as it's constantly changing, she's only caught up with a few things such as technology, running jokes, and some religious customs

exercise(?): just as gabriel jogs when he's stressed, addy tends to actually go to the gym when she's stressed. when she goes, despite her small frame and stature, she's able to lift 35 lb weights and when she's really into exercising she will run on a treadmill, do pull-ups, sit-ups, and push-ups in sessions that last up at least 3 hours.

cursing(?): if archangel 'hecking' gabriel is able to curse, you'd think she would too right? wrong, she tends to only curse when stressed, as most angels do but the most she has ever gotten to cursing is 'hell' but she doesn't say it that much anyways as she doesn't let herself get that stressed to the point where she might even be cursing.

extra(?): please feel free to message or ask her anything!!

#good omens #goodomens #goodomensoc #good omens oc #muse #oc

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goingknowherewastaken · 6 years

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Among The Trees, The Fallen Rise Again || Part Four

♦ Title: Among The Trees, The Fallen Rise Again

♦ Fandom: Star Trek with a small dash of Pete’s Dragon

♦ Relationship: McKirk || Jim x Bones

♦ Warnings: vulgarities, gossip, mentions of infidelity, mentions of harassing behavior

♦ A/N: I’m not dead!!!! Just went on an unexpected hiatus :p

But boy am I happy to be writing again. Although I was not expecting this to be the thing that I would end up posting/updating. A Million Years or even a reader insert one shot, but not then...yet here we are!!!

Any who….if you haven’t read the previous parts, you can find those linked here!!

Enjoy!! ♥ :)

Among The Trees, The Fallen Rise Again || Part Four

“Bye, Pav!” Jim waved at the kid as he exited Yorktown, dodging around a few guys and ignoring the looks he got.

It was a little busier since it was the lunch rush, but Pavel still returned the waved from where he was working the register. “Bye, Jim! And Congrats!” He shouted before darting over to help the new arrivals who, judging by the bits of sawdust on their clothes, were probably on break from logging. “Leo, Scotty, hi -”

Jim laughed and made his way to his car, an excited grin on his face as he pulled away from the curb.

Two days ago, Jim had applied to temporarily rent the ‘penthouse’ apartment before making an offer on the log mansion that was just over the listing price. He had wanted to low-ball an offer, but Barnett quickly axed that plan. The move-in ready place had been on the market for only a month, but, so far, all of it's offers had been below the listing price.

And, apparently, the owner was having none of that shit. The dude had turned down each and every 'insulting' offer for his masterpiece.

Since Jim was the first potential buyer to be able to offer more than the listing price, the realtor thought it was best to go over to maximize his chance at getting the home.

Last night, he got a call back from Barnett.

He wouldn't have to keep living out of the 'Beige Motel'.

Sure, he'd still have several weeks before he would be able to start moving in, but that wasn’t an issue. After a lengthy phone call, Jim managed to convince the owner of the apartment building to allow him to rent to the apartment

Grinning gleefully, Jim tapped his fingers along the steering wheel to the beat of the fading song.

Who would have thought that this blink-and-you-miss-it town in the middle of nowhere would be the new home of James Tiberius Kirk?

Heeding the stop sign before him, Jim took the opportunity to grab his sunglasses and slip them on before switching the station. Weather forecasts were just so boring, but classic rock? Driving on, he slipped easily into singing along to Cherry Bomb as he searched for his turnoff.

Between conversations with Nyota, Spock, and Pavel, it wasn’t hard to come to the conclusion that he was going to need far more than what he packed in his bags for his new home...homes?

Not - not that he needed their input.

But they did give him ideas on various necessities.

One such necessity? Plants.

He had adored his little garden back in LA. Carefully probing the dirt as he gently placed each plant and seed. Meticulously watering each growth and pulling unwanted weeds as they sprouted. Scenting the soft fragrance of the various blossoms as they bloomed. Tasting each new vegetable as they ripened

If he was going live here, he needed something to brighten up the inside of his new homes.

Something to care for.

After a few more minutes, Jim found himself pulling into a small gravel lot and picking a spot near the front doors. Throwing the car into park, Jim leaned over the steering wheel to get a better look at the flower shop.

Demora's Nursery was located on the outskirts of Millhaven. The main building was a low, wood paneled structure with windows filled with various types of ferns. Behind it, three greenhouses stood attached, their opaque walls giving no clues as to what grew inside.

A small set of wind-chimes jingled as he entered the colorful shop, drawing the attention of a young Asian man working behind the counter. “Hello,” he greeted, a welcoming smile spread across his face. As he watched Jim make his way back, being careful not to knock over any of the potted plants, he questioned, “Can I help you find anything?”

“Hi! Uh, yeah, I think.” Jim scratched at the back of his head as the man gave him a questioning look. “I just bought a house in the area and I'm looking for some things to add a little life to it.”

He nodded and slid a pad of paper towards him. Grabbing a pen he said, “That I can help you with. Do you have anything specific in mind?”

Jim shrugged. “Eh, not really?” He never actually thought about what he wanted. “Sorry.”

He got a one-shouldered shrug in return. “Don't worry about it. Most people come in with the mindset of 'I'll know it when I see it'. Here,” he slid off his stool and came around the counter. “I'll show you around. You might have questions about some of the plants. Oh,” he stuck out his hand. “I'm Ben, by the way.”

Well, Ben turned out to be a savior sent to Earth. Not only did he know about every single plant he and his husband sold, he was also extremely helpful with giving Jim tips about an outdoor garden come the spring.

“We usually get the garden magazines around December. So you can either stop by then or an issue can be sent to you,” he informed, leading Jim into the second greenhouse. The nursery turned out to be divided by plant types – the main building that we are currently in, ferns and indoor trees; the first greenhouse, vegetables; and the final two, flowers.

“Thanks, I'll keep that in mind.”Jim tried to shove his sleeves up higher as the humid air assaulted his body. “I didn't know that nurseries stayed open during the winter.”

Ben shrugged, picking off a few dead leaves from some pots of roses. “Most don't. We're just one that likes to keep something in stock year round. Some things we get shipped in and some we work on growing, but we tailor the stock to the season. The spring and early summer is when we have the most outdoor plants; in the late summer, we transition to ones that do well indoors.”

Jim picked up a small pot of wildflowers. “That's nice.” He gave the flowers a sniff, a memory coming to him. “Hey, do you have any of those – shit, what are they called? They're the little white, bell-like flowers? I remember by grandparents in Iowa had some that grew wild. My gramps would always send us out to pick some for my grandma when we visited.” He smiled softly. “I always liked the smell of them.”

Ben's eyebrows knitted together in thought. “Do you mean the lily of the valley?”

Jim shifted the pot over to one hand and snapped his fingers. “Yes! Those! Do you have any of those?”

The other man chewed his lip. “Hmmmm, I don't know if we have any of those left. We definitely did, though. They grow like crazy during May and the loggers dig up a bunch for us.” He turned and headed for the doorway. “See, they grow really well in pots and we worked on growing them already in pots. I think my husband might know, though.” He stepped out and yelled into the narrow corridor, “Hey, Hikaru!”

“Yeah?” A voice responded from the third greenhouse.

“Do we have anymore pots of lily of the valley?”

“Yeah!” The man sounded closer and Jim rocked on his feet listening to the two talk. “They're in green house three toward th - ” The voice abruptly cut off and Jim looked up to see the other man, Hikaru, staring at him in shock. “Holy shit,” he whispered.

The blond felt himself go pale while panic flooded his veins. Shit. Shit. SHIT!

A confused Ben glanced between the two, but Hikaru kept his focus on Jim.

“You're Jim Kirk.”

With that, his husband looked aghast and Jim cleared his throat awkwardly. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I – uh – I am.”

Hikaru ginned and strode forward, eager to shake his hand. “Oh, thank god! For a second I thought I had the wrong guy,” he babbled. “And, I don't know if you remember, but we actually met a few years ago.”

“Ah, thank you.” Still stunned, Jim squinted at the man. Now that he mentioned it, he did look familiar. It took a few seconds for the light-bulb to click. “That flight to New York -”

“- with the worst turbulence of your fucking life,” the Hikaru finished with a grin. “Yup! God, that was some scary shit.”

Jim shivered at the memory. “It fucking was!” His blue eyes widened at a realization. “Shit, you were the pilot! I bet that was even worse!”

“Yeah.” He put his hands on his hips as Ben stepped forward. “I thought we were gonna di -”

“- Excuse me?”

Jim and Hikaru found their heads twisting to the side at Ben’s interruption. The man in question was staring between the two with a look of befuddlement. Jim, at least, felt sheepish over excluding him; Hikaru, on the other hand, didn’t seem particularly concerned about the matter.

“Do you remember that flight I told you about?! The one I was assigned to when the original pilot got struck down with food poisoning?!”

Jim noticed the moment that the memory popped into Ben’s head. “The flight with the actors from Guardians of the Galaxy,” he said with his realization, his head turning to look at Jim.

Twin “Yups” were what he got as a confirmation; only Jim’s was more on the bashful side as Hikaru took the gleeful tone.

“Wow…,” seemed to be the only thing Ben could say.

A few moments of silence settled over the three before a bemused chuckle escaped Jim. “Jesus,” he said, “I’ve been here for nearly a week, walking about town -” he let out another chuckle “- buying property, and you’re the first to recognize me by just seeing me.”

Ben smirked and sent a look at Hikaru. “Well, they don’t religiously watch Haven like this nerd.”

Hikaru pouted. “Hey, don’t knock Haven - Wait, you bought property here?”

“Ah, you caught that,” Jim said, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I’d been thinking about getting a place away from the city for a while now and with…” He trailed off, the distasteful discretion raging back into his mind like an untamed bull. Suddenly, he was on the receiving end of two pity filled faces.

“Shit, yeah, we saw that on the news. That’s - oof!” Hikaru cut himself off and sent a glare at his husband for elbowing him in the ribs. Jim watched on with a pained heart as several seconds of silent communication passed between them before realization dawned across Hikaru’s face and he turned back to Jim full of remorse. “Shit! I am so sorry for bringing that up.”

“No, it’s - it’s fine.” He hated to admit it, but Jim had to swallow back a pit of despair, embarrassed that he allowed himself to become overwhelmed by them in public. Plastering on a smile, Jim did his best to ease their unease. “I slipped up with it and - and you were just trying to sympathize and -”

“Jim.”

He stopped talking, word vomit lodged in his throat at the appearance of hands settling on his shoulders, comforting and steady. He looked between the double pairs of brown, empathizing eyes and felt a delayed and all-encompassing tidal wave of relief wash through him, pricking at his own blue eyes.

Throughout his entire life, Jim had always needed to share - whether he wanted to or not. It went beyond sharing his food or his toys. No, he was expected to share his entire life. What’s his workout like? What gets his motor running? How hairy is his butt? What does he do every single moment of his day?

Majority of the time Jim had wanted to tell them to fuck off and mind their own business because did he seriously owe these strangers his entire personal life?

Yet, these two men, these two strangers, are asking nothing of him.

Perhaps the most vulnerable moment of his life and instead of joining the press and pestering him about the dirty details of the affair they’re standing as pillars of strength on either side of him.

Drawing in a ragged breath, a hurricane of emotion roaring in Jim’s chest as a lone tear sat glistening upon his cheek, lost in a sea of green and colors.

☼

Damn near tripping over his feet, Len’s head swiveled around in an attempt to keep the blond in his sight for as long as possible.

“Len.”

His gaze dropping past the fur collared bomber jacket to settle on a dark wash, jean clad butt seconds before it vanished from his view.

“Len!”

Len turned, brow raising at Scotty’s amused, knowing look. Unspoken of by all in the know, only Scotty truly knew Len’s interest knew no bounds.

Unknownst by the Scotsman, the perky young Pavel interrupted them before Len could level any sort of retort. “Leo, Scotty, hi! How was your morning?” He said the question while laying down their menus.

“Well enough, Lad. Say,” Scotty grew sly, flipping open his menu and shooting Len a wink. “Who was that that just left? Never seen ‘im around before.”

“Oh, that was Jim! The usual for drinks right?” Pavel chirped back without missing a beat. Len peered up, his curiosity piqued. In the corner of his eye, Scotty matched his nod of confirmation. When he darted off to go fetch their drinks, Len narrowed his eyes at his business partner.

He was only met with a smug grin.

“Here we go,” Pavel said, placing a tall glass of Coke before Len and one of Dr. Pepper before Scotty. “I’ll give you a few more minutes to think over your order -”

“No need.” Len waved a hand, cutting him off. “We already have an idea of what we want.” After sharing their orders, the young waiter left them for a few minutes to drop the ticket off in the kitchen. The two ended up conversing over their work at the cut before Pavel returned to their tableside, meals balanced on a large, black tray.

“Da, Jim is new to the area,” Pavel said, placing their food on the table before pulling a chair up to the side of the table.

Len blinked. Well he just cuts right to the chase. “You know him?” He ignored the glance Scotty gave him; Yes, he was curious, but not because he was interested in the guy. At least, that’s what Len was telling himself.

Pavel merely shrugged, the white button up he had to wear for his shift wrinkling more with the action. “He came in for breakfast a few days ago and has come in to eat nearly everyday. Said he wanted a break from the city - actually this morning he said he was approved to buy a house in the area.”

Scotty let out a whistle. “Already bought a house? What’s he hiding from to just get to a place and buy a house?” Len snorted at the comment, but Scotty continued on before he could say anything. “Speaking of - Have ya heard the latest shit about Kirk?”

Rolling his eyes, Len took a big bite of his burger, savoring the taste of the cheese and bacon that coated his tongue. Ever since the news of the overrated actor freaking out and disappearing over his ex dating a new guy surfaced, Len has had to hear all about it from Scotty.

And he really doesn’t care.

Unfortunately for Len, Pavel “I-Want-To-Be-An-Actor-Someday” Chekov does.

“Da!” Pavel said, voice coming out in an over-interested gasp.

So much for Len’s relaxing lunch. He settled into eating as the two began their mind-numbing discussion about the whole Hollywood debacle, fragments of their commentary occasionally cutting through his thoughts on the flavors dancing upon his tongue.

“Why suddenly contact them and act like a dick after days of silence?”

God, what type of bacon is that? Brown sugar? Maple? Ah, who cares! It’s blessed by God anyways.

“Would you act that way over an ex, though?”

Hot damn, they don’t go lightly on the brownie chunks in the shake!

“It does beg the question: What falls faster? Stars or trees.”

“Like, why would - oh!”

The sudden break off of words pulled Len from his food and had he and Scotty exchanging a glance before looking at Pavel…who appeared to be in the middle of a transcending thought.

“You okay, Pav?”

“Uh - Da! Da, I just remembered that I - I have a errand to run after my shift, da.” With that, the kid left, leaving Len and Scotty to exchange curious looks in his wake. Even when he returned with their checks, Pavel kept his words short and work related; the unusual behavior causing Len to question what more was going on.

...to be continued

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enna-of-the-stars · 3 years

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Black Night Veil

Fandom: Original Work Word Count: 6.5k Rating: Teen and Up Summary: Aren is a delivery man, running errands and generally hating life. He's given up too much, he's been erased from existence. So he built a new life, a new experience, but something that's been eating at him since then, comes back nipping at his frost-tipped ears and chilled spine. This is the original version of the story. If you’re looking for a more in-depth look at the backstory of the characters and overall improved writing, please click here for the Black Night Veil_Extended.

The sun dips low, burning into the distant horizon against purple ink clouds. The barren trees, stripped of the colorful warmth from just a few weeks ago, are stark silhouettes against the weathered white paint. When I finally pull up to the right address after searching for the past half hour, I am immediately overcome with a sense of unease, a slight foreboding that makes my heart pound and breath hitch.

The house itself is average sized. Nothing too big, nothing too small with faded numbers and a crooked mail box leaning heavily to the right. But something about it—perhaps the way the shuttered windows creak and swing in the frigid air, or maybe the way the stone chimney chokes out black smog fumes—ignites anxiety deep in my bones. The grounds are unkempt, shaggy in mis-constructed fences and misplaced stones. It’s like there’s blanket, some sort of wall, blocking this house from the ones back down the street. Just a turn before, the grass was greener, or at least as green as it could be in this season. The sky was brighter, but maybe that was because too much time had passed in my search for this place. The birds were louder, chittering and chattering against calls from parents to children still playing in the yards. But this street, devoid of laughter and voice, is silent and simultaneously overwhelmingly loud in its silence. A raven, perhaps crow, I’m too unnerved to really look, seems to stare down at me from its perch on the black smoke tree. It cocks its head to the left, eyes glimmering in the evening twilight. It caws.

Inhale. Exhale. Breathe. Drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, I stop, gripping tightly. The shaking in my hands does not stop, but I ignore it. The seat belt seems to tighten and I choke in its grip. The belt unclicks and freedom is granted as I grab the delivery in the passenger seat, weighing the small box, judging if this is worth it. It is. I have to. I slam the car door shut, pull the delivery closer to my body for its strange persistent warmth, and make my way across the barren street.

The sun drops away, leaving just hints of twilight before even that loses faith and disappears into the ink black veil of night. The feeling of eyes on my back is unnerving and present and eats at me. So, I look around desperately from underneath my cap, yet I see nothing except for that cursed black winged creature on the branch. I’ve confirmed it, truly. It’s been staring at me since I drove onto the street, leaving the livelihood of the street just passed. Turning away, I breathe in, sort of strangled at this point, because god does it feel like there’s something clutching at my neck. I turn back, and the creature is gone. My heart, hammering, pelting against the stone-tired bones of multiple overtime shifts, stops for the first time since the start of this delivery. Shaking my head, the sights change and the house comes back into view. Ignore the bird, ignore the bird, ignore the bird. Ignore the bird. A mantra I repeat for only me, myself, and I.

A sharp, cutting caw strikes me. I nearly drop the box in my hands at the sudden intrusion of the previously somber silence. I fumble for it, catching it just before it hits the ground, stumbling in my steps on the uneven weed trodden stone path in the process. The box is clutched even tighter now. My hands only shake more, it feels as if my entire body is ready to rattle out of its flesh driving prison. The wooden stairs creak under my feet and I jump again at the suddenness, not expecting, was expecting the sound. The cool air fogs and puffs from my abated breath, but still, I move to knock on the door.

And I do. The door shudders with the weight of my knocks. It gives up what seems to be at least a decade’s worth of pollen, dust, and ash. Taking a step back, wide eyed and wholly unsure of what the hell I was doing here, because I’m going to—I’m going—

The thought stops there. As does my heart. As does my breath. As does everything in the world. It all spins to a stop, as the glittering starlight strikes something shiny in the corner of my eye. I look to the left, towards the aging wooden deck and the—

“Oh god.” It’s more of a weak escape of my soul, rather than tangible words. The weight of the world rests on my shoulders and presses down, hard. My knees give way for it, pliant under the pressure. I’m a mess, crumbled and broken and breaking on the wooden floor. Just to the side, there lies that crystal. It glows, ethereal in the veil blanketing the world in its sudden stop.

The world starts up again without me, when the thump of heavy footsteps from inside the house flickers some sort of awareness in the back of my mind. The old and tired door struggles itself open. In its haste, it sweeps more of that ash and dust and memories, long, thrown away memories, into the house. I blink when an awkward cough splits like thunder through the raining silence. I turn, looking up at the man that stands before me.

He’s tall, shrouded in a black… thing. It drapes over his shoulders and floats back and forth, back and forth, sometimes catching the moonlight and glittering its dark secrets before settling back to a void. Drooping locks of curly black hair, long and cascading in weeping waterfalls over the dip of his barely visible collarbone, puff and sigh with each breath. Pale, almost translucent white skin shimmers and both disappears and reappears in the pall of the dark interior of the house. He stares down at me unblinking. I stare right back, taking in the blue eyes, really almost gray. Something flickers in them, just as something flickers in the back of my mind. He moves forward, barely leaving the threshold of the house. He’s not wearing shoes, I realize, before a hand swims into my vision. The pale and thin wrist is delicate wire silk as it wraps around my arm. But, like spider silk, it is delirious and fake in its delicacy.

I’m pulled to stand, with striking, yet expected strength. I blink, still not really processing the who, the when, the now. The hand doesn’t leave my arm, but the shroud of black moves closer, and I too, am shrouded. The warmth is surprising, shocking.

Fuck, because what the hell.

I close my eyes and lean in as the other arm of the man wraps its way around my waist and pulls me in flush to his chest. Familiar.

____

“Aren.” He breathed, close to my ear. His arms are around me, holding me tight as the sunlight drips into the crack of the curtain and onto the bed. I hum, lazy, too tired from last night, too tired to do anything really. But still, I turn to him. He smiles, underneath those black curls that always seem to be in his way, with well, the way he’s always pushing them to the side. He looks down at me in his arms, smiles wide and pearly white. “Hey, sleepy.”

“Hey yourself,” I mumble right back. It’s mostly word mush into his collarbone, which I’ve taken quite the fancy of. I can hear him breathing, his heart thumping steadily away. He breathes in to say something, and holds his breath. Something is wrong, I can tell, after spending so many years by his side. Something is eating at his heart and mind and soul.

“I wanted to show you something today,” He said. “It’s important.”

That wakes me up fully. I untangle myself from him, he pulls back too. Suddenly, there’s a gap between us, palpable and tentative and possibly dangerous.

“Everything okay, love?” I ask. He doesn’t reply but merely looks away, moving to get clothed. His back is smaller than I’ve ever seen it.

“Just… Just wanted to tell you something.” His voice is softer than anything I’ve ever heard from him before. But it doesn’t fool me, he’s scared and I don’t know why and that breaks me. Still, I turn around too, and now we are back facing back. Pulling on some pants, a shirt, something to go over it, before moving to his side of the master bedroom, I stop just a hair width’s breath away. He’s still dressing, slow and methodical like always, but his hands are shaking and that’s what scares me the most.

“Hey,” I said. He doesn’t look at me, dead set on continuing to fumble at the buttons of his shirt, clumsy and obviously on edge.

“Hey.” This time, his hands stop, and I take that as my queue to move in. I carefully pry his freezing hands from the buttons and instead do them up for him. When I reach the top one, just under his chin, I look up and we lock eyes. His are pearly, glistening. I stand and let my hands cup his cheeks tenderly, thumbs wiping at the first not-quite tear.

“Sorry,” He manages to choke out.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to be so scared, love.”

“I just—” His shaking hands come up to grab mine and they still shake, even as the warmth from me bleeds into him as if breathing fire and life into his limbs.

“I just,” He tries again. “I’m scared you’ll hate me.”

I pause at that, thinking back to all the times before. Of weird occurrences, of strange accidents, of the many, many things that were should-have-been or could-have-been. Things that went wrong, somehow, someway, without really ever understanding why. But then, I remember that fire the burns bright within. That ignites passion and ferocity to protect the man before me. I smile reassuringly, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“Not going to stop loving you.”

He finally closes his eyes, letting himself lean into the caress of my hands. The unshed tears breaking free and fluttering to the ground, even as I tried to wipe them up and make them disappear.

____

I blink and we’re back. I’m back and he’s back and, fuck this is happening, fuck—he pulls away. The gap between us is starker than ever, deeper than ever. I look up at him. His eyes are soft, gentle. I open my mouth, he inhales sharply. Both of us, we are here.

“I’m sorry,” He says first.

I can’t really muster anything except a strangled peep in reply as I blink droplets dusted by the stardust night sky. He wipes my tears this time.

“I’m sorry.” He says again. “That wasn’t supposed to happen. I wasn’t supposed to just—”

Dry mouthed, my self comes back to me, and in an instant, the white-hot anger sears into the air dripping lava and spite and desperation.

“You. Left. Me.” I practically spit out the words. “You left. Disappeared. Gone.” At this point, I’m not sure what’s more surprising, the not-rain falling to the ground despite the cloudless sky, or the way my heart stutters with each breath but still yearns. Yearns.

"Please,” He starts, “Let me show you why.” He pulls back farther, through the still doorway, into the darkness of the shrouded interior of the house.

“Why the hell should I listen to you? You’re the one who left! You just up and disappear one day and never come back and now you think that just because this,” I gruffly gesture at the, well everything, encompassing both of us. My heart screams the opposite of everything I say. “Just because this, this, meeting or whatever, happened doesn’t mean I ever wanted you ba—”

The crystal beside the door starts glowing. It floats from where it’s lain on the aching wooden floor and moves to come between us. It flashes, pulsating between bright brilliant white and bleeding red, before finally dimming altogether and fading black. It clatters the ground, spinning.

“No!” It’s a whisper. I turn to look at him. His blue eyes have turned silver and distant, and his face almost disappears, with how stark and ghostly it has become. His black long curls flutter and brush off as smoke forms where he stands with his… his shroud fluttering with it. “No.” He almost pleads, collapsing onto the floor, scrambling for the black crystal.

He looks back up at me, after confirming the now still crystal moves no longer. His eyes have shifted to gold, but there’s fear in them, unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. He lunges forward, grabs me by the arm, dragging me into the house. In my shock, I don’t fight back, and the door swing shut behind me with a definitive slam. It locks itself, despite the door not having an electronic lock. The rest of the house too, seems to spring to life. Lights start flickering on, I realize they’re really little flames and candles, than a modern light. My shoes untie themselves and as I’m still dragged further and further into the depths of the house, two steps and my shoes come off on their own. They stow away neatly into the little shoe rack by the door. I too, am now barefoot.

We enter a long and thin hallway lined with doors and doors and more doors that open and shut at random intervals. Paintings hanging on the walls move with life and breathe with vitality. The flames flicker, casting dark and faint and long and short shadows all across the room in a sort of dizzying nonsense.

The door at the end of the hallway opens up, and he pulls me through it, firmly locking it behind us with an old-fashioned metal cast key. He fumbles a bit with some muttered words, and I watch as the door suddenly bleeds. Gold lines curving, carving into the wooden flesh appear and disappear before he stops muttering, and they stop.

“They know.” Is all he says. “And I can’t—I can’t let them hurt! They, now they know and they won’t forgi—” He stops there. Closes his mouth firmly shut, but eyes suddenly burning molten gold and determined. He marches past me, careful not to actually push me out of the way and starts ransacking the room with fervor. Dumbfounded, I sort of move to sit even though I don’t realize I’m nowhere near a chair; to my surprise a chair lumbers up behind me just as I sit down. I don’t even register it; my eyes are focused on him. His brilliant golden eyes glowing in the dim shadow cast room of flickering flames and fire, burn bright. His black curls seem to move with a life of their own, picking things up, and moving them as he does the same to a random assortment of things around the room.

Parchment, god is that really parchment? Quill pen, ink bottle, a few decks of cards, black and dipped with gold. The entire set of books living on the shelves around the room start shuddering, moving, flying into the open canvas sack that he was throwing everything else in. Pouch after leather pouch of miscellaneous items that I can’t really identify follow suit. A few more crystals, these I don’t recognize, unlike the one he was so afraid of from moments before. Of the one that he had shown me all those years ago, that had then, blinked that brilliant blinding white and warning cautious yellow. I recall, it never ended bled black that time, it just flashed and flashed and flashed until he was gone and everything we’ve ever had, gone.

"What,” I start. My lips are dry so I lick them before trying again. “What’s happening?”

He doesn’t stop, he’s actually packing, I realize. Things are still flying and moving on their own. But he does stop, eventually, once everything is fully gone and in the canvas bag which shrinks and shrinks until its nothing but small canvas pouch no bigger than my palm. He grabs the bag; it disappears in a little poof and shower of golden sparks. He sits down, and another chair, appearing out of nowhere, shoots out to ensure he actually sits down instead of falling to the floor. The black shroud that cloaks him seems to swallow him in its gaping maw of void and nothingness. Even his limbs are eaten up, until its just the peaks I can see of the tips of his ears and his nose through the curtain of his hair, now messier than ever.

“They know.” He says. I shake my head, not really understanding.

“They know about you. I was stupid, they always say to never tell and I put you in danger and it was stupid that I showed you, I should’ve never showed you, shouldn’t have ever told you shouldn’t—” He cuts himself off with a strangled inhalation, because now, I realize, I see, golden tears dripping from his eyes. They fall in perfect pearls, landing on his shroud of black and splattering like stars against the night sky. I wait. But that doesn’t mean my heart wasn’t screaming and thrashing and crying for my mind to move, my body to move and wrap him up in my arms.

“They took me away because I showed you. I was young and stupid and I didn’t want to hide it from you! They always say to never, never show this,” He sort of, weakly gestures at the room and the situation. “Never show outsiders, they say, but I—” He chokes back a sob. He continues. “I thought you would be my forever. I wanted you to be my forever! You were, you are, I know it!” The tears don’t stop, but he lifts his head and looks at me with what I finally, finally recognize as the same look from that night he disappeared.

He didn’t leave me. He was taken from me. This… this understanding dawns on me like the rising sun, moving in tandem with the beating of my heart and the coursing white-hot anger that had simmered away in the panicked run, but now burns brighter than ever.

“You didn’t leave, did you.” I finally manage to speak my words, tongue heavy, sizzling anger steady and burning in my veins, but I don’t let it seep into my voice. He shakes his head, unable to say anything. “You could’ve come back, but you didn’t. You were scared for me.” I say this not as a question, but more of a statement, because really, I think I see it now.

He nods in affirmation.

God I’m going to punch whoever the fuck they were.

He suddenly jumps out of the chair, eyes blown wide and gold shrinking to golden rings instead of pure color where blue should have been. His pupil thins, and thins, and thins, and thins until it’s nothing put a sharp vertical line. They’re beautiful.

“We have to go,” He says in a whisper. In his hand appears a thin black stick, a wand. He reaches out for me, but doesn’t force me, not like moments before. I stare back at him. At his dripping gold eyes and smoke hair and shrouded night veil and shoeless ghostly feet. I feel the anger of ten years of loss. Of what could have been. What should have been. My grief turns brighter, bitter, better in its strength as it evolves. It’s no longer grief because I know he didn’t leave me. I know he didn’t. He was taken, and he was afraid, alone by himself and hurting.

I was going to kill them. For hurting him. For hurting me. For hurting us.

For a brief moment, I think to my life, my current one. Compared to what it is, to what it was—could have been… Yeah, I’m going to kill them.

I reach out for him. Our hands meet in the middle and yes, this is what home was. We disappear in a shower of golden sparks against the backdrop of a black night veil.

#original work_enna #aren #short story #gratuitous descriptions #no beta we die like guys gals and nonbinary pals #lera #magic #witches #ravens

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marybeatriceofmodena · 7 years

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A very happy birthday to the lovely @the-reylo-void! Here’s a little gift especially for you, with the moodboard made by me and a drabble below by the one and only, @kylorenvevo! We sincerely hope you enjoy it all, and happy birthday!

The Snow Queen: original tale by Hans Christian Andersen

"They say the devil made a mirror," old Maz told Rey one flickering fireplace night when a chill wind blew in from the Kattegat, "a mirror that distorted all reflections and magnified all flaws so that even the most beautiful landscapes and the best of persons were turned horrid and ghoulish and mean. Anyone who looked into the mirror would see not one good thing left about themselves; it was all corrupted by dark arts. The devil tried to carry the mirror up to heaven, wanting to make fools of the angels and of God, but it slipped from his grasp and fell back to earth, shattering into a hundred million tiny pieces, each one no larger than a grain of sand. These pieces flew about in the wide world. They got into people's eyes and made them see only ugly, hateful things, and they splintered into people's chests and turned their hearts into lumps of ice..."

Rey did not forget this story even as she grew up and most other folktales of her childhood were subjected to the wear and tear of eking out a meager existence. Perhaps it was the kindness Maz had shown her that night, letting her sit by the fire of the pub when it was too late and too cold to walk back to the orphanage, that lingered. In any case, the images remained burned into her memory, a mirror falling from the sky as God and the devil and all the angels looked on, the myriad glittering shards scattered about every which way by many winds.

Ben spoke of winds, too. "The Finland woman is clever," he told Rey one afternoon as they sat side by side and shivered and watched the dark canals ripple in the icy breeze. "She can twist all the winds of the world together into a knot. If the sailor loosens one knot, then he has a good wind; if a second, then it blows stiff; if he undoes the third and fourth, then it rages and upturns the forests."

He was something of a scholar, was the object of Rey's misplaced affections, and he specialized in folktales because he was also a dreamer, which was the worst possible combination for the son of a man who believed only in what he earned by sweat and cunning and a woman who bore the weight of leadership on her shoulders.

"So there is the Finland woman," Rey said, attempting to follow along, "and then there is the Lapland woman, who writes messages to her sister on the scales of fish."

"And then there is the Snow Queen," Ben added wistfully. "They say her eyes are like stars and her skin is made of ice, and that she is very beautiful."

Rey scowled. "But cold to the touch, surely?"

Ben stared at her with his warm brown eyes, the corner of his generous mouth loping into a wry half-smile. "And what," he challenged, "would you know of touch?"

Rey lifted her nose in the air, affecting the haughtiness she'd learned to mimic from more well-off girls. "I know enough." She was painfully aware that she had no right to be jealous, but eighteen was a difficult age, especially when one was in love with the mayor's older, more worldly son, who for the most part still treated her as if she were the ragged little urchin he'd caught picking roses from his mother's garden ten years ago.

Ben's gaze darkened with something that Rey couldn't understand but filled her heart with anticipation and nervousness in equal measure. He reached out as if to touch her cheek, but then another gust of wind blew through the town, rattling shutters and spinning weather-vanes wildly on their poles, and he recoiled as if she'd struck him, drawing back his hand to curl it over his heart in a fist.

"What's wrong?" Rey asked.

"My chest hurts." Ben looked down at the water over which their feet were dangling, and he blinked rapidly. "And I think there's something in my eye."

He was cruel to her after that day. He'd never been a particularly kind person, but now it was as if all his bad traits had been amplified. He sneered at her and made her feel ugly and stupid, and his already tense relationship with his parents took a turn for the worse. Elf-touched, the old people soon started whispering, but it wasn't until the town drunk swore up and down and by all the saints that he'd seen Ben Solo whisked away on a white sled in the middle of the night that Rey realized she'd known it all along.

She wanted to start looking for him right away, but the roads were impassable this far along into winter, piled high with snowdrifts. "Wait until spring," Maz advised, and so it was a few months later when Rey set out into the thawing world, afraid that she was already too late.

She followed the river, because the drunk had last seen the sled gliding over its frozen surface. It wasn't frozen now but, rather, was a wild and joyous thing roaring in its banks; it took Rey to strange new lands where the flowers talked and the wolves watched her with human eyes, and along the way she asked every living thing she met if they had seen Ben. But the flowers knew only their own old rhymes and spoke only of what they had dreamed during the long winter beneath the soil.

"The woman in her long robe stands upon the funeral pile as the flames rise around her and her dead husband," boomed the tiger lily, "and thinks on the living one in the surrounding circle, the fire of whose eyes pierces her heart more than the heat which soon will burn her body to ashes."

"Two little girls sit on a swing beneath the trees, rocking themselves backwards and forwards," sighed the snowdrop. "Their older brother holds a little cup in one hand and a clay pipe in the other; he is blowing soap bubbles that float in charming, changing colors. A swing, a bursting bubble, such is my song!"

"Three sisters made of glass," tolled the bells of the hyacinth, "dance beside a calm lake in the clear moonshine. They vanish into the wood and then three coffins glide out of the forest and across the lake, glow-worms flying around like little lights. Do the dancing maidens sleep, or are they dead?"

All this talk about funerals and coffins caused Rey to worry even more. She eventually found a patch of thorny red roses and asked them, "Do you know where Ben is? Do you think he is dead?"

"Dead he most certainly is not," said the roses. "We have been in the earth where all the dead are, and he was not there."

The relief was overwhelming, but the sight of the roses called to Rey's mind the summer day where Ben found her in his mother's garden, so many long years ago. She sat down and screwed her face up so she wouldn't cry, an act that she'd come to view as a weakness over the course of a hard life.

The ever-watchful wolves wandered near, their muzzles stained with the blood of a fresh kill. "Why are you making that face?" one of them asked. "It is an odder expression than when you humans show your teeth to express joy, odder than when water drips from your eyes in your sorrow."

"I'm looking for someone," Rey answered. "The Snow Queen took him away."

The wolves cocked their heads and flicked their furry tails. "There is spring and summer and autumn and winter, an endless, unchanging cycle that drives the wheels of the world," said the wolf who spoke for the pack. "Birds fly south and we ourselves come down from the mountains and the flowers shed their finery. All realms must bow to the Snow Queen."

"I don't care," Rey growled. "I want him back."

Hunger was the most enduring language that wolves could understand in their bones. They helped her, then, cornering a reindeer in the forest and extolling the trembling beast to carry Rey to the Snow Queen's palace. Rey clung to the reindeer's brown coat as it galloped over the wide plains and through shining valleys, to the glaciers and deep coastal fjords where even spring and summer and autumn dared not tread. Blue and green lights pulsed in the black sky and the reindeer snuffled happily, for all northern creatures dearly love the Aurora Borealis, but its hooves clattered to a stop at the edges of the Snow Queen's garden, and it quailed at the thought of going further.

Taking pity on the poor beast, Rey dismounted. She walked on foot through the bitter cold, fat snowflakes burning her eyes and her lips as she stumbled towards a great portal sculpted from knife-sharp ice.

A knight in a suit of white armor was standing guard, but he took pity on Rey when she explained her purpose. "You're in luck," he said, taking off his helmet to reveal the dark and handsome face beneath. "The Snow Queen has gone to have a look down into the black caldrons," by which he meant Vesuvius and Etna, "and to give them a coating of white, for that is as it ought to be. As for myself, I dream of warmer lands and perhaps it is time I go see them."

"There's a reindeer outside the entrance," Rey told him in payment for his kindness. "You may take it and go where you wish."

"What about you?"

"Ben and I will find our own way back."

The knight thanked her profusely and left his post, and she soldiered on. The walls of the palace were made of driving snow, and the windows and the doors of screaming arctic winds. There were more than a hundred hallways there, lit up by the frosty, jeweled colors of the Aurora, and they were all so large and empty and cold.

She found Ben in a long, echoing chamber, the northern lights casting colored veils over his pale face as he sat by the window. He stood up when he saw her, and he was thinner than she remembered, dressed in severe black robes. But it was still him, after all this time, and Rey all but barreled into him, lifting herself up on her toes to throw her arms around his neck. To her own very great surprise and annoyance, she started crying as she buried her face in his chest.

The warmth of Rey's tears melted the lump of ice that was Ben's heart and consumed the splinter of the looking-glass caught within. He wrapped his arms around her, tentatively at first, his gloved fingers running through her hair. Once it registered that this was not a dream, that she was really here, his embrace grew tighter and more fervent, and he bowed his head and wept into her neck. His own tears flushed out the shard of glass in his eye and, when he finally drew back to look upon her face, her cheeks wet with tears and her freckles faded by the winter and her chapped lips nearly blue with cold, she was the most beautiful thing in the world. As she had always been to him, before the devil's mirror, before the Snow Queen.

"I..." Rey hiccuped, kissing the covered palm of his hand as he lovingly cradled her face. "I gave away our ride."

Ben laughed, a sharp and rusty and long-unused sound, and he pressed his lips to her forehead. "I don't mind walking."

"It's a very long walk," Rey said, smiling as her hand found his and their fingers tangled together beneath the northern lights.

He shrugged. "So we'll do some sightseeing along the way. And maybe we can talk a bit, and I'll tell you everything I should have said long ago."

Rey nodded her assent and they left the icy palace hand in hand, warmth unfurling between them every time their eyes met, like a promise of summer.

#star wars #rey #kylo ren #reylo #aesthetic #snow queen au #reylo fanfic #the-reylo-void #HAPPY BIRTHDAY AGAIN #kylorenvevo

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writerspink · 5 years

Text

K-12 Words

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1.1

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1.2

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3.2

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capture remark western outcome risk current bold compare resident ambition arrest furthermore desire confuse accurate disclose considerable contribute calculate baggage literacy noble era benefit orchard shabby content precious manufacture dusk afford assist demonstrate instant concentrate sturdy severe blend vacant weary carefree host limb pointless prepare inspire shallow chamber vast ease attentive source frantic lack recent distress basic permit threat analyze distract meadow mistrust jagged prefer sole envy hail reduce arena tour annual apparent recognize captivity burrow proceed develop humble resist peculiar response communicate circular variety frequent reveal essential disaster plead mature appropriate attractive request congratulate address destructive fragile modest attempt tradition ancestor focus flexible conclude venture impact generosity routine tragic crafty furious blossom concern ascend awkward master queasy release portion plentiful alert heroic extraordinary frontier descend invisible coax entrance capable peer terror mock outstanding valiant typical competition hardship entertain eager limp survive tidy antonym duplicate abolish approach approve glory magnificent meek prompt revive watchful wreckage audible consume glide origin prevent punctuate representative scorn stout woe arch authentic clarify declare grant grave opponent valid yearn admirable automatic devotion distant dreary exhaust kindle predict separation stunt

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exclude civic compact painstaking supplement habitat leeway minute hoax contaminate likeness migration commentary extinct tangible originate urban unanimous subordinate collaborate obstacle esteem encounter futile cordial trait improvises superior exaggerate anticipate cope evolve eclipse dissent anguish subsequent sanctuary formulates makeshift controversy diversity terminate precise equivalent pamper prior potential obnoxious radiant predatory presume permanent pending simultaneously tamper supervise perceived vicious patronize trickle stodgy rant oration preview species poised perturb vista wince yearn persist shirk status tragedy trivial snare vindictive wrath recede peevish rupture unscathed random toxic void orthodox subtle resume sequel upright wary overwhelm perjury uncertainty prowess utmost throb pluck pique vengeance pelt urgent substantial robust sullen retort ponder whim saga sham reprimand vocation assimilate dub defect accord embark desist dialect chastise banter inaugurate ovation barter muse blasé stamina atrocity deter principal liberal epoch preposterous advocate audacious dispatch incense deplore institute deceptive component subside spontaneous bonanza ultimate wrangle clarify hindrance irascible plausible profound infinite accomplish apparent capacity civilian conceal duplicate keen provoke spurt undoing vast withdraw barrier calculate compose considerable deputy industrious jolt loot rejoice reliable senseless shrivel alternate demolish energetic enforce feat hearty mature observant primary resign strive verdict brisk cherish considerate displace downfall estimate humiliate identical improper poll soothe vicinity abolish appeal brittle condemn descend dictator expand famine portable prey thrifty visual

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stance vie instill exceptional avail strident formidable rebuke enhance benign perspective tedious aloof encroach memoir mien desolate inventive prodigy staple stint fallacy grope vilify recur assail tirade antics recourse clad jurisdiction caption pseudonym reception humane ornate sage ungainly overt sedative amiss convey connoisseur rational enigma fortify servile fastidious contagious elite disgruntled eccentric pioneer abet luminous era sleek serene proficient rue articulate awry pungent wage deploy anarchy culminate inventory commemorate muster adept durable foreboding lucrative modify authority transition confiscate pivotal analogy avid flair ferret decree voracious imperative grapple deface augment shackle legendary trepidation discern glut cache endeavor attribute phenomenon balmy bizarre gullible loll rankle decipher sublime rubble renounce porous turbulent heritage hover pithy allot minimize agile renown fend revenue versa gaunt haven dire doctrine intricate conservative exotic facilitate bountiful cite panorama swelter foster indifferent millennium gingerly conscientious intervene mercenary citadel obviously rely supportive sympathy weakling atmosphere decay gradual impact noticeable recede stability variation approximately astronomical calculation criterion diameter evaluate orbit sphere agricultural decline disorder identify probable thrive expected widespread bulletin contribution diversity enlist intercept operation recruit survival abruptly ally collide confident conflict protective taunt adaptation dormant forage frigid hibernate insulate export glisten influence landscape native plantation restore urge blare connection errand exchange

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feasible teem pang vice tycoon succumb capacious onslaught excerpt eventful forfeit crusade tract haggard susceptible exemplify ardent crucial excruciating embargo disdain apprehend surpass sporadic flustered languish conventional disposition theme plunder ignore project complaint title dramatic delivery litter experimental clinic arrogance preparation remind atomic occasional conscious deny maturity closure stressed translator animate observation physical further gently registration suppress combination amazing constructive allied poetry passion ecstasy mystery cheerful contribution spirit failed gummy commerce prove disagreement raid consume embarrass preference migrant devour encouragement quote mythology destined destination illuminating struggle accent ungrateful giggle approval confidence expose scientist operation superstitious emergency manners absolutely swallow readily mutual bound crisp orient stress sort stare comfort verbal heel challenging advertisement envious sex scar astonish basis accuracy enviable alliance specific chef embarrassed counter tolerable sympathetic gradually vanish informative amaze royal furry insist jealousy simplify quiver collaborate dedicated flexible function mimic obstacle technique archaeologist fragment historian intact preserve reconstruct remnant commence deed exaggeration heroic impress pose saunter wring astound concealed inquisitive interpret perplexed precise reconsider suspicious anticipation defy entitled neutral outspoken reserved sought equal absorb affect circulate conserve cycle necessity seep barren expression meaningful plume focused genius perspective prospect stunned superb transition assume guarantee nominate

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install reticent corroborate regretfully strength murder concise cunning intention holy satire query confused progression disillusion background mundane abrupt multiple enormously introduce emulate harmful pragmatic pity rebut liberate enthusiastic elucidate camaraderie disparage nature creep profitability impression racist sobriety occupy autonomy currently amiable reiterate reproduce cripple modest offer atom provincial augment ungratefully expansion yield rashly allude immigration silence epitome exacerbate somber avid dispute vindicate collaborate manufacturer embellish superficial propaganda incompetent objective diminish statistics endure ambivalent perpetuate illuminate phenomenon exasperate originality restrict anxiety anthropology circumstances aesthetic manufacturing conventional dubious vulnerable reality precedent entity success term critical repair underscore stepmother republican hesitantly classic wary contents prediction immediate invoke notorious implicit excluding input skeptical foster element punish frank humanity profound dessert orthodox substance disappear encourage neighborhood elder superfluous naive ascertain complacent resilient deafening military tend prudent glare acceptance skillfully induce monster beam gullible conciliate vessel petty cantankerous disclose archaeology anecdote disdain electronics substantiate subjective tourism advisable joyful incredible provocative psychological ruins discipline condone indifferent misfortune judgmental industrialize tasty assume astute mission mar protective definitely escape oppress shocked virtual zealous endorse qualification hostile eccentric abstract disparate geographical scrutinize generalization tolerate activity claim dogmatic influential obsolete extol implausible subsequent resource chronic benevolent improve confidential ambiguous seriously dearth perplex hatred throughout dine contemporary evoke essentially economic flagrant obscure alleviate eloquent dreaadful clumsy sympathy victim condemn vigor condescend spontaneous quell reprehensible substantially sleeve equivocal ironic decry errand articulate progressive eradicate refreshments elicit aspiration recently exemplary bribery theoretical disingenuous partisan revere particle nostalgia self-aggrandizement debunk tyranny rhetoric hierarchy warning whimsical venerate commend assert miserable awful vibe constrain undermine explicit differentiate compliment scrupulous contempt erroneous ideal refute imply cynical rash presume insight revival vary delay renounce indignant offensive temperate circumstantial export peep logo advertise suppress distort chunk convoluted denounce overwhelming fertility rigorous acquire arrogant university antagonize profitable indulgent strategic breathing idiosyncrasy profession frugal discern accommodation adversary incredulous disturbance digress social belie roam smug continual pertinent voluntarily elite subtle blame sincerity lick horror censure involvement candid infer futile impetuous exploit bewilder sustain diligent sincere protect sealed musical empathy callous parenthetical insure acorn sarcasm seize sacrificially allege emphatic irrelevant progress diplomatic stunned improvise deride reconcile meticulous deject scientifically incontrovertible pressure justify gloomy depict supplant endurance analogous diary bolster slip contemplate pesticide glow religious advocate negligent creator lament fundamental embrace throne inherent inferior valuable thrive trivial pretense reserved capricious refresh refusal flight boost explanation coherent prevalent tenacious official royalty assassin rub poach delete

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warrant circumscribed somewhat explosive optimistic mandate previously detract opinion intuitive feasible intimate persistent humble simplicity tempt deliberate painful unethical fundamentals discrepancy remorse pessimistic possibility conclusion acknowledge impregnate soberly creation paralyze suitability oblige tranquil medal arbitrate pacify illusory susceptible vibrate vengeance infection democratic stressful grave speculative sample identification stifle obligation revenge organization namely mediocre practical scream weaken consensus affectionate deficient treacherous console isolation ingenious memory melodrama despair awestruck composition regret recommendation celebrity decision devoid opaque ornamentation longevity participate dread restore interrogate aid accordingly mislead embarrassment optimism domestic apt funds virtue geography fundamentally thoroughly press despite horrible chilling rental esteemed disappointment innovative contemplation assign popularize haunt deafen serene percent estrangement suffer extravagant throng estimate comment priesthood mass dreadfully promote periphery animated saying relate clarity triple derivative succeed distortion register suicide improvement discreet inquisition probable curative incident praise convenience baffle covet dreadful genuinely weary undisturbed disgruntled humility renown nonchalant monopoly comedy vague decisive inconsequential announcement fabricated nevertheless vigilant scarce neglectful hushed attainment tedious explode snatch pslm agency sentimental tension adhere meanwhile sacred avert conformity likewise challenger accessible responsibility peril contact event roast fallible catastrophic competitor violate resolute deceive exaggeration discredit intolerable approve paste dimly novelist demeanor norm politician satisfaction obvious vehicle reservation defer involve restoration crush audible assistant backpack attain inanimate commemorate confrontation emigration parasite disperse quantitative laughter policy vulgar occasionally repay effective eulogy starvation empty therapeutic overall immortal encompass inappropriate opportune engagement illustrate turmoil observatory classification expression reminiscence comedian invention depress remedy protagonist gesture texture diplomatic election prolong conducive emotional invigorate curiosity expressive %

K-12 Words was originally published on PinkWrite

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storiesbybrian · 7 years

Text

Sexy Abe (June, 1999)

Part I

His heritage was dormant inside of him. Why should he care about his people’s legendary dealings with sacred powers? Life was good. She was hot and they were gonna get drunk. He thought he might even love her.

Anyone could see that Lori was special, with her honeyed hair spilling past wicked eyes. She told dirty jokes and liked sports. And dogs and old movies. Abe’s friends would all agree this was the best one yet. He met her at a party where they talked about Woman of the Year. Abe happened to know that the bar where Tracy and Hepburn got drunk and fell in love actually existed somewhere near Union Square, a factoid he remembered from his one semester of film school.

It stood lower than the sidewalk, cowering in the gutter. It was the type of place that fills up in broad daylight and, full, has an assortment of canes and crutches leaning against the bar while the rusty stools get gobbled up by a floppy row of gin-pickled asses scarcely contained in cheap fabrics. At the hour Abe and Lori stepped down to its door, the street’s neon lights had just been switched on. It was a summer evening and nightfall was hours away, but the blaring pinks and blues adorning most of the storefronts were so luminous that the sun’s own rays seemed enfeebled, creating the affect of a premature dusk.

He led her inside, where a jukebox rattled the bottles. Abe was ready. They sat in a booth in the back. There were rips in the burgundy naugahyde upholstery and a carved orgy of letters coupled and tripled in every conceivable position on the lacquered surface of the booth’s table. Abe looked around to see if anyone was impressed with him for bringing in such a beautiful girl. Nobody seemed to care, which felt unfair to him. He realized that the frivolities of this crowd were different than his own, but he still expected appreciation for brightening up the spot with such a hot babe. And yet he tried to blend in, unaffected, real. He even tried ordering drinks in a down to earth manner since he wanted Lori to think he was a man of the people.

Inconsistent as he was though, Abe wore a shirt the color of blue tin foil. This was set off by shiny shoes, shiny hair, a shiny gold bracelet, and dead black pants. His baller-est stuff. He leaned against the bar, then turned around to look at Lori. The bartender was was adorned with tattoos, piercings and a gorgeous belt buckle depicting dice bouncing along under the slogan “LADY LUCK.” A light emanated from under the bar, shadowing her face like a ghost storyteller on a camping trip, which frightened Abe when he turned back around to face her. But he played it cool. He waited politely while she toweled the bar. He looked back again at his date and she waved through the dark at him. He nodded and turned to the bartender and said, “ ’Scuse me.”

She looked up at him and sneered, revealing a small blue rhinestone grafted into the gum above one of her canine teeth. It had a brief morse code conversation with Abe’s shirt.

“Is this the bar from Woman of the Year?”

“Check.”

“Pinky here?”

“Stabbed and eaten by his youngest granddaughter.”

“Oh. Uh, do you have Amstel Light?” he asked.

The bartender turned towards the line of dusty beer bottles on a shelf behind her. There, standing between the silver and red of Coors light and the fake plant green of Heineken, was indeed a bottle of Amstel Light. Abe stood by the bar waiting for the woman to bring him two of them. After a moment of silence she was about to go back to her grey rag so he said, “Two please?”

Another idle moment ticked away before he gave in and said, “Two Amstel Lights…. please.” He wanted all encounters with all peoples to go smoothly on this date.

While LADY LUCK took her time getting the beers from a cooler, Abe surveyed the company and was surprised to see, among the usual suspects, a middle aged Hassidic Jew drinking a fruity vodka drink with what appeared to be a lady of the evening; or, in this case, late afternoon.

“Stop staring,” said the bartender as she stamped the bottles onto the bar so that foam dribbled from their spouts. “Eight-Fifty.”

Several drinks later, Abe had moved over to Lori’s side of the booth. They sat with their arms touching, sharing whatever fact about themselves seemed relevant. Unlike most of his dates, Abe was not in control. He was well practiced in the art of self presentation. But with Lori, he felt he was over-extending himself, awkwardly groping inward to bare his most soulful qualities instead of casually whipping something out from his usual jackpot of admirable character traits. Since Lori was so special, he tried very hard not to cheapen her by using any of the techniques that always worked on dumber girls. So, instead, he found that he was promising himself to live up to personal standards that he was creating on the spot.

“Smoke?” he asked, mainly to see if he had permission to do so himself.

“Never,” she said with a corroborating smile.

“Are you warm enough?” Abe asked.

“Why don’t you check?”

Abe moved closer and slid his arm around her. She was burning, which somehow made Abe shiver.

“Where does your family come from? Originally, I mean,” she asked hiccuping softly.

“Lawrence.”

“Funny, you don’t look Algonquin.”

“Wha?”

“I mean, like Poland? Russia? Lithuania? Germany? Which old country is your country, Abe?”

“Oh. Um, Poland, I think. I never really knew my great grandparents, so… What about yours?”

“Well, my dad was born in Russia but my grandpa earned enough money over here to send for dad and grandma just before the war. And then my mother’s parents were survivors.”

“You mean, like, the Holocaust?”

“Yeah,” said Lori. “Auschwitz.”

“Wow. I mean, you know. I don’t mean to sound happy impressed but, I think...” Abe trailed off. He withdrew his arm from Lori’s shoulders, thinking hard for something interesting to say.

“Is your family religious, Abe?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah,” he lied. “Yours?”

“Yeah. I went to Yeshiva,” she said. “You’ve gotta funny looking shirt on, Abraham.”

“Want me to take it off?” Abe asked with his hands already throttling over the blue buttons. He had an impressive physique.

“Maybe later.”

“Do you want another drink?”

“Sure,” she said and leaned her downy head on his shoulder.

“I wish they had table service here.”

“Mmmm, me too.”

Abe sat there with Lori, in awe of her. He could just imagine the kind of happiness she must bring her family. The Yiddish word for it is “nachas” but Abe didn’t know that. He only knew that Lori seemed to have given her parents more to be proud of than Abe had his. But he knew better than to get down on himself like that in the middle of a date.

“Lori, wanna do a shot?”

“Alright.”

Abe decided to buy in bulk from the bar so he would not have to go far from Lori again for a while. He snuggled back into the booth with a salt shaker, a dozen lime wedges and three shots apiece of tequila.

“What should we drink to?” Lori whispered.

“To… to heritage. Yours and mine,” Abe said. Lori shrugged and threw the pale liquor down her throat. Abe looked at the flash of her delicate neck and lurched violently with longing. He wanted so badly to grab Lori and kiss her but something stopped him. What? Did kissing Lori like this on the first date turn her into just another chippee? No that wasn’t it. It was her grandparents. Lori had used the past tense when she mentioned them, but to Abe, they were sitting in the kitchen, numbers peeking out of their bathrobe sleeves, waiting up for Lori with a nice piece of cake. Waiting to hear if this evening had brought her any closer to giving them great grandchildren. And then Abe realized that yes, he could be that man with this beautiful girl. Of course, he would have to become more serious in his own life, but, hell, that was no problem. Not if it meant Lori. He looked at her with more meaning but he still couldn’t kiss her.

The incongruity of this perfect, drunken moment and his total lack of resolve was brand new to Abe. He knew that if he didn’t want to completely blow it with Lori forever, he must not get caught being so materialistic and so assimilated. His eyes darted around in 359 degrees of avoidance while he tried to remember hot narrative passages from the cheap romance novels he and his friends used to read in junior high school.

As Abe slumped towards Lori, he tried to remember things that other girls had liked about him.

“Know one of the things that amazes me about you, Lor’?”

“Hmmm.”

“You’re so fuckin’ smart. See, in my family… And your legs. You’ve got the most wonderful legs. I love how the narrowest parts of them are your kneecaps, like a heroine in a comic book. The swells of your thigh and your calf,” but then he stopped talking and just shook his head with admiration before he could finish reciting something his father had written in one of his medical journals about the marriage of femur and tibia in a symphony of bone and cartiledge. Abe’s dad was an orthopedist.

“Thanks.”

Silence hung between them and she looked at him again but Abe still couldn’t kiss her. He excused himself and walked very quickly up to the bar.

“’Scuse me,” Abe mumbled, tapping the Hassidic man at the bar on the shoulder.

“What?”

“Look, I know this is gonna seem weird, but, well, see that girl over there?”

The Hassid turned and peered through the thick darkness at Lori. She waved at them.

“I’m sorry,” said the Hassid. “I don’t know her.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Abe. “But, well see, she’s like kosher and all and I grew up reformed and I don’t really know anything to say to her but I think I’m really in love with her, so I was, like, wondering if you could tell me something Jewish to say. You know, like a Mel Brooks movie I can watch. Something like that. What’s your name?”

“Mendel.”

“Abe,” he said, shaking the other man’s fat hand.

“I don’t think so,” Mendel said and turned back to his date.

“Look!” Abe said and wheeled the older man back around by his short arm. “I really don’t think you’re in a position to gimme any of this high road shit. Know what I mean? Now can’t you just help me out a little? Come on, bro, I’m askin’ you nicely.”

“I think you’ve had too much to drink. Smells like tequila.”

Abe felt he had been bullied and condescended all evening by these losers at this dump and it was time to assert himself.

“Look, old man,” Abe whispered.

Mendel turned to face him with a pleasant expression on his face and blinked innocently. This mollified Abe and he got ahold of himself.

“30 seconds. Ok?”

“Do you really believe,” asked Mendel, “that devotion to God is going to help you get laid?”

“Well, you’re getting laid, aren’t you?” snapped Abe.

“Well, yes but certainly not because I’m religious.”

“Dude, are you gonna help me or not?”

“Young man,” began the Hassid.

“Abe, please.”

“Avram-“

“No. Abraham.”

“Whatever. Look,” said the older man, “I suggest you go back to your date and allow me to attend to mine. I judge by now you know that you are wasting my time as well as my money?”

But Abe was possessed of a different logic and so he was not deterred. “What do you do?” he asked Mendel. “For a living.”

“I own a toy store in Brooklyn.”

“Well, here,” said Abe and pulled two crumpled $100 bills from his pocket. “That’s fair, then. Right?”

Mendel eyed the money drunkenly. His date and the bartender watched his face, silently rooting for him to push the money back to the obnoxious boy. The man stroked his beard with his thick, dry fingers, sighed and shook his head slowly. He turned his gaze from the money back to the boy and nodded him back to his date.

“What does that mean? Aren’t you coming over to talk to her?”

“Listen. Kid. You’re not doing me any favors. You’re trying to buy me so I can chant a few magic spells for you and stir your little golden bowl of borscht over there to a boil. Wait. Please, let me finish. It’s true that your money would help me. Your $200. But I don’t think it would help you much. I’m not sure that anything would.” And with that, the older man turned to the girl on his left while sliding the money back to Abe on his right. The woman and the bartender nodded their approval and then glared at Abe, LADY LUCK’s sapphire gum glinting brilliantly in the dim light of the bar. Abe’s shirt had no response.

Abe ran both hands through his hair, unsure what to do. He turned back to Lori who lolled her head about drunkenly, her birch hair brushing down her cream neck.

“Alright, look. Keep the money. Just tell me like, where’s a good synagogue or deli or something. A’right?”

Mendel ignored him.

“Hey! I asked you a question!” Abe hollered.

“Drop dead you bourgeois high school jerkoff!” said the hooker.

“Hey, you can’t talk to me like that you fuckin’ whore!” And all heads not confined to neck braces turned toward Abe, except Lori’s, who could not hear any of them over the loud jukebox.

“Wuddy say?!” asked one of the older customers with a gnarled hand cupped behind his useless ear.

LADY LUCK looked at her watch, upset that the bouncer wasn’t due in for another two hours. Mendel’s hand gripped his drink tightly but still he remained turned towards his date and away from Abe. Abe was by far the youngest, strongest, healthiest person in the bar.

“OK, OK, look, I’m sorry I said that. Alright?”

Mendel winced his eyes shut in prayer. The bartender threw two beers at Abe just to get him away from the customers at the bar. Abe’s pretense of virtue, rooted in some mythical Brooklyn where the first generation of American Jews grew up to be Gershwin and Heifetz, scattered quickly into his generation’s spoilt Long Island reality. Abe was mad at the people at the bar. But Lori’s grandparents, still seated hopefully in their kitchen in his head, shook their heads sadly and shamefully at Abe. And Abe couldn’t argue with them, especially now that their sleeves were rolled up. He took the beer back to Lori. He left the money on the bar.

“Look, I’m drunk,” he told her when he got back to the booth. “You wanna go?”

“Alright.”

As they were gathering their things, they were approached by Mendel’s date whose hard stare implored both of them to sit back down in their booth.

“You know your friend here,” she told Lori, “wanted to buy Jewish lessons from my uncle over there at the bar. But I think you should have it. I think you could find a better catch willing to blow $200 on you too, sweetheart.”

Lori looked through her bleary eyes at Mendel’s niece in delightful amazement. The woman liked Lori immediately because she could see that Lori had the good sense and class to avoid the mock empathy that most non-working girls threw her way. Then they both looked contemptuously at Abe.

Abe snatched the money from the hooker’s extended hand and said, “Christ!”

“Maybe that’s where you should go, kid,” the hooker said and traipsed back to Mendel at the bar.

Abe could feel Lori staring at him and he wanted to hide under the table. He wanted to punch the wall until his hands bled. He drew a deep breath and then turned toward Lori but she was gone. He looked around the place but it was just a regular Thursday evening. The light had gone off in Lori’s grandparents’ kitchen, too. He sucked down the beer he had gotten from LADY LUCK and then started in on Lori’s bottle.

How had it come to this? He was an inexperienced brooder but he was overcome by a horrible sadness, not only for his own loss but for the splintering of the collective identity of these people whom he considered his own. Boy, girl, Hassid, whore- weren’t they Jews above all? And wasn’t Abe an exemplary specimen of Jewish manhood, strong, handsome and rich? The specter of Lori’s grandparents now sat at his table, their sleeves rolled back down but their heads shaking heads back and forth. No one in his community ever shook their heads like that at their children. They got disappointed in their children just like anyone else, but not with such sadness.

Maybe if Abe had ever felt sheepish before, he wouldn’t have slept with nearly 50 women by the age of 24. But now he realized that all of the sparks of attraction he had felt with other girls that sent his penis toward them like a dart; all of the hours or weeks he spent with them angling, positioning, trussing them up for conquests had ill prepared him for his date with a nice Jewish girl. Deep down, Abe knew that with a girl as bright as Lori, manipulation and deceit were the only ways to prolong her inevitable rejection of him. Until when? Yes, it was true. Abe had been foolish enough to think that if he could just get her into bed, then she would love him despite their ultimate incompatibility. But, if they weren’t right for each other, why did he want her at all? Abe knew the answer to this, too. Lori was right for anybody. It was Abe who was wrong. Finally, her grandparents nodded.

Part II

The young reporter popped a fresh cigar into Abraham Lincoln’s mouth and lit it for him, careful not to singe his whiskers, which had become scraggly in the recent weeks since the election.

Lincoln puffed on it and grumbled out of the side of his mouth, “Thank you, Mr. Bellingsworth. Thank you, indeed.”

“Not at all, Mr. President. I assure you that the honor is entirely mine to have the opportunity to share my joy with our nation’s chief executive. A-hum! A-hum!” chuckled Bellingsworth, the buttons of his stiff white shirt glinting like silver coins as his fat belly heaved up and down with delight.

“Won’t you sit down, please?” invited Lincoln with a sweeping movement of his large, wood-colored right hand.

Bellingsworth quickly took up the flaps of his blazer and rushed his substantial posterior into the nearest chair. Seated, he delicately crossed one well-tailored pants leg over the other. Lincoln fell into the small wooden chair behind his desk and folded his big hands before him.

“Well, Mitchell-” began the President.

“Mitch, please, Mr. President,” said Bellingsworth. “If you’ll permit me to interrupt.”

“Little late for permission… Mitch. Hmm Hmm Hmm,” said Lincoln. Bellingsworth joined him in the riotous cackling, his whiskers puffing out as he rolled his head about his pillowy shoulders and, for the second time within a minute, the Oval Office was filled with the hearty cheer of the two boisterous men.

After a moment, Lincoln snapped his mouth shut while Bellingsworth continued to quake with delight. Lincoln waited patiently for Bellingsworth to calm down. While he waited, he mused to himself that Bellingsworth reminded him of an overheated stove on the brink of combustion. Finally, Bellingsworth regained control of himself and nodded formally to the President that he was ready to continue their meeting.

Lincoln decided to extend the informality a bit further so as to put Bellingsworth at ease. He asked, “So, what’s the delightful little scamp’s name?”

The reporter’s eyes glowed with pride that the President of the United States of America should take such an interest in his affairs, when it was he, Mitchell Stacey Bellingsworth, who was dispatched by his publisher to jot down a mere thirty minutes worth of Abraham Lincoln’s comments regarding his assumption of a second term of office. He summoned the finest timbre he could and purred out his favorite words in the world, “Victor Lamonte O’Hanagan Bellingsworth, Mr. President.”

“Alright. Damn fine name. Damn fine,” said Lincoln who, ever since amending the Constitution, had come under the impression that his opinion was valued in all matters. “Now, Mitch. Let’s get down to the railroad spikes. What would you like to talk about today?”

“Ah, well, Mr. President, I know your time is limited and I don’t want to rush uncomfortably into anything too blunt, but, that is, if we could discuss your policies with regard to a few of the recent tariffs, if it seems a reasonable thing for you… Well, Mr. President, ah, you see, several states, that is to say that you’d care to opine wherefore we might…”

The President’s eyes began narrowing suspiciously but Bellingsworth did not fall silent until one of Lincoln’s hands unfastened itself from the other and raised up like a paddle to halt his fumbling speech. Lincoln’s stern demeanor softened once again as he stood up and turned around. He twisted his head back towards the reporter and offered, “Drink, Mitch?”

“Oh,” stammered Bellingsworth. “Oh, hum, well. Well, certainly, Mr. President.”

“Please. Call me Abe.”

“Beg pardon? Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly… President Lincoln, perhaps... or maybe- um- that is- on the most chumly of occasions- Abraham. But, oh dear.”

“Nonsense,” said Lincoln as he turned back around to face Bellingsworth with two crystal bulbs of port in one hand, his cigar in the other. He slid one of the bulbs across the desk to Bellingsworth, hammered the ash off the tip of his cigar, sat back down and swung his enormous feet onto the desk. Tilting his drink towards the reporter, he said, “Mitchell. I want you to call me Illinois Abe. Alright? Now that’s an order. You’re a proud father and here we are hoisting better days ahead, toasting camaraderie and such and I’m asking you, man to man, to call me Illinois Abe. Now say it.”

Bellingsworth, aghast, shot back his port and on his rheumatic exhalation muttered, “Illinois Abe.”

“See?” said Lincoln as he leaned across his desk to refill Bellingsworth’s glass. “That wasn’t exactly a debate with Douglas, now was it? Now I’m going to sip my drink, remove my shoes and we’re going to pick up where we left off.”

Bellingsworth was dumfounded. He had interviewed Lincoln several times before and had heard at press functions of some of the strange tactics he had used upon younger, greener reporters than himself, but neither he, nor anyone else to his recollection, had never been confronted by two gigantic yellow feet propped upon the nation’s most prestigious desk, sharply undermining the quality of the world’s most hallowed office’s air. Again Bellingsworth referred to his crystal bulb and again the President slopped him more of the thick purple drink from the black bottle.

“What do you think of these socks, Mitchy?” asked the President, dangling the things over his desk. “My secretary, Mrs. Kennedy stitched them for me last winter. Man my size needs custom made everything. Even underbritches! Wanna see?”

“Really, Mr. Pres-”

“Oh, come on! Don’t be such a stick in the mud! And I’m not going to tell you again what you’re supposed to be calling me,” the President chided playfully as he lightly cuffed the journalist on his ample chin.

As Bellingsworth’s friend Marsh had noted during the campaign of 1860, Lincoln’s frequent attempts at gentle horseplay usually resulted in painful cracks and bruises. Bellingsworth rubbed his chin that throbbed with the privilege of such treatment as he remembered Marsh’s observations. He had watered his share of punch bowls and clogged his share of muskets during his days at Dartmouth. And, while a stickler for decorum and gentility, Bellingsworth had always been careful not to place himself above those whose regard for propriety was somewhat laxer than his own. For Bellingsworth understood that a lack of refinement was almost always (and certainly in the case of the sitting President) the result of a lack of opportunity. And yet, for the first time since becoming White House correspondent in mid-term of the Buchanan administration, Bellingsworth, like a child’s innocence being stabbed viciously by adulthood when he sees the first crack of fallibility in his parents, began to consider the possibility that Abraham Lincoln might be something of a boorish ass.

Despite his foppish stammerings, Bellingsworth’s composure had an epic threshold. So, as Lincoln arose from his chair and softly rounded the desk while unbuckling his vest, Bellingsworth calmly reached around the President’s slender waist and helped himself to another serving of port. After a moment of unfastening, Lincoln’s winglike hands were hooked around his hips and his pants sat loosely about his ankles.

Bellingsworth took a moment of his own to summon the timbre of voice that would not betray his shock before saying, “Well, Illinois Abe, I can see why you need bespoke underbritches.” Then, reaching onto the desk for his note pad and pen, Bellingsworth knocked over his empty glass. Its crash on the floor startled Lincoln and he hopped up in surprise. Because of the position of his trousers, he keeled over instead of landing on his bare feet. Bellingsworth quickly helped the President up, brushed some of the crystal shards from his bare thighs and set about sweeping up his mess with one of his shoes.

“One second, Mitch,” said Lincoln. “I’ve got an idea.” Lincoln pulled up his pants and made his way to a closet on the left side of the office. He returned with a small red bundle. “You know, Mitch. Sometimes being President is a lot like having a pregnant wife. It can get quite lonely, if you know what I mean,” he said, batting his eyes coquettishly at the journalist.

The blue in Bellingsworth’s blood boiled in astonishment of the President’s behavior. But, rather than allow himself to be carried away by his upper class sensibilities, the fourth estate in Bellingsworth began to wonder how much of this peculiar interview would make it into the morning papers. The entire country wondered how President Lincoln dealt with the loss of his own two sons. Was this it? As he daydreamed of the headlines, Lincoln approached him with the small bundle.

“Man my age, my size? Well, let’s just say you eventually learn how to fulfill your needs in the most precise of fashions,” Lincoln whispered into Bellingsworth’s ear as he removed the reporter’s blazer. “Oh now I can understand if you’re still locked in to the archaic ideal of love. Plenty of men in your station are. Especially the new fathers, all humbled by the frailty of new life, marvelling at the vague lightening of infantile comprehension, the gray strands of electricity wandering from synapse to vein, searching for a connection of bio-logic. And then some are not. Shall I name them for you? Oh not that you belong in the same pile of conquests with those other louts. I’ve always cherished the moments you and I have spent together here. Anyway, as I was saying, sometimes the rush of war-“

“War?”

“Yes the cut and thrust of battle, the marching formations of men. It can whip up such a lust in a man that one simple evening in the company of an old-fashioned prude like Mary Todd just doesn’t do the trick. I swear to you, Mitchy, that woman belongs in a goddamn convent!”

Bellingsworth shivered beneath the grasp of Lincoln’s hands, one of which crept around and began unfastening the buttons of his shirt.

“Illinois Abe, might I be so bold as to request a new receptacle for your delicious port?”

“Not until you’ve cleaned up the remains of your first one, big boy.”

And with that, Lincoln tore Bellingsworth’s shirt from his back, balled up the stiff white linen and tossed it aside. He forced the shorter man down onto his hands and knees before the littered pieces of glass. Then, with a flourish, Lincoln whipped the red bundle into its full expanse and draped it across Bellingsworth’s shoulders. Had the reporter glanced up for a moment, he would have seen the flash of the Stars and Bars as they came swooping down on him like a spangled insect. Lincoln had also donned his stovepipe hat, which clung miraculously to his large skull.

Although Bellingsworth was already prone, shamefully huddled under the confederate flag, Lincoln issued the orders, “Now on your knees, boy! Clean up that mess! Whoop-dee-daw!”

All of the private tutors and gourmet meals and lolling about the mahogany furniture of Europe’s finest salons that had sailed through Mitchell Bellingsworth’s life in such a splendid stream of pageantry so that he may, among other things, keep his dignity firmly intact under the most bizarre of circumstances, flitted away like smoke in the rain. Were he sober enough to be conscious of his thought process, he would have been surprised by the enthusiasm with which he fell to his duty. When the spanking began, he welcomed it as if his backside had throbbed coldly with neglect until the President’s merciful attendance.

“Come on now, boy!” yowled Lincoln. “Ever last crumb!” And he straddled Bellingsworth and began riding him around the Oval Office, tugging on the man’s ears and scooping behind him for turgid fistfuls of flesh. Bellingsworth panted and groaned and shuttled the President around his desk, awaiting his next delicious humiliation.

“Giddap, you fat floozy! Giddap!”

But then suddenly, Bellingsworth’s hand mashed down on an object that sent a fierce pain charging all up his arm and into his chest. This sensation put his quivering body over the edge and, after the dam had broken, he rocked to one side to get his hand off of the burning cigar. Lincoln toppled from his saddle, taking Bellingsworth over with him in the vice grip of his five-miles-to-school thighs. Bellingsworth licked his hand and squirmed his behind towards the President for more contact. And all the while, the cigar beckoned him to remember little Victor Lamonte.

Breathless, the two men embraced on the floor, Bellingsworth’s girth a worthy match for the span of Lincoln’s condorlike arms. Bellingsworth snuggled his bald head into the thick whiskers of Lincoln’s chin and sighed exhaustedly. Lincoln hardly seemed tired at all. In fact his caresses seemed perfunctory, as if he would take his leave the moment he was sure it wouldn’t hurt the reporter’s feelings, and even that consideration was rapidly fading.

“Oh, Illinois Abe,” said Bellingsworth.

Lincoln smiled craftily, unseen by Bellingsworth as he figured out how to escape from the journalist’s pudgy reach. “Mitchy?”

“Yes, Illinois Abe?”

“Congratulations again on the birth of your son. I’m sure you and the wife are beaming with pride.”

The wife. Bellingsworth looked ahead in terror at the thought of returning to bed with little Victor Lamonte’s mother, a woman he had known since his boarding school days. She may not have been Mary Todd Lincoln, but how in the world would she react to his plump behind wriggling around her in the hopes that she might just brush against it accidentally? Was she an astute enough lover to distinguish his theatrical sighs from his involuntary shudders? And how would he react when, thrashing through the sheets towards her while the dawn gently overtook heaven’s blackness, he learned of her indifference towards him; of her distant routine that he had been buying as genuine intimacy all these years? It was too much to bear and only one solution presented itself- spend more time with the Lincolns. And as he loosed himself from the bony tangle of limbs and beard and stood up, he searched his mind for the first opportunity for a get together with Illinois Abe and Mary Todd. And then, as he was unballing his shirt, he recalled that the wife and he had extra tickets to the new production of Our American Cousins.

#Sexy Abe #Lincoln #Judaism #short story #Shuman #Fiction

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