#let me indulge you in a little story about a little fourteen year old girl who had NEVER read fan fiction before in her life and who's
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Your Ivy Grows // In Love
AO3 Link
Summary: Ominis Gaunt cannot see, but he can feel. He can feel the tall thickets of grass outside of his Aunt Noctua's house, now his for the summer. He can feel the sand down by the beach, the water of the tide pools, the overgrown ivy in Noctua's beloved garden. Most importantly, he can feel the gentle brush of his house guest's hand against his as they take their daily walk. He fears that he may feel much, much more for his new house guest.
Word Count: 3,695
Chapter Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Smut, loss of virginity, NSFW, MDNI
The unlikely couple was sitting in the sand, the sun starting to rise over the water. Ominis’s houseguest had begged for answers after he’d dropped the news. How could he even begin to tell her that the spellbook her father had been tasked with finding had already been uncovered by three dimwitted fifteen year olds? He’d frozen in place on his bed, the woman clawing, grasping for answers from him. It was only when Sebastian woke from the noise, tearing her from the bedroom while Ominis thawed.
By then, Golly had slipped the girl a small dose of a sleeping draught, while Sebastian chastised him, leaving the house under the cover of night.
She woke from her slumber after just a little while; it had been a rather small dose. Ominis had found her sitting in the dining room to a cold cup of coffee, the color drained from her face. He decided it was time she knew the whole story, so he tugged her from her chair to follow him down to the beach. The sound of the waves crashing on sand had always calmed him as a child, and he hoped it would give him enough composure to admit the hard truths he'd been hiding away.
“We were fourteen when Anne was cursed.” Ominis said wistfully.
“Fourteen?” she croaked.
Ominis nodded. “She was cursed by a dark wizard–we didn’t know it at the time, we thought it was a goblin. The curse had been altered to keep her in pain, wither her away from the inside out. Sebastian was hellbent on finding a cure for her at all costs, no matter how dark the measures.”
“How does this relate to the book?” She asked impatiently.
Ominis’s head hung low. “I’ve told you about our friend–the girl with the peculiar magic.” he started playing with the sand. “She convinced me to help Sebastian find Salazar Slytherin’s scriptorium. Pick up on the research my aunt Noctua had left behind. Naturally, the public had spread a rumor that she’d run away with a muggleborn lover. In reality, she disappeared searching for clues about our ancestor.”
“Your Aunt Noctua–” her eyes widened.
“Dead.” Ominis said simply. “We found her body. It was a cruel maze to the scriptorium. One needed to cast the cruciatus curse on another human to open the door; the others locked behind her. She starved to death, praying for a way out of the hallway.” his voice took a bitter turn. “I…couldn’t do it. I froze. Sebastian cast the cruciatus curse on our friend to save us.”
“And you found the spell book.” She uttered.
Ominis tilted his head up, eyes weary from staying up nearly the whole night. “We indulged Sebastian. We let him study the spell book in case there was anything of value to help Anne. We had no idea what a mistake it would be.” he said bitterly. “It only drew Sebastian further into the dark.”
“But Sebastian told me the two of you guided him out of the darkness.” she recalled.
“He was there for some time.” Ominis sighed. “His…his crimes are not mine to share. In his foolish search for a cure, Sebastian made mistakes he couldn’t take back. Our fifth year of school ended poorly, with Anne disowning Sebastian as long as he dabbled in the dark arts. She destroyed the spell book, and that is how we’ve landed in our current predicament.”
The woman next to him was silent for a moment, ruminating on her thoughts. “How long did Anne live after that?” she asked.
Ominis bit down on his lip, rubbing his jaw. “Longer than we anticipated,” he admitted. “She passed just shy of her nineteenth birthday.”
She shuffled in the sand, resting her head on Ominis’s shoulder. He shuddered, letting out a full body shiver as he felt her weight on his.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
Ominis laughed bitterly. “How can it be that you’re the one trying to comfort me? It’s our fault that you’re doomed to this life. My family, my friends, it’s all my fault."
“Ominis, you’ve done everything you possibly could to try and help me.” she murmured. “You aren’t your brother. You aren’t Sebastian. You’re not the one who destroyed the book. You’ve kept me happy, content during my time here. I hate to say it…but it could have been a lot worse.”
He felt a hot tear roll down his cheek; as much as he willed himself not to get emotional, he couldn’t help it any longer. Being around her for the duration of the summer so far had challenged Ominis and his steadfast control over his emotions.
“You should be angry,” he said quietly. “You should hate me.”
“How could I hate you?” she asked. “It’s done. It’s no use, Ominis.”
“I’m not good with verbalizing these things,” Ominis admitted. He felt her hand brush against his cheek, smearing the tears against his pale skin. “I know better than to wear my emotions–it makes you weak. After Anne, I couldn’t bear it any longer. I didn’t want to feel at all. I resigned myself to be alone, to not burden anyone else.”
“You could never be a burden, Ominis.” She whispered against his skin. She’d pushed his hands off his lap, straddling him to hold his tear stained cheeks in her hands. “You have been so kind to me.”
“I wish I could be more.” Ominis said mournfully. He felt her face, brushing a mislaid lock of hair from her forehead. He wrapped his arms around her waist, digging his face into her shoulder. The fabric from her dress was soft, well worn–she was wearing one of her own dresses, not the fancy ones Marvolo had sent her. While he was sure she looked absolutely breathtaking, Ominis had hated them on her. She didn’t smell right, the fabric too slick. Wearing the soft cotton dress, she felt like herself again.
“You see things differently,” Ominis murmured against her shoulder. “From the start–when we first met, you complimented my abilities, you didn’t see my blindness as a failure.”
She hummed against his skin, and Ominis felt encouraged to say more.
“You fixed up the garden, the one my aunt loved so much. And even though I’d yelled at you, you still took the time to teach me everything you know.” Ominis pressed his face further into her shoulder. “You became a friend first. You’re the first woman who hasn’t asked about my family, our money, our social standing.”
“What are you trying to tell me, Ominis?” she asked, her voice soft against his cheek.
Ominis gulped. “I’m trying to tell you–tell you how you make me feel.” He shuddered at the loss of control; he’d fallen down this rabbit hole once before, long ago. Once his feelings were out there, understood, possibly reciprocated, there was no going back. They’d danced around the words before, incomplete sentences and innuendos about the way they might feel about one another. This was more than the lustful thoughts he’d growl into her ear. For the first time since he was seventeen, Ominis was trying to tell a woman that she carried his heart in her palm.
“Ominis, you don’t have to–”
“You have rooted yourself in my dreams.” Ominis muttered. “I fall asleep knowing I’ll think of you, the way you feel, the way you sound. When you laugh. When I wake, I find comfort knowing I’ll spend my day with you.” he choked out.
His thumb brushed her cheek; her skin felt hot. She was blushing, he realized.
“The way you feel on top of me,” he groaned. “The way you say my name. I will hear it in my memories for the rest of my life.”
Her forehead pressed against his. “Why are you saying this?” she asked, voice slightly pained.
“You asked me to show you love,” Ominis tucked her tighter against his chest. “Love…it doesn’t come easy to me. I have watched the two women I loved the most die, and I never wanted to subject myself to that pain ever again.” He hesitated, thinking over how best to explain himself. “You asked me to show you love, and it’s feeling, despite the pain. Even if we don't have much more time-”
She pressed her lips against his, and Ominis melted into her touch. Her hands grasped his cheeks, and in turn, he ran his own through her hair. Fingers catching on curls, Ominis held her closely, as tight as he could. They only had so much longer together, he thought, before his brother threw her to the wolves. He licked his way into her mouth, tangling his tongue against hers hungrily.
His houseguest pulled away with the slightest gasp, her nose pressed against his.
“Let’s go back, Ominis.”
He stood, taking her shaking hand into his.
The house was quiet as Ominis tugged her up the stairs. Golly must have been down in the kitchen; it was just the two of them.
Forsaking the master suite, the two of them walked hand in hand into her room. As the door shut behind him, Ominis waved his wand, locking and casting a silencing charm.
“Come to bed, Ominis.” he heard her say. The mattress creaked beneath her.
Ominis laid his wand on the table next to the door. He didn’t need his magic to know the path to the bed; he’d walked it many times already; the smell of her violet perfume wafted towards him, guiding his nose the right way. He unbuttoned his shirt, letting it fall to the ground as he too knelt on the bed. Ominis felt around the surface, finding her in the center.
They didn’t need to say anything. Ominis knew what she wanted–what he’d wanted for so long as well. He swallowed thickly, thinking of the nights he’d spent fucking his fist, wishing it were her around him. His long, slender fingers found the front of her dress, gently undressing her. Their encounters had been so rushed, desperate before. Despite the heaviness of the night prior and the weight of his confession, things had never felt lighter between them. After all, Ominis wanted to take his time with her–to savor her as one should.
Wordlessly, Ominis leaned forward towards her body. His nose caught on the side of her chin as he went to kiss her throat; she laughed nervously.
“Tell me if it feels good,” Ominis instructed, pressing open mouthed kisses on her body. She shuddered beneath him, arching her back to close the distance. He snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her naked breasts flush against his body.
“You feel good,” she breathed. “Keep–keep doing that.”
Ominis smiled to himself as his mouth ghosted over her breasts. With his free hand, he palmed one, fingers roving over her hardened nipple. A cry spilled from her lips when he leaned down, pressing a kiss to the other.
“You’re so damn beautiful,” Ominis declared, his teeth grazing her lightly. “So soft.”
After providing his thorough attention to her chest, he moved down her stomach. Her hands tugged at his hair as he laved kisses down her soft belly, his own hands gently tugging down her undergarments. Casting the useless cotton aside, Ominis pressed a kiss to her hip bone, swirling his tongue in the crease between her thigh. He didn’t dare touch himself, even though his own arousal was straining against the fabric of his trousers.
“Ominis,” she gasped. Her hands flew from his head to her own; she was likely covering her face.
“Don’t hide,” he murmured against her skin. His hand flew to her face; he’d been correct. He tugged her hands away, relishing the slight whimper from her lips as nuzzled her sex. His nose pressed against her nub as he lapped at her weeping entrance. She writhed beneath him, obscenities flying from her mouth as he pressed on.
Ominis thought back to the first time he’d tasted her in the garden, when he’d made her come for the first time. She’d been so shy, he thought. He loved the way she wriggled beneath him now, a wanton moan falling from her lips as he slid a finger into her.
“Ominis, I’m begging you,” she pleaded. “I need you inside of me.”
“Need to prepare you first.” Ominis grunted, curling another finger inside of her. “My beautiful girl, I want you to say my name.”
“Ominis,” she whined. “Oh, Ominis, please.” She swatted at him and he pulled away, laughing. “Don’t make me wait,” she rasped. “Please, you’re all I want.”
Ominis slid his fingers into his mouth, tasting her slick. She let out another staggered moan as she watched him unbutton his trousers, pulling them off. He held the base of his cock, thinking about how they’d almost fucked in the library the other day. He was glad they didn’t–it would’ve been rushed, unsatisfying in the end. He relished the fact that she was naked beneath him, begging for his touch.
“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” Ominis murmured. He positioned himself at her entrance, dragging his leaking tip against her folds. Ominis rarely lamented his blindness, but he wished he could see his own spend combining with hers. The thought alone had him moaning, pressing the blunt tip against her entrance.
Her breath stuttered, and Ominis nearly stopped himself. “Are you alright?” he whispered.
“I–I am. Please, keep going.” she urged him.
Ominis leaned forward, slowly pressing himself into her. Despite his preparations, she was still sinfully tight around him. He hissed as he pressed his forehead against hers, willing himself not to thrust into her.
“That good I’ve reduced you to speaking parseltongue,” she joked breathily.
Ominis couldn’t help the snort of laughter that came out; she followed suit, laughing with him as he pressed a kiss against her jaw. Her laugh turned into a moan when he rolled his hips, fully sheathing himself inside of her.
“How does it feel?” Ominis asked breathily. “Does it hurt? I’ll stop.”
“Don’t stop,” she groaned, her breasts flush against his chest. She wrapped her arms around him, her nails digging into his back. “It feels–it feels full, but good.”
“You’re so warm,” Ominis furrowed his eyebrows. “So wet–Merlin, you feel so good.” He gave another tentative roll of his hips, and she let out a sweet cry. He willed himself to not let go; it had been so long since he’d allowed himself to indulge, the sheer feeling of her around him was enough to drive him over the edge.
“Ominis, I love you,” she gasped, her lips dragging against his skin. It bordered on overstimulation for him. He pressed his forehead against hers, hooking an arm under her leg to pull it up higher. Her hips were rolling in tandem with his, barely letting him withdraw. The sound of their union filled the room; just their gasps and moans, the sound of their skin against one another.
Ominis rolled them over onto their side, rutting against her. “I’m going to–I can’t hold back any longer,” he said, his voice hoarse. He quickly withdrew from her, a soft whine emitting from her lips. Ominis shattered, choking as his seed spilt between the two of them. He could feel the stickiness coating her stomach.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped, turning red. “I didn’t think I’d finish so quickly.” he said sheepishly.
She dragged his hand to her cheek; he could feel it go round as she smiled. “We have all day, don’t we?”
“Gods, I love you.” Ominis panted, drawing her close for a kiss. His emotions were like a dam; now open, he couldn’t help but spill sentiments of his adoration for her. It had been three years since he’d told someone he loved them. Despite how foreign the word was in his vocabulary, saying it to her felt right.
He had a finite amount of time to do so anyways, he thought.
After a few moments to breathe, Ominis shifted onto his knees, his limbs tangled in the sheets. “Here,” he murmured, flipping her onto her stomach.
“What are you doing?” she asked, the sentence tipped with curiosity.
Ominis straddled her naked thighs, leaning down to kiss the curve of her neck. He smiled as her breath caught.
“You didn’t finish, so I’ve a job to do.” He nipped her earlobe, relishing her shriek. He left open mouthed kisses down her shoulder blades, massaging her skin as he made his way down her back. He gently kissed down her spine, his cock hardening again in record time as he made his way down to her bottom. His fingers drummed against her cheeks, spreading them as he slipped the head of his cock into her soaking wet cunt. She let out a desperate, filthy sound as he slowly rolled his hips again.
“You’re mad,” she laughed.
“I’m in love,” Ominis replied.
“I’m starved,” his houseguest announced. “We skipped breakfast and lunch altogether.”
Ominis groaned, untangling himself from the sheets. They’d spent the better half the day laying with one another, exploring each other’s bodies. He wouldn’t lie–his legs felt like jelly. But it was all worth it in the end, listening to her gasps beneath him.
The last hour had been his favorite though. Well worn from their lovemaking, the two of them laid in the bed with their fingers laced together. Ominis had never found it difficult to converse with her before, but with all of his walls broken down, the words had never come easier. He spoke freely about his family, his disdain for his older brother. He talked about his childhood, recounting memories once only known to Sebastian, Anne, and Noctua.
She’d done the same for him–finally, she critiqued her father, who’d landed her in the awful situation in the first place. She spoke of her loneliness, how she’d loved growing up cultured and well-traveled, but that she’d missed a vital part of her childhood not having the chance to go to Hogwarts with her peers. She’d long felt resentful of her parents for keeping her away.
“Do you think we would’ve been friends?” she’d asked quietly. “If I’d gone to school with you.”
“I hope we would have,” Ominis pursed his lips. “Would’ve helped to have a friend that was good at herbology. Maybe I would’ve passed my OWLs.”
They laughed together; it had been too long since he’d shared honest joy with a woman. Ominis ran his fingers through her long curls, and she drummed hers against the planes of his chest. It was only when their stomachs collectively growled that she acknowledged her hunger. Ominis, being the gentleman he was, wrapped a sheet around his body as he trudged over to the door. He shuddered as he grabbed his wand, adjusting back to his version of sight. Disarming the silencing charm on the room, he turned back to her on the bed.
“I’ll brave the kitchens,” he announced. “Bring us some food.”
“I’ll be here,” she echoed.
Ominis brazenly paraded through the house with just the sheet wrapped around his waist. Golly normally left snacks out in the butler’s pantry for them to snatch throughout the day; he’d grab a basket, fill it with their bounty before running back up to his lover.
“Master Ominis,” he heard a feeble voice.
Ominis whirled around, raising his wand. He blushed, realizing that Golly was seeing him in such a state of undress.
“Golly, I’m sorry–”
“Master Ominis has received an owl from his brother, sir.” the house-elf said wistfully. “It came this morning, but master and his guest were rather busy , and Golly thought better than to interrupt.”
Ominis blinked. “From Marvolo?”
“Yes, sir.” Golly gulped. “He’s requesting Master Ominis return to London. With your guest.”
Ominis furrowed his eyebrows. “When?”
“Next week. Asked that the young miss prepare for a week-long stay.”
Ominis’s knees went weak, and he staggered against the door frame. “Thank you, Golly. I’ll respond to him later.”
“Yes, sir. Shall Golly bring some provisions upstairs?” she asked meekly.
“Er, yes. If you could–leave them outside the door.” Ominis said, swallowing thickly. “And don’t tell her. I’d like to explain it to her myself, tomorrow.”
Golly hummed in agreement, and Ominis tightened the sheet around his waist. No, he didn’t want to ruin the day they’d just shared. Telling her about Marvolo’s letter would only leave a stain on the rest of the afternoon, sullying the memories they’d made together. He trudged up the stairs, gripping his wand tightly. All he wanted was to be back in the safety of their room, any thoughts of the future far, far away from them.
“No food?” his houseguest whined. He could tell she was pouting as he shut the door behind him, dropping his wand back onto the table.
“Golly said she’ll bring us some provisions.” He sighed, dropping the sheet onto the ground as he clambered over to her. He was well known for his grace, but something about her made him stumble in his tracks.
“You must have frightened the poor thing,” she cooed, drawing him into her arms. “I can get the food from the door.”
Ominis leaned into her touch, digging his face into her neck. She laughed again, the sound sparkling and bright.
“You were only gone for a few minutes, Ominis. I’m right here.”
She wouldn’t always be.
“I know,” Ominis assured her. “Just want to be close to you.” He pressed a kiss against the curve of her neck, swallowing down his feelings.
Love was cruel, he thought to himself. Everything he loved was always taken away; despite the happiness it gave him, Ominis knew to expect the twist of a knife. Aunt Noctua, who’d perished in the most barbaric trap. Anne, who’d withered away in his arms.
Perhaps this time it could be different. He could talk to Marvolo, reason with him. Ominis would stand up for himself, for her.
“Are you even listening?” she huffed.
Breaking out of his thoughts, Ominis tilted his head up. “Of course,” he murmured. He pressed another kiss to her salty skin, settling back into her arms.
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Beyond the Blood Tie - Chapter Twenty Four.
Enjoy, besties! :)
Previous Chapters - One Two, Part One Part Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Nineteen Twenty Twenty One Twenty Two Twenty Three
Words - 3,234
Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added/removed
Warnings - 18+ content throughout. Minors DNI!
Edie's POV
“Better now?” Angel asks me, having to battle the still very hard erection he has back into his jeans. He’ll be stuck with that for a while, too, until I return to him to put it to further good use.
“Yeah, that’s taken the edge off a little. I’m still feral for you, though.” Running my nails down his perfect chest, I share kisses with him, humming happily against his tongue. “I’d better get in there, then. Meet you upstairs in a bit.” He winks, walking me in, hands still all over me until we part at the stairs, him heading to his room while I walk around to Ursula’s lounge, softly knocking the door.
"Edie, do come in,” she speaks, giving me a knowing smile as I enter. Oh yeah... she knows what we did.
“Sorry,” I snort with laughter, covering my face partially with my hand, Ursula chuckling softly.
“What for, little dove?”
“Fucking your offspring against the front of your house,” I exclaim softly, taking a seat when she rises from her desk and gestures towards the sofa.
“Well, it likely gave the neighbours something to twitch their curtains over,” she laughs, resting her hand atop mine. “Now, as for why I have requested this. I feel it is important that we get to know one another a little better, now that you're in a relationship with my boy.” I didn’t notice it before, just how lovely her accent is. She has the softest Irish tones I've ever heard, mixed in with a slight American twang, but you can definitely tell that Ireland was the place she was born.
I smile, nodding. It’s nice that she’s even taken the interest. "What would you like to know?"
"About you and your life, of course.” Her request is delivered with a smile, jamming her elbow against the back of the couch, resting her head against her hand as she gets comfortable.
I begin by telling her pretty much the same story as I did Angel, how I was born in 2073 down in Bullhead City, and the life that followed. I tell her of my evil mother, my father who wasn't my biological one, and my years as a truant and then juvenile delinquent, and how I got into my job as a punisher by being punished firstly myself. I detail all the people who came and went from my life, old relationships and lovers, my friends who stuck around, too. She just nods and listens without interjection, letting me talk and talk. When I'm finished, she has plenty to say, though.
"In all my time on this planet I have never understood the mindless cruelty that is violence towards children. I would have loved to have had the chance to bear young when I was human, but it was denied to me. People like your mother, and I use that term loosely, because no person who indulges in such barbarity as to beat their own child should deserve the title, well, they just don't realise how lucky they are. They have the precious gift of a little one to love and nurture, to guide them through the world around them and they just waste it. I cannot even begin to express how sorry I am that it happened to you, darling girl," she laments, shaking her head sadly.
I shrug, crinkling my nose a little. "It happened, and it was a long time ago. I'm fine with it now. I mean, I still get angry about her. If anything, I wish I could resurrect her and kick the bitch to death all over again for what she did, but I don't let her hold me back.”
She inclines her head forward just a touch, looking out from under her enviably long eyelashes, completely unconvinced. "Yes, you do.” Hmm, yeah, who am I kidding? A vampire over a thousand years old has the kind of sharp senses to smell out the truth instantly.
"How do you think that I do?" I ask, wondering if her perceptions match the uncomfortable truth I mostly try to hide.
"I can tell quite strongly that you thought your mother didn’t love you, and you'd probably be right in thinking that. Linda loved herself more than anyone else, I can gauge. Because of that, I strongly feel that you have never really opened yourself up to receive love and in turn, never really truly let yourself love anyone else either. I mean romantically, because it is very clear that you love people such as Vic, Ahmed, Aileen, Miley and Sasha. I do feel through what you told me of your romantic relationships though, that you never really loved them, or let them love you.” Damn, that’s perceptive.
"Because you think I'm scared to get hurt again, like she hurt me?" I take a breath, nodding. ”I suppose that is true.”
She is kind in her words, so very nurturing, just like Angel detailed. "Perhaps in part, but I think you know that just because she didn't give a shit, it doesn't mean everyone else who comes into your life will be like that. I think quite simply, you don't really know how to love someone, because the love you should have had lavished upon you as a child was never there, so that part of you is slightly stunted. It will come to you, if you allow it. Not that you'll have much choice with Angel. He loves you limitlessly and boundlessly, you know. You'll find that it'll grow with a love as strong as his. When we vampires love, we do so on a completely different level to humans.” Her words certainly have given me a lot to think about, and immediately I do begin to mentally question myself. Maybe that is why my relationships never really went anywhere, and why for the most part I really didn't care.
I've never had my heart broken, even when Sarah and I split up and I thought she was the love of my life, but then again, I never used those terms to describe it, not even to myself. I think the ancient and high susceptible vampire just may have a point with what she picks up on. Angel did tell me one time that it's a little frightening, how well Ursula can read a person so accurately when going on such little information. Perhaps this is why relationships, or rather the importance of being in one, has never been all that important to me either, because as she stated, that part of me is stunted.
"Yes, I know he does. I feel awful every time he tells me in as many words too, when I don't return the sentiment to him. I know he'd really like me to, but he'd never push me to say it before I felt it," I answer after a few thoughtful moments.
"He absolutely wouldn't, you're right. He'll give you all the time in the world to settle comfortably into the love you both will share one day. He thinks you're worth it," she vouches, while I sit and wonder just how much of this she knows through discussion with him, or just feels intuitively because she understands the vampire he is like no other ever will.
"You know him through and through, don't you?" I ask, wanting to steer away from the subject of me. It feels like only a short time has passed since I arrived, when in fact forty-five minutes have gone by since now and then. Talking to Ursula is like a nice, warm mug of hot chocolate; you feel very comforted by her, warm and relaxed inside.
"I do, and let me tell you, he hated it at first. He didn't like to be so easily read, or the fact that I could always feel his moods. It takes a long time to become used to being a vampire fully, and he hated that I had such a direct link to his emotions. EZ told me that as a human he could be very… well let's just say he jokingly referred to Angel as Mariah on occasion," she chuckles, her eyes sparkling with amusement.
I shake my head a little, not immediately catching on. "Mariah? I'm sorry, but I don't get the reference.”
"Have you ever heard of the old singer, Mariah Carey?"
"Yes, I have."
"Have you heard what a stroppy little diva she could be?"
I can’t help the snort of laughter. "Yes, I have.”
"There you have it." I'm laughing too much to reply to her at first. Stroppy diva, oh damn that sums him up perfectly when he isn't getting his own way!
"Yes, I've experienced him when he's acting like that! Not getting his own way," I finally exclaim, composing my laughter.
"No doubt when he was your detainee," she observes. Something flickers through her eyes there, just for a second, something dark and foreboding. Something I never, ever want to see amplified. God, I bet she’s truly terrifying when enraged, and I don’t blame her at all for perhaps holding a little bit of such because of what I did to her son, regardless of her magnanimity and kindness towards me now.
"I did. He was truly horrible. I still can't believe he's the same vampire now," I confess, watching her nod.
"He's much less bad tempered now than when he went into the Correctional Department, and I really have to credit you with that fully, Edie. You did a superb job. All of you punishers do such good work. The reoffending statistics have fallen so dramatically since this kind of punishment was introduced, and that's just testament to your work," she states emphatically, nodding as she clasps my hand softly.
"Was he as bad tempered as a human? Or wouldn't you know, since you didn't know him for long when he was?" I then ask, curling my legs up and hugging my knees to my chest as I begin to feel a lot more comfortable around Angel's 'mom', pulling my dress down over my knees, save giving her an eye full of the fact I forewent undies tonight.
"No, he was quite easy going, but like EZ told me, he could be very dramatic. It was being made vampire that caused the awful temper, it brought out the darkness in him, as it does to us all when we're turned. Also, it was because he was very powerful, being made by me, of course. The older the vampire who makes you, the stronger you are. Angel has the strength of your average three-hundred-year-old, and he's only one hundred and thirty-six. I think this was why he was quite difficult as a young vampire, before his hundredth year. My other vampire children were much the same, being made with blood containing such power. Mind you, Angel can be very, very difficult even now, when it suits him to be," she explains.
I snort softly, nodding. “Oh, yes he can.”
She’s entertained by my assertion. “How well you are coming to know my boy.”
I nod in agreement, for I do feel like I’m really getting to know him quite well by now. “How many other vampire children do you have then?" I choose to ask her next.
"I only have Angel now. My other two children are no longer here with us. Adeline chose to end her own life when her human companion died, and Ivan met his final death in a vampire war. I miss them," she sighs, her eyes seeming to go misty for a few moments as she fondly remembers them.
"I'm sorry you had to lose them," I sympathise, watching her nod as she looks back at me.
"Thank you, that's kind, dear. Do you hope to become a mother some day?"
I shake my head, tucking a few strands of hair behind my ear. "No, I have no maternal instincts.”
"Ahhh, then aren't you just with the perfect person right now, hmm? I suppose vampiric infertility is quite the draw to women such as yourself who do not wish to become mothers.” I suppose she's right there.
"Yeah, I guess I am really since there's more chance of the sun freezing than Angel knocking me up," I chuckle, making her laugh loudly. "Do you mind me asking why you didn't have children when you were human?" I then add, honestly wondering why a woman who seems so maternal didn't ever have kids of her own.
"It's quite simple, my parents died young and as the eldest child of twelve, it was my responsibility to look after them. I was fifteen when they died, and of course back then as long as a girl was menstruating, she was considered a woman, so I could have and should have been starting a family of my own. Sadly, my youngest sister was just a baby in arms when our parents died of disease. I had to raise her like she was my own, until she was fifteen, and the rest in the late teens and twenties. I was glad that when I was made, they didn't need me any longer," she reveals, looking nostalgic.
"Wow, and I thought I'd had a hard life," I comment, really quite taken aback by Ursula's brief story. I didn't expect her to embellish much more, she is a vampire after all, and they don't open up easily to those they don't know well.
"We've both come through our time of suffering well, and into much happier times. Well, my time was happy before all the bother I went through recently with being held at the AVA Nevada headquarters where I work, and being accused with conspiracy," she confides, while I feel my eyes widen.
"I did mean to ask you about that, well to ask if you're okay and not actually expect you to tell me the ins and outs of it, I should say," I clarify, giving my hands a little massage where they ache from work. It does take a toll on the fingers, repeated punching.
"May I?" Ursula begins, gesturing to my hands. I nod, and she takes them gently, her fingers beginning to ease over the tense muscles and sore ligaments, the feeling immediately soothing. "As for what you asked, I am more than happy to tell you what is going on. Angel trusts you and therefore, so do I. You're the woman he loves, so by default I shall place my trust in you."
She explains to me that she thinks the chief of Nevada, a vampire named Elias Weston, who has never trusted her and wants her out because of that, is behind her being questioned, and she thinks this is his way of beginning to sow the seeds of doubt over her, by having her questioned regarding her alleged involvement with a group called the TVM, the True Vampire Movement. These are the vampires who do not believe in socialisation, integration of vampires into human society. The TVM, so Ursula tells me, work against that. They believe vampires should be superior to us.
"So, you really think it's him then?" I ask, her fingers gently rotating my thumb until it clicks.
"I am nothing short of certain that it's him, I just need to find more tangible proof. I doubt my being taken in for questioning is the last of it, so as he tries to discredit me in other ways, I shall have to be on the ball in finding evidence that these attempts to cast doubt over me and my status, and that of my family too, as I expect he will attempt next, all come from him.” She looks a little pissed off, but her calmness in explaining the situation makes me see that she’s unmoved by it, other than anyone attempting to threaten her family. Her innocence is clear. “Anyway, I’ve kept you from Angel for long enough. I can feel the need for you radiating from him, so let me keep you no longer.”
“Well, thanks for the hand massage,” I begin, Ursula nodding with a wink.
“Before you go and cramp them up again, grasping various parts of him.”
I can’t help but laugh. “True, true. It was really nice, getting to know you better.”
“You too, lovely dove. You too.”
I head upstairs, entering the bedroom to find a gorgeous, naked vampire lying on his bed, greeting me with a wink and a big smile as I remove my boots and socks.
"How did your chat with Ursula go?" I climb astride him, Angel lifting my dress over my head, fingers stroking my back as he plants soft, deft kisses at my throat.
It takes a moment to reply, as always, my vampire pulling me headlong into the kind of arousal that’s been bubbling away since our very hot tryst outside earlier on. God, the things he does to me. “It went well, yeah. She’s remarkably perceptive, she picked up on so much.”
His mouth skims over my collarbones, head lowering, sucking on my nipple with a hungry moan. “Such as?”
“Such as, um... I.. ahhhh,” I mutter, his hand pushing between my legs, fingers laying long, slow strokes to my clit. “I think I might have to tell you later.”
“No, tell me now.”
“It’s a little difficult, with what you’re currently doing to me,” I gasp, his fingers pushing inside of my, mouth returning to my neck as my body begins to hum with the warmth of arousal.
“I’m sure you’ll manage.” He knows what he’s doing. He’s so, so bad. His fingers return to my clit, and fuck, fuck! He’s too good with them.
“She, um... she, ahhhh, fuck, she...”
He hums a chuckle. “Use your words, baby.”
“She basically said that I... ahhhh, fuck! Angel can you...” Oh god, the preciseness of those fingers! “She said that it was my past, what my mother put me through, that meant I had such a hard time with loving or being loved.”
I can feel him smile against my neck. “Told you she was perceptive,” he begins, kisses trailing from one side of my throat to the other. “I’m probably not doing much for myself here, am I, in awaiting your feelings to flourish?”
“You’re being both a very good and very bad vampire,” I chide softly, Angel looking at me with a raised eyebrow and a big grin.
“Ahhh, it’s that duality that keeps you coming back for more, ain’t it?”
Reaching between us, I grasp his cock, his abs trembling in response. “Well, this might play a not so small part in that, too.”
“Ahhh, I did wonder.”
“You did?”
“Mmhmm.”
“In between being an awful tease?”
He chuckles deeply, pulling his fingers from me, allowing me to position his cock at my opening and sink down on him with a satisfied sigh. “I think I’m done now.” We fall into kisses edged in fire and honey, my nails trailing through his hair as he bounces me on his cock at a languid pace, suddenly gripping my waist and lifting me off, lying me back on the bed, his body swathing mine in a blanket of tattoos and muscles. “Or am I?”
His creator was correct. Angel truly can be very, very difficult. Contexts extremely interchangeable.
#angel reyes#angel reyes fanfiction#angel reyes smut#angel reyes imagine#angel reyes fanfic#angel reyes fic#angel reyes x ofc#vampire!angel reyes#mayans mc#mayans mc fanfiction#mayans mc smut#mayans mc imagine#mayans mc fanfic#mayans mc fic
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Anakin and the Jedi Babies: A Child's Ink
Context: Anakin and the Jedi Babies, chrono
WARNINGS: underage characters get tattoos/piercings
Word Count: 5680
Rating: T
Ships: primarily Gen (Disaster Lineage + Shmi), offscreen JangoShmi, past Obitine, past Anidala
----
Ylliben Skywalker is known as a preternaturally calm and quiet child, serious and pensive.
He jokes. He roughhouses. He is as responsive to tickle attacks and shoulder rides and warm hugs as any other child.
But he is Jetii'Manda, not just Mando'ade, and that fact is impossible to forget.
This is a child that can read before he can speak, a child who can talk at length about 'grassroots antiestablishment propaganda and its influence on rural sociological development' before he can say the words without a lisp. This is a child who looks a man in the eye and tells him to check over his blaster one last time, or it will explode in his hand only minutes into the next engagement. This is a child who is not only willing, but capable of discussing the plausible ramifications of Duke Adonai Kryze's latest decrees with Jaster Mereel himself, while still in possession of all his baby teeth.
(His father is not worried by this. Upset, sometimes, pained and tired, but not worried.)
(His sister only laughs.)
It is, as a result, not as surprising as it could be, when a six-year-old wanders his way into Na-Tsuyon's parlor and asks her what the risks of getting a tattoo at his age are.
"I'm not having that conversation with you unless your parent is here," she says. A few of the other artists crane their heads in her direction, but she waves them off.
"I'm not trying to get it right this moment," Ben protests. "I'm just gathering information. He said that was fine."
"Still need your parent here here," she tells him.
He leaves for about ten minutes, and then comes back with a tall, gangling figure in tow.
"I hear this isn't the place for unaccompanied minors," Knight Skywalker jokes.
(She has heard him called a General. She does not know which war he fought. Nobody does.)
(They no longer ask.)
"Well, he is young," she says, brushing her tentacles back over a shoulder. "I don't let anyone under human-fourteen get tattooed without a parent on hand, and giving preliminary information to anyone under twelve is... generally not worth it, shall we say."
Skywalker smiles, oddly amused in the way he always is when someone points out his children need supervision. "Glad to hear it. Are you the Na-Tsuyon whose name is on the door?"
"I am," she says. "And you're Knight Skywalker."
He's pleased at that. She can feel it in the chemical receptors of her head tails, and wonders. "Yep. So, do we jump right into the discussion or do you need me to sign something, or..."
"No, it's enough that you're here," she assures him. "Now, the main reasons we discourage tattoos for younger sentients is the distortion factor. While the level of pain is much lower than it would have been several millennia ago, and we have the technology to remove ink from below the skin, a tattoo before your body stops growing will distort as you grow and your skin stretches. You would need to come in yearly for touch-ups, to remove the sections that have moved out of place, and fill in where the ink is no longer settled."
"That makes sense," Ylliben says. He looks up at his father, and then back to her. "You'd be able to tell me if any of my choices would be... bad for a Mandalorian, yes?"
"I would," she confirms. She glances up at Knight Skywalker. "I don't suppose you have any history of getting tattoos?"
"No," he says. "I'm from Tatooine, so..."
Different connotations to the very act of it, for him.
She ducks her head in a nod. "I understand. Generally it's easier if the parent has experience in the process, but it's far from mandatory. You're willing to work with the distortion maintenance?"
"Yes'm," Ylliben says, and his father shrugs and gestures, as if the word of a six-year-old is thus law.
"I'll walk you through the details of the process, including the care, relevant allergies, and so on. I don't suppose you have anything in mind already?" she asks.
"I do," he says. He doesn't tell her what it is, yet.
Anakin Skywalker stays there the entire time, and they make an appointment for later in the week.
----
"My buir isn't my only father," Ylliben says quietly, when it comes time to get details on what he's getting tattooed. "I had another father before him. A Jedi. He died, to protect me, and a lot of other people. So, um..."
He shoves a picture to her, the symbol of the Jedi, plain and simple. She looks at him.
"In red," he says, shifting on his feet, looking up at his father and then back down at the page. "For, um, to honor a parent."
"Your first father was a Jedi?" she asks, gentle as she can.
"Mm-hm," Ylliben says. "He died, um... he saved buir from slavery, too, a long time ago. Both my dads were Jedi, and I'm going to be one, too, and so is Sokanth. It's--it's about where I come from, and--"
"You don't have to justify it if you don't want to," Na-Tsuyon tells him, reaching out to place one hand on his. It's very warm and dry, in her opinion, but she finds that most humans are. Mandalorians are some 80% human, or near human.
Nautolan Mandalorians aren't unheard of, but she's a rare one.
Ben sucks in a breath, and says, "I want it up here, on my right shoulder, like a pauldron."
Na-Tsuyon nods, and looks up to Skywalker. "You'll have to sign some papers to approve it, Master Jedi. You approve of the design?"
Skywalker hesitates, and then goes to one knee in front of his son, and speaks so quietly she can only hear "--remind you of the generator complex?"
Whatever Ben's answer is, it's too quiet for her to catch. It satisfies Skywalker, though, and he stands. "Alright, let's see this paperwork."
----
When Ylliben comes in again, a year later to get his slightly-twisting tattoo fixed, it's with Miss Shmi in tow. Na-Tsuyon greets the middle Skywalker, for all that she's still not entirely sure how to address the girl. "I heard you've been attending the university at Sundari. Some kind of engineering?"
"Mechanical, yes," Shmi says, oddly soft. "I'm going to spend another year to specialize in vehicular engineering. I'd like to design starships, since I already know how to fix them."
"A worthy goal," Na-Tsuyon says, as she leads them over to one of the stations and starts sanitizing Ylliben's inked shoulder. She doesn't entirely see why a university education is needed for something that, in her opinion, an apprenticeship could more thoroughly cover. It certainly worked well enough Na-Tsuyon herself. "You're on vacation, then?"
"I am," Shmi confirms. "It's... unfortunate that Anakin couldn't be here a the same time, but we'll see each other in a few days."
Ylliben fidgets for a bit as his jedi symbol is fixed, and then finally asks, "Ori'vod can approve new tattoos, right?"
"Sokanth, no. Shmi..." Na-Tsuyon looks up at her. "I have no idea if you're listed as his legal guardian anywhere, and I'd need proof of that."
"Secondary to Anakin," Shmi confirms. "Ben would like this to be a surprise for Ani."
Ben pulls out a sheet, with a careful design on it, and presses it into Na-Tsuyon's lap when she lifts the tattoo gun and he's not at risk of ruining his own ink. It's simpler than the Jedi symbol, though it's two colors instead of one.
"It's the Open Circle Fleet," Ben says, shy in a way she's given to understand he usually isn't. She thinks his shyer moments may be connected to admitting to emotion, something that he's tying quite closely to his choice of Tattoos. "I thought, um, since I'm already--already honoring one buir, then, er..."
"The Open Circle Fleet was under the command of my brother's Jedi Master," Shmi explains, one hand on Ben's. "And I am given to understand that the symbol was designed as a subtle nod, of sorts, to the two of them as a team. Ben's looking to honor Anakin as he has his first father."
Ben looks down at his lap, and doesn't meet Na-Tsuyon's eyes.
"Bring me proof of guardianship," she tells them. "And I'll make sure you get it finished early enough that the bacta comes off before Knight Skywalker makes it home."
She holds true to her word, and talks her way into being there to see the reunion and reveal.
The emotions that cross Skywalker's face are complicated and unexpected in ways that she can't identify.
Then it's all too simple, because he starts crying on little Ylliben in the middle of the hangar.
----
It doesn't take a full year for Ylliben to come in for another set. It's only five months, maybe six. He has a sketch again, a geometric design of something she doesn't recognize, but still pings as familiar for some reason.
"It needs to be the right shade of blue," he tells her, serious as anything. Knight Skwyalker is right next to him, smiling all soft and indulgent, and maybe a little sad. "It's for Soka."
Oh. This is based on her facial markings, then. Or... what they will be, maybe. This doesn't look quite like what she's seen on the girl, but everyone knows little Ben is more touched by visions than his father and sister.
Na-Tsuyon thinks she knows where this is going. "The same blue as her montrals and lekku?"
Ben shakes his head. "No, 501st blue."
Or not.
"It's close, but a little darker and more saturated," Skywalker offers, and shrugs when she looks his way. "It's a long story, but the 501st was the legion I led before I arrived at Mandalore. It had a specific shade of blue assigned for armor paint, so legions could easily identify each other in the field."
That's... odd. She doesn't ask for more detail, though. It's not her business. "Where do you want this one?"
Ben shows her his left forearm and frames a section about two-thirds the length of it, along the outer side. Like a vambrace.
She has a feeling all these symbols will be on his armor, once he's old enough for it.
"Let's go through my inks and see which one will work best," she says, and does not comment on the rest.
----
When Ylliben comes in again, a few months before his next touch-up appointment, he doesn't have an image on hand. His father is trailing him again, and Na-Tsuyon has a guess.
"Time for Shmi?" she asks.
Ben ducks his head, flushing and not meeting Na-Tsuyon's eyes. "Yes'm."
"I thought as much," she says, and smiles at Skywalker. "General."
"Don't start."
"There have been oh so many rumors flying since the last Jedi run-in, you know."
"I don't care," he grouses, dropping into a seat. "Hells, a man takes emergency command for one battle, and it's all anyone can talk about."
"You ended a civil war, sir."
Ben giggles into his hands as Skywalker groans and slaps a hand over his eyes.
"No respect," the man complains. "Ben, be nice to me, I'm your dad."
"Nuh-uh," Ben says. "I know all the most embarrassing secrets."
"A cruel child," Skywalker accuses. "Ruthless."
"You're the one raising me," Ben says, swinging his legs back and forth. He's got plastoid training vambraces, now, and greaves that clink against the legs of the chair.
"Somehow, yes." Skywalker sighs, with great drama and all such things. He drags himself up to sitting. "Anyway. Moving on."
"Do you have something in mind already?" Na-Tsuyon asks.
"Binary suns," Ben says. "Just two overlapping circles, coin-sized, one bigger than the other, in sunset colors. In a gradient, with a sort of... flare to it? Halo? The... oh! The stellar corona. Buir knows the colors better."
"I want to see what you have to work with before I sketch out the design," Skywalker says. "But yeah, sort of pink and yellow and peachy."
"I can do almost any color," Na-Tsuyon promises. "Especially on fair human skin like Ylliben's. I won't have a problem getting those to show up the way I would on myself."
Na-Tsuyon is a color most would call 'aquamarine.' She's a light shade between blue and green, and much as she likes her skin, it's an absolute pain to make red and orange show up.
She can do it.
It's just annoying.
Ben asks for this one to be on the inside of the left forearm, high and opposite to the widest point of the mark for Sokanth.
----
"Can I see your fonts?"
Ben's alone, for the moment, but Na-Tsuyon knows that when he makes his decision, his father or Shmi will approve it without question. It's no harm to let him browse.
"Basic, Mando'a, or Huttese alphabet?" she asks. "Or something more esoteric?"
"Mando'a, please."
He's eight years old, now. He's still far younger than most of her clients, but she's long gotten used to him. Even when he's acting like a child, there's something to it that doesn't quite sit right. 'Born middle-aged,' a few of the other civilians on base had joked.
She wasn't sure if she thought it was just a joke, these days.
Na-Tsuyon passes her fonts book to the boy, and settles back in her chair for a long afternoon of running numbers. He, meanwhile, goes to sit in the lobby, legs still not long enough to reach the floor, paging through with unwavering, unsettling gravitas.
Half an hour, and then Ben returns.
He points to a font. "This one."
"What's it going to say?"
"Vode An," he tells her, as serious as can be. "In black, over my heart. It's important."
"It's a fairly common phrase," she notes idly. "Should be quick."
She doesn't expect much of a response, and certainly not the one she gets.
"It was different for them," Ben mutters, not looking at her. She sees him twisting the toes of one shoe into the floor. "It was... it was different. I can't talk about it. They were brothers, actually brothers, and they had--they had nothing, they were basically slaves, but--"
"You don't have to talk about it," Na-Tsuyon assures him, a hand on his. "You don't have to explain it to me. If it means something to you, that's all that matters. I just need you to be sure."
"And buir to sign the paperwork," Ben quips, smiling at her. She notices that several teeth are missing. It's cute. "You need that too."
"That too," she agrees.
When Skywalker shows up, he hears what it is that Ben would like, and makes a few suggestions for a border--a gear that sounded too much like the Republic's symbol for a Mando'a phrase, a building on stilts from a city she's never heard of on a planet that rings no bells, a human genetic strand for reasons she can't imagine--most of which are soundly ignored, until Skywalker sketched out a stylized ship of... some sort.
"Venator," Skywalker says, and taps the image. "Nobody will know it except us, but it'll mean something to you, for them."
Ben looks at it for a long moment, and then takes the scrap of flimsi with Mando'a on it and lays it overtop the center of the sketch.
He stares at it for a few long moments, and then nods sharply and pushes it to Na-Tsuyon. "This, please."
He's such a polite child.
It makes it easier to ignore the more confusing parts of his presence in her parlor.
----
"Hi!"
Sokanth Skywalker is in her shop.
That's new.
"Hello," Na-Tsuyon says. "I didn't know you were thinking of getting ink."
"I'm not," she says, hopping up on a stool across the counter. She holds out a hand, and Na-Tsuyon clasps it with bemusement. "But you guys do piercings too, right?"
"We do," she confirms. "You're... ten?"
"Yep!" Sokanth chirps, kicking her legs back and forth. "Is that old enough to get these without permission, or should I ask my dad to come by?"
"At least twelve for piercings without in-person, signed approval from a parent or guardian," Na-Tsuyon says. "Though if you're anything like your brother, I don't imagine that'll be a problem for you."
Sokanth grins at her, bright and a little wild. "Nose, bottom lip, eyebrow. I don't know the actual terms, but I know what I want. Which do you suggest getting first?"
"I'd say nostril," Na-Tsuyon tells her. Most species even vaguely humanoid kick off with the ears, but that's not exactly an option for a togruta. "Let me get a chart and you can figure out what type of piercing you want, and what kind of hoop or stud. I don't actually do the piercings myself, though. Comm the General if you want this done today, though."
"Thank you~!"
----
Nostril, labret, and a horizontal brow, the piercer notes down at the end of the latest Skywalker visit. Na-Tsuyon wonders if the brow piercing will look strange with Soka's markings, and then doesn't think on it further.
----
Ylliben, almost nine, is silent as he gets the touch-up.
His father isn't here. Neither is Shmi. It's pre-approved, signed permission and all, but it's still odd that neither of Ben's adults is here.
Sokanth is, but she's almost as quiet as Ben is.
Na-Tsuyon has heard the rumors, but she's not going to say anything. She's not. It's not her business.
"Ben," Soka speaks up, towards the end of the appointment. "Ask her the thing."
Ben shakes his head. "No way."
"She knows more about tattoos and how important they are than anyone!" Soka urges. "Ask her!"
"Do you want to wait for your father?" Na-Tsuyon suggests.
"No!" both immediately yelp.
She pauses, glad the needle hadn't been to skin, and levels a look at Ben. He flushes and settles down, mumbling an apology for jerking as he had. She goes back to fixing the stretch of the binary suns tattoo.
Soka shifts in her seat, watching them intently.
"Shmi's upset with buir," Ben suddenly says. He doesn't meet Na-Tsuyon's eyes. "I'm... I don't know if you heard what's going on."
"I do my best to avoid rumors," she says, keeping her voice as neutral as she can. "I did hear that the Mand'alor is about to have a grandchild, and something about an upcoming wedding. That much has been announced officially."
"Dad freaked out," Soka says, legs kicking back and forth. "He's happy for her, and he's fine with Jango being the other parent, but it kicked off a... philosophical crisis? Ben, what do you think?"
"Metaphysical, maybe," Ben mumbles. "Definitely existential."
"And he told Shmi some stuff and now she's hurt that he didn't tell her before and it's all a mess," Soka finishes. "So, uh, we don't... want either of them involved. Until. Um. Until that's settled."
Na-Tsuyon bites back any deeper questions she might have. "Alright. I won't pry. What did you want to know from me?"
"I had a plan for what I was going to get next," Ben says, staring at the fold of fabric over his sister's knees in lieu of something more pertinent. "A peace lily, on the inside of my wrist, for..."
"You don't have to tell me," she reminds him.
Ben bites his lip, and closes his eyes, and breathes in deep. Neither of the girls comment.
"She was important," Ben finally says. "In the big memories. But she doesn't... she's not... she isn't here. And Jango is. And he's marrying Shmi, and they're having a baby, so I should put a mark down for him first, right?"
"He's gonna be Mand'alor, too," Soka adds.
"He is," Na-Tsuyon says, as neutral as she can.
"He's joining the family," Ben says, his gaze fixed on the floor in front of him. "And there's going to be a baby, and that's. That's important."
"There's no order that you have to get things in," Na-Tsuyon assures him, squeezing his shoulder in a light gesture of support. "You've prioritized family so far, so I think it would make sense to get a mark for the coming cousin, at least. Unless... is the lily for your birth mother?"
Ben's face twists, uncomfortable for some reason she can't begin to guess at.
"No," Ben says.
"Skyguy's Jedi Master did almost marry her when they were younger," Soka explains. She glances at Na-Tsuyon and then away and at the wall. "They had a whole dramatic 'forbidden romance' thing going on, 'cause Jedi aren't supposed to get married. She died before Ben came into the picture, though."
It's a neat enough explanation.
It feels fake, but much of what the Skywalkers say about their pasts does.
She's sure it's true in some way. In some perspective. From... from a certain point of view, maybe.
"Alright, then," Na-Tsuyon dismisses. "All things aside, I would suggest adjusting your order of tattoo acquisition, but there's no particular requirement by Mandalorian standards. Your choices are rarely anything that intersects with set traditions, nor do you have a historic clan or house that comes with mandates of the sort. It seems that you're leaning towards prioritizing something for the new additions to your family, though; you've made it clear that these things are important to you, and I think you should pursue it if you're comfortable with it."
Ben nods, eyes somewhere far off.
"It'll make him flustered," Soka pushes, kicking lightly at her brother's ankle. "Jan-Jan's still worried you don't like him anymore."
"He is not," Ben huffs. "He's just scared of buir."
"Nah, your opinion matters too," Soka argues. "And you've been avoiding everyone 'cuz Skyguy freaked out and Shmi's upset, so Jango's worried you're mad at him about the baby happening. If you get a tattoo about him, he might actually cry."
"Is that why you want me to take that route?"
"Not the only one," Soka says, utterly guileless. She blinks at him, bright and innocent. "But I definitely do want to see the future Mand'alor crying because you made it obvious he's family now. It'll be funny."
Ben sighs, very clearly being dramatic about it. "Soka, I'm not going to pick a tattoo based on what you think will be funny."
"Imagine his face, though."
Na-Tsuyon doesn't comment at the expressions Ben makes as he very clearly does exactly that.
"Well, kriff," Ben sighs, and Soka giggles at the swear. "I'll have to get a tattoo for Jango, then."
----
Ben is already nine by the time he comes in with his father to actually get the tattoo for Jango's addition to the family. The choice he makes isn't particularly imaginative, but it'll suit well enough. A mythosaur skull, the symbol of the Haat Mando'ade, in a grey the same shade as beskar.
There actually are traditions to this one, specific adjustments to the framing and stylization meant to indicate how one fits into the faction, but also how one is associated with the Mand'alor. Ben is family, and close family, but not related by blood, nor adopted directly by the Mand'alor, rather a relative through the riduur be alor.
Na-Tsuyon explains each element and adjustment in detail, lets them process and agree, until she's taking a needle to Ben's skin once more.
"Will you be getting one for the coming child as well?" Na-Tsuyon asks while shading in a curve of bone.
"Not yet," Ben tells her, quiet and oddly contemplating. "I need to meet them, first. Figure out who they are."
"Sensible," she agrees. There's the usual oddity in his phrasing, and she ignores it as ever. "Did you tell Fett that you were getting this?"
"No, it's intended as a surprise," Ben says, watching her work.
She can almost feel the coming question.
It does not come from the human she expects.
"Do you know any Mando tattoo artists in Little Keldabe?" the General asks, voice low.
She finishes the line she's on, lifts the needle away from skin, and turns to him. "You're leaving for Coruscant?"
"Not yet," Skywalker says. He meets her eyes evenly. "But... soon. The time's coming. A year, maybe two. The Force will let us know when the time is right."
"Uh-huh," Na-Tsuyon acknowledges this. She does not comment further. The Force is not her wheelhouse. If they think it wants them back on Coruscant, with the Temple, then that's what they believe.
"These are Mando work," Skywalker continues, almost painfully earnest, "and I'd like to ensure whoever maintains them until Ben stops growing knows the right way to handle Mando art."
It's really not that different from a standard tattoo artist, but she's a little charmed anyway. Enchanted, almost. The man really does care.
"I can get you some names and addresses next time you stop by," she promises him. "It's been a few years since I checked in on their work, and I'll need to look them over before I make any recommendations."
He smiles at her, relieved in a manner she finds appallingly open for a Jedi like himself.
Ben mimics his father.
----
She gets to attend the wedding, months later.
The food is very, very good.
(Ben waits until the reception to show off his new tattoo, and the future Mand'alor does, in fact, cry.)
(So does Shmi.)
(So does their eight-week-old daughter, but that's probably unrelated to the tattoo.)
----
"Do you think getting a belly button ring would be good?"
Na-Tsuyon doesn't lift her head from her paperwork when Sokanth poses the question to the piercer. She's in for the horizontal brow bar, this time, and the labret is going to be somewhere a few months down the line.
"That's really up to you," the piercer says. His name is Hujnak, and he's a Devaronian that's been working here since Na-Tsuyon opened up the place. She loves him dearly, but he stole the last piece of cake and for that he will have no help with difficult customers for the next fortnight.
Or until she gets bored.
"I'm leaning towards 'no,' but I'm not sure," Soka muses. "I like the idea of it, but I feel like it might get snagged on things more easily. Plus, it's going to be a point of higher damage and pressure if I get a gut punch. It's one of the parts of my body I'm never really going to armor up, you know?"
They do know. There have been screaming matches about all the Jedi's refusal to wear enough armor on many occasions. The Jedi prioritize their agility to such a degree that armorweave is more reasonable than actual armor, in their opinion. This is an opinion that Fett and Mereel both take issue with.
At great volume.
(Shmi has vambraces, a gorget, and greaves, Na-Tsuyon knows. Some of it was exchanged at the wedding. Shmi doesn't wear much armor, certainly less than even the children. Shmi, crucially, isn't a warrior or otherwise planning to see battle.)
"Then I would say it may be best to hold off."
"Phooey," Soka says, though she doesn't seem particularly upset. "Ben's gonna be cooler than me forever, then."
"You think tattoos are cooler than piercings?" Hujnak challenges. "I'm offended."
"He can just get more," Soka protests. "Without it looking weird or getting dangerous, I mean."
Hujnak hums, noncommittal. "And you're worried about being cooler than the younger brother you have told me is, and I quote, the biggest nerd ever?"
"Well, yeah," Sokanth scoffs. "He's gonna start acting older than me as soon as he thinks he can get away with it. I gotta have something to hold over his head, you know?"
"Seeing as you are the older sibling..."
"Ehhhh..."
Nope.
Not paying attention.
----
"These are House Kryze colors."
Ylliben's breath hitches.
He is ten. He doesn't seem ready to provide answers. She turns to the father instead.
"Will that be a problem?" the general asks, calm and even.
"Yes," she says, and Ben slumps. She continues, because this is her job, and for a reason. "Unless you have a ready justification for when House Kryze asks, yes, it will be a problem. If it were a landscape or an animal, it wouldn't matter, but the pairing of the colors and the peace lily is an explicit statement of loyalty to Adonai and his heir, Satine. Unless you've suddenly decided to adjust your political stance to total pacifism instead of your Jedi approach, or have another reason to take on House Kryze colors, I'd warn against it at all, and would refuse to perform the work myself."
Ylliben's eyes are fixed somewhere behind her, and shining wetly.
"Okay," the general says. "Ben, do you have any other pallettes in mind?
"These were her colors," Ben whispers, and then he swallows thickly. "I just..."
"Simplify," Skywalker suggests. He fiddles with a necklace half-hidden in his Jedi layers; the japor one is visible, but a dull gold glint is all Na-Tsuyon can see of the other before it's tucked away again. "She'd understand, yeah? There's political ramifications. Dangerous ones, especially to you."
Interesting thing to say about a woman who, by Soka's earlier statements, died well before Ben was born.
They could at least try to stop dropping hints about their oddities. She doesn't want to know more.
"Lilac," Ben finally decides. "And... pale silver. With a filigree pattern in the shading?"
"I can do that," Na-Tsuyon promises.
She does not ask further.
----
"We're moving to Coruscant in a month."
Na-Tsuyon's head snaps up, head tails jolting almost painfully with the movement.
Sokanth is getting her labret, finally. She's gossiping as Hujnak prepares the tools, as usual, and Na-Tsuyon tries to ignore it when they Skywalkers do that, she does, but...
"You're leaving," she repeats, feeling oddly blank.
"Um... yeah?" Soka answers. She scratches at one stubby montral. "We've talked about it before. I thought you knew."
"I didn't realize it was so soon," Na-Tsuyon defends. She's more upset than she should be. "I thought you'd be waiting until the little princess was older."
Sokanth blinks at her, slow and... not judging, no. Evaluating, maybe.
"I'm almost thirteen," she says, slow and deliberate and heavy. "And Ben's eleven. There's no hard age limit for becoming a padawan, but I'm getting into the peak years for getting chosen, and I've been living here instead of in the Temple. I haven't had years to impress a potential Master like the others. That might not matter; sometimes a Master sees their future student and just knows, but... I need to have other Jedi to spar with, not just Skyguy and Ben. And Ben's visions are getting stronger, and Dad was never that good with his own in the first place, so he's worried about being able to help at all. We could stay longer, but..."
She trails off, and shrugs, and the weighted air disappears. "It's not the same thing as a verd'goten, at all, but it's about the same age, you know? I should be in the Temple for it."
"What would a verd'goten equivalent be?" Hujnak prompts, when Na-Tsuyon fails to find her words. "Being an adult and equal member and all such things?"
"Knighthood," Soka answers immediately. "Dad got knighted when he was twenty, but that's really young, usually. His master was knighted at twenty-five, which was a bit late, but apparently there was a whole dramatic thing going on there that Dad never got all the details about."
"Becoming a Padawan is a sign that your teachers see you as someone that is ready to take on the responsibilities of a Jedi, yes?" Hujnak asks. "That you may not be ready to go out on your own, but that you're old enough to understand your oaths and choose how to follow them, and to protect others?"
Sokanth considers this, and then nods. "Yeah, I guess it's similar to using the verd'goten to gauge if someone's ready to swear the Resol'nare, that way. Still not moving out, and just about entering an apprenticeship, but enough of an adult to make the choice of how to change the world."
"I think most cultures have something like that around the same age," Hujnak comments. "Some do it a bit later in the teens, but it's usually around your age that most... well, most cultures who age at the 'human standard' rate--"
Na-Tsuyon can't help the reflexive snort of derision. Neither can Soka. Hujnak, the closest to human in the room and yet still very much not, smiles like this is exactly what he intended.
"--most who age at that rate do have it somewhere in that eleven-to-seventeen range, I'd think."
Soka shrugs. "Yeah, well. Still gotta go to the Temple for it, you know?"
"Are you going to take the verd'goten at all?" Na-Tsuyon asks, suddenly a little desperate to keep the Skywalkers here, with Mandalore and all its people, just a fraction of a moment longer.
"I don't think so," Soka muses. "I've been thinking about it, but I should probably talk about it with Jango, yeah?"
"Yeah," Na-Tsuyon says, and feels like she's swallowing down around rocks.
----
As it turns out, the timing is very deliberate. Three weeks later, Jaster transfers the title of Mand'alor to his son.
(Though Na-Tsuyon does not know this, twenty-six is older than Jango was when he lost the title, once upon another life.)
There is a week of festivity. There is food, and drink, and dancing. Some people get married. Some people make announcements of impending births. Some people reveal songs they composed in preparation for this very day.
For a week, Mandalore celebrates a new king.
Then, the Jedi and his children leave.
(Ben gives Na-Tsuyon a hug before he goes.)
(She tries to understand why she feels like she's losing something when he does.)
#Obi Wan Kenobi#Anakin Skywalker#Ahsoka Tano#Shmi Skywalker#JangoShmi#Jango Fett#Disaster Lineage#star wars#time travel#de aging#mandalore#mandalorian culture#phoenix posts#Anakin and the Jedi Babies#tattoos#original characters#outsider pov#this is part one of three I think#it's two in the diddly darn morning and I am going to bed
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Lost Boy
Summary: You try your best to take care of the youngest Shelby and put him on the right track
Warnings: Language ( I really like the work fuck lol)
Word Count:1.358
Paring: Tommy/Reader (Reader is GN)
(A/N This is completely self-indulgent but while rewatching S2 I just got the urge to take care of Finn. He's just a baby and he deserved way better...also I have no idea how to UK school system works)
You hadn’t been married to Thomas Shelby for long, going on six months next week. You two had only known each other a year before he proposed and you had excitedly said yes. The wedding was simple with both families squished into the church. The reception was a different story. Cousins of cousins filled the Garrison and the streets outside. The party had gone well into the next morning. Long after you and Tommy had left, lost in yourselves and the thought of consummating the marriage.
You had taken up helping in the betting shop alongside Esme after your wedding. Slowly you were welcomed into the family meetings and dinners. Now you were ushered into the nook at the pub with open arms and jokes shared between the brothers. While you were getting closer to the Shelbys you still weren’t blood. You and Esme sat in on the meeting but never said a word. Occasionally you’d both share knowing looks or whisper about ongoings in private.
You had noticed during this time how the youngest Shelby was left unsupervised. Often forgotten in the chaos of Peaky business.
“Does Finn not go to school?” you asked your husband one night as you laid in bed.
“What good would it do? The boy can’t even read?” he chuckled before getting up to light another cigarette.
“We could get him a tutor, Tommy. We can afford it now.” You got up with him preparing for a fight.
“Where does he even stay most days Tommy? I always see him running around the street following Isaiah or in the pub. He should be in school getting an education.” You were starting to work yourself up now. Tommy just sat on the edge of your bed rubbing his hands down his face before tugging on his hair.
“I’ll deal with it.” He grunted and left for his office.
For the next couple of weeks, you saw Finn around the house more, usually in search of food. You had started sitting with him and eating the dinner Tommy would let get cold. You couldn’t help but grow fond of the freckled face smiling up at you. He would always wind up sweet-talking you into giving him desert. After these dinners, you had started sitting with Finn. Both of you would open a book and let him slowly sound out words for himself. You had set up a bedroom for him in one of the spare rooms. You slept better knowing he was safe at night. But it didn’t last.
It was payday so you and the other workers were at the Garrison drinking the money away. The other girls and you had downed a bottle of gin within an hour. You were tasked with getting another in the back of the pub. There you saw the lanky redhead bent over a table cutting Tokyo with an older peaky boy.
“OI, WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?’ You screamed seeing red.
The other boy ran off leaving Finn alone looking as if he’d seen a ghost.
“I-I was just having some fun. Me and boys-’ he stuttered out.
“Fun?! You’re not old enough to have fucking fun. Do you know what that shit does to your head eh? ”You marched over to him and grabbed the blue bottle out of his hands.
“The boys do it when we’re blue sometimes is all.” He winced when you grabbed him by the ear. Dragging him out of the busy pub ignoring the looks from the others you started towards the shop. The door bounced off the wall, shaking the pictures that hung there.
“Sit!” You pointed at the couch in the middle of the living room.
You found Tommy where you’d left him leaned over his desk with a cigarette in his hand. He looked up with his eyebrows pulled together as you barged in.
“Do you know where I found this eh?” You threw the small bottle at him, “ You fucking brother yeah was cutting it up. Fourteen-fucking-years old and doing snow Tommy?! You said you’d handle it.”
“I did-” He started with a drag off his smoke.
“Does it look handled to you, Tommy? Now I’ve tried not to say anything cus I know I’m not blood” Tommy scoffed at that. “But that boy needs some guidance before he ends up on the fucking streets.” You continued pointing towards the door.
“Yeah? Do you think I don't have enough going on?! I can’t run the bloody business, deal with London, Campbell, and chase after Finn all fucking day can I?!” Thomas got out of his chair.
“No you can’t Tom but we can’t just let him run wild either.” You lowered your voice a bit. Yelling at each other would get you nowhere but the silent treatment.
“Then what do you want me to fucking do?” Tommy lowered his voice too but the harshness remained.
“I want him to move in with us. I’m going tomorrow and signing him up for school. We’ll find him a tutor. He’ll have some catching up to do but that's fine.” You crossed your arms across your chest and continued. “He is a smart, sweet boy and it'll be over my dead body that he doesn't do something with ‘is life. He will graduate from school. If he wants to go to uni afterward then he’ll do that too.”
You closed the space between you and your husband grabbing his jaw before kissing him. You felt him relax a bit under you.
“Isn’t that the point of all this? So they can have a better life than us? Finn can have the things we only dreamed of.” Looking into his blue eyes you pleaded with yours.
“ He’ll move in tomorrow and you sign him up for Saint Andrews yeah.” He kissed your temple before leaving out the door to Finn.
It wasn’t easy taking in a teenage boy much less making him go to school. There were many nights spent screaming about homework or crying over mathematics.
But it was worth it because you loved your little family. After you moved out of Birmingham and into Arrow House things got a little better. You got Finn away from the older boys he worshiped. Tommy found him a tutor who came three days a week.
He wouldn’t admit it but he liked having Finn around the house too. The three of you had dinner as a family every night at your repeated request. Tommy and Finn would often ride horses together on the weekends.
You sat reading in the library when you heard Finn running through the halls.
“OI, where do you think you’re going?” You asked as you rounded the corner into the living room.
“A level marks were posted today, yeah? Let me see?” You held out your hand out expectantly. The young boy, well a man now, rocked back on his feet and avoided your gaze.
“It’s okay if you didn’t pass Finn, lots of people have to retake the exams.” You softly smiled.
Finn Arthur Shelby
Writing-B
Reading-A
Arithmetic-C
Nature Study-B
WoodWork-A
“You passed Finn!” You squealed while jumping up and down shaking the paper in the air. You hugged the boy that now towered over you and shook him too. Tommy ran into the room with Mary right behind.
“What? What’s happened?” Your husband asked with wide eyes.
Turning to him with a smile still on your face you started jumping again, “He passed! He passed!”
Tommy looked at Finn who was now grinning too, a blush on his face from the attention. Tom just put a hand on his shoulder and gave a slight nod of his head. That was the equivalent of the show you were putting on for Tommy.
“Finn we are so proud of you! You’ve worked so hard. I’ll have the cook make the custard you like for dessert to celebrate.” You kissed the redhead on the cheek. As you left to tell the cook of your plans you looked back at your two boys sharing a rare embrace. You couldn’t help but feel pride in the man you saw before you.
#tommy shelby writing rec#tommy shelby reader#finn shelby#finn shelby imagine#thomas shelby imagine#my wrting#this is probably shit but thats ok
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Librarian! PH. 52 MLQC MC / Victor :)
HELLO ANON U WERE ONE OF THE FIRST PEOPLE TO RESPOND TO MY LIBRARIAN ASK GAME I’M SO SORRY IT’S TAKEN SO LONG,,, victor is just. hard to write. aLSO I'm doubly sorry since i’ll be combining this with the Victor ask from @truth-be-told-im-lying hope neither of you mind T-T i don’t think my mind could do two victor ficlets akwlfjsdkls
ANyway I love you both LOTS AND LOTS hopefully this attempt at Victor isn’t extremely out of character;;; it’s a lowkey soulmates AU if that counts for anything :> aND this fic gets the special treatment of an actual Title bc True was wonderful enough to help me by typing Victor as an Enneagram Type One
okaaay and without further ado,
49, 52 + Victor/MC
‘[He] wakes up in [his] bed, determined to begin again.’- These Ghosts Are Family, Maisy Card. (pg. 49)
‘As [he] pushes through the onlookers to meet [her], he is certain he is the only person moving.’- These Ghosts Are Family, Maisy Card. (pg. 52)
((pronoun changes in both quotes to better fit the ficlet))
spoilers for Victor/MC’s childhood!
spend my whole life searching
Victor doesn’t believe in soulmates. (After half a lifetime of searching turning up nothing, he doesn’t believe in much.)
Once upon a time, he might’ve. (He wanted to). His heart rate doubled and sped up to match hers— a carefree little girl skipping across the road, too far away to hear his nerves cry danger, too caught up in dreams and fantasies to hear his warning shout. Time slowed down so he could save her, and on that afternoon on the crosswalk, drops of rain suspended in the air, he did.
At that age, he hadn’t had the sense to wonder why a young girl like her had been crossing the street without supervision. Why her smiles had come freely, but had always looked a little sad, a little wistful. Why she’d been so eager to accept his baked treats. Why she’d been at the playground without a parent. Why she’d always been alone.
Now, seventeen years later, he wishes he did. Wishes he’d known something as simple as her last name.
He dreams of her. Of finding her again: the girl whose heartbeat matched his. The girl whose smile had slowed down time itself for him, as if short moments with her could’ve each stretched into a gentle eternity. He’d wanted them to. He’d wanted to capture every moment spent with her, to make them last, to savor them, so they’d pass slow and sweet like honey on the tongue.
Time had passed slow when he’d wanted it to. Those sunlit afternoons had been sweet, they’d been happy.
Only, time is a fickle thing. When he takes his eye off it, it races away, too fast for him to keep up.
The kidnapping. The experiments. The torture.
The escape.
She saves him. He’s too slow to save her.
And even if he can stop time, here’s the thing: he can never turn the clock back.
Still, he wakes up. Every morning, he gets out of bed. Gets dressed and goes to work. The world around him moves on, and demands he does, too, even if his heart’s still eleven years old and clutching her motionless body, eleven years old, the only sound in his ears his pounding pulse, the absence of the accompaniment of hers an accusation more painful than any hateful words.
It’s a recurring theme in his life, time. It’s ironic, really, when he thinks about it. That he can stop time without lifting a finger, and yet, when it comes to things he cares about, people he loves most, he’s always eleven years old again, always too late.
(His Evol’s time control, but perhaps, all this time, he hasn’t been controlling time, it’s been controlling him. He’s imprisoned by a single moment, a memory, a regret. A past that can never be undone.)
Whenever he has spare time, he devotes himself to searching. Resigns himself to the fact he’ll probably never find her, if all he has to go off of is a child’s face, once preserved in his memory, now fading. Hair color. Eye color. Age. A name. Nothing more.
The searches turn up nothing.
He spends late nights in the office to distract himself, builds up a capitalist kingdom of a company, if only to put off for a few hours more the prospect of returning home to face his nightmares alone.
His father praises him for LFG’s growth over dinners filled with awkward silences. The name Victor Li appears more and more often in business newspapers. Investors approach him. He gets interviews. Gets offers for TV appearances, for sponsorships.
He takes them, these material successes. Wonders if any amount of them could ever make up for the failure from his childhood. If they could bring her back. He tells himself if he finds her, when he finds her, when he brings her back, it’ll be to a more perfect world. One in which he’ll never fail her again. It’s a foolish thought, but it keeps him going. With it in mind, he proceeds to work twice as hard.
Souvenir is what saves him. A small allowance, a self-indulgence, a seed of hope planted in what he thinks is his darkest time.
It’s for her, more than any of his frantic searching ever was. A dream, a foolish one, that one day she’ll step through his memories and through the restaurant’s door, that one day they’ll share a pudding together again, their hearts beating as one.
He doesn’t get to open Souvenir often; his job doesn't let him. He made sure of that, long ago. But when he does, after the last customer’s left, and he’s put up the closed sign, he cooks for two.
(The first time, Mr. Mills had taken a single look at his silent, still face, and his expression must've spoken volumes. The older man hadn't said a word, only helped clean the kitchen after, the normally gentle lines around his mouth pulled taut in a worried frown.)
He sets the second place at the table himself: carefully places fork, knife and spoon beside lukewarm appetizers, tucks a napkin under soup bowls going cold. Watches the empty seat and the untouched meal for an eternity before finally eating his own. His technique's impeccable. It has been ever since he'd aced his culinary lessons, since he'd bought out the school. He'd used the finest ingredients. He always does.
The food still crumbles like ash in his mouth. (It always does.)
Mr. Mills will find him there, nursing a glass of wine long into the night. He knows better not to question it, but sometimes he'll pull up a chair, drink a glass, too. talk of everything and nothing, talk of his parents, his sister's family, of times gone by.
Victor will never admit it, but the older man's presence makes those nights less hard. his stories, his memories — they keep the ice in his heart from spreading any further when it feels like nothing else will.
Ten years stretch into thirteen, into fourteen, into fifteen, into a broken clock, time stopped because does the passage of time mean anything if he measures it, measured it in time with her? If she's gone?
The meals shrink. First appetizers vanish, then entrees too, until all that's left are desserts, puddings that he stares at all evening, puddings a girl had loved once, that he can almost imagine her sitting there eating, her noticing him watching her and her answering blush and smile. His smile back.
Almost, because after all these years without her, he can’t quite imagine her face. Not as she would look now. Not even as she was, seventeen years back.
(He dreams and finds he doesn’t remember what her smile looked like, exactly. Doesn’t remember the sound of her heartbeat mingling with the sound of his.
Memory is cruel. Memory is imperfect. No matter if you can stop time, no matter how hard you try to memorize a moment, when you revisit it, it’ll never be the same as when you lived it the first time.)
Then:
The day starts like any other. He wakes up, gets out of bed, gets ready for another day of work, another night of searching. He scrolls emails while waiting for his espresso machine to heat, then puts his tablet aside when the coffee's done. He eats in silence. As always, he's done five minutes before he needs to leave for the company, the perfect amount of time for him to do a last-minute check in the mirror— his tie's straight, his shirt unwrinkled, not a hair on his head out of place. The reflection that stares back at him is unchanging; these days it barely shows even the passage of time.
He sighs. Shakes the thought off like the piece of lint it is on his otherwise immaculate state of being, and heads for the door, the lock automatically clicking behind him at eight o'clock am, exactly on schedule, exactly as planned.
He's about to take a seat in his car when an inexplicable urge to walk to work takes hold of him. He pauses. Calculates and re-calculates the time it would take (fifteen minutes, not accounting for rush hour traffic making crosswalks slow), and he's about to decide it's not worth it, it's a silly thought, but the urge intensifies.
Do it, the eleven-year-old in his heart seems to be telling him. You won't regret it.
He frowns and rubs his forehead— for a moment, he wonders if all his searching, all his foolish hopes are finally getting to his brain.
He decides to take the walk, anyway.
He regrets it, not nine minutes later, when despite the sun's light shining strong through the clouds, a light rain begins to fall.
Worse still, the traffic lights haven't changed once in the past ninety seconds. He won't be late, he'd accounted for this, but he's stuck in a crowd of pedestrians, and their chatter's beginning to grate on his nerves. He's considering calling the mayor about it after exactly one hundred seconds have passed— clearly, the light's broken, this is far too long for commuters to wait— but then, finally the walk sign flicks on.
He's already across the street when it happens:
First, a phone rings.
Then, the loud honking of a car.
Tires screech.
Time slows. Time stops.
He's back on the crosswalk in a matter of heartbeats, the inattentive idiot in his arms (it's a girl, it's always a girl, hair dark, eyes wide, expression shocked).
"You..." She says, blinking up at him with those wide, almost-familiar eyes. Distantly, he registers the echo of a heartbeat overlapping with his.
"Who are you?"
Who are you? His mind asks, but deep in his heart, he already knows the answer. It can't be.
"Evolver?" He says instead, shoving down memories that threaten to surface: another rainy day, another crosswalk, another heart that had seemed matched to his. He tells himself he's being delusional, that he thinks he can hear her heartbeat because she's in his arms, wide-eyed and fragile, her heartrate skittering back and forth like a fool— this isn't like his careful, methodical searching, this is a fluke beyond flukes, it means nothing, it'll lead to nothing in the end.
But she's in his arms, warm and soft against his protective embrace, she's in his arms and it feels so right it's almost painful, his pulse pulled into a panicked pace to match hers.
He sets her down abruptly, as if burned, and turns to go.
"Someone can't come to your rescue every time."
Around them, suspended raindrops begin to fall. The world, resumed. The world, once again predictable and mundane. Except for her.
He knows, without looking back, she's staring after him, her heart, his heart, still racing.
He allows himself a smile.
He allows himself some small sliver of hope.
(His frozen time starts moving again.)
#mlqc#mlqc victor#mlqc fanfic#val writes#hNnghghg this took so Long and writing vic gives me so much stress BUT HOPE Y'ALL ENJOY#u didnt hear it from me but it was actually really interesting to explore his character like this and. i've definitely developed more of an#appreciation :> of sorts#victor is an enneagram one and rly that's all that matters thats all u need to learn from this fic#also sOULmate AUs i love them that's it does this mean i think vic is MC's soulmate;;; maybe in this universe but not generally ailsjkfd#JUST FOR THE RECORD. i am not a vic stan so it must be said#TIL that mr mills does not have a wife/family and that makes me rly sad
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“...By the 1920s, only the very poorest Danish families had to depend on the economic contributions of adolescent children for survival, but in most households daughters were still expected to help supplement the household income by handing over their pay. Especially in their first years as wage earners, parental control over children's income was considerable. Mothers in charge of the family budget generally kept most of the wages, permitting adolescent wage earners only a limited weekly allowance for personal expenses. Young women's family responsibilities continued in other ways as well.
While sons were given much more leeway, daughters were generally expected to contribute their labor to the household after they arrived home from work. "In my family, all the children were sent out to work after their [Christian] confirmation [at the age of thirteen or fourteen], and we all had to give mother some of the money we earned for housekeeping," Gerda Eriksen recalled of her working class youth in the early 1920s. "But," she continued, "the girls also had their chores—running errands, peeling potatoes, setting and cleaning the table, doing the dishes, bringing up coal from the basement. My brothers never had to do any of that. That was women's work."
But if contributing wages and labor to the household continued to be the unquestioned norm, young women's sense of their rights and obligations vis-a-vis the family was nevertheless changing in other ways in the early decades of the twentieth century. When earnings were sufficient, some daughters decided to strike out on their own and live independently in rented rooms, small apartments, or boarding houses, but given their low wages this was a possibility for the very few. More frequently, young working women sought to use their earnings as leverage to negotiate a stronger position within the family. Especially after World War I, when most families were able to place themselves safely beyond the poverty line, the necessity of individual sacrifice for household survival began to fade.
This allowed even working-class daughters to assert their right to new privileges in exchange for their economic contributions, and in the 1920s they did so in increasing numbers. Young women's sense of what they could legitimately demand from their families clearly sprang from their status and experiences as wage earners outside the home. In the labor market, and particularly in jobs other than domestic service, young women learned a rhythm of time and labor that divided daily life into paid work and one's "own" time. This was a rhythm already familiar to most men, whose lives had long been split into realms of work and leisure. Therefore, (male) wage earners were the obvious beneficiaries when Danish government regulations in 1919 limited the work day to eight hours, allowing working men more free time than ever before.
Married women, on the other hand, did not experience a similar shortening of the workday. Whether they worked outside the home or not, housework, child-rearing, cooking, and cleaning were never ending tasks, and unlike their husbands, they had to snatch their few leisured moments in between domestic responsibilities. As working women, daughters were precariously positioned between these different patterns of daily life. Even though they took on wage labor much like their fathers and brothers, young women were simultaneously expected to share the steady burdens of domestic work with their mothers and to devote their nonworking time to household labor.
It was this discrepancy between expectations fostered by labor market participation in the context of increasing standards of living, and the realities of family life that became increasingly intolerable for many young women in the 1910s and 1920s. In their minds, earning a living and bringing home money positioned them on a par with male members of the family, entitling them to at least some of the same prerogatives. Consequently, while they did not resist having to hand over a substantial part of their earnings, they more and more openly resented that their financial contribution did not always earn them what they considered its reasonable counterpart, namely the right to free time. As a result, families with adolescent daughters were plunged into conflicts about the degree of personal autonomy that labor market participation and wages ought to bestow.
Intrafamilial conflicts are often difficult for historians to document, but in this case tensions between parents and children are easily discernible. They surface, for instance, in the immensely popular advice columns of the 1910s and 1920s. Convinced of their right as wage earners to at least some free time and exasperated by their parents' unwillingness to grant them this privilege, some young women turned to advice columnists, hoping for replies that would affirm the legitimacy of their demands.
Among the correspondents was "Betty" who openly questioned her parents' authority. "I work from 8 A.M. to 6 P.M. every day," she explained. "When I come home, I am tired, but I still have to fix dinner and look after my younger sister. In the evenings my parents say I have to do needle-work, but I would rather read or go for a walk. Can they really demand that I stay at home? I am seventeen and a half years old, and I pay my mother Dkr. 8 every week."
Similarly, "a Copenhagen girl" found the relationship between rights and duties in her life unreasonable. "Before I leave in the morning," she complained, "I have to light the fire, make coffee and pack lunches. When I come home, the dishes are still sitting there, and there are errands to be run. Sometimes I want to meet my girlfriend at night, but my parents will almost never let me go. They say there is no reason to 'gad about,' but I don't understand what is wrong with having a little bit of fun at night when you work all day." Other evidence also suggests that many young women openly struggled to obtain the right to leisure and independent activities they thought they deserved.
Personal narratives often reveal both the intensity of such conflicts and the ingenuity of young women bent on getting their way. Emilie Johansen, who grew up in a middle-class family in a suburb of Aarhus recalled, for example, how she and her sister enlisted the help of an older aunt in their conflicts with an authoritarian father. "He was so strict. He would never allow us to have any fun, never allow us to go anywhere. It was hopeless. But then my aunt—I guess she was feeling sorry for us— we talked to her, and she hired us to do some cleaning and stuff. And we would get there and she would say, 'Why don't you girls run off to see a movie?' I don't remember if we ever actually did any work."
Equally resourceful, Copenhagen native Anna Eriksen depended on the backing of an older brother, who, in exchange for small favors, would promise to act as her chaperon outside the home only to vanish as soon as the siblings were out of their parents' sight. In addition to such evidence, numerous magazine articles and newspaper columns from the 1910s and 1920s chronicle the anger and bewilderment of parents who found themselves in constant conflict with their daughters. For mothers, this seemed particularly difficult. Not only did their daughters' desire for a "modern" life seem a rejection of their own norms and values, which in itself was hard to bear, but on top of that, some girls directly flaunted their disrespect of maternal authority, especially if fathers were absent, indulgent, or merely lackadaisical.
"When my daughter is not at the office, she thinks life has to be lived in a cafe, or in other places where people are judged according to their dress and style," "Ninka's mother" wrote to a women's magazine in 1921. "If I tell her to stay home even a few nights a week, she acts as if I've just imposed a life sentence on her." "She doesn't listen to me," another mother complained of her seventeen-year-old daughter. "When I tell her to stay home, she just laughs and says that you are only young once, that this is the twentieth century and not the Middle Ages, and that she is already wasting too much of her youth in a dirty factory. Besides that, she has her own money."
Even more desperate, the mother of one of the much maligned Langelinie girls told a newspaper journalist that she had "begged and pleaded with [her daughter] not to go there, but it doesn't help. I have to go to work, and my neighbor tells me that as soon as I am out the door, she takes off." Using whatever means it took, many young working women who came of age in the late 1910s and 1920s thus pushed for new personal freedoms and especially the right to free time. While some parents never gave in to their pressure, most young women seemed gradually to succeed in carving out of daily life at least some uninterrupted time devoted to relaxation and their own enjoyment.
From the mid-1920s, the frequency of daughters' publicly voiced complaints declined dramatically, and coming-of-age stories no longer featured such conflicts. Apparently, Ernestine P. Poulsen, born in 1902, described a phenomenon that extended beyond her family when she explained that "I fought a lot of battles with my parents [over the right to leisure]. Perhaps I cleared the way because when my [younger] sisters came along, they did not have to do the same. My parents had kind of accepted that girls also needed time of their own."
This did not mean, however, that conflicts between parents and daughters faded. Rather, the grounds of conflict merely shifted. Much resistance to giving young women free time derived from the material conditions of daily life—the practical assistance of grown daughters was still important for the well-being of many working-class households—and from a more general reluctance to give up control over children. But parents' reluctance also stemmed from their misgivings about young women's actual use of their leisure time.
Had daughters simply demanded more time to pursue leisure activities within the home, had they insisted on participating in cooking classes and sewing circles, or had they wanted to attend lectures on hygiene and housewifery, they would probably have been met with more understanding. But these were not the kinds of activities young women longed to engage in, and therefore the question of female leisure remained a contentious issue throughout the postwar decade.
Working-class and middle-class daughters had of course not been entirely without time of their own prior to the 1920s. Nor had they been completely confined to the home. Girls from the countryside had always been allowed to participate in regional fairs, celebrations, and local get-togethers of young people. Urban working-class daughters had long socialized outside the home on staircase landings and front steps, in backyards, and on city streets or in neighborhood parks, and many middle-class daughters belonged to women's clubs and organizations.
What constituted the major departure from convention in the 1910s and 1920s was young women's insistence on their right to "go out," an activity significantly different from the kind of casual socializing that took place outside their parents' windows or in clubs and organizations under adult supervision. "Going out," Regitze Nielsen recalled, "that was when we got dressed up and went somewhere." More specifically, "going out" meant pursuing pleasures that took young women away from home and family, into the public, and, in particular, toward new forms of commercial recreation, including movie theaters, cafes, dance places, and amusement parks. As a social practice, this form of "going out" challenged older norms for female behavior in several ways.
First, it obviously entailed their deliberate desertion from the domestic world, if only momentarily. Second, "going out" meant young women venturing outside familiar neighborhoods and beyond the realm of adult control and surveillance, claiming for themselves the right to an independent, unsupervised social life distinct from familial traditions. Third, as opposed to more traditional forms of leisure for women, "going out" was a strictly peer-oriented activity in which kinship ties had much less significance than freely chosen and carefully cultivated friendships among girls and young women who usually met in school, at work, in clubs and organizations, or in the neighborhood where they lived.
Finally, and perhaps most importantly, "going out" meant women's entrance into public spaces traditionally defined as male territory and often imagined as sites of immoral activity where men and women freely mingled, potentially transgressing social and sexual boundaries. Because each of these four aspects seemed to pose a fundamental threat to the social and sexual status quo, intense controversies between parents and children over young women's new leisure activities reverberated throughout the postwar decade. Years after families had conceded to daughters' demands for more time of their own, parents struggled to control or at least influence their use of that time.
By dictating curfews, prohibiting particular activities and specific locations, insisting on being introduced to friends and companions, and demanding the chaperonage of brothers, parents sought not only to protect their daughters against potential dangers but also to maintain at least some authority. Consequently, when young women ventured out into the public sphere, they generally did so under the intense scrutiny of parents who continued to hold some power to revoke their newly won privileges. Thus, even as "going out" gradually became a regular part of young women's lives, treading carefully remained an often perplexing prerequisite.”
- Birgitte Soland, “Good Girls and Bad Girls.” in Becoming Modern: Young Women and the Reconstruction of Womanhood in the 1920s
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Make a Move
Harry’s a bartender and she’s a waitress, a match made in heaven. That is, if they weren’t constantly pining over each other like idiots.
4.2k !
She and Harry closed almost every weekend.
Why? Because there wasn’t really anyone else that was willing, so they’re always picking up slack. They were even more short staffed before Y/N came along, and given that she was the only waitress who actually gave a shit about her job, she was always the first choice whenever someone called in sick or quit unexpectedly, which, unfortunately for her, was quite often. Not that she’s complaining, because she and Harry always work the same shifts so it’s always fun. She was so kind to every customer but as soon as any of them were crossing a line she’d be the first one to tell them to back off. Harry was the best bartender on the strip, and everyone local knows it, too. Word travels fast, and his drinks speak for themselves. They make a great team. The rest of their co workers claim that the pair always get better tips, and even though they aren’t wrong, Harry and y/n like to indulge in the private joke that maybe if everyone else didn’t do their job half ass then maybe they’d get the tips that they get every night. Their boss is lucky to have both of them working for him.
But Harry was just as lucky to be working there.
That’s exactly what it was. Pure luck.
When Harry’s mum Anne told her husband that she was pregnant with him, he promised her that he was going to change and be home more often, for them. And he kept his promise, for a while. Harry was such an easy baby, easy going and hardly ever cried. However, three months later things swiftly took a turn when she quickly realised that he was going to be a colicky baby. Seeing her little baby boy in pain, screaming and inconsolable just simply broke her heart, but it just meant that he needed a little more attention. She’d quickly learned his favorite remedy was a warm bath and a comfy swaddle, followed by some cuddles and he’d be right back off to sleep. She still thinks the reason that they’re still so close now is because of that extra bonding time.
Harry’s dad had always been distant from him. He was never home, And when he was, he wanted Anne’s full attention, and when he wasn’t getting that anymore, because, you know, she was busy raising an infant by herself, he grew selfishly jealous of the child that he created. When he hit her in front of her son, that was it. She made the split decision that she didn’t want this life for Harry, or for her. She waited until he fell asleep that night, packed what she could, took her baby and left. Moved to London and never saw or heard from him again.
Harry was six years old when his mum first got sick. It started out as headaches and a fever that would come and go, but it got worse. To be specific, an autoimmune disease that was attacking her muscles and joints. It got so bad that she couldn’t even brush her hair, let alone take proper care of a six year old. Long story short, Harry learned quickly and at a young age how to take care of himself. when Harry wasn’t in school all he wanted to do was take care of her. He’d always wake up early on the weekends and make her second favorite breakfast...waffles. Her first favorite was pancakes, but he couldn’t make those, only because he knew that his mummy said the stove wasn’t safe and that he couldn’t use it by himself, because he could burn his fingers.
Three years go by and things are really tough. Anne could no longer work, so without her knowledge, Harry began to improvise. He started selling some of his toys to his friends at school during playtime. By the time almost all of his toys were gone he’d managed to gain thirty five dollars, and he was so proud of himself. But when he saw one of the medical bills totals on the kitchen counter, he knew he was going to have to try something else. Every monday his mum gave him five dollars to pay for lunch at school for the whole week. So instead of eating lunch, he kept it in his backpack with the other thirty five. His friends always shared their lunch with him so that he wouldn’t go hungry all day, and no one ever found out. Week by week the amount seemed to add up quickly. Before he knew it it was the end of the school year he had one hundred and ninety five dollars. He counted it twice just to be sure, but it didn’t matter because it still wasn’t enough.
He was sad, extremely sad and angry. Three more years go by and his mum is in the hospital recovering from surgery. He couldn’t help feeling so many things all at once. His mum was his best friend, why on earth was this happening to her, to him?
One afternoon Harry was walking home from school. It was gloomy and dreary, typical London weather. He wanted to get home faster so he could get to the hospital to see her, so he chose to make a quick shortcut down an alley to his left. As he walked he noticed a group of boys older than him, maybe fourteen or fifteen, on the side of the alley. Before he could turn around or walk past them, of course, they surrounded him. It felt like his heart was going to beat out of his chest.
He was getting jumped.
“I-I haven’t got anything.”
One of them held his arms in a tight grasp whilst another one yanked the backpack off his shoulders, dumping the contents, including the wads of cash, onto the asphalt.
“Ooh, what do we have here?”
Harry’s eyes instantly widened, struggling with all the strength in his body, desperately trying to get free. He couldn’t let them do this.
“No! Please, please don’t. I’ll do anything you want, but I need that money!”
“So do we.”
A fist landed against his cheek and before he knew it he was on the ground being beaten senseless.
“It’s not for me!” he tried, throwing his hands up in front of his face in an attempt to defend himself. “It’s for my mum, she’s sick.”
“Hey! How many times have I told you to quit causin’ trouble back ‘ere?!”
Harry was wide eyed as he saw a man, probably a store owner since he came around the back corner. They quickly ran off empty handed. The man’s face changed from angry to bewildered as he saw Harry’s face.
And as if on fucking cue, it started to rain. Pour, actually.
“No, no, no…”
Harry scrambles to his knees and crawls forward, trying to salvage the dampened green paper, shoving it back into his backpack.
“Are you alright?!”
That was the moment that Harry’s life changed forever.
The man, who Harry quickly learned was named Joe, did more than just clean up the young boy’s bloody face. They started talking and Harry told him everything. About his father, the piling medical bills, everything—and in that moment Joe knew he had to help him.
Every day after that, after school Harry would go to Joe’s bar and work for him. Small jobs—sweep the floor, clean the tables, things like that. He took Harry in, looked after him when his mum couldn’t and gave him advice like the father he’d never had.
The day Harry turned seventeen was the day his mum was officially in remission. Harry had been saving every single penny he’d made over the last five years, which was enough to really help out with their situation until his mum could go back to work. He was over the moon, he didn’t think he’d ever see the day that she’d be feeling like herself again.
Harry didn’t really plan on going to college because even if his mum was better, he always wanted to be able to visit and check on her. After he graduated, he moved into the apartment upstairs above the bar, and the rest is history.
And that leads us to now. Four years later at twenty one Harry is everyone’s favorite bartender, who's crushing hard on this truly one of a kind girl that walked into his life only a few months ago, and he can’t remember what life was like without her in it.
Despite how the job sounds, they both loved every second of it. Especially when they worked together. When they weren’t busy, they were constantly messing with each other, usually it was him teasing her whenever she tripped over her own feet, almost spilling a plate or glass and when she’d come back behind the bar he’d be smirking “y’not drunk are yeh?” and she’d mumble a “shut up.” making him chuckle.
But they were incredibly soft for each other, there was no way around it.
One time, Harry called in sick, and if he would’ve seen the look of disappointment mixed with sadness on her face, he might have just said fuck it and came in to work just to make her happy or at least see her smile, despite the food posioning.
That’s what she did to him. All rationale was lost, even if it was just for a moment.
When he came back, his co-workers filled him in, telling him that she was all sad and pouting through the whole shift. It made his heart ache, made him want to kiss the pout right off her lips,
because her lips were so pretty.
But it also made his heart beat a little faster.
He caught himself staring more and more as the months went by, their friendship torturing him day by day. It was truly a sick joke—being her friend but not being able to feel her soft skin under his touch, kiss her anywhere, anytime he wanted.
Was this karma? What did he do to deserve this?
He’s never been a day dreamer, until now. She’s in his head all the time and he can’t stop thinking about what his life would be like if he could just muster up enough confidence to tell her that he loves the way she pushes her hair behind her ears, or how he’s been dying to kiss her since she walked in the door on her first day.
He remembers that day like it was yesterday.
***
Harry was wiping down the bar, cell phone cradled between his ear and shoulder as he listened to his boss tell him about his newest hire being a new waitress.
“Hope this one sticks.” he mumbled, a small smirk appearing on his face as he dried off the inside of one of the glasses. “M’not gettin’ paid to wait tables, Joe.”
“Oh piss off, I’m payin’ you more than that.” a laugh was shared between the two before he continued.
“She’s already been trained, but it’s her first day by herself, so be nice.”
“M’always nice. It’s those other vultures you’ve got to worry about.”
Harry wasn’t exaggerating. The other waitresses were like wild animals, they’d either attack you or try to have sex with you.
“Just look out for her, will you? Don’t want her bein’ eaten alive on her first day and then she’s too scared to come back.”
“I’m sure she’ll be fine, I’ll keep y’updated. Have fun on your holiday.”
“Thanks again for taking care of everything, I really appreciate it.”
“S’the least I could do after all you’ve done for me.” the humor in his voice slowly faded, his tone becoming more serious.
Don’t get soft on me now.” his response to Harry’s sentiment makes him chuckle.
“Okay, okay. But m’serious, don’ know where I’d be without your help.”
When he hung up the phone, as if on fucking cue, he hears the front door open.
***
Everything about her was perfect. Her hair looked like silk, even if it was tied back while she was working with some baby hairs falling around her face. Her skin was flawless—he loves it when she doesn’t wear any makeup, like today. He found her rosy cheeks and naturally long eyelashes to be undeniably adorable.
“H?”
His head snapped up at her voice. It was sweet, like the sugar he always puts on the rim of her glass when he makes her mojitos some nights after they close up. Harry thinks he’d do anything she wanted if she asked him nicely.
“Earth to Harry.” she jokingly waves her hand in front of his face. “It’s almost two.”
“Oh, shit. Wasn’t even lookin’ a’ the time.” he chuckled. “Thanks, love.”
“No problem.” Her cheeks were splashed with pink, looking at her shoes before turning to walk away.
To this day, Harry doesn’t know what on earth possessed him to do this. But for some reason, three words popped into his head.
Make a move.
“Hey.” he stops her from walking away by taking her hand and pulling her towards him.
“What?” she giggles as she turns her head to look at him.
“C’mere.”
The look on his face was giving her butterflies. He blinked slowly, a small smile curved across his lips.
“Got a new drink idea, can I try it out on ya?”
She lets out a nervous giggle before nodding her head.
She felt like an idiot because she really thought that he was going to kiss her. She wanted to feel his lips on her lips, her skin. And god, did he want to kiss her. He felt like an idiot because that wasn’t really a move. He wanted to kiss her, so fucking bad but he got nervous. How couldn’t he? She was his friend, and so, so beautiful. What if she didn’t want to be more than friends? It was a scary thought, rejection. The last thing he wanted to do was ruin their friendship, he cared about her too much to ruin that. Wouldn’t it be awkward, if things didn’t work out, or she didn’t want him in the first place, and they still had to work together? Harry just might have to crawl under a rock.
But she wore her heart on her sleeve, so she couldn’t really hide the sadness in her eyes as her gaze fell to her hands as he was mixing the contents that were going to go in the lowball glass. It pained him to see her anything but her usual bubbly, sweet self.
“S’wrong?” Harry frowned, but she shook her head.
“Nothin’. Just waiting on you, like always.”
His mouth fell open at your accusation.
“Since when?” he scoffs. “M’always waitin’ on you.”
“When?” she challenges, eyebrows furrowing.
Harry playfully rolls his eyes. “When we were goin’ t’that festival, or anytime we do somethin’ outside of work, yeh always take forever to get ready.”
Because she wanted to look super cute for you, you idiot.
“I messed up my makeup, okay? Gimme a break.”
She’s sitting on the bar stool and he’s behind the bar, leaning onto his elbows and stopping what he’s doing to look at her.
“Y’dont need tha’ stuff.”
She gives him a sheepish smile, but Harry’s not having any of it.
Here goes nothing.
“Hey.” he reaches over and puts a hand under her chin, finger brushing the skin of her jaw and his touch gives her butterflies. “Look a’ me?”
Her eyes flicker up to meet his, earning a smile on his pink lips.
“S’true. You’re beautiful and you don’t need it, okay?”
A soft smile graced her lips, making his small smile wider. “Okay, okay.”
“Alright, here.” he slid the glass across the bar top towards her. She takes a sip and her eyes light up, making his do the same.
“Mmm, it’s so good!” she looks up at him, eyes widening, making him laugh.
She loved his laugh.
“Know you like to start off with the fruity stuff.”
“Careful.” she teased, raising an eyebrow. “I know how much you love those cranberry vodkas.”
“And they’re delicious. Especially mine.”
“Definitely yours.” her comment makes Harry giggle, looking at his hands and you’re positive it’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. He looks at her, flicking his head.
“C’mere, I’ll show yeh how t’make one.”
Her whole face lights up. “Really?” and her excitement is so adorable he can’t help but mirror her expression with a laugh.
“Mhm, c’mon.”
She’s standing behind the bar and Harry’s standing behind her, showing her the ropes, as he called it. But when she felt his chest pressed against her back as he went through the steps, she could no longer focus on anything he was saying, which worked in his favor because he stumbled across his words quite a bit at the feeling. They were physically closer than they’ve ever been and she smelled so fucking good. He rests his head on her left shoulder, gripping the bar top in front of her.
She could hear her heartbeat in her ears, and he finally speaks up.
“Wanna try?”
He picks up the lowball glass, bringing it up to her lips. He moves his hand, tilting the drink to meet your lips. The interaction was so intimate, and you could feel his breath on your ear.
“Good?”
His voice was deeper, sending shivers down her spinal cord. She nods and he moves beside her, (much to her disappointment) and leans one of his elbows onto the surface beside him. She turns to him, and takes the glass out of his grasp as he’s taking a sip.
“S’not nice!” he laughs as she takes a drink, giggling as he gets in her face.
“S’your turn to make me a drink now.”
One hour later and she was three drinks in, which meant that she was on the verge of drunk. She made him two replicas of the cocktail he’d helped her make just before, and he claimed that hers were just as good, but she still wasn’t too sure if he was letting her win or not. She wasn’t drunk, though.
“Promise me.”
“I promise.” the smirk sliding up his lips told a different story.
“Liar!” she giggled, and she tries to walk towards him but her legs betray her as she trips over her own sneakers and falls into his chest.
“Okay, you’re drunk.” he confirms with a chuckle, catching her by her forearms helping her to stand again.
“M’not drunk, shoelace is untied.” she tries to lift up her leg to show him the definitely loose laces, but she loses her balance and nearly falls onto the wood floor, and if Harry hadn’t grabbed her hand when he did she would’ve definitely had a sore backside.
“Maybe I am drunk.” she mumbles, pouting when she hears his chuckle. “Not funny, H.”
His stomach drops when he sees that she’s looking right at him with tears threatening to spill onto her soft cheeks.
“No, m’sorry love. Didn’t mean it, okay? Promise.” He uses his thumb to brush the skin just under her eye. “Please, don’t cry.”
The rest of the tears subside at Harry’s comforting gesture. They stood like that for a while, eye contact refusing to break before she spoke up.
“Do you like me?”
Did she really just say that? Was he that drunk? He was definitely more than tipsy, but did she really just say that?! Was he dreaming? Please let this not be a dream.
His heart thumped in his chest when her fingers started playing with his.
“Now what’s not to like about you, darlin’?”
That’s sweet, but not what I asked, she thinks to herself.
She could not believe the level of bravery in her blood right now. She wasn’t even that drunk and words that she thought she would never say were spilling out.
As she was about to respond, she lets out a yawn, her previous thoughts quickly slipping her mind.
“Tired?’ he questions as he cocks his head to the side, a grin sliding up his lips.
“Mhm. Still need to walk home.” she frowns and his eyes go wide.
“Can’t let y’walk home alone-”
“I do it every other night.” she protests, clearly getting frustrated.
The thought of her walking back to her apartment alone at 3 am, sober or not, made his stomach turn. He ignores her attempt at convincing him that she’s fine, because there is no way he’s letting this happen.
“ Y’can stay with me? S’just upstairs.”
His voice was quiet and it took a moment for her to register what he’d said.
“Wait, what d’you mean upstairs?”
“There’s a flat upstairs, s’mine.”
The confusion on her face made his heart want to melt.
“C’mon, I’ll carry you.”
She feels another yawn coming and he picks her up—one arm under her legs and the other supporting her back. She lays her head on his shoulder, and he’s so warm—she can’t help but nuzzle her face into his neck and he thinks he could very well pass out, but he won’t, because he’s holding her, obviously.
He sets her down onto his bed, and tells her she can pick whatever looks comfy from his dresser to wear as pj’s.
“M’gonna go get some water, okay? Be right back, love.”
She picks out a stones t-shirt and changes into that because honestly, it’s one of the first things she sees and it smells like him and she’s tired.
He comes back upstairs and she’s laying down on his dark sheets, her back to him with her hair fanned out on his pillow. He walks around to the other side and sits down next to her. She feels the bed dip, opens one eye and pouts when she sees the water bottle in his hand.
“I know love, just drink some for me? Y’know it’ll make you feel better tomorrow.”
He encourages her to sit up and he doesn’t let her lay back down until she’s had at least half, and then covers her up with his blanket before
“I’ll just be on the sofa. If y’need anything in the middle of the night let me know, alright?”
“No, stay.”
His breath hitched inside his throat. He swallowed thickly before replying.
“You want me to stay?”
She nods. “Don’t leave me.”
She wants him to stay.
“I won’t, s’alright.”
After a small freak out episode in the bathroom while he changed, he gets into bed next to you.
Harry always had trouble falling asleep, but tonight it only took a few minutes and he was softly snoring into his pillow.
The light peeking through the curtains was what slowly pulled her out of sleep.
“G’mornin’ sleepyhead.”
She couldn’t help the lazy smile across her lips, letting out a giggle as she stretched.
“What time is it?”
“Almost eleven. Do you want somethin’ to eat?”
“Can I have some waffles?”
So, he made her some waffles. Some for him too. Harry didn’t have a dining table so he insisted she stay put while he make them breakfast in bed. He watches her take her first bite and he swears that this is the moment when he truly fell in love with her.
“Mmmm.” she hums, eyes closed with a dopey, syrupy smile across her lips. “So good.”
The reaction made him quite literally crack up laughing, because those waffles were from his bloody freezer and she was acting like Harry had just ordered room service to their hotel room in Paris.
He’d take her to Paris.
“So, how’d you end up living here?” she wondered out loud, breaking Harry out of his daydream.
He proceeded to tell her everything. About his piece of shit dad, his mum getting sick, getting jumped, and how Joe took Harry in and was the father he’d never had. When he’s finished, her hand is on the back of his neck pulling him into a protective hug, lightly toying with his hair.
“I’m so sorry, H.”
Her voice is just above a whisper and it makes Harry’s eyelashes flutter.
She pulls away and they instantly find each other’s eyes. He gives her a small smile, as if to say, it’s okay.
She looks at him with doe eyes and he can’t help but reach over and pushes her hair behind one of her ears, the space in between their faces becoming smaller and smaller, until his nose brushes hers.
“Can I kiss you?”
She gives him a small nod.
He cautiously presses his lips to hers. The kiss is everything both of them have ever dreamed of and so much more. Her hand is still on the back of his neck and he’s moved to cradle her cheeks in his hands, and they fit perfectly.
Neither of you want the kiss to end, both of them breathless as Harry’s forehead is pressed against hers.
“I really, really like you, had feelings for you for a long time.” you heart flutters in your chest at his sweet words. He felt like he couldn’t breathe as he waited for you to say something, anything.
“I really, really like you too.”
This is my baby, be nice to her. I’ve pulled many all nighters to make this as close to perfect as it can be so I hope you love it <3
Thank you to @oh-honey-styles , @for-fucks-sake-h and @andwhenshesays for putting this Pick Your Poison Fic Challenge together, I’m so glad I could be a part of it!
BIG THANKS to my babies @goldenfeelin , @bfharry and @avhrodite for truly hyping me up and being so supportive, I love you. <3
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Dinner Plans
A short story almost two years of age, that I once wrote for a university class. Found it again, dusted it off, polished it slightly, but let it retain that little bit of amateurish writing simply to marvel at how far I’ve come with my writing ever since.
Enjoy.
For the fifth time in the last two hours did the man with the moustache and sunglasses look up from his research and look at the face of the clock of the broken church. He scowled beneath the moustache, but forced himself to look at it regardless.
4:18 pm.
They were late, as per usual. He shook his head and focused back on his literature. He made the mental note to have a number of alarm clocks be send to each of them for next time. Flatteringly Photoshopped pictures of the Mexican coast reflected in his sunglasses while his eyes skimmed through the brochure's whimsical descriptions of the rich culture of its indigenous people and beautiful beaches. He skipped through a couple of pages until he found what he was looking for.
A decidedly too sharply fined and too pale fingernail stabbed into the page displaying the photograph of an ancient, grey pyramid.
The man sitting behind the shining aluminium table was tall, narrow and sharply dressed: a suit jacket with bloodstone cufflinks, black suit-pants, a clean white shirt only slightly wrinkled and two buttons open. His legs ended in a pair of shiny, pointy shoes. His face was stern and angular, with pronounced cheekbones and a pointed chin. Bushy eyebrows sat above the pair of sunglasses that protected his eyes against the sun, and a long white moustache grew beneath the hooked nose which gave his appearance a certain roguish charm. A wavy mane of grey-white hair surrounded his face and hid the pointed tips of his ears, giving him certain qualities akin to an old lion. It was difficult to clearly guess his age, but anyone briefly passing by and glancing at him would take him for a very spry looking gentleman in his mid-fifties.
Leaning in on his read, the man with the white moustache made a few notes on a small block of paper. The pen he used was black, ornamented with silver filigree and absurdly expensive, as was the ink held within. Next to the note pad stood an untouched and by now cold cup of coffee, its content as pitch-black as a dark winter night and reflecting the bright afternoon sun above. Disgusting in taste and disgustingly cheap in comparison, but he needed the table, and none of the waiters would bother him as long as he had at least one beverage in front of him, as maligned and untouched it was.
Cars rolled by exhuming grey fumes, the nearby fountain shot water into the air and people passed his table. Most of them in casual summer clothes, sundresses and cargo pants and shirts and some of them even with hats to gain some shade. For a moment, the man looked up from his notes and allowed himself a brief indulgence – the eyes behind the sunglasses darted from one healthy neck to another. A small, wolfish smile parted the pale lips and if there had been anyone to pay close attention, they would have gained a brief glance at his very pointed, very sharp and unusually long canines.
“Good afternoon, count.”
The man in the white moustache begrudgingly pulled his eyes away from his current mark – a lovely Turkish woman with streaming black hair that was climbing the stairs around the fountain just a shy dozen feet from his table, close enough for him to smell the sweet mixture of blood and perfume she exhumed – and he turned to the youth that had seated herself opposite of him, soundless and sudden as if she had appeared out of the thin air.
“And to you, countess. You are looking lively as always.”
She seemed young enough to be his granddaughter, though no one within their right mind would have thought to imagine a superficial familiarity between the two. A girl of fourteen years, with a healthy, rosy complexion and flowing, lush dark hair that curled at her shoulders, the sunshine twisting golden shimmers into its waves. Large doe-like eyes that projected innocence and hid a vicious intellect, a petite body that suggested fragility and cloaked the strength to bend iron bars as if they were straws. She was in white, of course she was, a pretty, knee-length dress and a white handbag in her lap and with her hands folded atop of it. The lid of her bag, the man with the moustache noted with a mild amusement, was riddled with numerous, colourful stickers and badges, and around her wrists hung several loops and bands of tiny gemstones like rainbow wreaths.
They were the only change about her since their last meeting.
“Thank you. My sincere apologies, there was an unfortunate delay with the train between Kassel and Hannover.” She shook her head. “More than five centuries since the invention of rail transport and still a simple thing like an open door may stall a train's journey for almost an entire fifteen minutes.”
She nodded at the travel brochure still open in front of him. “Are you already planning your next journey? I thought you would stay in Berlin a little while longer.”
“I am a traveller at heart, milady. Although my beloved home will always be in the heart of Europe, the other continents do possess their own charming allure,” he replied, setting the brochure and note block aside. “And besides, it has been a while since I have last visited the Americas. There must be much exciting game to be hunted there.”
“Always about excitement, is that the reason you wanted us all to meet here of all places?” The countess nudged her chin toward the broken church spire in the background, a disgusted sneer cracking her face. “And mirroring glass everywhere around us. One of these days, your thrill-seeking hunts might cost you your life.”
“How would the youth of your seeming generation say? No risk, no fun.” The count let his eyes wander around the square for a moment. “Where is Laura? The two of you were practically bound at the hip when we last met.”
The young-seeming woman stiffened in her seat. The snarl dissolved into a very neutral, very calm expression that seemed like it was carved from marble. “Laura is... no longer with us.”
A single eyebrow rose, but otherwise the count's face remained unmoved. “Hunters?
“No.” There was a subtle tremble of her lip, the count noted, before she continued: “She could no longer bear it, she told me, moments before she drove the knife through her own neck. She betrayed me, just like the others before her.”
“My condolences.”
She nodded, her face remaining neutral. “It has been over three decades since. I have moved on as best as I could.
“In fact,” she allowed herself a smile,” I happen to have a date just after we met up with our friends.”
“You still insist on fraternizing with your prey?” The count sneered. “Now that is a carelessness that will get you killed one day.”
“Because unlike you, I seek actual companionship?” Her eyes glinted like sharp icicles in the sun. “Because unlike you, I do not wish to to prolong myself in solitude and run afoul like some pack-less dog? Because I want to spend this blasted eternity with someone like myself?”
Blue flashed and briefly turned red. For a moment, the two stared at each other with an intensity not unlike of two big cats, every individual muscle tense and ready to pounce. Then as quickly as the moment came, it passed.
“I did not mean to insult you, milady. Forgive me. I only worry about others of our kind. We are already so very few remaining,” the count sighed.
“Do not kid yourself, count. You care for nobody but yourself,” the countess replied, but she too relaxed in her seat.
The next five minutes they spent in silence. The count returned to his brochure, only briefly looking up to take notes and to send another quick glance up at the clock tower. The young woman had produced a smartphone from her handbag and immersed herself in the screen, brief smiles lighting up her face in between her typing and the brief ping of sent messages.
“Empusa will be here in half an hour,” she said after little while and looked up from the screen. “She is picking up Lamia from the airport and helping her through customs right now.”
“What about Schreck?”
“The sun is still up, remember? He will meet us after dusk.”
“His mutation is as highly fascinating as it is impractical,” the count murmured. “Why didn't they update me about it?”
“We do possess a text chain, you know. I'm surprised you are not part of it, since you are always the one organizing our meetings.”
“I refuse to touch one of those damnable Apps ever since Lestat sent around pictures of his own rectum to everyone.”
“Suit yourself. Why the Americas?”
The count tapped his finger on the table. “The Mexica people of pre-Columbian America possessed fascinating religious rites related to blood sacrifice to honour their gods...I wonder if there might be others of our kind still in their old territory.”
The countess fiddled with her smartphone. “Sometimes, I admit, I envy your ability to travel without restraint. I tried everything, yet I still must return to my family's tomb ever so often.”
“Have you considered moving your tomb in its entirety, stone by stone? There are still many old woods and mountain valleys unmolested by human hand. I am sure the hags you usually travel with would be most grateful for the exercise.”
“I have tried, once, when Laura was still with me.” A twinge of sorrow crept across her face. “I wanted to go far, far away from home and take her with me. But then, my body began to wither, my senses to decay the longer I prolonged returning to my tomb for a night. Laura, too, could not go long without a place to return to. Horse-carriages can only get you so far. And when we tried to move a single stone, what little strength I had left in that moment was about to leave me.”
The count hummed. Then his own phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, swiped across the screen, read the message in silence. A wolfish grin split his face.
“Then you'll be happy to know that I plan on putting an end to these laws that seem to bind us.”
“What to you mean?” The countess leaned forward, an eyebrow arched.
“I planned on surprising all of you when Schreck, Lamia and the others would be gathered with us, but I might just as well reveal it all now,” the count smiled and leaned back, hands tapered together. There was a red gleam to his eyes, behind the sunglasses. “In my studies of the Americas, I came across a new initiate to our little circle – one that shares many of my own tastes and wishes to help others of his kin. Among such, is breaking the accursed bindings placed upon us.”
He extended a pointing finger. “He is currently sitting on the other end of the Breitscheidplatz. The tall man, olive skinned, with the gold rings in his ears.”
The countess followed his direction, narrowed her blue eyes to a glint. “What is his name?”
“The old Mayan people called him Camazotz. And he might very well be one of the first of our kind to walk this earth.”
On the other end of the square, the tall, olive-skinned man with golden rings in both his ears turned his head and nodded at them. His eyes gleamed in a blood-red, and for just a moment, both of the undead nobles could catch a glimpse of his shadow flickering across the wall behind him.
For just a split-second, they saw the shadow of a bat the size of a small house, stretching its wings and enveloping the street within its grasp.
#dracula#vampire#vampires#supernatural#carmilla#nosferatu#fanfiction#?#definitely fanfiction#horror#modern day#my writing#fiction
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The Radio Station - Chapter One - Think About How to Think
"I’m still not quite used to these proper radio interviews.” He said as he reshuffled the headset over his clean shaven mohawk. “It all… feels so professional.”
She laughed in response to that, “Well, it’s nice to know I’m doing my job right, then!”
Eyyyy, I’m back! A sort of different story compared to what I've done in the past. Small snippets in time, across quite a bit of time, focused around radio interviews. Almost all of Matty's interview answers are verbatim transcribed from various interviews, but it's what happens around those answers that's the important stuff.
Taglist: @dot-writes @imagine-that-100 @robinrunsfiction @tooshhhy and feel free to give me a shout if you wanna be added :D
6th of December, 2012
Adjusting the microphone in front of her, she watched while the last few seconds of the song played out. “You ready?” She asked the man sitting in front of her. He looked up from picking at the sleeve of his jacket, nodding apprehensively as she switched the microphones back on. “That was Sex by The 1975 - and as promised, we have here Matthew Healy of The 1975 with us in the studio this morning.” She spoke, turning on the radio presenter voice.
He leaned towards the mic slightly before speaking, “Hi.”
“How are you doing?”
“Yeah, erm… good?” He said with a small laugh, sounding unsure of himself. “A bit nervous.” He admitted as an afterthought.
“About your show tonight at Barfly?” She asked, remembering her conversation earlier in the day. Her managed warned her not to drag the interview out too much as they had a gig later that evening to prepare for.
“Uh, yeah, that, and I’m still not quite used to these proper radio interviews.” He said as he reshuffled the headset over his clean shaven mohawk. “It all… feels so professional.” He shrugged, looking around the studio for the millionth time. When he’d come in, the process of actually having to check in through a receptionist and wait before he was ushered through was fairly intimidating.
She laughed in response to that, “Well, it’s nice to know I’m doing my job right, then!”
She figured it would be best to just get the ball rolling to try and give him something better to talk about than his nerves, “So, you guys have two EPs out now. How many more are there on the cards before an album?” She questioned, glancing down at the sheet of question prompts in front of her.
He appeared instantly more comfortable as soon as the topic switched to something that he had better familiarity with, straightening up in his seat and looking more engaged, “There’s probably another couple to come out before we bring out the full album.”
“It seems that the band is getting some good traction with what you already have out.” She pointed out with a nod. Over the last few weeks at the station she’d had a chance to hear the EPs in passing, and she thought that they were pretty decent. But the station itself had been receiving a fair number of requests for them and pretty good feedback whenever they were on the air.
“Yeah! We’re really humbled that we’ve been given the opportunity to live this past year, and we’re only getting closer as a band.”
“Is there a strategy with how you’re releasing things?” She asked. “Is this all part of some grand plan,” She saw him smile at that, “or a secret to getting your name out there?”
He thought about that for a second, “Kind of a bit of both? When we wrote the first EP, shortly after we’d written the majority of the album, we kind of… I dunno, we just wanted people to…” He paused, taking a short breath as he recomposed his thoughts. “If we were gonna do it, it’s such a personal endeavour, this band. If people are embracing the music, we wanna do it properly. We want people to fall in love with a band the same way you fall in love with a person – the more you know about somebody over a longer period of time, the more you both invest in the relationship.” She was taken aback somewhat by his statement. For a band just starting their career, that was a pretty profound thought process. “That was kind of…” He continued, clearly debating over his words slightly. “We had ideas for a lot of material. We wanted records that went against the grain of most EPs nowadays that are just a single. We wanted to release these little records that kind of almost culminated in a debut record.”
“That all sounds pretty well figured out.” She noted, still rather surprised at the extent of his answer. It was intriguing watching him stumble over his choice of words to try and get across exactly what he meant. “Does that mean that the tracks from the EPs are going to be on the full album?”
“There’s a lead track off each EP on the album, yeah.” He nodded eagerly as he leaned forward in his seat. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding that our material works chronologically. We wrote the album pretty much before we wrote the EPs. We took singles off the album and wrote EPs around that to take a bit of the story and embellish it a bit. Create a feel for what the album is gonna be like.” He explained, his hand motions getting more enthusiastic the more he spoke.
She made a soft noise of understanding at his answer. Thinking back to the vibe of the two EPs she had listed to, what he was saying made sense. “From what we’ve heard from you so far, it seems The 1975 has a knack for creating upbeat music with fairly deep lyrics in comparison. Is there a reasoning behind that? Is the album going to be similar?” She asked as she flipped her notepad over.
He let out a sigh as he stared up at the ceiling of the studio, “I dunno… we’re just a band… for ourselves? We just wrote music for ourselves and have since we started when we were kids.” He started, leaning back into his seat. “Because we grew up in punk and pop punk playing around, we were kind of a bands band? Our music just became very, very personal and very, very kind of…” He made a vague gesture with his hands, “I suppose, it’s our only expression? It’s the only thing we’ve ever known how to do. It’s the only form of honest expression we’ve got. A lot of the time it’s quite self-deprecating for me – lyrically. I kind of find solace in it. But I suppose now it’s been romanticised a little bit.”
She wasn’t entirely sure if that answered her question, but pressed on. “Certainly songs like Sex seem to have a lot of girls romanticising you.” She threw in with a laugh. He cracked a grin at her remark.
“I think that is a reflection of our music – coming across as sexy. Not just because of, y’know, all this.” He shot back with a wink as he held a hand proudly on his chest. Any awkwardness he had been carrying at the start of the interview seemed to have dissipated now.
“All right, we are gonna play another 1975 song and then we’ll be right back. This one came off of the first EP. This is The City.” She announced, happy to segue away from having to discuss whether she thought Matthew Healy was or wasn’t sexy on live radio. As the track started, she lowered her headphones to sit around her neck, the man across the desk from her following her lead. “You’re killing it.” She reassured him.
“Yeah?” He smiled.
“Yeah.” She chuckled, his enthusiasm now that he was on a roll was contagious. “You obviously know what you’re about.”
“Well, I’ve been fuckin’ thinking about it all for long enough.” He laughed loudly. “We spent ages working out what to do before stuff finally started happening for us.” He added for clarification.
“You’ve been the same group since you were kids?” She asked out of genuine curiosity. He looked like he was in his early twenties now, which would mean that they’d already been a band for quite some time. It seemed odd if that was the case, that they’d only had these two releases.
“Yeah, the four of us since we were fourteen or something. Just messin’ about trying to work out what sounds good.” He confirmed.
“Fourteen? That’s pretty young to start a band.” She said in astonishment.
“Yeah, well… I’d just moved to Manchester; I grew up in the very north of the country…” He started, looking like he was about to launch into another story. Part of her wished she had saved this line of questioning for the interview, but another part of her was secretly mildly honoured he was only giving this information to her. “But I went to high school and there was this kind of thing that was going on where the council were letting old people’s kind of bingo halls be used by kids to start bands. And after a couple of weeks it became this scene and everyone started making punk bands.” He explained.
“So, you got dragged into it by your mates?” She asked.
“Well, in the end our whole social group oriented around that scene.” He shrugged. “We started there at fourteen just because of how fun it was. The fact that we realised we could be genuinely creative but also really indulgent? It was the most fun we could have.” He had a fond smile playing on his lips as he spoke.
“Plenty of time to experiment and work out what you want to be as a band.” She nodded in understanding.
“Exactly.”
“And clearly it’s starting to pay off.”
“You reckon?” He had a genuine look of disbelief.
“I’ve liked what I’ve heard,” She admitted, “and we’ve had nothing but good things coming in about the EPs.”
He scoffed as he ran a hand through his hair, “That’s a lie and you know it. I’m not oblivious to the critics.” He rolled his eyes, but was still smiling. “Thanks, though.”
They had some more casual chit chat between them until the song came to an end and she switched the audio back over. “And we are back!” She said into the microphone, pulling her headset back on. “Still here in the studio with Matthew Healy, the lead singer of The 1975. Now, I believe that you guys had a few name changes before you finally settled on this one?” She asked as she crossed that prompt off of her list. In an effort to be prepared, she’d tried her best to find out as much about the band online as she could to form some half decent questions. She hated feeling like her interviews were just the same as everything else out there.
“Yeah, we did, but that was when we were just a live band, really. We didn’t really wanna put any music out officially until we were really ready. There were also issues with the old names that we had picked. One of ‘em there was another band called that already, Big Sleep, in America, so we couldn’t call it that. Another we didn’t really like, The Slow Down…” He said with a shrug. “People like to idealise quite a lot of things… in the end, it kind of became our thing? Changing our name. We didn’t really think people cared about our band, anyway.” He laughed softly.
“They certainly do now.” She smiled across at him, earning what appeared to be a delighted look in response. “So, is there any importance to what you finally settled on?”
“The date doesn’t have any, no.” He said as he shook his head. “It’s this story, that’s been quite over dramatized, to be honest. When I was like… nineteen? I was on holiday with my family. There was an artist who lived in the village who was kind of a local drinker who befriended everybody. I spent a couple of days with him at his house, and he gave me loads of literature to leave with, like Kerouac and beat poetry, you know. Basically one of the books I ended up readin’ six months later, and it had kind of been treated as a diary by the previous owner. And it was dated ‘first of June the 1975’. The use of ‘the’ I felt was quite interesting.” He answered. “It just stuck with me as a kind of… why? What made them write the 1975? I don’t know, but I think it really works with the fact that we were discovering a lot about ourselves, and we weren’t really sure who we were.” He gazed off into the middle distance for a second, looking like he was zoning out. “George felt it was a bit long at first, because you know, seven syllable band name. But once a band name becomes a band name it’s just there. It’s like that Pavlovian reaction. But I think when we went in for a meeting with our publisher, we’ve always liked to pitch things left of centre, we said ‘we’re gonna call the band The 1975‘ and they said ‘absolutely no way, it’s too long and there’s never been a big band that’s just been numbers.’ And then we looked at each other like ‘that’s the name.’ so I went and got it tattooed on my arm that day.” He laughed loudly. “Sent them a photo of that-” He held out his arm to emphasise the numbers inked there, “-like ‘that’s the name of the band now!’ As soon as they said there’s never been a big band that’s just numbers, we just thought… excellent.”
“The impulsivity worked in your favour, then.” She noted with her eyebrows raised in surprise. To go out and get something like that tattooed as an act of defiance to your creative project was impressive. “Good thing you’ve not had to change it again since.” He just chuckled.
“It seems to fit in quite well, though, the name. What with the whole black and white aesthetic that you guys have created.” She continued, eager to hear what he had to say on this image that they had surrounded themselves with. Everything she had been able to find out about their ‘look’, how they presented themselves, it all seemed highly thought out and planned. But thinking back to what he had mentioned before, if they’d been a band since they were fourteen, it probably had been.
“If you’re quite altruistic in personality, that’s normally twinned with a certain amount of self-awareness. Because you’re exposed to many situations where you’re putting yourself out there a lot.” He started as he fiddled with the cord of his headset. “I think if you’re an artist and you’re like that, you find solace in maybe… detaching yourself from reality a bit? Because you’re not as exposed as normal. We find a lot of comfort in everything being in black and white, because… Yeah, that’s it, you’re not fully exposed.” He explained as if he was mostly talking to himself, or trying to sort out his answer as he said it. “But it really works for our band because it makes it… a bit out of reach?”
“How do you mean?” She frowned.
He hummed thoughtfully to himself before speaking, “There’s a great quote by Kafka, which is that ‘a camel is a horse designed by a committee’…” He said with a pointed look. “Which is like… one person’s vision is always going to be a lot more concise than something that’s been diluted or compromised by a committee. If you want to project a certain image it needs to be an individual’s own vision in order to be really palatable and really concise and really consumable. So, it’s all about creating something that isn’t that accessible, because we live in an industry where accessibility is paramount.” She was starting to realise that this man truly had very roundabout ways of answering questions. However, it was fascinating listening to his unfiltered thought process as he tried to work out what he wanted to say. She couldn’t say she’d had a lot of interviews with people are interesting as Matthew seemed to be.
Taking a quick look at the time, she could see that they had to wrap this up shortly. Between the long-winded questions and the songs, her twenty minutes had gone by quite fast. She’d better start winding this down. “What’s next on the agenda for you guys?” She asked, looking back over to him.
“Uh, let me think…” He racked his brain for what their immediate plans were for the near future. “We’re heading out on tour after Christmas, and then pretty much we don’t stop ‘til sometime next year.” He confirmed.
“Sometime?”
“We’re in high demand, what can I say?” He said with a laugh.
“That’s not surprising, I’m sure it’ll only get harder to get a hold of you guys in the future.” She concurred. “Well, it’s been a pleasure chatting with you, Matthew. All the best for the tour and for the next EP.” She nodded. He looked caught off guard for a second. Glancing down at his phone, he was surprised to see how much time had gone by. “Thanks for coming in.”
“No, no. The pleasure’s all mine, truly.” He grinned. “Thank you for having me on.”
“I’m sure we’ll be hearing again from you soon.” She finished up, switching his microphone off as she did her outro spiel. He took his headset off, stretching his arms up above his head before standing up and heading towards the studio doorway. It took her a second of seeing him linger in her peripheral vision to realise that he was waiting to say goodbye. As she started the next track, she slipped her headset off and spun her chair to face him.
“Erm, thanks.” He said as he scratched at the back of his neck. “I’ll see you around?” He asked hesitantly. It was curious to see him go from charismatic interviewee to nervous guy in her studio so fast.
“As I said, I’m sure we’ll be hearing from you soon. You’ll be back here in no time.” She assured him. He nodded to himself, looking pleased as he headed back outside.
It was another twenty minutes after Matthew stepped out before her shift ended. Thankfully, she was able to get out of the office pretty quickly. Sometimes she ended up being held back for up to a couple of hours if there were meetings and such that required her attention. And today wasn’t a day that she wanted to deal with any of that. It had been a pretty shitty Thursday to start with. She’d had terrible traffic on the way in, couldn’t find a parking space, had to trudge her way to work in the cold, dropped her coffee when someone ran into her on the way – she just wanted to end a long day. It was approaching evening as she stepped out into the brisk winter air, letting out a sigh as she looked around the street. She started making her way to her car only to catch sight of a familiar mohawked man standing at the side of the station building, smoking with a few other guys. As soon as he spotted her, he shouted her name and waved her over. She debated whether she should go over and talk to a group of more or less strangers or not, but he seemed pretty keen on her joining them. He turned briefly back to the guys he was standing with and as she approached she heard the tail end of him explaining what had happened in the interview.
“This is the band!” He said excitedly.
“Oh!” Instantly, that made a lot more sense than him larking about with a bunch of random people. She took in the other three men he was standing with, noting that they were all quite a bit taller than he was. “You guys could’ve come in to the interview, you know.” She said as she wrapped her arms around herself to try and block out some of the cold threatening to seep in through her jacket.
“Nah, it’s fine.” One of them with somewhat of a beard shrugged.
“We’d rather let him do the talking.” Another quietly agreed.
“He’s loud enough for all of us.” The last one, that also had a kind of mohawk thing going on, spoke up.
“Hey! Fuck off!” Matthew shoved the last one with a loud laugh.
She stood around with them for a bit while they smoked, listening to Matthew talk about the interview and answering the odd question that the band members had for her. This man seemed far more sure of himself than the uncertain one she kept seeing in the interview. He prattled on excitedly about tour and the next EP and just generally seemed more confident. The band only spurred him on as well, encouraging him and getting into in-depth conversations about the tiniest details. She could see where those long-winded answers had come from in their interview. If he held this level of passive confidence and enthusiasm in a casual environment, it was only a matter of time before that started shining through in his career. And it was truly no surprise after speaking with them that this band was getting popular at the rate that they were. They were obviously talented, and had enough drive and direction to push themselves through whatever challenges they faced. She could tell that The 1975 were only just beginning their music industry journey. It was after about fifteen minutes that she figured she had better excuse herself and actually go home – she didn’t really have any reason to hang around here, even if it was nice to chat with such an interesting group of people.
She waited for a lull in the conversation (which wasn’t very forthcoming) before finally making her move, “I might get going…”
Matthew’s face fell a little before he recomposed himself. “Why don’t you come down to the pub with us for a bite?” He suggested.
“Ah, thanks for the offer but I’ve got places I need to be, and I don’t usually mix business with pleasure as they say.” She chuckled lightly. “Nice to keep things separate.”
“It’s also nice to make exceptions sometimes.” He shot back; a challenging eyebrow raised. “But it’s cool.” He said with a shrug as he dropped his cigarette onto the ground, snuffing it out with his shoe. “For real, though, thank you for all the kind words about the band and the music in the interview. A station with as many listeners as yours… your words mean a lot.” He nodded, looking pensive about whatever was going on in his head.
“It’s really no problem. I meant everything I said.” She smiled back at him. Before she could get on her way, he pulled her into a tight hug. She hadn’t overly expected that from the man she’d known all of about an hour, but she hugged him back regardless, happy for the brief warmth after standing in the icy street. “I’ll, uh,” She cleared her throat, attributing the heat she could feel in her cheeks to being in the cold for so long, “I’ll see you at the next interview.” She said as she finally headed towards her car, leaving Matthew staring after her before heading back to his band mates.
Next Chapter
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The marriage pact - Puppy kisses
Henry Cavill x OC Alice - multi-chapter
< Part 10 | Part 11 Puppy kisses | Part 12 >
Disclaimer: none, just fluff
Author’s note: This is my 100th post! YASSSS!! I love you all so much my darling readers; puppy kisses and much love to you!
Word count: 1.350
(Link to my Masterlist)
--
Dear readers,
Do you remember your first kiss? I do. I was fourteen years old, it was late summer, life was simple and expectations were high. I was a dreamer and I had completely indulged myself in anything fantastical. Any rom-com available I had seen, any prince-saves-the-maiden story had been on my reading list and honestly; I thought I was ready.
Was I though? Apparently not really. At least not to get what I expected would be that picture perfect first kiss. Sure, it was a wonderful day, a date at the zoo, he was a year older than me and he would hold my hand the whole time. We’d eat small bites in the sandy dunes, the wind whipping in our hair. And then he’d lean over, just like in the movies. But, unlike in the movies, we weren’t quite prepared for the following; his hair getting stuck in my braces and..well..you may know that I was absolutely horrified, my cheeks tomato red and the whole moment terribly ruined due to my shaken nerves.
He brought me home, ever so galant, and there was that. I didn’t even want to try again when we said goodbye at my doorstep, because.. I was simply too embarrassed. In fact it took me a whole year before I’d even think about giving love, puppy love, another try. With the same boy, actually. And the more I now think about it, the sillier, but also sweeter the memory has become, all little annoyances and fears having faded to the background. And now all that lasts are those adorably sweet puppy kisses.
Did you have a nice first kiss dear readers?
An ever curiouser and curiouser,
Ali
IVF, IUI, at-home insemination or just some natural insemination after a “fun little night at the club”. Reproductive lawyers, medical safety, parental rights, sperm donor agreements. The terms were buzzing like a dark misty cloud of concern through my muddled brain, my tea long gone cold on my night stand and my legs getting painful from sitting crouched down on my bed for so long.
Somewhere I wished I could talk to my mom about this, to anyone about this, but I felt ashamed. So terribly ashamed. Why was something that seemed so natural and simple to everyone else, seem so terribly difficult (and expensive) to me. Pushing away my laptop I sighed, long legs finally getting a stretch as I pushed myself off the bed, my arms reaching above my head as if I were a large cat just waking up from a nice slumber.
Did you know a cat can have up to five litters a year? That’s so..many..babies. Ugh! ALI, cut it out! No more baby thoughts.
Sulking visibly, I walked over to my desk, looking out over the late afternoon sun, my mom working in the garden, dad’s feet sticking out from beneath a deep blue umbrella, shielding him from the October sun. Why was everything so damn hard? I sighed and let my eyes drift further, the Cavill house some 100 meters further up.
Would Henry be at home right now?
Henry, Henry, Henry. Was he too good to be true? Weren’t we just once more living this late-summer fantasy like we had quite a few times before. We had been boyfriend and girlfriend for more times than I could count on one hand, nearly two hands. And every time life got in the way. Would that happen again? I felt the melancholy in my heart grow, my eyes slipping back to a sheet of paper that was laying beneath my finger tips.
The pact.
Rainbow coloured and handwritten, both our names neatly placed on the bottom line, some first attempts at personal signatures scribbled beneath it. “In the case of neither one of us were to be married by the age 35 (thirty-five), we vow to marry each other. Signed. Henry William Dalgliesh Cavill. Alice Mary Taylor.”
How silly we..-
*BZZ BZZ*
I looked up from my thoughts, eyes roving towards my phone.
Henry bear: Hey! Look out the window! ;)
And so I did, my eyes first looking back at my parents. Was he in our garden? Nope. On the road towards our house? Nope. And then I noticed something move behind the windows of his parents’ house. The attic. Where I knew he still had his room. Waving happily - which was really silly looking for a 38 year old man - he finally managed to attract my attention. I burst out in a fit of chuckles.
Oh Henry.
With mild exaggeration he blew me a few kisses, and like the old days I reached out for them, catching them and placing them carefully by my heart. Nothing much had truly changed, had it?
*BZZZ-BZZZZZZ BZZZZZZ*
And now he was calling. Shaking my head in slight disbelief, an amused smile still stuck to my lips, I answered.
‘Hi.’ I grinned.
‘Hey.’ I could hear the smile in his voice, the timber much deeper and grown-up then it had been all those long years ago.
‘Whatcha doin’?’ I asked, my eyes looking back at him through his attic window.
‘Reading your blog actually.’
‘Are you now?’
‘And I can remember that kiss terribly well.’ He chuckled. I could see from the far distance that he was very amused, pearly whites shining in the afternoon sun. ‘Mhm.’ I hummed. Then he continued; ‘And just for your information; I truly didn’t hate it. If anything I loved you more for it.’
‘But.. I practically ran away.’
‘Maybe a little yes.’
‘Sorry about that Hen.’
‘It’s okay Ali. We have more than made for up it through the years.’
‘Hennn..’ I admonished, the humour dripping through my voice. He was right though. We had gotten pretty good at kissing..and everything else too. Oh Henry…
He hummed, pleased, then clicked his tongue.
‘You were actually the first girl that gave me any kind of real attention. I mean, I was a bit of a late bloomer when it came to girls.’
‘I guess we both were a tad awkward in our teenage years..’ I agreed.
‘Or just well ahead of the crowd.’ He chuckled.
‘Really though, what did it do to you, seeing your classmates hit on girls..and you know..succeed?’
‘I got super insecure, honestly. I mean, my first real kiss was outside a school dance and the girl was already running away before the snog was over...’
‘And then I practically ran away too..’ I sniffled. ‘Sorry Hen.’
‘Hahah..yea..poor me. But at least I knew you well. The kiss may have been a touch awkward, but I was crazy into you. I wanted more than just some physical affection. I wanted you.’
I felt my breath choke and without further ado, he continued; ‘I may have to confess that when I had to do my first on-screen kiss, with like an entire crew around and my nerves flaring up high..I thought of ..eh..gosh this is embarrassing...’
‘Our first kiss?’ I teased, trying to not let the butterflies take the overhand. Somehow I was glad we were so far apart. I could feel the cute giddiness of that first love between us all over again. Perhaps it was even love once more.
Was I in love?
‘I thought of you..yes. Though not of our first kiss. Or our second or third kiss. I eh..’ He looked straight at me, the long distance between us suddenly not feeling so far anymore. I could practically see the shimmer in those blue eyes.
‘..Our first time?’ I gulped, remembering every gentle caress and eager cloth tug far too well. We had been 16 and 17. And where our first kiss might have been awkward, our first time? Heck. It still brought me tingles.
‘Yes.’ He said huskily.
Oh yes..tingles. I shifted slightly, squeezing my legs together almost involuntarily, breath choking, the phone line on both ends quiet except for deep, focused breaths. In..and..out..in..and..
‘Can I come over?’ He rasped.
‘Yes please.’ I muttered, feeling those same darn butterflies flutter wildly through my belly.
Was I in love?
Good question.
--
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“Stand by Me”-an Everlark one-shot
This prompt was requested by @all-consuming and my prereader @keelaree.
I’m sure that this wasn’t what you expected, but I was vey inspired by a subplot in a K-drama that I watched recently and just went with it.
Prompt request: “You’re afraid that you’ll lose me in big crowds so you always hold my hand but now you just hold my hand when there’s only, like, five people around and I’m getting very suspicious”
Trigger warnings: child abuse, kidnapping, reference to suicide
Summary: Peeta Mellark returns home to find himself mysteriously drawn to his little sister’s best friend. Mature themes.
~~~~~
“When the night has come
And the land is dark
And the moon is the only light we see
No I won't be afraid
No I won't be afraid
Just as long as you stand, stand by me…”
—Ben E. King “Stand By Me
~~~~~~
“Move faster!”
He clutches her hand tightly as they run out of the forest.
It’s well after midnight, too late for children their age to be out and about. Katniss’ two braids have become unraveled and her flowered nightgown is dirty and torn at its bottom. He isn’t any better with torn jeans and his ankles burning, each step agony.
But he presses on, he needs to make sure she is safe.
“Peeta, I’m scared,” Katniss tells him in her tiny voice. Everything about her is tiny. Except for her eyes. They are big pools of silver surrounded by dark lashes; each lash wet with tears. “I want to go home.”
“That’s where I’m taking you,” he grumbles. “We just have to get out of here.”
They walk and walk and walk…Peeta feels himself beginning to cramp up. Katniss is starting to falter. What did he expect from a child of five?
He looks up at the sky—a full moon. It feels like forever since he’s seen the sky.
Tears gather in his eyes. What if his family has given up on him?
By some miracle, they find themselves on the main street of the town next to their own. There are people everywhere and Peeta tightens his hold on Katniss’ small hand.
“Stay close to me,” he tells her.
Katniss squeezes his hand. “I won’t let go.”
A group of people stumble out of a bar as its jukebox plays ‘Only You’ by the Platters, and Katniss presses herself to him, seeing a man fall to the ground and vomit on the concrete. Protectively, Peeta puts an arm around her as they move away from the rush of people.
It is nearly sunrise when Peeta reaches her house; no one is probably even aware that Katniss has been gone.
“Go right to bed,” he tells her sternly. “And, don’t go walking out of your house in the middle of the night again!”
Her gaze is solemn. “I promise, Peeta.” She holds out her little finger. “Pinkie swear?”
He indulges her and hooks their pinkies together, a tired smile of relief gracing his lips. “Go now.”
“Thank you for protecting me,” Katniss tells him, her cheeks perked by her sunny smile. “I’m going to marry you.”
“That’s stupid,” he responds. “You’re only five!”
However, even at the tender age of nine, Peeta is flattered at her declaration.
This little wisp of a girl is so sure that her heart belongs to him.
“When you’re older, you’ll find someone else to love and marry,” he says to appease her.
“I will be older, but I will still love and marry you!” she declares, chin up defiantly.
Peeta nods. “Okay, when we are older.”
++++++
Peeta opens his eyes as the train cart jolts. He looks around, finding his entire compartment empty. His back aches; exhausted from the plane ride back to the States followed by the four-hour train ride back to his hometown.
It’s been years since he’s been home. His family would usually visit his boarding school in England for the holiday. Eventually after school was over, his wanderlust took him away to the different sides of the world.
He chases for peace of mind—but it never comes.
Nightmares plague him even in the most beautiful of places. He found himself crouched and shaking on the balcony of his hotel in Mykonos before finally deciding to come home.
Peeta decides to walk home; the Mellark Home is just a scant ten minutes away from the train station. He wants to get back into the rhythm of small-town life before he’s bombarded by his family. They are wonderful people, loving and supportive, but he often feels as if they walk on eggshells around him.
Everyone but his little sister, sunny girl that she is.
As he reaches the block where his home is, Peeta feels like he’s going back in time. Everything has remained the same; the street sign still has a sticker that Rye, his older brother, placed as a dare by one of the Hawthorne boys.
The large trailer that Haymitch Abernathy and his wife Effie use for camping trips is still parked in front of their house.
His home looms over him, a perfect two-story colonial with flower boxes at its windows and a white picket fence. His mother is an avid gardener and it shows in the perfect flower beds at the front of the house. He recognizes his sister’s namesake immediately, right by the door, and finds his mouth perking into a semblance of a smile.
A flash of white suddenly catches his peripheral vision.
Looking to the building next door, Peeta suddenly freezes.
Dark hair and grey eyes catch him. She is wearing a thin, white nightgown and the morning light catches the outline of a feminine figure. Her tanned legs hang from the porch fence she has perched herself on and her hands reach into a bucket sitting next to her.
She pulls her hands out—her fingers, delicate and graceful—before she touches them together to make a circle. Her rose-colored lips rise and she exhales as bubble forms and flies out into the air.
Her gaze follows the bubble and a grin forms on her mouth as she watches it fly off—
“Peeta!”
Prim is running towards him, golden hair flying with her, and he catches her easily in his arms.
“You’re home!” she cries happily and Peeta smiles fondly at her. “Did you walk from the train station?”
“It wasn’t that bad,” Peeta replies, his voice raspy. “The town is nice and quiet at this time.”
“It’s always quiet around here,” Prim explains, taking his hand and leading him up the stone pathway. “Mom and Dad aren’t awake yet, but they’ll be so happy you’re back…Rye and Cashmere are coming for dinner…you’ll get to meet Baby Sarah…”
He listens dutifully but can’t help but look next door.
She is staring at him, still as tiny as ever, her hands clasped together.
He is awestruck by her innocence and happy to know that there is no darkness reflected in those lovely grey eyes.
There is only hope.
Her mouth rises in a small smile.
Before Peeta knows it, she is gone, disappearing into her home but leaving him with an unknowing ache inside.
++++++
Dinner is a happy affair.
His parents are thrilled that he is home. His mother is still the picture of elegance, her blonde hair in a perfect chignon and her smile is brings such youth to her face that it’s almost hard to believe that she is the mother of three grown children. His father, ruthless businessman that the newspapers report him to be, is actually a kind, caring person whose greatest treasure is his family.
They did everything under the sky to make sure that he was alright and Peeta is grateful; he loves them for it, but he can’t help but feel like he’s missing that part in his mind that makes him able to convey it. Prim and Rye are boisterous and loud, unable to not pull him into their arms for hugs. Upon his arrival, Rye cried just seeing his baby brother on their couch.
They’re at the tail end of dinner when there’s a knock on the front door.
Katniss enters their dining room and Peeta immediately stands up at the sight of her. Her hair is down, raven waves framing her pretty face, and she wears a simple green dress that makes her look like a woodland pixie.
Everyone stares at his motion; his parents amused while his siblings look to him curiously.
“Sorry,” he mumbles as he sits back down, his eyes darting up just to see the wisp of a smile on her mouth.
“Katniss!” Prim rushes over, giving her a hug. “What are you doing here?”
“Rue and I made pies,” she explains shyly. “I know how much you like peach, so I brought it over.”
His mother, gracious hostess she is, goes to Katniss to take the pie pan from her.
“Thank you, Katniss! Go ahead and have a seat, sweetheart.”
His father grabs a spare chair, putting it between himself and Prim. He stands, so used to doing it during events at boarding school, as she sits and doesn’t hesitate to help push her seat for her. He almost grins seeing that her feet are just a little bit off the ground before sitting down.
Katniss looks to him. “Welcome home.”
“Thank you,” he tells her quietly, his throat tight at the sight of her.
He learns that they moved into the house next door when she was ten after her father passed away. Also, that Katniss’ mother remarried three years ago, and Katniss has a stepsister, Rue, who is eight years old. By the way she talks about the young girl, it’s obvious they are close.
“I’m taking her to that carnival that just opened this weekend,” she tells his family as they eat dessert.
“I want to go!” Prim cries out excitedly. She is nineteen, but there is still that youthful excitement in her eyes. “May I please tag along?”
“Of course, Prim,” Katniss tells her. She looks around, before her eyes go to him. “All of you are invited.”
His parents decline, but Rye and Cashmere agreed, and his parents offer to babysit Sarah, his cherub looking niece, so they can have an actual date night.
“How about you, Peeta?” His father asks.
He nods immediately, his eyes going to the girl next to him. “Sounds like fun.”
++++++
As Peeta gets ready for bed, there’s a knock on his door and he is surprised to find his parents on the other side. He widens the door and they enter, his father sitting at the chair next to his desk and his mother at the end of his bed.
“We just wanted to check on you,” his father starts. “It’s been a long time since you’ve been home—almost fourteen years, actually.”
“I know,” Peeta replies and looks around. “Looks like you never changed the place. If I open my bedside drawer, am I going to find those mini chocolates I used to carry around?”
“You always did have a sweet tooth,” his mother says with a smile. “How are you, Peeta?”
“Some days are hard,” he admits. “But I can’t keep running anymore.”
“We’ve missed you,” his father tells him, his voice on the verge of weeping.
His father’s voice had only sounded like that once before; the day that Peeta woke up in a hospital bed screaming bloody murder, begging them to get that woman away from him.
“No matter what, she’s going to be part of me,” Peeta explains. “Part of my nightmares.”
His mother hurriedly brushes away her tears. “Oh sweetheart, we failed to protect you—”
He shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“You are our son,” his father intones. “We will always worry about you and want to take care of you.”
Peeta nods; his chest filling with that familiar heaviness that comes with the night.
“I’m tired,” he tells them, suddenly listless.
Both stand, his mother kissing his forehead and his father patting his shoulder before bidding him goodnight.
Sleep does not come.
++++++
“I’m so glad you’re home,” Prim tells him as they walked into the entryway of the carnival. “It’s been ages, really.”
“I’m happy that I’m back,” Peeta replies. “Why does this place look so familiar?”
“It’s part of the old camping grounds, remember?” Prim skips down the path towards the carousel. “Look! There’s Katniss!” She jogs ahead to go greet her friend, just he sees an image in his mind of two children running out of the camping grounds to escape a madwoman.
Peeta makes his way his over, his eyes on Katniss, her hair in a long braid. She is wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, with white sneakers on her tiny feet. Next to her is a young girl, mocha-skinned with wide almond eyes.
“Hello,” Katniss greets him with a friendly smile. “I’m glad you came.”
His mouth raises slightly. “Thanks for inviting us.”
Katniss puts a hand to the young girl’s shoulder. “Rue, this is Peeta. He’s Prim’s older brother.”
The girl stares up at him shyly. “Hello, Peeta. It’s nice to meet you.”
Kneeling before the girl, he holds out his hand. “Hello, Rue. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
His eyes go quickly to Katniss, who flushes as their eyes met.
Rue shakes his hand and then turns to her sister. “He’s cute.”
“Rue!” Katniss takes the young girl’s hand, avoiding his eyes.
“Well, he is!” Rue insists.
It was starting to get crowded; Prim had disappeared, and his eyes search anxiously for her.
“She went to get food,” Katniss informs him, seeing his concern. “Your sister has an ever-stretching stomach, skinny thing she is.” Her eyes go down to her own figure. “I look like I’ve obviously had too many desserts.”
Peeta looks her over quickly; she is definitely curvy, her waist small and her hips full—a true Botticelli, which he finds overwhelmingly appealing.
“You look perfect,” he finds himself saying. His hand suddenly reaches for hers and Katniss starts. “I don’t want to lose you, too.”
They head towards the concession stands in search of Prim; Katniss in the middle, her hands held by both Rue and Peeta.
“You’re only saying that because you’re Prim’s brother,” Katniss says, her gaze avoiding his.
“I shouldn’t be saying that because I’m Prim’s brother.”
++++++
“You have to be quiet!” he demands under his breath. “You’ll make her angry.”
Her wrists and ankles hurt, and Katniss is getting tired of sitting up against the wall of the smelly, dusty house. Why did the lady never clean?
Her eyes wander to the teddy bear, sitting in the corner of the room, caked with dirt and its eye missing. Did that mean that there were other children here?
“I want to go home!” she wails.
“Please Katniss…if you’re quiet, I’ll give you something to eat,” Peeta tells her. She quiets immediately and he offers her a smile. Though his hands are bound, he manages to reach into the pocket of his jacket to pull out a wrapped piece of chocolate. “Here you go.”
She unwraps it quickly before stuffing it into her mouth. “Thank you, Peeta.”
Katniss fails to notice that his own stomach grumbles with hunger.
++++++
Katniss sits up in bed, breathing heavily, as the remnants of the dream swim in her mind.
What was that?
She looks to her wrists and ankles—no marks.
It wasn’t real…the lady with the dark eyes and long, black hair…not real…
Laying back, she tries to close her eyes, but the faint taste of chocolate lingers in her mouth.
++++++
The night is humid and Peeta struggles to keep his body cool underneath the dress shirt he wears.
“Peeta, you should’ve borrowed something from Rye,” Prim tells him good-naturedly as they walk towards the stage. Around them, groups are setting up their picnic blankets for the summer concert that is an annual event in their town. “I’m taking you shopping tomorrow.”
“It’s not a big deal,” he assures her amusedly. “Am I cramping your style?”
“Of course not!” She entwines their arms. “You’re my very international older brother who my friends are dying to meet.” Her other hand shoots up. “There they are!”
His eyes go to the group of six; the two dark-haired men are obviously the Hawthorne brothers, beside them are two blondes, one tall and statuesque while the other is about Prim’s height with soft waves on her shoulders.
Then there is Katniss; tiny but breathtaking, in a blue knee-length dress.
“Hey guys!” Prim greets the group. “This is my brother Peeta, he just got back home a week ago.” She turns to the Hawthornes. “You know Gale and Vick.”
He shakes their hands and Gale gives him a friendly smile. “It’s been awhile, Peeta.”
Briefly, he remembers that he was in the same grade as Gale before he left. Were they friends before?
“Too long,” Peeta replies before shaking Vick’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Prim told us that you just left Mykonos before heading back,” Vick says in admiration. “You have to tell us all about it and all your other trips!”
“Yes, it can get a little stifling here,” the tall blonde adds, her deep blue eyes set on him. “Madge Undersee.”
“Nice to meet you,” he replies with an easy smile. Then, he goes to the shorter blonde. “Nice to meet you—”
“Delly Cartwright.” She is much more soft-spoken than Madge, her eyes less predatory than Madge’s as well. “Please make yourself comfortable.” She waves her hand to the array of food on their blanket. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“This looks great,” he tells her as he settles down next to Katniss and Prim who are chatting. “Do you cook all of this?”
“I own a café in town with my grandmother,” Delly explains. “I didn’t make the pie, though.” She smiles brightly at the dark-haired sprite next to him. “That was Katniss’ doing.”
Peeta turns to Katniss and she beams at him.
Finally, he can breathe again, the sight of her calming him. “What flavor is it this time?”
“Chocolate.”
She can’t quite meet his eyes after that.
++++++
The concert is a selection of popular 50’s songs covered by a popular local band.
Prim knows Thresh, one of the singers; he is the reason they scored such a great spot by the stage. As the night progresses, Peeta feels himself relax around the group. He tells them about the places he’s visited and finds himself realizing how fond he had been of cobbled stone streets in the small sector of Paris that he lived in for six months.
“What did you do there?” Madge asks. She has moved closer to him while he subtly scoots closer to his sister and Katniss.
“Walked along the Seine…sat at cafes and people-watched…got lost in the Louvre…pretended I was an artist and attempted to sketch…” Madge and Vick look wistful, losing themselves in the romanticism of it all. Delly is amused when he mentioned people watching; she seems to be an intuitive one, someone who would, like himself, find interest in human behavior.
“We all can’t wander around the world,” Gale remarks, his tone slightly envious.
During his time with Prim’s friends, he notices how the older Hawthorne gazes at Katniss longingly. However, Katniss seems focused on Prim, and sometimes, on him.
“True,” he agrees. “Boarding school was great when I was child. I needed the structure but, as I got older, it seemed that I needed to see what was beyond. I was lucky that my parents understood, but they wanted me to find some sort of work. So, I didn’t exactly ask them to help me get around, so I worked where I could.”
“What did you do?” Katniss suddenly asks.
Peeta turns to Katniss, giving her his full attention.
“I did what you do. I baked.” Her mouth widens in surprise and it thrills him to see how her eyes light up at his words. “In Paris, I worked at a boulangerie and baked the whole night. In Amsterdam, I learned how to make stroopwafels and in Spain, it was churros.”
“Then, how the fuck do you have abs?” Madge demands to know, and the group laughs. “Seriously, I can’t eat a piece of cake without my ass jiggling!”
“It’s the Mellark metabolism,” Katniss suggests. “I mean, look at Prim! She can eat and eat and look at her!”
“But the Mellark metabolism doesn’t seem work in my favor when it comes to alcohol,” Prim tells them, her eyes hazy. “I need some water.” She tries to get up but fails spectacularly. “Just give me a second…”
Katniss stands. “I’ll go grab some bottles.”
“Let me help,” he offers. Katniss doesn’t say a word, only nodding to the group before heading to the concession stands towards the back of their field. She is silent as they walk through the congested space, and he finds himself taking her hand once again. “The pie was really good.”
Katniss doesn’t pull away, though her eyes remain ahead. “Thanks. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“You should do it professionally,” he says.
Katniss finally turns to him.
“Lately, I’ve been thinking that I’d like to learn other baking techniques.” She smiles softly. “It’s a bit of a dream of mine to open a bakery here.”
“Oh yeah?” She nods bashfully. “I think you’d be great at it.”
“I don’t have much experience with other baked goods, so that might be an issue,” Katniss says as they reach the concession stand. “Seven waters, please.”
Peeta goes to his back pocket, pulling out a ten and handing it to the cashier.
“How about going to culinary school?” he suggests.
The cashier has been nice enough to given carriers for the bottles. Katniss insists on taking one, so he grabs the other, not letting go of her hand. As they move towards the stage, he finds his senses heightened as the crowd closes in.
He lets go of her hand, winding his arm around her shoulders instead and pulling her to his side.
“To answer your question; school requires money, which I don’t have,” Katniss replies as they move closer to the group.
“I can give it to you,” he offers suddenly.
Katniss stops just short of Prim and the others, her eyes curious. The group watches their exchange in apt interest.
“Why would you do that?”
Peeta shrugs. “Because…”
Because I want to take care of you.
He didn’t know where the errant thought came from.
However, his mind travels to a dusty room…a young girl with two dark braids…and his last piece of chocolate…
“Do you want to dance?” Katniss abruptly offers.
“What?”
She takes the carrier from his grasp and puts it on the ground along with hers, before holding out her hand.
“I don’t know how,” he admits anxiously.
“I’ll teach you.” Katniss reaches for his arm to wrap it around her waist before taking his other hand in hers. “There.” She smiles encouragingly. “All you have to do is move.”
“Only you can make all this world seem right
Only you can make the darkness bright
Only you and you alone can thrill me like you do…”
Katniss is a tiny one, her head just hitting his chest. He longs for her to rest it against him so that he can wrap his arms around her…protect her.
From what, he doesn’t know.
All Peeta knows is that this is where she was meant to be—in his arms, safe and sound.
His eyes spare a glance at the group’s reactions; Prim watches them through her buzzed eyes, a grin on her beer-laced lips, Delly with a gentle understanding, Vick with amusement at Katniss’ impromptu suggestion, Madge with envy, and Gale with resentment.
What they think means nothing to him, especially when Katniss rests her head against him.
“When you hold my hand, I understand the magic that you do
You're my dream come true, my one and only you…”
++++++
She tells him to call her Mother.
Katniss lays on his lap, exhaustion taking over as it gets closer to sunrise, and his nth day in this dilapidated room. Peeled yellow wallpaper hangs down the stained walls. There id no furniture, but there are cobwebs…so many cobwebs.
“Wake her up,” the woman commands. “We’re going soon.”
She smiles at him, revealing perfect white teeth. The woman is beautiful; creamy white skin and perfectly made up with her lined eyes and ruby red lips.
The look in her eyes, however, is unhinged.
“Is Father coming soon?” he asks.
She often speaks of “Father” who is supposed to be coming home from a business trip. Father who expected nothing but beautiful, obedient children.
Silent children who never spoke if they heard people walk by the house.
The woman’s eyes blaze, and she makes a grab for his chin, squeezing it between her index finger and thumb painfully.
“He’s not coming!” She screams at him. “Are you a fool? He did not want me! He made me kill my baby!”
Peeta whimpers as she reaches behind with her free hand to reveal a rope.
She places it to Katniss’ neck, and he prays that Katniss doesn’t wake—her cries would only agitate the woman.
“Such a pretty girl with such lovely hair,” the woman whispers. “Do you think her family would miss her? Would they cry for her? Would they mourn her?” She touches Katniss’ braid so softly before reaching into the pocket of her coat to take out a pair of scissors. “Or do you think that they would just forget her? Like I was forgotten…”
“DON’T! PLEASE!” he sobs. “I promise we won’t say anything! I will be quiet forever! No one will ever know! I promise! Please mother! PLEASE!”
Please God…someone…anyone…please keep Katniss from waking…keep her safe…
“Don’t cry.” The woman’s voice is suddenly gentle, and her hand reaches to touch his head tenderly. He looks up, eyes full of tears and snot dripping from his nose. Her gaze is resigned and sad, the hand holding the rope against Katniss pulling back. “There now. You’re a good boy, Peeta. You stayed with me till the end.”
She leans forward, pressing a kiss to his forehead, and he can see her tears against the dust of the floor.
Peeta stares at the ground, his eyes focusing on her red heels as she stands to walk out of the room—rope in her grasp.
“Goodbye Peeta.”
His eyes shoot up.
“Don’t go! Please don’t do this! Don’t leave us…MOTHER!”
++++++
Peeta rushed out to the back porch, breaths heaving as his whole body shakes.
He walks down to the grass of his backyard, vomiting his dinner all over his mother’s green grass before falling to his knees, sobbing hysterically and lost in the dazed memory of the woman’s final goodbye.
There is the bang of the back door and Peeta suddenly feels his father’s strong arms encircling him.
He rocks Peeta against him. “You’re home now. You’re safe…”
Peeta’s mother joins them, the scent of freesias solidifying her warm presence and his breathing begins to level.
“Go ahead and cry, love,” she urges “Get it out…”
They sit there in that vomit-wet grass until his legs feel strong enough to stand. Prim is at the open doorway, her blue eyes damp as their parents walk him up the steps.
His eyes suddenly drift to the porch next door.
Her grey eyes are deep with worry.
His dream-laden mind calls out to her:
Please Katniss…please stay asleep…
++++++
“Who really likes to go hiking?” Madge asks as they stand outside of the archway that leads them into the park.
“I don’t mind,” Delly says as she puts her backpack on.
“It’s good for you,” Gale cajoles Madge. “Separates the weak from the strong.”
“I’m self-admittedly weak,” Madge retorts.
“You’re so fit,” Katniss tells her admirably. She stands next to Peeta and Prim in a pair of leggings and a green hunting jacket. “I find that hard to believe.”
“You’re too sweet, Katniss.” Madge puts an arm around her shoulders as they all walk underneath the archway and towards the trail. “This is why you’re my favorite.”
“Hey!” Vick calls out to her. “What about me?”
Madge goes to him, batting her lashes. “You’re my favorite boy.”
Peeta and Prim follow behind, his sister’s concerned gaze on him.
He finally turns to her. “I’m alright, Prim.”
“Are you?”
“These things happen,” Peeta assures her. “I’m having them much less than I used to.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better at all,” his sister retorts. “How do I know that you’re not going to up and leave again?”
“Because no matter where I go, whatever this is will always be in me,” he tells her bluntly. “At least here, I’m not alone.”
Prim bites her lip and he knows that she wants to say something.
Instead, she nods and Peeta draws her into a hug.
“Go on and join your friends,” he tells her. “I prefer a slower walk.”
She squeezes his hand before heading to their group.
“I prefer a slower walk, too.”
Katniss is at his side.
Peeta takes her hand, lacing their fingers together.
She stares up at him, chest rising rapidly, and cheeks pink.
“There’s no crowd for me to get lost in.”
“I know.”
++++++
“Do you want to tell me what last week was about?”
Peeta turns to the woman curled up next to him on the bench. “We’re going to get right to it?”
“Yes,” Katniss replies bluntly. “I remember you when we were children—”
He looks to her in surprise. “You do?”
“You used to come into our class to pick up Prim,” she explains. “And, you always looked larger than life to me.”
He brushes his finger against her cheek affectionately. “I think everyone is larger than life to you, little.”
“Maybe it’s because your family is so rich and you live in this beautiful house,” she explains. “And, I lived in low-income housing where there were no backyards or flowers or even working locks on our doors.”
It explains how Katniss had found herself trapped with him. Did the woman take her from her bed? Or somehow persuade Katniss to come with her?
“That night, you looked so small,” Katniss tells him, her voice soft. “Will you tell me what happened?”
“I have nightmares,” he tells her and she seems to recoil into herself. “A long time ago, something very bad happened to me.”
“What?” Katniss inches closer, her hand reaching to touch his wrist. He hisses instinctively. “Did I hurt you?” She pulls back the sleeve of his shirt and gasps. “Peeta, what is this?”
The scars from the cable ties are nothing but an inch of pink skin, but against his tanned skin, they stand out starkly. Katniss traces her finger along the scar, and he forces himself to breathe, to quell the feeling of sickness down as the memories rise to the surface.
“An accident,” he forces out.
“Is this why you left?” Peeta nods. “It must have been a bad accident if no one in your family will talk about it.”
“Do you remember anything about me—beside what you’ve told me?” he asks nervously.
“Not really.” Katniss gives him a smile. “Should I?”
“No, not really.” Peeta is relieved at her words. Standing up, he offers his hand and Katniss takes it willingly, almost eagerly. “We better go find everyone.”
He hates to leave their bench with its little wooden thatch roof.
“You ready?”
Gathering her backpack, Katniss stands to join him. “Ye—AHH!”
She turns, falling against him, and gasping as if something is choking the life out of her.
“Katniss, what’s wrong?” His eyes go to where she sat, and he finds a web along at the corner of the thatch. He quickly swipes it away before turning to the cowering girl, rocking back and forth on the ground. “You’re afraid of spiders.”
It isn’t a question.
She is afraid of spiders because of him.
++++++
It has been quiet too long.
There had been only one sound—a chair dropping. He remembers seeing the small wooden stool as the woman brought him into the house. Guiding Katniss off his lap, Peeta rolls onto his belly. The cable ties keep him from getting to his feet or pushing himself up, so he decides to slither into the other room.
Peeta knows what he was likely to find, and he doesn’t want to see. Slithering towards the room, he breathes a sigh of relief seeing the scissors on the floor, next to the woman’s shoes.
“Don’t look up…” He can hear the creaks of the beam. “Don’t look up—”
“Peeta, what are you doing?” Katniss cries out.
“Don’t look in here!” he screams; he knows he sounds mean, but he can’t let her see.
So close…Peeta stretches with all might, taking the scissors with his pinky finger—
“Peeta, what’s in there?” Peeta looks over his shoulder to see Katniss twisting to look through the open doorway.
“A SPIDER!” He pushes back, trying not to think about the dangling feet above him. “Just don’t look, Katniss!”
“I hate spiders!” she wails, bursting into sobs as he makes his way back towards the room on his belly. “I want to go home…”
“We’re going home.” He takes the scissors in his grasp, using it to free his bloodied ankles before cutting her wrist binds free. “Help cut these ties Katniss.”
Katniss frees him easily and he goes to work on the cable ties on her ankles.
Carefully, he stands, slightly dizzy from having been in the same position for God knows how long.
“Take my hand,” Peeta tells the young girl. “We need to get out of here.”
++++++
“Is something going between you and my brother?” Prim asks as they walk into the auditorium.
Katniss turns to her best friend uneasily. “No. Why do you ask?”
“Because you two hold hands,” her best friend replies with a sly grin. “Not like I’m against you two getting together. I love you both like crazy.”
“He worries about me getting lost in crowds,” Katniss reasons. “I’m so short and all.”
“Peeta is just trying to be chivalrous,” Prim tells her. “You’re part of the family. Not surprised that he’d want to protect you.”
Her chest warms at the thought.
As much as Katniss tries to deny it, she is very much attracted to Peeta. She loses herself often in his ocean eyes and the need to hold him…protect him overwhelms her senses.
It is so not like her to act like this around a boy.
However, that treacherous voice inside tells her that Peeta is not a boy, but a man—and maybe that’s what she needs.
“Here are our seats,” Prim calls out, pulling her away from thoughts of how Peeta’s hair always looks so soft to touch. “I can’t believe Madge is in a fashion show.”
It is a local show for a department store two towns away. Madge has invited them as well as Delly to come check it out.
“I can,” Katniss replies as they sit down. “She has legs for days!”
The show begins promptly five minutes later, just as Delly slips into her seat. “What did I miss?”
“Madge hasn’t come out,” Prim tells her. “So far, so good. What do you think Katniss?”
Katniss isn’t listening, her eyes on the model heading down the runway.
Long dark hair…red lips…trench coast…strutting towards her.
She was coming to take her back!
Her face grows cold and she can hear the sound of blood rushing down her head.
Then, everything fades to black.
++++++
Mommy says that Daddy is too sick to come home.
Katniss went to bed angry. She would see Daddy; it had been so many days since they’ve played outside at the park. Her favorite is when Daddy pushes her on the swings, and she just pumps her legs to go higher as the sun shines in her face and the wind plays with her…
She would go see Daddy in the big building and help him get better.
Walking past Mommy’s bedroom, she looks in and finds her in deep sleep. It is easy to get out of the house. Sometimes the lock doesn’t work, and they would put a chair against the knob.
Tonight, Mommy forgot to do that.
Outside it is quiet, but the moon is bright and big. She looks around trying to remember which way to the hospital.
“What are you doing out?”
Katniss turns to see a beautiful woman with long black hair and dark eyes like her. She wears red lipstick like her Mommy used to when her and Daddy went on dates. Her long coat even looked like the one her Mommy wore during those dates!
“I’m going to the hospital to visit my Daddy,” she tells the lady. “What’s your name?”
The woman doesn’t tell her. “I’m going to the hospital, too. Would you like to come?”
She holds her hand out to Katniss and the light of the moon shows scars against her wrist.
Katniss is happy. Maybe it won’t take all night to see Daddy!
So, she takes the woman’s hand.
When they arrive at the broken house and her eyes go to the boy sitting in the corner, Katniss knows that she will be in so much trouble with Mommy.
++++++
Peeta rushes down the long corridor, his family hurrying behind him. He had been with his parents at Rye and Cashmere’s house when they got the phone call from a sobbing Prim telling them that Katniss was in the hospital.
Rye volunteered to drive him along with their parents to the hospital, fearing that Peeta was not in the right state of mind to get himself there in one piece. The whole time, his anxious mind goes from one scenario to another and he could feel his scars begins to itch and burn.
His brother stopped him from breaking skin, one hand on the wheel and the other on his hand.
“She will be alright,” Rye assured him, sadness in his blue eyes.
Now they were all looking for the right hallway, making another turn and relieved to see Prim leaning against the wall.
“Prim!” he calls out and his sister run straight into his arms.
“It was horrible! One minute she was sitting there and the next she was sinking to the floor…” Prim pulls away, her face streaked with tears. “They think she went into some sort of shock.”
“What are they doing for her?” Peeta asks. “Should we call her parents?”
“They’re already with her,” Prim informs them before looking to him. “She’s asking for you. It was the first thing she said as soon as she opened her eyes.”
Peeta is already opening the door.
In the room, a woman with golden hair and man with Rue’s dark eyes sit by the bed. Their eyes widen as he bursts into the room.
However, his eyes are focused on the woman sitting up in the bed, face grey and her eyes haunted.
“Peeta…” Katniss turns to him, anguish in her gaze. “I remember.”
He immediately goes to her, moving the siderail then wrapping his arms around her waist.
His head falls to her chest, feeling her heartbeat steady and strong, and her hand goes to his hair.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.
“Don’t be.” Katniss caresses his locks tenderly. “I wasn’t afraid…because you were with me.”
++++++
“How long were you there?” she asks when they are finally alone.
His parents and Rye have taken Katniss’ parents as well as Prim out to lunch. Katniss’ doctor assures them that she is not in any imminent danger, but they are running some customary tests before releasing her.
“A few days. At least, I think. I lost count at some point, and I never really wanted to ask my parents about what was on the official police reports.” He takes her hand sandwiching it between his own. “I don’t even know her name or anything about her. I don’t want to.”
Katniss nods in agreement.
“I understand.” Their eyes meet. “What I don’t understand is—how could I forget all of this?”
“You were five.” He caresses her face gently, trying to remove the distress off it. “You were in that house for a few hours. A child could easily mistake what happened as a dream.”
“Or a nightmare,” Katniss replies quietly. “For you, it was.” She whimpers suddenly, her eyes growing wet. “The spider—”
“It was her,” he admits quietly. “I couldn’t let you see. You told me about your Dad; how he was sick in the hospital and I knew he was probably going to die. I couldn’t let what she did be your first experience with death. You wouldn’t have understood. At least with your father, his death would be mourned and eventually the pain would be healed. You would have never healed if you saw her.”
“But you saw her.”
“Only for a little bit,” Peeta says as he closes his eyes. “I could still hear the creak of the beams…feel the brush of air as her feet dangled—” He breathes out shakily. “For years, nightmares plagued me of that day. I couldn’t function; I couldn’t focus in fear that she would somehow come back. I knew she was dead, but when I closed my eyes, she was still standing before me.”
“Oh Peeta…” She looks so desperately sad for him. “You were only a boy and you took it all on yourself.”
“I wanted to keep you innocent.” Peeta’s thumb moves along her cheek, swiping away an escaped tear. “You reminded me that there was hope and good out there. I focused on you and you alone, promising myself that you would get out of there—even if I didn’t.”
“Don’t say that,” she cries. “I would have stayed with you. No one would’ve taken care of me the way you did.”
“I’m always going to protect you.” He reaches for her and Katniss falls into his arms. She belongs there. “I’m sorry that it took me so long to find you again.”
“You’re mine now,” she says against his chest. “You told me that I had to get older to find someone to love and marry.”
Peeta chuckles. “And, you told me that you would get older, but you would still love me and marry me.”
He knows that her promise stands true, strong and resilient.
Like them.
++++++
Time passes.
Katniss is released from the hospital and she returns home. Peeta remains at his parents, planning on eventually finding his own place in town. The fact that Katniss lives next door is the contributing factor for him choosing to stay in his childhood bedroom.
Eventually, he and Katniss gather their family together and tell them about their time with the woman; how the woman lured him away by asking him to help her with her luggage and offered him a drink which he had foolishly accepted. How he awoke to find himself bound. How she insisted that he and Katniss refer to her as Mother.
Their own mothers wept at the admission.
Katniss explains how she discovered a way out of her childhood home; how the woman told her that she would take her to see her father in the hospital. She described her first memory of Peeta, how he had offered her his last piece of food—he didn’t tell her until then that it had been days since he ate.
They feel horrible when Prim gets physically sick when they tell them of that dark day.
How the woman yelled over being heart broken and killing her baby, how she placed the rope against a sleeping Katniss, how Peeta begged her…promised to keep silent…
“I kept that promise until now,” he tells their families. “But, I can’t anymore. Not if I want to move forward…if we want to move forward.”
His eyes go to Katniss, beautiful and pure, her grey eyes shining at him.
He continues, explaining how something had broken the woman. How, in those last minutes, she was kind and gentle to Peeta. How she had thanked him for being there till the end.
Prim runs out of the room at that point; Katniss follows to make sure she is alright as she retches in the downstairs bathroom.
When they return, Prim is pale and her eyes blood-shot, but she asks them to continue.
Katniss talks about waking up to see Peeta crawling on his belly into the other room—and how he had told her to not look. How there was a spider in the room and how she cried in fear—the arachnophobia still exists, though she knows now that she associates spiders with the woman.
Peeta tells them of crawling into the room to get the scissors, how he told himself to not look up at the woman—Rye had wept at his words. He speaks of cutting them out of their bounds—cable ties still bring him to a state of panic—and how he instructed Katniss to close her eyes tightly as they walked out of the house.
“He brought me home,” she tells her parents. Rue had been left with a sitter. She is still too young to understand. In time, Katniss and Peeta will sit her down and tell her their story. “I don’t know how I managed to remember my address, but I did.”
“I went to the police station,” Peeta continues. “I barely made it passed the entrance before fainting.”
The story of the Mellark kidnapping had been kept under wraps by high-powered lawyers threatening to sue anyone who leaked the story.
Peeta recovered but suffered from PTSD and anxiety, barely able to make through school. Eventually seeing how it had put such a strain on his family, he asked to leave—as far away as possible.
“We never wanted you to leave,” his mother tells him. “Your father and I argued over whether it was the best thing, but your psychiatrist agreed that maybe you needed time away—a more structured environment where there were no abrupt changes to your daily life.”
“It was for the best,” Peeta insists before looking to his parents. “I want to tell you how grateful I am to have you as my parents. You never pushed me to just get better, and you were patient when I was hard to love. You let me go even though I know it was the hardest thing in the world and you let me find my way back home.”
“We love you,” his father tells him gruffly. “We wouldn’t change a thing about you—not a single hair on your head—and we’ve felt that way since the day you were born to now.”
When it is over, emotionally drained, they all stand to leave.
Katniss’ mother Iris goes to him.
“Thank you for saving Katniss.” Her eyes are filled with tears. “From her father and I, we are eternally grateful.”
“No need to be thank me,” Peeta replies. “Katniss, in so many ways, saved me.”
+++++++
Six months later, Peeta moves into his own place.
It is a modest apartment above a pizza parlor in the main part of their town. His mother overzealously decorates his one bedroom, one bathroom abode with calming blues and greens. His father shows up a week after he moves in with two flatscreen televisions for his bedroom and living room while Rye, who is a technician, sets-up his internet for the new laptop that he gives Peeta as a housewarming gift.
Prim often comes to visit with their friends. Fridays eventually become ‘Dinners at Peeta’s house’ nights and the group invades his home; Delly takes over his kitchen while Katniss brings over whatever dessert she is experimenting with.
And at the end, once the food is eaten and the dishes washed, one person remains—Katniss.
They watch television in his living room and then eventually on his bed until they fall asleep.
Peeta still experiences nightmares at times. However, it is better when he wakes from them with Katniss in his arms.
She never pushes him, and he does the same. They know eventually they will talk about whatever they are going through. It is not in their nature to not share with each other; they know too much about one another already.
++++++
It takes them three times to actually kiss.
The first as they sit on his porch one month after her hospital release. It is raining and they sit out watching, enjoying the sound and the smell of wet grass. Katniss looks spectacularly beautiful, her grey eyes peaceful, and though it is cool, he can feel the low fire in his belly at the sight of her.
Their eyes meet and he pulls her close.
As he closes his eyes, the woman’s face flashes in his mind and he abruptly pulls away.
“I’m sorry,” he pants out.
Katniss is, of course, hurt. She stands up and walks back into his house to collect her things to go home.
However, when the night comes, he finds himself awakened by Katniss slipping into his bed.
Her head goes to his chest and her hand to his heart. “I understand.”
They are still plagued by those irrational fears, Katniss still goes numb at spiders or cobwebs and sometimes the woman’s face pops up to remind them that there are horrors in life.
Katniss always reminds him that there is hope.
He covers her hand with his. “Thank you.”
++++++
The second time comes a month after he’s moved into his apartment.
He wakes up to Katniss thrashing in bed, sheets tangling in her struggle.
“Spider…go away! Cobwebs…cobwebs…too many…”
“Katniss—” She shoots up, scratching at the air and sobbing. “—what happened?”
“Peeta…” Her head falls against him and gathers her close, pulling her onto his lap. “I was trapped! She was the spider and you were on other side of the web—I couldn’t get to you! There were too many cobwebs.” Katniss meets his eyes, her own glittering with tears. “She killed you Peeta. She killed you and I couldn’t do anything but watch…”
“It was just a dream,” he reassures her, rocking her in his arms. “It isn’t real.”
“Sometimes I don’t know what is real and not real,” she whispers against him tiredly.
“We are real.” Katniss lifts her head to meet his eyes and he smiles tenderly at her. “You and me. We’re always going to be. I can’t offer anything else to you, Katniss, broken man that I am, except my promise to love you forever.”
Her hand reaches to cup his cheek.
“I love you, too.” The faint heat returns and Peeta feels the needy burn to kiss her. Katniss presses herself against him and he knows she feels it too—this hunger beginning to grow. “Please Peeta.”
The fire flares.
“Not now,” he tells her tightly…reluctantly. “Not after you’ve had this nightmare.”
Katniss understands, breathing out. “Then just stay here.”
Always.
++++++
A year later, they go to Paris.
They rent the small apartment that he used to live in. Peeta takes her to the boulangerie where he used to work so the owners, Monsieur Latier and his wife Wiress, can coo over his ‘petite amie’ and then teach her how to properly make baguettes and croissants to her heart’s content.
He begins to draw again; small sketches in a journal that he plans to give Katniss after their trip is over. His favorite drawings are of Katniss…smiling as she watches the sunset out of their window…walking the cobbled streets in her dark green hunting jacket…staring at him with those dark, hungry as she lays in their bed without a stitch on…
Their last night in Paris, Peeta presents her with the journal, complete with daily writings of his thoughts, photographs, recipes from Monsieur and Madame Latier, sketches of her. She wept seeing all the work that had gone into it.
“I want to make great memories with you,” he simply tells her.
They makes themselves a simple dinner, a bottle of red wine accompanying it. Then, they watch the sunset from their open window, Katniss perches between his legs and her head rests back on his chest. He weaves his arms around her, pulling her close, and she hums her contentment.
“This feels like home,” she says happily.
Peeta presses a kiss to the top of her head. “You are home.”
There is a sudden shift in the air, and he finds Katniss facing him, her fingers reaching to cradle his chin and his breath catches at the sensation. Her gaze goes to his lips and the hunger returns, desperate and calling out to her.
“Please Katniss,” he finds himself saying.
She smiles and leans forward, pressing her mouth to his.
Fire.
After as they lay together, sated after another kind of joining, Peeta gazes down at the Katniss, peppering kisses against her chin, savoring her taste, and thanking God for every moment they have now and whatever is beyond that.
“Marry me,” he whispers.
“Yes,” she replies, smiling up at him. “Even though I asked you first.”
And for the rest of the night, they are no words and there are no nightmares.
++++++
Now, there is another dark-haired girl with two long braids, and another blond boy. The girl’s eyes are his deep blues, while the boy, still learning to walk, has inherited his mother’s lovely greys.
Peeta watches them play in the backyard of the bakery that had once been a pipe dream of Katniss’. He bought the property below his old apartment as an anniversary present—enthusiasm in her thank you led to the conception of their daughter in its kitchen.
They are moderately wealthy, business is steady, and they are happy most of the time. Some days they struggle with nightmares or terrors, but in the end, they hold onto one another and it makes them stronger.
His wife joins him on the steps of their porch.
Immediately, his hand reaches for hers.
Peeta takes a deep breath and closes his eyes without fear, enjoying the sweet scent of Katniss and the sound of their children playing.
FIN.
#Everlark#Everlark Fanfiction#prompt request#rated M#tw: child abuse#tw:kidnapping#tw:mentions of suicide
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Keep’em - 4 (Joel Miller/Reader)
My love was reignited so I will indulge you with more of this for a sec...
Little blurbs of traveling with Joel Miller and Ellie from The Last of Us…
Part One Part Two Part Three
Joel walked in slowly looking at you laying on the infirmary bed. You were so pale, hooked up to oxygen and a heart monitor, while blood dripped from a bag into your arm. It was too close…too damn close….
He sat down taking your hand in his, “You can’t leave me…alright? I know I’m a cradle robber…you said it yourself, but I don’t care…I’ve made it this far to know you…and I wanna…”
He choked up putting a hand over his eyes, “I wanna tell you…to your face…eyes wide open how it all is going to be from this point on.”
He wiped his hand over his face before looking at you again, “You scared the shit out of me you know…I thought for sure…dammit…”
He brought your hand up to his mouth kissing your cold fingers over and over before pressing the back of your hand against his cheek. He shut his eyes just resting a moment in your presence, happy that you were at least still breathing.
His eyes snapped opened to the feeling of your fingers squeezing his hand. He squeezed back looking at your face, “Lemme know you hear me…”
You squeezed his hand again and he felt his heart leap for joy as he let out a relieved sound, “Yer okay…yer safe and jest need to rest…”
You didn’t’ open your eyes as you whispered, “…socks…”
He let out a laugh nodding a little, “I’ll see if you’re allowed to take them off. Jest rest now…”
*************************************
“Ellie…I’m talking to you.” You frowned a little as you heard Joel talking to the poor girl as you stepped into an abandoned RV. She was was having a hard time still. You didn’t blame her, being held by a psychotic cannibal did that to you.
“Hm…oh sorry…” You heard her say quietly. It made your heart hurt and reminded that this intensely strong little girl was still just that…a little girl… No fourteen year old should have to have the weight of the world on their shoulders like this.
“You’ve been awfully quiet…” He was so worried about her. He kept asking you for advice, to which you replied you had none. You’d never worked with kids…and you never had any…despite that it was nice to know he cared enough to include you.
“Yeah…sorry…just thinking…” Ellie told him quietly before letting out some air paste her lips, “We should keep going…we’re almost there.”
Joel let out a big sigh as you stepped out of the RV holding up a first aid kit you’d found, “I’m worried about her…”
“Me too.”You turned around as he took the kit to put in your bag, “Joel…I’ve got a bad feeling about all of this…”
“What do you mean?” His eyes widened as you looked over to Ellie. She was staring at a mural on the wall, no doubt wondering if she’d ever get to see the animals the zoo had offered once.
You turned around to face him, and your voice came out strained, “Let’s just go…take Ellie back to Jackson and be done…”
He let out another sigh before scratching the back of his head, “I…I feel the same…but it’s gotta be up to her. Ellie…she’s gotta make up her own mind about it.”
“She’s fourteen…” You readjusted your backpack, “she shouldn’t have to make these decisions.”
*************************************
“Ellie!” You heard Joel shouting as you surfaced from the water. You coughed dragging yourself up to the bank. When you lifted your head you saw Joel doing chest compressions on the girl, “Come on baby girl…breathe for me…breathe…”
You felt yourself getting cold not because of the water but because of the fear you were feeling of losing someone so precious to you. Images of her reading from that god-awful pun book popped into your head. You’d give anything to hear her tell you one now.
You noticed movement and stood to your feet, “Stay back!”
Your eyes darted back and forth between the dozen soldiers that were coming toward you. They kept their guns up as Joel glanced up, “She’s not breathing!”
“Stay back! We’re not a threat! We’re not infected!” You shouted at them stepping in front of Joel and Ellie, “Get back!”
“Get on the ground! Get on the ground!” They began shouting at you. You could still hear Joel behind you begging Ellie to wake up. Overwhelmed you glanced back and was quickly overtaken by two guards.
“Joel!” You shouted back as they hit him in the head, “Stop we’re here for the fireflies!”
One of them snapped their head back to you making the connection, “Stop! Save the girl! It’s Ellie!”
“Shit…” They let you go and started pulling out gear from their pack. You started to go forward and they raised their hand, “Stay back…we got it.”
*************************************
You sat next to the hospital bed staring at Joel still passed out in the bed. Clearly he needed the rest, and you had definitely had thought about knocking him out yourself sometimes. You stole another glance to Marlene. Still unmoving…
“I can I see Ellie?” You sat back looking at her fully, “She has to be up by know…”
“Believe me if she was I would’ve been at her side already.” Marlene spat back at you, “You don’t need to worry about her anymore. She’s under my care…”
You felt your face twitch and was about to speak when Joel started to move, “Joel…take it easy…”
“Mm…Ellie…” He looked at you worry racing through his eyes.
“She’s okay…we revived her…” You helped him sit up.
“She’s being prepped for surgery…” You looked back at her and instantly Marlene knew she fucked up, “We had to move quickly…”
“You said she was resting…” You practically growled at her.
“You don’t need to worry anymore…” Marlene repeated.
“I worry…when can I see her?” Joel questioned her. It was obvious when he squeezed your hand that he was not oblivious to Marlene’s true intent.
*************************************
“Put her in the car Joel…” You held the gun up toward Marlene as she took another step, “Don’t be stupid…”
“You can't save her. Even if you get out of here, then what? How long before she's torn to pieces by a pack of Clickers? That is, if she hasn't been raped and murdered first?” Marlene shook her head as Joel began to walk, she started to follow and you stepped in the way.
“That ain’t for you to decide…” Joel shook his head as he stepped carefully away.
Marlene raised her voice getting Joel to stop, “It's what she'd want. And you know it. You can still do the right thing here. She won't feel anything.”
“Joel…” You knew if you had to, you’d fight him too. There wasn’t a guarantee that the procedure would work.
“Joel listen to me…” The shot rang out and you watched Marlene fall to the ground. You looked at Joel seeing the smoking gun in his hand.
He took a step toward Marlene and you stepped in front of him, “Take care of Ellie…”
He stared into your eyes before nodding and running toward a car. You turned back to Marlene, “Let me go…please…”
You knelt down next to her staring her into her eyes, “I love that man…and that little girl…you tried to have him killed and definitely were going to kill her…do you really think I’d let you go?”
“Ellie…would…” You looked away for a moment as she begged, “Please…I won’t come after you…”
“Yeah…sometimes kids don’t know who to trust…” You looked back to her sadly shaking her head, “And yet…they almost always will trust adults…”
You shot her once making it painless before stand up and walking toward the running car. You got into the passenger side not speaking as Joel drove out of the parking garage away from this hell hole of a city…
Once they made it to the highway, getting enough distance to feel safe, you spoke quietly, “…what do we tell her?”
“…I…” He took in a deep breath shaking his head, “…there isn’t a cure.”
You looked at him seeing the pain on his face, “…there wasn’t a guarantee it would work. It’s not a lie.”
He looked at you frowning, “They had other options…other kids like her…”
You both hashed it out for a while until the story was your new truth. When Ellie finally woke up you felt your stomach drop as Joel told her, “We found the Fireflies. Turns out, there's a whole lot more like you, Ellie. People that are immune. It's dozens actually. Ain't done a damn bit of good neither. They've actually st- They've stopped looking for a cure. I'm taking us home.”
You turned in your seat to look at her seeing how heartbroken she was, “I’m sorry, Ellie…”
“…yeah…” She frowned laying down facing away from them.
You looked at Joel frowning. He took in a deep breath before he reached over taking your hand in his. At least the two of you didn’t have to bear it alone…
*************************************
You had stopped for potential supplies…it had turned into a fire fight…
You shot up gasping for air before cringing grabbing your neck as pain rippled through your body. Warm hand fell onto your shoulder easing you back down, “Take it easy, Y/N…you’ll rip your stiches.”
“Tommy?” You stared at him as you fell back, “What happened?”
He looked at you with a small smile, “You did what I asked…can’t thank you enough. Seems like it might’uh cost you a bit more then I anticipated.”
“In the world we live in…I’m sure could have been in worst situations…” You shut your eyes, “Joel and Ellie?”
“Ellie is helping out around town…Joel…” Tommy sighed, “Well he finally went to sleep yesterday and hasn’t moved since. Seems like he was stressed…”
“When isn’t he…” You smirked a little reaching up to your neck wincing.
“Leave it alone…” Tommy smacked your hand.
“It itches!” You growled at him opening your eyes. They moved to movement behind him, “Ellie?”
She slowly stepped inside looking at you, “Hi…”
Tommy smiled waving her over, “Will you sit her a minute while I get doc and make sure she don’t do nothin’ stupid?”
“Yes sir!” Ellie smiled at him as he walked out. She turned back to you, “So…how ya feelin’?”
“About how you think…” You smiled at her seeing her stand a bit away, “What’s up kiddo?”
Her eyes darted away as she picked at her thumbnail, “It’s nothing…it can wait tell you and Joel are feeling better.”
“Ellie…” You reached your hand out to her making her finally come closer, “What’s wrong?”
She sighed, “I asked Joel…and he said…He said everything that you both said about the Fireflies was real…and I just…I don’t know…”
“Ellie look at me.” You watched her lift her head looking to your eyes, “That place couldn’t do anything for you or the world…they tried and they failed…there was never any guarantees. Maybe one day…Hopefully one day…that will change.”
You watched her tear up nodding slowly, “Okay…”
You squeezed her hand giving her a smile, “Did you meet Dina and her crew yet?”
“Yeah, Jesse and Emily too…they seem cool…I guess…” You smiled as she started to talk about her day. Everything…was finally beginning to settle…and you wondered if it was a good thing.
You hoped it was a good thing…
#the last of us#tlou#the last of us imagine#joel miller#joel miller/reader#joel miller reader#joel and ellie#joel miller imagine#tommy miller#tlou imagine#keep'em
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Dulce Periculum
https://archiveofourown.org/works/24031747 (read it here or continue below)
Summary: Dulce periculum translates to “danger is sweet”. Takes place nine months after the episode “…And in the End.”Maxine and Spencer have continued seeing each other, in spite of the interference brought to the surface by Cat Adams. Spencer continues to work closely with the BAU after it nearly dismantled, with signature members scattering to the winds, leaving behind only a few, including himself, to keep working on their caseload. After a long, intense case, Spencer returns home to a little more than a can of worms.
Rating: M
Ship: Spencer/Maxine
Show: Criminal Minds
Category: Fluff/Angst/Humor/Smut
Note: “Seduce my mind and you can have my body, Find my soul and I’m yours forever.” – Anonymous
I am nowhere near Spencer’s level of intellect but I hope I did him justice. I didn’t want it to be too smutty or too fluffy so I hope the angst didn’t overtake the story. I hope that I lived up to the request - this is my first foray into this world of Criminal Minds in spite of it being one of my FAVE shows. I adore these characters.
A modest demeanor arouses
Thoughts of seduction.
-Mason Cooley
9:30 PM
Spencer Reid’s Apartment
Washington DC
Exhaustion had been a familiar friend for longer than Spencer wanted to admit as his keys stabbed at the keyhole, missing four or five times before finally intercepting and setting off the mechanism inside. Instinct had carried him home and pure adrenaline had kept him from losing the battle with gravity as balance was a cruel mistress that had him hanging by a thread. Twenty-six hours, fourteen minutes, thirteen seconds, and the time was still ticking away. That’s how long it had been since he’d slept and J.J. did her best to distract him long enough on the jet back from their case but, it only made her relaxed enough to pass out in mid-story. The white flag sailed as he watched her for a few moments, relieved over the reclamation of their friendship, and indulged in a Rossi-like activity by accepting that glass of single-malt from Alvez as the clouds moved by.
The scent of books, old and new, wafted across his nostrils, ushering him over the threshold until the juniper paint, patterned wallpaper, and walnut wainscoting adjusted in his line of sight. It was home even if it hadn’t always inspired a feeling of comfort or care. Tonight, though, it was different, as the warm air nipped at his wrists and his Adam’s apple as he loosened his loudly patterned tie above the curve of his vest while he kicked out of his shoes. Spencer hadn’t considered himself the drinking type but he was eyeing a bottle of cabernet sauvignon from Sonoma Valley gifted to him by Garcia the week before she left. He’d made a promise that it wouldn’t just sit and collect dust but it had started to do just that as he looked at it nestled between a section of old Shakespearean collections.
Poetically placed, he had figured, as he pulled the bottle from the shelf and smiled at the wine’s vintage of 1981. He chuckled over the choice of a wine from the year he was born and at the intentional way that Garcia knew how to appeal to his attention to detail. Missing her presence didn’t do it justice as he pulled his phone from his pocket, formulating the text to the bubbly woman that never ceased to put a smile on his face even at the darkest of times. She really had become his rock and kept him sane as the world seemed to be falling apart around him.
I made you a promise when you gave this to me. I’m getting ready to pop the cork on this one.
He snapped a picture of the bottle and sent it with the text, a smirk still resting on his lips as he pushed the phone into his pocket and glanced at the closed door behind him. It was quiet and lonely in the room, almost to the point of agony as he went to the stereo equipment in the corner, flipping through the albums until a Jazz compilation stood out. The cover was bright, loud even, and represented everything that Spencer wasn’t as he put the vinyl on and let the needle touch the ridged surface as it spun. The melody filled the room with just enough sound to be a murmur that played against his eardrums while he went to the kitchen in search of a corkscrew.
The phone buzzed in his pocket and Penelope Garcia’s name lit up across the display as he took a peek, conjuring a smile that rivaled a first kiss as he pressed the speaker. “Garcia…You didn’t need to call me while I open the bottle.”
“Nonsense, mon ami,” Garcia’s voice was refreshing and missed as he searched through a kitchen drawer that was uncharacteristically cluttered, rifling through everything. “Where’s that lovely girl Maxine? You should be popping that bottle with her not sitting there alone.”
“I sent a text when I got back to DC but she hasn’t replied yet,” Spencer unearthed a corkscrew with a red handle from the mess and pushed the drawer closed, a confused look on his face as he went to work on the bottle. “I know that she was complicit in the Cat ordeal, but there are times that I feel as though it’s still hovering over our heads like a dark cloud.”
“You’re literally the smartest man I know but you’re also the dumbest, Reid,” Garcia’s remark coaxed a scoff as he popped the cork free, the sound echoing in the nearly sterile kitchen as he let the bottle breathe. “Sometimes, you have to woo a woman even when she says you don’t need to woo her.”
“Speaking of wooing…how are things with Alvez?” Spencer opened the curio and retrieved a squatty wine glass with a gold rim, a faint smile appearing as he carried it and the bottle into the living room. “Every time I inquire he threatens to take my sidearm and shoot me.”
“Shut the front door…I wouldn’t have pegged him for a privacy guy,” Garcia’s laugh in Spencer’s ear was a welcomed distraction as he poured the wine and sank into a leather chair, the squish considerable as he felt it give beneath his backside. “We’re taking it slow. Dinner and movie nights every chance we get, nothing extravagant yet. I’m, shockingly, okay with it with respect to my relationship history.”
“I’m absolutely overjoyed for you, Garcia,” Spencer took his first sip of the deep red liquid and let it wash over his palate for a moment before swallowing, appreciating the blend of flavor that his friend had picked for him. “As expected, the wine is exactly as it should be and more. Thank you.”
“Oh, it’s good? I was worried that it would be too pungent with the vintage but something about it spoke to me and you know me. The louder the message, the quicker the grab,” Garcia couldn’t hide the excitement through the phone as her voice climbed a little higher while his eyes watched the bubble in the burgundy shade swirl. “You’re being honest, right?”
“I’m a notoriously bad liar when it comes to you and I wouldn’t lie about a gift from you, Garcia,” Spencer was enraptured by the texture of the label on the bottle as he twisted it with the tips of his fingers as it sat against the top of the table next to him. “Drinking alone, though? I’m out of my element.”
“You should call her, Spence,” Garcia’s tone softened as she referenced Maxine with a soft implication, tapping at the weaker parts of his psyche as he picked the glass back up and elevated it, before taking a sip. “It couldn’t hurt to have company. Just rip off the band-aid.”
“It couldn’t hurt to have a lot of things but I seem to find new and exciting ways of ripping open a perfectly good suture,” Spencer was thinking of Maeve, haunted by her pale ghost to the point that he could almost see her visage standing at the window with a book open while delivering a pointed look that scolded him for even thinking of her right now. “I don’t know what to do without sounding like a desperate, lonely man.”
“Desperate is kind of a subjective term for your situation, my philosophical friend,” Garcia had him curious and confused, which unsettled his stomach as he leaned against the armrest, elbow digging into the leather while the sigh hovered in his lungs. “No one should be alone unless that is what they actually want—and I don’t get the sense that you want to be alone.”
Garcia had been right about him. Spencer Reid’s naiveté was oozing from his pores, lighting him up in neon as the air finally left his lips in a huff. A man could read every book ranging from the scientific methodology to the psychological qualities of beekeeping but it would not be enough to get by in a real-world situation. This wasn’t beekeeping and while hedonism could be quantified, it could not be taught. This was the one time that paying extra attention to Derek Morgan might’ve done him a little bit of good but he shied away from that kind of bravado back then. He could already picture the smirk on Derek Morgan’s face if he were present; the white flag flying to be shown the ways of natural masculinity that Spencer really never wanted to utilize.
At least, he never wanted to until the flash of Maxine’s deep, mahogany eyes passed through his consciousness with that mysterious, playful smile that enraptured him.
“That would involve her actually answering my calls or texts,” Spencer swallowed a considerable mouthful of the wine and tilted his head back, letting the vertebrae crack back into place with a satisfactory series of pops. “I haven’t heard back from her since yesterday when she called to tell me goodnight before we finished the final day in Chicago.”
“Was your invitation a normal invitation or one of those signature Spencer Reid-style invitations buried in sarcasm and symbolism that only your closest friends might actually understand?” Garcia was tinkering away on her end as she let out a laugh and became an echo with a change to speaker. “You’re on speaker while I wrestle with a cork.”
“It was a standard invite, I think,” Spencer wrinkled his nose and stood up, pacing the floor as the needle bounced against the stopper and the music came to a halt, muting the noise in the room. “Are you joining me in a glass via telephone?”
“No, I’m letting it breathe before Luke gets here,” Garcia’s voice preceded the pop of the cork as Spencer switched the vinyl to an Annie
Lennox album in an effort to depart his typical mood. “We’re watching Hardware, drinking chardonnay, and eating fruit and cheese.”
“You’re watching a horror film about androids?” Spencer had a smirk hiding on his lips as the androgynous, melodic vocals filled the room while he adjusted the curtains. “I wouldn’t have expected that from you.”
“I lost a bet to Luke about the number of texts, emails, and phone calls he could squeeze in while on a case,” Garcia was reluctant with the admission as the comment had Spencer’s interest piqued fully. “He managed to nearly double the number that I said he’d do and he, literally, sent me a text that said, ‘I win, I win, I win’ like a six-year-old.”
“So that’s why he was on the phone so much,” Spencer started to laugh as he recollected each moment that Alvez was on his cell phone while having a full-blown conversation with him, the realization that he was paying attention to Garcia absolutely hilarious as he let the pieces fall into place. “I’m glad you’re happy, Garcia.”
“It’s been a long time coming, hasn’t it?” Garcia’s question blended perfectly with the distinct tapping against the door from the exterior hallway, bringing Spencer’s attention toward it without hesitation.
“It really has,” Spencer got up, leaving the wine behind on the side table as the spirit of inquiry took over and encouraged his feet forward until his hand was at the lock to turn it.
“Was that a knock at the door, Spence?” Garcia asked, the muddled reverberations of glass tapping together moving through the phone as she kept him on speaker.
Spencer didn’t fully absorb the question as he clicked the deadbolt until it unlocked the door, the shift of the door vibrating against his palm as his equilibrium spun. Spencer’s anxiety jumped and his palms began to sweat as the subtle tapping of heels against the floor preceded the sigh that he could hear through the barrier between them. He had his conclusions as to who it was and the excitement was taking a backseat to the paranoia he couldn’t help but feel. Maxine hadn’t talked to him since the day before and her showing up to his apartment unannounced wasn’t one of her typical characteristics. It had him reeling as he opened the door to confirm his guesses as her brown eyes stared up at him beneath waves of dirty blond locks.
“Hey,” Maxine’s voice was in that tenor between mousy and pointed as she tucked her hair behind her ears and rocked in her heels, folding her hands behind her back.
“Hey,” Spencer bit down on his bottom lip until it hurt and felt the fog lift as he could hear Garcia saying his name in his ear. “Garcia, I’ll call you back. Have fun with Alvez and your wine night.”
“Go get her, Tiger,” Garcia had an unmistakable perk in her voice before she hung up the phone, leaving Spencer with the cellular up near his face like a nervous teenage boy.
“Are you going to let me in or is the plan to stare at me until I disappear?” Maxine exhaled slowly, her eyelashes fanning down then up as she slowly blinked.
Spencer made a short, sweeping motion with his hand and moved to let her in, the hesitation written on his face as he furrowed his brow while closing the door. “You didn’t call. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”
“Sometimes, I want to keep you guessing,” Maxine had been a subtle, welcomed surprise in his life but the tone in her voice was different as she leaned against the back of his sofa and narrowed her stare as he turned to look at her. “Can’t a girl be a little bit mysterious once in a while?”
“That would intimate that there was a need for something titillating and I didn’t think we’d gotten to the point where things were boring,” Spencer swallowed hard, the mental processes rocking as her smile took shape and the curves of her cheeks softened that stare for a moment. “Have we?”
“I didn’t say that,” Maxine coiled her index around the center button of his vest closure, lingering along the flat, pearl finish as she chewed the center of her lip and looked up at him. “I have moments where I can’t get it out of my head seeing her in your arms and I want to know if you think about it, too.”
Spencer knew she was referencing Cat as he nearly swallowed his tongue and stepped away from her, moving toward the kitchen to retrieve another glass to offer her wine. “I think I need a refill…would you like a glass? It’s from Garcia.”
“Sure,” Maxine had been taking notes, toying with Spencer in some way as she leaned against the armrest of the sofa and crossed her legs, perching there like an elegant bird as she studied his movements. “You’re not answering me which leads me to believe you have been thinking about her.”
“I have a photographic memory, Max,” Spencer was pouring her a glass near his own, the contents of his dwindling bottle evident as it became lighter in his hand. “I’m incapable of not recollecting pieces of my history at any given moment of the day.”
“You know that’s not what I mean, Spence,” Maxine’s tongue lingered on his name as she went to the record player and moved the needle until the downbeat of Annie Lennox’s “Cold” began filling the room. “I have eyes. I can tell myself on a daily basis that it wasn’t loaded but there has been a part of me that just wonders…”
Don’t I exist for you
Don’t I still live for you
(Cold, cold, cold)
“You’re not her,” Spencer extended the glass of wine and watched her big, bright eyes track up his arm until they met a gaze they’d never seen before as a swallow nearly betrayed his cool exterior. “You don’t need to be.”
Maxine took a sip and scrutinized his body language as he battled with nerves and a desire that hadn’t quite manifested all of the way in front of her yet. “I really want to believe you but I feel like I was just the safe choice to keep you from looking inward. I don’t want to be your crutch.”
“You’re not a safe choice and you’re definitely not my crutch, Max,” Spencer’s tongue was loosening as he raised his glass to his lips, watching her from the rim until he tipped it to drink. “You have been so much more even though I’m the worst at elucidating it.”
“I know that she’s dangerous and you seemed to like that about her,” Maxine pressed her lips together, mingling the wine with her lip gloss as she moved them gently back and forth while angling her chin down just a touch. “Saying what you mean really isn’t your forte…you should be trying your hand at showing it for a change.”
The comment was loaded but Maxine wasn’t wrong about her observation as she blurred the line drawn in the sand with her toe, palming the glass as the distance between them seemed like miles. Spencer wanted to be gutsy and the wine was dulling the separation between bravery and stupidity as he held the bottle in the air, tilting it toward her like a peace offering. Maxine met him in the middle, letting him fill the glass until the last drops splashed into the deep, claret liquid. The sound of Annie Lennox over their mutual silence only added to a sense of anticipation between them as Spencer let the bottom of the bottle touch the top of the table with a resonating clink.
Dying is easy
It’s living that scares me to death
I could be so content
Hearing the sound of your breath
“It’s a little pathetic that it took a couple glasses of wine to cross the proverbial bridge, Max,” Spencer nearly melted into the floor over her fingers around his tie as she tugged it loose from the deep green and gray woven blend of his vest. “Gives a whole new meaning to the words failure to launch, doesn’t it?”
“I see no failure in anything going on but you’re definitely going to have to tell Garcia this wine is fabulous,” Maxine grinned from behind her glass, the warmth gathering at the back of her throat with each sip as she looked up at him. “You’re overthinking being here in front of me. Do I make you nervous, Spence?”
“Only since the second I met you,” Spencer wouldn’t have ordinarily admitted it but the combination of the wine playing on his inhibitions and her free hand tugging his tie was more than enough to tip the scales. “You’re one of the few women that I’ve encountered that speaks her mind so freely and it never ceases to amaze me. It isn’t danger that I seek, though…I need you to know that.”
“You’re talking around the subject as though you think I’ll be bruised by what you’ll say to me,” Maxine gave the satin material between her fingers a firm tug, bringing Spencer off balance as she elevated to the tips of her toes to nibble the curve of his lip, tasting the wine that had stayed behind. “Stop being afraid of the possibilities for once in your life.”
The needle began to stutter against the center of the record player as Spencer elevated his glass to his lips, finishing the last drops in a final swallow. Reluctance nagged at him as he pulled his tie free and moved around to the extensive collection of vinyl, thumbing through until he found Annie’s album Medusa sticking out from a section of her others. It was something about the combination of wine, Maxine, and an impromptu confessional that had him desiring the sound of Annie Lennox crooning in the background. It was an odd thing, though, that he couldn’t remember the last time either of these records had been played, let alone the last time he wanted to keep hearing more than classical emanating from his speakers.
“The curse of the romantic is a greed for dreams, an intensity of expectation that, in the end, diminishes the reality,” Spencer had her captivated as he managed to dull and heighten seduction in the same breath as he placed his glass next to the empty bottle of wine.
“Marya Mannes?” Maxine still had a fair amount left of her drink in the glass as she eclipsed the distance and leaned against him, arching up to breathe against his neck. “All really great lovers are articulate, and verbal seduction is the surest road to actual seduction.”
“I had thought about going with that one but I figured you’d see right through me,” Spencer was already identifying the notes of her perfume and body butter as she directed his chin down with her fingers while she extended her arm to put her glass down. “Is this why you didn’t text or call?”
White tea, sage, a hint of citrus. The combination was intoxicating, but not overwhelming. Delicate and sophisticated, but not girly.
“Talking myself into coming over here with a singular goal in mind and arguing with the resistance against it?” Maxine tasted his lips again, letting a kiss develop as she ran her fingers through his hair and steered his hand around her before looking into his hazel eyes. “Agonized all day over the potential for rejection.”
“And now?” Spencer let her tug his jacket off and toss it aside, knocking over a stack of previously read novels on the coffee table in the process. “Feeling particularly brave or brave enough to get by?”
“Actually, I’m contemplating the impracticality of seduction when one wears as many layers as you do,” Maxine laughed as she popped the buttons free on the vest, loosening his tie as the front of his shirt finally peeked out. “How long does it take to undress alone when you wear this much? You better not be wearing an undershirt like the prim and proper man I think you might be.”
Spencer had a bright pink sheen to his cheeks as he fiddled with the delicate material of her cardigan, folding it open across her shoulders over the top of a chemise while his eyes stayed balanced on hers. “I don’t think I get dressed thinking I’m going to have anyone trying to seduce me. I thought this was a good, sensible choice for attire when I was arranging clothes for the week.”
“The week?” Maxine’s lips curved into a grin as she loosened his tie and gave it a tug, freeing it from his collar in a smooth motion while she licked her lips and watched the nervousness form on his face. “You really are hyper-vigilant aren’t you?”
Maxine beamed up at him as her thumbs slid underneath of the top of his vest, guiding it away from his arms until he was casual in nothing more than a linen shirt and his slacks with those dark, houndstooth patterned socks. Spencer was captivated but his analytical eye was paying attention to the little swell of her lip as it moved between her teeth between sharp inhales. Maxine was controlling her breaths and giving him ample opportunity to read her, learning the little things that drove her crazy even as she was trying to explore him and push his limits.
“No, I’m a specific planner so I can fit everything in a suitcase with enough foresight to anticipate the possibility of a longer than normal trip,” Spencer was rationalizing his anal-retentive behavior while Maxine was halfway down the front of his shirt, undoing each button without taking her eyes off of his. “…you’re unusually deft with buttons, has anyone told you that?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard that,” Maxine had him in a tailspin to the point that his rear bumped against a bookshelf as she curled her index to draw him forward. “I really am making you anxious. It’s written from the top of your head right down to your toes.”
“I take it back, you are a little dangerous,” Spencer swallowed another knot of nervous energy, the cold air wafting across bare skin as the linen fell away from his chest and abdominal musculature, exposing the expanse of gooseflesh as the light caught the pale gleam of his skin. “I have officially sobered up.”
“I have to find a way to keep it interesting,” Maxine had previously admired the constant politeness from Spencer but she wanted something more from him as she felt havering fingertips against her collarbone. “We’ve tiptoed around each other for long enough and we both have nothing to lose.”
The soft declaration was an invitation and the fire in her eyes simply provided the spark as Spencer took that leap to pull her in, taking the lead. Studying the rhythm of her beating heart on nights they’d spent wrapped in each other’s arms on his couch watching an obscure movie together had given Spencer just enough ammunition of where begin and how to continue. Maxine had also begun to learn patterns of Spencer’s subtle bits of signaling, though, as she felt his hands down her arms, guiding the sleeves away from soft skin. She expected nothing less from him as his agonizingly sweet, tantalizing care with each part of her elevated the pace of her breath and pushed forth urgency as she watched him slip to his knees with each nibble of skin along her stomach.
“You can’t tell me that you didn’t think about your outfit before you put it on, Max,” Spencer was pushing boundaries and hiking up her skirt, tugging at the nylons that were barely masking the natural porcelain skin that captivated him. “The material, the color…the fit…everything is has a purpose and my assumption is you changed clothes before you came here.”
“Ah, fuck,” Maxine held onto the edge of the stereo stand as Spencer bit down on the space above her belly button and pulled her nylons down, pushing his fingertips against her skin to awaken the goosebumps. “I did. I had on jeans before and wanted something less, binding.”
“We’re not so different, then, are we?” Spencer led her out of the sensible Mary Janes and finished the removal of her nylons while the lace-trimmed material of her panties peeked out from the bottom of her shoved up skirt. “You’re breathing really hard, should I stop?”
“No, don’t stop, please, don’t stop,” Maxine breathed through a tight space between her lips as she gritted her teeth and gathered a fist full of his hair, holding him against her skin as his breath crept down, narrowing the fabric of her skirt into a bunched section at her hips. “Keep going.”
Spencer smirked as he tilted his chin up, rubbing the five o’clock shadow of his jaw against her until the moan left her lips and her knees involuntarily parted. “Could do a study on the action versus reaction of my mildly unshaven face versus different parts of your body…using the pitch of your groans as a baseline.”
“Oh, my God,” Maxine tossed her head back, narrowly missing a shelf of books behind her, the smile on her face as she felt the curve of his jaw move to her thighs, eliciting a lower, more drawn-out whimper. “How did you make that sound hot as fuck?”
“Intelligence doesn’t have to inspire a chorus of yawning,” Spencer hadn’t had an opportunity to undress anyone in far too long but the feeling of Maxine’s goosebump covered flesh against his lips encouraged his hands to continue as the skirt was discarded onto the growing heap. “It can make you moan over and over.”
“You are going to get so many complaints from your neighbors,” Maxine bit down on her lip as Spencer nibbled his way up her stomach, dragging fingers along the curve of her body until it met the soft layer of chemise to lift it away. “I want all of you…right now.”
Rational, well-constructed thoughts and actions went out a window as Spencer stood, the material of Maxine’s chemise between his fingers as he felt her warmth radiating against his bare stomach. It had only been minutes and the tables had flipped as Maxine looked up at him with a growing throb between her thighs, an ache becoming a need as she moved her knee forward, rubbing his inner thigh with it. The wait had been worth it even as Spencer let Maxine tug the belt from the loops and pop a button from the thread in an eager attempt to free him from his confines. Spencer had a mind for painstaking enticement but Maxine was less-than-apt to follow along with his pace as her teeth found his collar on a shirt that didn’t belong on his uniquely-well-built frame, tugging him close.
“Jesus…Christ,” Spencer uttered the words as a budding erection pushed against her while his slacks slid to his knees, trapping them together. “You’re going to wind up killing me.”
“I don’t want to kill you, Spence,” Maxine bit her lip and made a gap between the elastic waistband of his shorts and his skin while gazing up at him. “I want you to finish what you’ve started.”
Spencer’s eyes rolled as her index fingers grazed a flood of warmth as the erection continued to build, triggering an involuntary spasm as he squeezed her thigh and writhed the rest of the way out of his pants. Maxine gasped as Spencer’s eyes finally focused on hers and his grip slipped to her ass, giving her a decisive squeeze as the shelf behind her rattled again. Spencer covered a waiting moan with a fervent kiss, his tongue sliding beyond lips and teeth to find hers as one of his hands teased the satin and lace trim between her thighs. She was already soaked as his middle finger pressed the material along the tender flesh until he could feel the building twitch against his palm as she bucked against his hand.
Maxine tossed her head back a second time and felt the cool air for a fleeting moment as Spencer guided the thin, wet material to one side to slip his middle finger inside of her. “Oh, my God, yes, yes, please!”
“You’re so beautiful,” Spencer curled and withdrew his finger, repeating the motion as her moans directed toward the ceiling and echoed in the room. “The most cliché thing I could ever say while my finger is strumming but it’s so true—you are, so fucking beautiful.”
“Sex…is…cliché…and, fuck, don’t you dare stop,” Maxine cooed and helped him along, covering his hand with her own while giving his hard on a not-so-subtle squeeze as she ground against him.
Spencer wanted to shake the perfectly organized and categorized books free from their spot on the shelf as he shyly withdrew his finger and palm from her, the squeeze of her muscles grasping at him in his absence as he took a step back to admire her. Maxine let out a drawn-out whimper as she chewed her lip, watching his erection move against his boxers as he gave a final pull of his sleeves, rejecting the well-fitting linen onto the floor. There was a part of Spencer that didn’t want to rush as he watched her reach behind her back, the springy-click of her bra tapping against the well-constructed shelving behind her while she keened from the friction moving across her breasts. Maxine knew what she wanted and she was daring Spencer to move as he took another step forward, gliding the straps off of her shoulders then down her arms to reveal the ivory and flushed flesh that had been carefully hidden.
Beautiful might not have accurately described her as her chest heaved and responded to his touch as he bent to kiss a trail along the curve of her neck while his digits teased the alabaster and pink of her breasts. Maxine had been waiting, impatiently, for his hands and lips to make their mark as he worked his way down her curves, sloping past eager nipples and a soft stomach as he neared an apex. Spencer’s eyes looked up at her as her tongue slid off to the side of her lips while she watched him move, her fingers weaving through his locks as he liberated her of her underwear in a smooth, downward motion.
“Jesus, fuck, oh my God,” Maxine gripped his hair and the shelf at the same time as his mouth found wetness and his hand guided her leg higher, squeezing her thigh while he hummed against her lips, parting them with the flat of his tongue. “Spencer…I’m so close…”
Spencer slipped a finger into Maxine’s wetness and felt a quiver from her muscles before the nerves tapped against him, clamping down as he moved along her clit, grazing the tender bundle with his fingers before circling with his tongue. She telegraphed the movement, matching the synchronicity as hips betrayed her and bucked against his face, stuttering the sound of a groan as he ignored a throb between his own legs. He wanted this for her and he wanted to hear her as a prelude to more. The moans scattered and became louder as his mouth mimicked the eagerness her body was conveying until he heard his name proclaimed, raggedly from her lips.
“Do you need to stop?” Spencer’s erection would’ve been screaming if given a chance as he stood, licking the taste of her from his lips as she met his gaze. “I know that an orgasm can take a lot of energy out of most women.”
Maxine shook her head slowly and glanced at the bulge as it bumped against her, the smile creeping across her lips as she stood up straight, reaching for him. “I’m not most women.”
Spencer didn’t have time to let that comment absorb fully as the sensation of Maxine’s fingers wrapped around his cock was doing little for his processes, making every nerve over-fire as the cold air nipped at his backside. The electricity in the atmosphere increased as his shorts slid to his ankles, leaving nothing more between them than a breeze and the brewing heat from readied friction. The shelf didn’t stand a chance against their hedonism as Spencer guided Maxine’s legs around his hips, into a position that beckoned so much more than the intertwining of bodies. They collided and the space between them all but evaporated as Spencer thrust slow, burying himself inside of her as she came down to meet him.
Mouths met and the shelf shuddered from the top to the bottom as Spencer manhandled Maxine, rocking her backside against a smooth edge until a stack of books came tumbling down from the top. The mutual moaning blended with a series of laughs as he cradled her ass, moving her away from the unstable mess they’d created before carrying her to the sofa. Maxine maneuvered her way onto him as they tumbled onto the cushions, straddling his thighs as she took charge of the motion, giving him no time to recover before riding him. They had become a touch graceless as Spencer held onto her thighs while she rocked and swiveled her hips, repeating his name in a series of whispers as the whimpers rivaled his.
“I’m so close,” They both found the words as the murmur became a little closer to a wail.
Spencer grasped her wrists and pulled her close, rolling uncoordinatedly onto the floor, knocking the throw pillows in every direction in the process, as he made a valiant attempt to switch positions. A laugh left Maxine’s lips as they met the rug with a thud but was replaced with a drawn-out moan as Spencer thrust deep and flicked his tongue across a nipple. It lit a spark as the thrusts could barely be met and the movements became frenzied with every little move he made while sweat began to glimmer across the surface of their skin. Maxine tilted her head back as the climax hit her in a rush and set off the one waiting in the wings from Spencer; the flood gates opened and the cries reverberated until their rhythm finally slowed.
“I think I bruised my tailbone,” Maxine groaned as they stayed wrapped around each other on the floor, breathing hard as muscles continued to spasm while the room spun.
Spencer snagged the pillows from their discarded roll before groping for the throw blanket on the edge of the couch to cover up with, glancing back at the mess of books that were now all over the floor across the room. “It’s going to take at least an hour to re-organize that shelf.”
@pprettyboyreid @dreatine @theauthor97 @criminalgubler @gublernation tagging you all...I’m not normally into shameless self promotion.
#Spencer Reid#Maxine Brenner#Smut#writing is life#fanfic#intellect with a side of sex#fanfiction#Criminal Minds
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first love | myg
pairing: none. this is a solo yoongi fic
summary: nothing is for certain. except yoongi’s love for his piano.
or: first love in too many words
genre: song fic, angst
warnings: some mentions of depression and yucky thoughts, potentially triggering mention of a panic attack (i tried to be purposefully vague but just in case), potentially graphic depiction of a car accident
word count: ~5.5k
a/n: hello! so uh here i am making my debut! i am still reeling from the emotional rollercoaster that was bangbangcon and it kinda rallied me into wanting to publish this?? i adore first love, i think it is such a poignant, poetic representation of yoongi’s love and devotion to music and i really wanted to explore that relationship a little in story form. i’ve had this written for a while and i’ve always wanted to write stuff on here but never had the courage. but i figure we all collectively need some respite from our emotions so here is a small gift, if anyone would like to take a look. if you do, pls enjoy and let me know your thoughts! <3
(also, please keep in mind that artistic liberties were taken despite being based off of yoongi’s life.)
Yoongi is five years old.
He wanders out of his room, looking for his mom. He just has to show her this awesome drawing that he made. He knows that she’ll love it, that she will be proud of him. Smiling gleefully, he toddles off into the rest of the house to find her.
“Eomma!” he yells, hoping she’ll hear him and give him a clue as to where she is. Maybe she’s playing hide and seek! Yoongi giggles at the thought, determined now more than ever to find her.
He checks his parents room, frowning when he realizes it’s empty. It’s not bedtime, he reasons, she wouldn’t be in here. Closing the door, Yoongi sets off into the living room to check there. But there’s no sign of his mother there either. She’s not in the kitchen and the bathroom door is open so she’s not in there either. Frustrated, Yoongi turns to go back to his room.
On his way back, he spots a door at the end of the hall. His eyes narrow as he purses his lips. He hadn’t checked there yet. Maybe she really is hiding from him. Deciding it was worth a try, he stomps over to the door and reaches up to grab the handle.
It takes a few tries but Yoongi manages to gather enough strength to push open the door. He whips his head around, checking every possible corner for signs of his mom. He’s about to let out a frustrated whine when his eyes catch on something on the far wall to his right.
A piano.
Yoongi had seen pictures of pianos before in the stories his mom would read to him before bed but he had never seen one up close. It’s massive, towering over his small frame in a way that should have been intimidating but only filled him with quiet wonder.
Scrambling up on the tall bench--which should have tipped over with the force of his jump but it miraculously stayed put--Yoongi takes in the white and black keys, marveling at the way they shine in the light coming from the window. He sticks out a small, chubby finger and presses one of the keys. The note rings out around him and he giggles in delight.
Pretty, he thinks. He begins pressing keys in earnest, playing around with different note combinations and laughing in pure joy when he finds a pair that he likes. He’s so enraptured by the piano that he hardly notices when the door creaks open.
“There you are, little one.” His mother’s voice has a playful lilt in it as she watches her son play the piano with unadulterated glee.
“Eomma!” Yoongi cries, excited to show her his discovery. “Look! A piano!”
“I see!” she laughs. “You’re quite the musician.”
“Musician,” he repeats, liking the way it feels on his tongue. “I feel so nice, mom.”
Yoongi’s mother cards her fingers through his hair fondly, chuckling at her precocious son. “Hmm, maybe the piano likes you. You two will grow up to be the best of friends.” She scoops the young child in her arms, heart warming at the squeals of laughter the action elicits.
“Come on now, my little Beethoven,” his mother says, setting Yoongi back down on the ground and taking his small hand in hers. “It’s time for lunch.”
As he follows his mother out of the room, Yoongi takes one last look at the piano. He smiles, already excited to play again.
Yoongi is fourteen years old.
The last bell rings, signaling the end of the school day but Yoongi hardly hears it, pen scribbling furiously across his paper. Inspiration had struck in the middle of math class and he has to get the lyrics down before he leaves to go home.
Finishing, he rereads through his work with a small smile. He’s quite proud of these lyrics, thinks they might be the best yet. He already has an idea for a backing beat swirling in his head, one that would really compliment the message of his rap and the new flow he’s been experimenting with. He feels giddy with excitement at the idea of playing around with some different sounds. Standing, Yoongi packs up his things, throwing his journal into his bag before heading out with the rest of his classmates.
As he walks, Yoongi is, not for the first time, conscious of how alone he is. Girls walk in line with their arms interlocked while the guys are loud and boisterous, hanging off each other with wide grins on their faces. He has friends of course, if you could call the neighborhood kids he plays basketball with on occasion “friends,” but none that he would consider particularly close to him. The thought leaves him feeling strange so he shuts it out, shaking his head roughly as if to physically dispel it.
He makes his way to the school entrance, hanging a quick left past the convenience store to the bus stop. He catches a glimpse of a group of students talking and laughing, indulging in a hot bowl of ramen before heading home. Yoongi’s stomach rumbles at the sight and he pauses, calculating. His shoulders slump when he realizes he doesn’t quite have enough, the change burning a hole in his pocket just enough to cover his bus fare home and little else. He doesn’t get paid again until Friday. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he ignores the cramping in his stomach and continues on to catch his bus.
The bus ride home is, thankfully, uneventful. He trudges his way from the bus stop to his house. Like he does every day. As he climbs the steps, Yoongi thinks a little wryly to himself that the house that had seemed so huge to him as a child feels scarcely bigger than a prison cell. Maybe it’s the hunger talking.
Opening the front door, Yoongi sighs out a half-hearted I’m home! despite knowing the house is empty. He bends over to shuck off his shoes and place them in the cubby. A soft thud sounds behind him but he doesn’t notice.
Yoongi heads to the kitchen to down a glass of water in the hopes of dispelling the growing hunger pangs before shuffling to his room, tossing his backpack carelessly at the foot of his bed and flopping face-first onto the thin mattress. He knows he should probably get up and finish his homework but he still feels the residual exhaustion from his weekend shifts at the convenience store. Maybe he should ask Mr. Kim to lighten up on his hours. Yoongi would have to sell more songs to make up the income difference but he thinks it might be worth it to get some extra sleep.
He nods off for what he swears can’t be more than a few minutes but the sound of the front door shutting and the way his room has dimmed significantly suggest otherwise. Swearing, Yoongi turns on his bedside lamp and rubs a tired hand down his face. He stands, stretching his tight muscles, and moves to grab his bag from the floor. The house is eerily silent considering his parents have just come home but Yoongi brushes the thought away in favor of pulling out his textbook to get started on his homework.
Just as he’s about to sit down, a figure stops in front of his bedroom doorway. Yoongi looks up, a small smile and a greeting on his lips. They both wither at the sight before him.
There stands his father, holding his lyrics journal. Yoongi feels his mouth go dry.
They stare at each other for an immeasurable amount of time. Yoongi tries to think of something, anything, to say but his mind has blanked and his skin prickles in a cold sweat. His father recovers before he does.
“Min Yoongi,” he begin, voice deceptively calm. “What is this?”
“A-Appa,” Yoongi stutters. “I can explain--”
“I thought we talked about this, Yoongi.” He steps into Yoongi’s room and the younger boy fights the urge to cower where he stands. “You should be focusing on your studies. Not on these frivolous songs.”
Yoongi winces and tries to push down the flash of irritation. “Yes, appa. B-But I haven’t been letting it affect my grades. I get all my school work done and I try to help you and mom out by picking up extra shifts at Mr. Kim’s store--”
“And selling this drivel on street corners?” Yoongi freezes. His parents weren’t supposed to know about that. “Oh yes, I know all about your little escapades on the streets. Do you know how risky that is? What kind of danger you could be putting yourself in?”
“I…” Yoongi’s voice sounds incredibly small and he hates it. “It’s just to get my name out there. Get some experience.”
“You don’t need experience. This…nonsense--”
“It’s rap, appa. Hip hop.”
His father fixes him with a look but doesn’t comment. “This isn’t a real career, Yoongi.”
“But I… I love it,” he whispers, trembling with repressed anguish.
“Love is not enough to make a living.” His father closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily. “Is there more?”
Yoongi hesitates before nodding slowly.
“Give it to me.” He holds his hand out, frown set deeply on his forehead. “This ends now.”
Balking, Yoongi takes a step back, heart crawling into his throat and suffocating him. “A-Appa, no. You can’t--”
“I can and I will. Hand them over, Yoongi.”
The boy feels something akin to rage rush through his veins. He chances a glance at the doorway and sees his mother standing there uneasily.
“Eomma,” he cries thickly.
His mother looks equally as pained but her gaze flickers to her husband. “Your father is right, Yoongi-yah. This… Rap is a hobby, not a job. This could get you involved in the wrong circles. You need to focus on your school work.” She doesn’t meet his gaze.
Anger bubbles in his chest and stings at his eyes, but he chokes down the frustrated scream threatening to tear itself from his throat and moves mechanically to gather his other notebooks full of lyrics. Stiffly, he stands before his father and offers the notebooks.
His father’s expression softens minutely. “We’re doing this for your own good, Yoongi. Please do not doubt this.” With that, he leaves. A year’s worth of lyrics. Gone. His mother lingers at the door but ultimately leaves without another word.
Suddenly, his room feels too small, the faded walls of his old home closing in on him rapidly. Frustration and the anger swirl so violently in his stomach Yoongi thinks he’ll be sick. He can’t be here anymore but he also can’t leave.
So he runs to the only place he can think of.
The piano room has remained largely untouched since his younger days. The air is stale and faintly musty but Yoongi doesn’t care, can’t bring himself to care as he flings himself onto the old piano bench, arms cradling his head atop the fallboard. Hot, angry tears fall in torrents down his cheeks and his fists clench so tightly he can feel the sharp sting of his nails on his palm. He muffles his cries into his arms, into the piano, unable to keep the sounds to himself any longer.
It takes a while for Yoongi to calm down. Eventually, his tears slow and his breath evens out, though it still hiccups slightly in his chest. He sits up gingerly and stares down at the piano. He hasn’t been here in years and yet… It felt so natural to come here for comfort. Like it was waiting for him.
Shakily, he moves to slide the fallboard back, revealing the shining keys. He straightens his back, falling into position. His fingers hover over the keys, supported lightly by his wrists. The angle is different now that he has grown, no longer dwarfed by the beautiful instrument. Hesitant, Yoongi tries to recall one of the songs his music teacher had taught him and begins to play stiltedly.
It’s awkward; his fingers can’t quite move the way they used to and his new height works against him as he tries to find a comfortable position to play. But the longer he sits, the more comfortable it becomes until he feels like he’s sat here his whole life--playing, listening, living. Yoongi feels a shiver travel down his spine, cleansing and fresh. The anguish and tension from earlier bleeds through his fingertips as he loses himself.
Gradually, Yoongi stops playing, letting the resounding final notes of his song envelop him, but he doesn’t move. He stays, basking in the warmth, a sort of quiet acceptance, that seems to cradle his body as he sits.
Caressing the keys almost reverently, Yoongi makes a promise to himself. Rap and writing lyrics and music--these things make up the complex tapestry that is him and he will never let that go ever again. It’s his life to live, his destiny to choose, and he will not let anyone make that decision for him. Not even his parents.
And as he sits there, the boy with his piano welcoming the dawn, he feels the weight on his heart lift just a bit.
Yoongi is nineteen years old.
The rumble of the small bike he uses to make deliveries is the only thing keeping him awake as he drives to his next customer. He’s been pulling more all-nighters as he and the other guys work toward debut, writing songs and going over choreographies. It’s an endless loop of meetings and practices and Yoongi can feel the strain on his frayed nerves. He knows he’s been moodier with his members, too.
His members, he thinks wryly. It wasn’t exactly what he had imagined when he accepted his position at Big Hit but he figures it’s the only way to get what he wants. Music is more important to him than anything. If it requires him to play nice with others for the time being then he can do that.
Yoongi rolls to a stop at a traffic light and lets out a small sigh, foot coming down onto the pavement to steady himself. The roads are practically empty and it does nothing to quell the exhaustion weighing down his eyelids. It seems like no matter where he is, work will always be a constant in his life. He hadn’t even meant to get another job on top of his producer gig but he’d seen an ad looking for someone to make deliveries a few times a week. The pay was pretty decent and it would be a nice supplement to what he was receiving at Big Hit so he took it.
It was, however, coming back to bite him in the ass now that things are starting to pick up for them. Just a little longer, he figures. Once they debut, he’ll probably have to quit anyway so might as well enjoy the little extra paycheck for now. Yoongi taps his foot impatiently on the ground as he waits for the light to change, sighing in relief when bright green washes over him and signals him to go.
He’s not quite sure how it happens. He remembers picking his foot up off the ground as he releases the clutch, crossing over the line into the intersection. He thinks he recalls the distant sound of a horn blaring, of a bright light flashing, but that’s overshadowed by the sudden force pushing him onto the ground. His head cracks back against the pavement and thankfully his helmet bears the brunt of the impact but Yoongi still feels the sharp pressure against his skull, a dull ringing sounding in his ears.
Yoongi’s eyes had closed when he was thrown back and he pries them open, vision fuzzy and unfocused, only to be met with the daunting image of a car wheel right in his face. Belatedly, he registers the sound of a bone-chilling scream. He tries to turn his head to find the source of the sound but he realizes with haunting clarity that it’s coming from him.
Just as he makes the connection, Yoongi begins to hurt. White-hot pain radiates from his shoulder so potent it chokes him. He hears the sound of an engine revving and the wheel in front of his face starts to move away. It catches on his bike, sending it crashing into his shoulder, and another scream of agony scrapes his throat raw. Tears stream from his eyes, further obscuring his vision, but he can still make out the image of the car speeding away, tires screeching as exhaust spews from the pipe.
Yoongi is torn between the excruciating pain and the disbelief that someone just fucking hit him and drove off without even stepping out of the car. He wants to shout curses at the retreating vehicle but the throbbing in his shoulder has intensified even more, churning his stomach so violently it’s a wonder he doesn’t throw up right there.
Hours pass, it feels like, before a strange sort of numbness begins to filter through his limbs. His body is heavy, and his eyes can no longer hold themselves open. He’s not sure how long he lays there, disoriented and unable to move before someone takes notice of him but he thinks he hears someone frantically calling 911. Soon he hears the sharp siren of an ambulance, lights blinding Yoongi even as he teeters between consciousness and unconsciousness.
The ride to the hospital is a blur. The paramedics had tried talking to him but he was just so tired and everything hurt so bad he could hardly focus long enough to force his lips to form words much less complete sentences. They must hook him to an IV because he feels a sharp prick on the inside of his arm and suddenly his muscles relax. He knows he can’t sleep though so he fights to keep himself awake.
He barely registers arriving at the hospital, the jostling of the stretcher the only indication that he’s moving. A doctor asks one of the paramedics for the report and Yoongi only hears bits of the diagnosis. He knows his shoulder is fucked but the way they’re talking about it unnerves him. He’s anxious now, heart rate spiking as he thinks of the implications this could have on the group. His breathing stutters, sending a shooting pain through his ribs, and he can feel the beginnings of a panic attack tightening in his chest. This catches the attention of the doctor and nurses and they’re suddenly focused on him.
“Yoongi-ssi,” the doctor begins, voice soft and cajoling. He vaguely wonders how he knows his name but then figures the paramedics must have found his license. “You’ve had quite the accident. I know you must be in a lot of pain but is there someone we can call to stay with you and sign some papers?”
Yoongi stares unseeingly at the doctor’s face and really tries to get his voice to cooperate. He knows he can’t call his parents, not yet at least, so he says the first name that comes to mind.
“N-Namjoon. Kim Namjoon.” He rattles off what he hopes is his phone number before the effort becomes too great. He tries to fight it, he really does, but the events of the night begin to take its toll and his eyelids slip closed as he falls into the beckoning darkness.
When Yoongi comes to, he’s greeted with an annoying beeping somewhere off to his left. He squints, eyes blinking furiously to clear his vision from the blinding white of the hospital room. Moving to sit up, he winces and immediately stops trying to move. He feels like he’s been hit by a truck, which is not too far off, he thinks a little dryly.
A movement to his right makes him flick his gaze to the window where a figure he hadn’t noticed before jumps up from their position in a chair. It’s Namjoon.
“Hyung,” he cries, eyes wild as he practically sprints toward the bed. Yoongi would laugh if he weren’t sure he looked just as ridiculous. “What happened?”
Yoongi scoffs only to grimace when the small movement jerks his shoulder. “Oh, you know, just a casual Friday night.” He tries to joke but Namjoon just gives him a deadpan look so he clears his throat and looks away. “I was making deliveries and some asshole ran a light and hit me. Pretty sure they crushed my shoulder.”
Namjoon nods. He had heard as much from the doctor when he had come in. He seemed to be unimpressed with a barely legal kid coming as Yoongi’s “guardian” but Namjoon couldn’t have cared less in that moment.
“Do you know who did it?”
“Nah, the bastard sped off as soon as I went down.” Yoongi watches as Namjoon’s face drops in horror, head tipping back in disbelief.
“Goddammit.” He runs a tired hand through his hair before sliding it down his face.
“What time is it anyway?”
Namjoon glances at his watch. “Almost eight.”
Yoongi releases a breath. “Fuck. There goes morning practice.”
“Hyung.” Namjoon’s voice has deepened into his leader voice and Yoongi fights the urge to wince again. “Be serious.”
At his sides, Yoongi’s fists clench. “Does anyone else know?” He raises his gaze to look at the younger man. Namjoon shakes his head once, not breaking eye contact. “Good. Keep it that way.”
The leader balks at that. “What?!” he splutters. “You can’t be serious--”
“Joon.” Yoongi cuts him off with a look, voice softening into a desperate plea. “Please.”
This stops Namjoon short. Yoongi is so rarely vulnerable with him but they have been working and living together for two years now. They’re coworkers and, dare he think, friends. He doesn’t know the full story but he does know that Yoongi’s life has been anything but easy. He has his own reasons for doing the things he does and Namjoon has to understand and trust that Yoongi knows what he’s doing.
Although it goes against everything his mind is screaming at him, Namjoon nods at the elder. “Okay, hyung. I won’t say anything.”
Yoongi relaxes then, thankful that the younger has decided to trust him.
The next few hours pass relatively quickly. The doctor comes in shortly after their talk and gives Yoongi a run-down of his injuries. His shoulder is practically nonfunctional and he has to keep it wrapped and in a sling for at least six weeks, possibly longer. He doesn’t have a concussion, thank goodness, but the doctor reminds him to come back if he experiences bouts of nausea and recurring headaches. He looks reluctant to say so but he tentatively tells Yoongi that he can leave the hospital but he strongly recommends that he stay at least a few days. Yoongi immediately refuses.
They discuss proper care of Yoongi’s injuries before he’s finally released downstairs to fill out his discharge papers. Namjoon sticks close to his side, listening attentively to the doctor’s explanations and helping Yoongi fill out the papers he can’t quite lift his arm high enough to sign. His ears burn hotly with embarrassment but he’s thankful for Namjoon’s presence nonetheless.
The trip back to the dorm is silent but not uncomfortably so. They hail a taxi from the hospital entrance and Namjoon helps the older into the back seat, opening the door and steadying him as he sits. Yoongi wants to protest that he’s not an invalid but he sort of is. Also, try as he might, he can’t quite stop the swell of affection that overtakes him as the younger fusses over him so he sits back, silent.
Yoongi doesn’t bother to try and hide it from the others. Can’t, really, since they’re all sitting in the living room waiting for them as soon as they step through the doors. Seokjin is the first to reach them, brow furrowed in concern as he takes in Yoongi’s haggard appearance and his sling. He places a hand on his good shoulder, squeezing gently and moving to cup the side of his neck in a tender gesture, before murmuring something about making something for him to eat.
Jeongguk is next, doe eyes puffy and shining with tears, and he looks like he wants to launch himself at Yoongi but Hoseok has a strong grip on his forearm, other arm rubbing soothingly down his side. Yoongi reaches out and ruffles the youngest’s hair, lips quirked in a small smile to let him know that he’s alright. A small whimper escapes the boy but he valiantly keeps his tears at bay, returning a watery smile before retreating further into Hoseok’s hold. Hoseok looks deeply into his eyes, tense posture relaxing as he gives his hand a squeeze. Jimin and Taehyung stay back but look at him just as sadly as the others. Yoongi shakes his head and offers another smile he hopes is reassuring. He doesn’t think it works.
The boys fuss over Yoongi well into the night and he tells himself that he’s too tired to be annoyed at their coddling. Namjoon basically moves into his and Seokjin’s room, insisting that he help take care of his injuries as per the doctor’s instructions. Showering proves to be a challenge and it takes both Namjoon and Seokjin to help him undress and cover his cast so that it doesn’t get wet. Yoongi practically dies from the mortification but he’s grateful for the two of them.
Yoongi resumes their regular schedule of activities, much to the disapproval of the rest. He hides his sling and cast under massive t-shirts and jackets that swallow his slender frame whole. Dance practices are hard but he forges ahead, pushing his shoulder to limits he probably shouldn’t but it gets the job done and keeps the suspicious eyes off of him. He pays for it later, though, in the confines of his room after Namjoon and Seokjin have fallen asleep, when he has to muffle his sobs of agony against his good arm.
He likes to think he’s been managing fairly well all things considered but one practice tips him over the edge. It’s been three months since the accident and his shoulder has healed almost entirely but it still acts up every so often. This morning had been particularly rough and no amount of pain-killers had been able to take the edge off.
The choreographer had just left, leaving Hoseok in charge of the rest of practice. Yoongi sits heavily on the floor, chest heaving, and grabs his water bottle before guzzling the contents. They’ve been going at it for the better part of four hours now and there doesn’t seem to be an end in sight.
“Hoseok-hyung,” Jeongguk pants, flicking his t-shirt against his body in an effort to cool down. “Can we take a break? Please?”
“Soon, Guk. I just want us to do a few more run-throughs before we call it a day.” Hoseok’s eyes don’t leave the mirror as he completes a step and repeats it again.
Jeongguk pouts but doesn’t protest further. Namjoon flickers his gaze over to Yoongi before heading over to Hoseok, clapping a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Come on, Hoseok-ah. Why don’t we take fifteen and recuperate a little. Then we’ll get back into it.” He sends a pointed glance to where Yoongi sits near their things and the elder man bristles slightly at that.
“Namjoon. It’s fine, let’s just keep going.” He tries not to snap but he knows it comes out far more bitter than he means.
“Hyung, I just think--”
“I’m fine.” Yoongi launches himself from the ground and takes his position in front of the mirror. “From the top.”
Namjoon and Hoseok share a look as the others stare in silence but Yoongi ignores them in favor of analyzing his form in the mirror. His shoulder throbs insistently.
“From the top,” Hoseok repeats lifelessly, and everyone falls into position.
They manage a few more rehearsals before Yoongi truly starts to feel the consequences. He’s sore and sweaty and his shoulder seems to have developed its own pulse, pounding painfully in time with the music. One move in particular sends a shooting pain down his arm so sharp he yelps in surprise, doubling over with the effort to breathe. The others are on him in an instant.
“Hyung, are you alright--”
“Yoongi-yah, why don’t you just sit--”
“Hyung, come on, let’s all just--”
“I said I’m fine!” Yoongi roars, irritation peaking. “Would everyone please just stop treating me like I’m made of fucking glass?”
No one answers, no one even dares to breathe. Five heads swivel to Namjoon who seems just about as bewildered about the outburst as everyone else.
Yoongi is breathing heavily now, part from pain and part from the force of his outrage. He knows he’s being irrational but he’s sick and tired of having them hover around him like he could collapse at any moment. He’s fine goddammit!
Another long moment passes and Yoongi can’t face them again, not when he feels so unstable. Frustration--at them, at no one, at himself--forms a heavy lump in his throat and he swallows thickly to dislodge it.
“I’m heading to the studio. Don’t wait up.” He grabs his bag and practically flies out the door, heading to the second floor. He flings his studio door open and quickly closes it behind him, breathing heavily.
His head falls into his hands before they move into his hair and tug harshly. Hot tears prick at his eyes and Yoongi can’t stop the anguished cry from leaving his lips as he crumples in on himself. He’s just so tired and stressed and in so much pain. He knows the others mean well but he hates this, hates being reminded that this only happened because of his stupidity. He was the one with the second job, he was the one who got in that stupid accident, he was the one who forced them to keep it a secret. It’s hard on everyone and Yoongi has no one to blame but himself.
He shouts in frustration, throwing his bag down harshly onto the ground. The action seems to awaken a deeper desire to destroy, to hurt just as he is, and before he can think through it, he’s overturning the small armchair and coffee table with a yell.
Red flashes behind his eyes and the emotions that have been simmering low in his stomach boil over, running hotly through his veins. Yoongi screams at the furniture as if they’re the cause of his suffering and he lands a violent kick to its surface, once, twice. His desk chair receives the same treatment and he turns to grab the baseball bat he keeps by the door. Stalking toward his electric piano, he raises the bat above his head to strike but he hesitates. Another harsh ripple of pain rushes through him and that’s all it takes.
Dropping the bat, Yoongi falls to his knees just as the first tears fall. He cries and cries, clutching his shoulder as if it were the only thing anchoring him. He can’t do this anymore, he can’t. He’s not cut out for performing or music or any of it.
Maybe his parents were right.
He stays there for a while, hiccuping in the silence of his studio. His breathing eventually slows but the heaviness in his heart remains. Looking up, Yoongi takes in the sight of his piano. It’s obviously different from the one he has at home but it’s still familiar, comforting. He rises slowly, taking care to mind his shoulder, and grabs the small bench from underneath the stand. Sitting, his body moves almost automatically into position. Yoongi’s shoulder twinges again but it’s more manageable this time. He takes a deep breath, centering himself, and plays.
He’s not sure what he’s playing, just letting his fingers glide across the keys as they see fit. He almost wishes he were recording himself so he could listen to it back but he doesn’t want to stop playing even for a moment to pull out his phone. So he doesn’t; just keeps playing. And playing. And playing.
It’s hours later when Yoongi finally stops. The last note lingers delicately in the air and he doesn’t breathe for fear of shattering the serenity that had settled around him. Only when it’s silent again does he exhale and he feels different. Still hurting, still heavy, but peaceful.
Sighing, he stands up from the piano and goes to right the furniture he upended during his tantrum. Once everything is back in order, he looks around the room until his gaze lands on the piano. It just stands there, unmoving, unchanging, just as it always has, and an unnamed emotion tightens in his chest. He lingers, letting the feeling seep into him until he’s filled with it. He closes his eyes.
Yoongi knows he can’t guarantee his future. Hell, he can’t even guarantee the next five minutes. But, he thinks, as he picks up his things and leaves the studio, sending one last glance at the instrument, perhaps that’s alright, as long as he has this.
all rights reserved © exoticarmyofcrowns 2020
#min yoongi#yoongi#min suga#suga#bts suga#bangtan sonyeondan#yoongi fanfic#suga fanfic#bts fanfic#kpop fanfiction#myg#myg fic#bts#my writing
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hello hello hello !! it’s been a minute since i was in a group setting so forgive me for any mishaps, i am but a lost soul. anywho under the cut is a bit about my child lottie, she’s a mess and a thousand but love her anyways! hmu if you would like to plot or have any wanted connections you can see this child fitting in!
tw: alcoholism, drug addiction, death, grief, overdose, child neglect, child abuse, underage sex, porn.
APP.
( dove cameron, cisfemale ) - Have you seen CHARLOTTE HALE? LOTTIE is in HER JUNIOR YEAR OF STUDY year. The JOURNALISM MAJOR is/are 23 years old & is a SCORPIO . People say SHE is/are CHARISMATIC, INDEPENDENT, AGGRESSIVE and CRUEL. Rumors say they’re a member of CALLOWAY. I heard from the gossip blog that HAS A ONLYFANS. (mon. 25. est. she/her.)
AESTHETICS.
the last breath during a chilly night out, champagne flutes and forgotten cigarettes on bar counters. melodic laughter of a child unhinged, fur coats and ripped fishnet stockings, warm hands on cold bodies, spinning until your ears ring and your stomach curdles, the 3 AM headache from a long night out. the screeching sound of the electric guitar, broken glass scattered across an unkempt home, the hollowness of loneliness, blasting music echoing through empty halls, sandy hallways and discarded clothes, screened phone calls and short voicemails, stacks of medical bills and scattered chips of redemption.
- here’s her board!!
SYNOPSIS.
In short, Lottie Haze fits into the cliché realm of a spoiled rich socialite. Growing up the daughter of a famous rockstar did nothing for her humbleness, being the heiress of a family fortune made before her father in the fashion of famous Las Vegas casinos, Lottie was doomed to a life of narcissism and selfishness from the start. Her life is a blur before coming to Yates, she doesn’t delve much into her past and doesn’t stand for the curios pokes and prods from her fellow peers after they watch all the documentaries about her past. Drug abuse, life on the road, the death of her mother, her own overdose at such a young age before being plucked out of her father’s arms. Lottie doesn’t think about it, doesn’t speak about it, but it’s all there, edited from time to time on Wikipedia. Famous for being nothing but the child of the rich, Lottie’s a lot more than meets the eye, but at paper-thin, she’ll allow most to think she’s the typical Instagram influencer, rich, pretty girl plagued with basicness and ignorance.
HISTORY.
Charlotte Haze’s parents weren’t good for each other. It wasn’t a healthy relationship; it wasn’t made from start dust and fairytales. It was a match made in hell, two selfish souls uniting in a mix of tequila and heroin in the back of the Stillborns’ tour bus. Ricky Danger was her father, a name coined from the mind of a self-indulging teenager with too much time on his hand and brain clouded with too many pills. When Jeanette Haze, daughter of a multibillionaire hotel and casino owner, told him the news of their child he was excited, not thinking of the dangers and responsibilities that came along with a child born of wedlock and on the road. Charlotte couldn’t remember a time in her childhood when things were normal, nothing was the cookie-cutter dream house that most children fantasize about, they had no real home, she had no real toys, no friends her age, everything was clouded with smoke and glamour, money and gifts sent to her by her grandparents who couldn’t gain control of their wild daughter and her idiot of a boyfriend who was too busy dragging their toddler all over the world with them.
Her mother died of heart failure when she was eight, something that happened so fast that she barely had time to register what it was. There were two funerals, the respectable one full of family members she’d never met who touched her blonde curls, cradled her chubby cheeks, told her how much she looked like her mother and the one thrown by her father. Where men all spoke highly of her departed mother, where alcohol was passed around, stories were told, and the friends she grew up with made her smile and laugh, instead of feeling lost and alone. Lottie was too young to know what was going on behind closed doors, too sheltered from her grandparents to know that they were doing everything in their power to take her away from her father, who simply brushed the death of her mother off his shoulders, and carried on in life, numbed by booze and drugs. This lifestyle wasn’t something a child should grow up in, an idiot knew that, but Ricky didn’t see a problem with it, he didn’t see how damaging it was, he didn’t care, and once he thought Lottie was old enough, he shared it with her.
Charlotte was 11 the first time she got drunk, 12 the first the time she smoked weed, 13 the first time she had sex, and fourteen when she first got addicted to cocaine. The list grew as she did, the perfect little star on the road, the daughter of the world’s ‘best’ guitarist, the lead singer of The Stillborns. He was so proud of his girl, he loved her more than anything, and she lived to make him proud. She could remember the concerned looks from tutors on the road, her father hiring them to make sure he could keep Lottie at his side, having her learn from the strangers when she could, paying them off not to speak about the things his daughter was involved in, and everyone turned their head, said nothing. Charlotte didn’t know any better, the life she lived was all she knew, all she loved. Sex, drugs, and rock & roll, just like her mother, she was truly the perfect girl, just like her father had wanted her to be.
That all changed when she was seventeen. when one night her father must have misjudged the dose he helped her shoot into her veins. Ricky had had his fair share of overdoses, his own, his buddies, even the one that put his wife into cardiac arrest and took her from him. Though when his daughter started to convulse, he couldn’t bring himself to do much of anything but push her onto her side and dial 911. He left her in the dutiful hands of his band manager and a family friend before he left her alone to wake up in the hospital with no clue what had happened, no idea where her he was, and an onslaught of CPS agents, police, and paparazzi.
It was all that was needed for her grandparents to finally get custody of Charlotte, proof of her father’s neglect, proof of his horrible influence of the young girl. Lottie waited for him, waited for him to show up at the hospital, show up at court, show up to fight for her, but he never did. He never called, he never wrote, and when Charlotte was moving in with her grandparents in their little ranch in Las Vegas after spending months in a rehabilitation center, she still heard nothing from her father. The tides changed then, Charlotte realized she couldn’t go on living the way she had, the way her mother had, so rather than wait until the day she was eighteen to go back to her old life, she made a new one, or at least she tried to. It was a twisted Cinderella story, at least that’s how the news showed it. The once tragic life of a child of rock & roll turned into the sugary sweet life of a beautiful Instagram star, Charlotte Haze coined a new life for herself, with the watchful and worried eye of her grandmother.
PRESENT.
College seemed like something that would be good. A set routine, a new chance at life, a way to start over… sure she didn’t do the best at school on the road but was that her fault or the environments. It would be something normal, a true school environment she never got to experience. Vermont was far, but with some tears and lots of convincing, she was able to get them to agree to let her leave. , and they made sure to give her everything she needed to get on well, with a few standards she had to meet at least. Music would always be apart of Charlotte’s life, even if her father wasn’t, so she figured journalism would be good for her, getting to explore the lives of all the musicians and artists but while also keeping a safe distance from the true lives some lived on the road, not wanting to break her vow to herself, to avoid any and all triggers to her past.
She’s been sober for a while, though the bumps of life have given her a few setbacks, relapsing is part of the process, after all, at least that’s what she told herself each time she embarrassingly returned to her NA meetings or faced the disappointed look of her grandmother who controlled her allowances, basing how much money she fed to the spoiled girl by how stable her life seemed to be at the time. Lottie was going to live her life for herself, she did what she wanted, how she wanted it, though she put on her best appearances for her grandmother, after all, it wasn’t like she was actually going to get a job to support herself, not when she had all the money she could ever ask for in her namesake alone.
SECRET.
Lottie is used to having things handed to her, she’s used to being able to spend her money frivolously, with no care or worry of consequence. But when her grandparents cut her off and the cash flow stops coming in, there’s not much for her to do to keep her materialistic life up. Sure she could get a job on campus, work at a book store, the coffee shop, the record store… but Lottie doesn’t like to work… and she has little patience for tedious things… and so her genius idea was to make money off doing the one thing she never got bored of, sex. Lottie has a secret camgirl/porn account that she earns extra cash from, it’s not something she’s ashamed of at all, but she doesn’t want it getting out on account of her old money grandparents and her widely known father, the last thing she wants to be is a cliche, even if she’s happily living as one.
TLDR.
So basically, Lottie’s got a tricky background, she’s rich af, spoiled af, bitchy af, and kind of just does what she wants whenever she wants. She’s up and down with her sobriety, views everything pretty cockeyed, considering she doesn’t want to trigger herself into using again, but will down a bottle of Grey Goose with little consideration of the consequences. She’s got a lot to hide still, gets her inheritance from her grandparents and that can be easily toyed with, considering they view her life with a magnifying glass. Connection wise she’s open to anything, hookups, passed hookups, ex’s, FWBs, frenemies, best friends, she’s bi and ready to cry so please, love her.
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This is the latest instalment in my Family series of canonverse fics about Anna and Kristoff and their children. Huge big thanks to @karis-the-fangirl for the main idea in this story <3
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When Karl was born, his mother examined him anxiously. The midwife assured her he was the very exemplar of a newborn baby, but still Anna waited and fretted, until he was old enough to prove that he was, in fact, a perfectly normal child. A very handsome, intelligent, wise-beyond-his-years child, of course - but nothing unexpected.
But perhaps it had to be a girl. When Karl gained a little sister nearly three years later, she was watched just as carefully, but despite Adela’s many talents, none of them were out of the ordinary. Any loved and wanted baby may generate a lot of magic, of a kind, for its family, but there was nothing more than that.
“Perhaps it will skip a generation,” Kristoff said. “Or perhaps there can only be one fifth spirit at a time.” Anna had to admit that that made sense.
When Lilly followed, and Anders, not much thought was given to the matter of their normalcy or otherwise. Anna was blissfully content with her four children; with the castle corridors echoing with the sounds of running feet and laughter; with her arms and heart always full.
“I really think I have everything I could possibly want,” she told her husband, on the evening of their fifteenth wedding anniversary.
“Don’t tempt fate,” he said, smiling.
Mathilde was born early the next year.
------
(six years later)
“Mother?”
Anna looked up from her desk. The door of her study was rarely closed, and just now it was her younger son, Anders, who was leaning around it to get her attention.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Can I speak to you for a moment? It’s about Mathilde.”
“Yes, of course, come in. What happened, is she alright?”
“Yes.” Anders came into the room and sat on one of the chairs in front of his mother’s desk. At fourteen he was already the tallest of her children, but also the quietest - Anna knew that he must have a solid reason for interrupting her work, unlike Lilly, for example, who might wander in just to chat. But still waters ran deep.
“Is Mathilde alright?” Anna asked again.
“Yes. But did you know she always knows which way is North?”
“She does? I mean, she has a good sense of direction, I suppose, for a six-year-old.”
“She always knows which way is North.”
“Well, so do a lot of people, Anders,” Anna said. “You just have to look at the mountains -”
“No. I mean. She and Lil were playing a game. If you blindfold Matti, and spin her round, she can always point due North, with the blindfold still on. Or South, or to the docks, or to the sun. I can’t do that. Could you?”
His question and expression were sincere.
“No,” Anna said. “No, I don’t believe I could.”
“I just thought it was odd,” Anders said.
“I suppose it is. Thank you for letting me know.”
Anders nodded and left the room. Anna leant back in her chair. It was a little odd. And now that she thought about it, there had been a few things that were a little odd about Mathilde. She’d always thought that maybe Matti just got more attention, being the baby; maybe she noticed things she wouldn’t have noticed with the others. But they were starting to add up.
Like how when Mathilde was a toddler, and despite the beautiful nursery full of every toy you could imagine, she only wanted to play with rocks. Even as a baby, if put down on a blanket in the garden, she would crawl immediately into a flowerbed or rockery and find stones of every size and shape. She would line them up and build things with them; her pockets were always clinking. But then, Anders usually had a beetle or a mouse in his pockets. So probably it didn’t mean anything. All children were different and had their little quirks.
Or that time when Matti had been - three? Four? And playing in the courtyard with some of the village children, and the game had perhaps got a little rough, and somehow a carved stone decoration on the end of a wall had fallen down (none of the children present seemed able to explain exactly how it had happened, and they certainly found themselves unable to apportion blame). Agnes had been just coming round the corner, and had sworn that the carving had been about to land on Mathilde’s foot, but had ‘jumped, somehow, in the air’ and landed harmlessly on the cobbles. Agnes also swore that the carving had cracked into two, but when Anna had looked at it herself, when she was making sure that it had been fixed properly back in place, it was certainly one piece of carved stone. The lines of the pattern didn’t quite match up, though, and she couldn’t remember if it had always been like that.
“Be more careful,” she heard Agnes tell the children. “Mathilde’s poor little foot might have been crushed.”
“The stone wouldn’t hurt me,” Matti had said. “It’s my friend, that’s why I fixed it.”
But then children always said odd things.
Or a few weeks ago, when Kristoff had taken Matti out for a ride up the mountain a little way, and that evening had told Anna a funny story, all about how Matti had asked what all the men were doing in a particular valley; and he had told her they were mining copper, and Matti had asked why.
“But the thing is, Anna,” he said, “When I tried to explain what copper is and what we need it for, she cut me off short and said that wasn’t what she meant. She wanted to know why they were mining copper there when there was so much more in the valley to the East. She was so certain, and so fixed on it. She wanted to go over there and tell them so they didn’t waste their time. I had to promise her I’d tell you, she wouldn’t leave it alone.”
But then all children got funny ideas in their heads sometimes.
Anna sat forward again and rummaged in the papers on her desk. Here were the reports from the Guild of Miners and Smelters. Running her finger down the page, she found a brief note - the copper ore mine was a less promising vein than initially thought. They were planning to dig deeper, although they were also considering surveying other areas. Perhaps she should send them a note telling them to look in the valley to the East.
Rocks. Stone. Ore. And compasses worked because of rocks as well, didn’t they?
Mathilde liked to be barefoot outside. Around town they could usually persuade her to wear shoes and stockings, and inside she didn’t mind, but in the gardens or on the mountain she would quickly remove any foot coverings and wiggle her bare toes in the earth or mud or gravel. And she could climb a rock face barefoot like a mountain goat. But perhaps they just indulged her too much.
Anna had a sudden mental image of Mathilde as a toddler, one time when they had taken her to see the trolls. She’d wandered a little way away from the others, and Anna had followed her at a short distance, and seen her daughter pull herself up onto a low rock and then just - stand, barefoot and with her baby curls loose around her shoulders, contemplating the mountains. And Anna had felt, for a moment, that heaviness in the air that was usually a prelude to a storm.
Maybe we haven’t been paying enough attention, she thought.
She looked at the clock on the wall. Twenty minutes before lunch, and she wasn’t making much progress here. She stood, pushing the papers back into rough piles, and went out of her study, closing the door behind her; then along the corridors, from the more public area of the castle through to the family wing.
Mathilde didn’t sleep in the nursery any more. All her brothers and sisters were so much older that they all had their own bedrooms. Matti’s was tidier than her nature would suggest, though of course through no effort of her own, with bed neatly made and toys stowed in chests.
There was a low bookshelf by the window and Anna knelt down next to it. There were a few books, but they were tucked in a corner out of the way; most of the shelves had stones on them, from tiny pebbles up to rocks that must have been hard for the little girl to carry; and although they looked piled higgledy-piggledy, when she sat and just looked at the shelves for a minute or two she could see the order. Order in the sizes and shapes and type of rock, in the colours and how they had been placed. And - to one side, she found one she recognised. They’d been in the garden, and Matti had come over to show her - look, Mama, this one looks like a duck! And it had, a little, so she’d made it quack and Matti had laughed.
It looked a lot more like a duck now. How was that possible? It hadn’t been carved, unless the mason had been extremely skilled. But the proportions were better. The beak was noticeably a beak, and there were little round marks for its eyes. The wings had crude feathers. But it was definitely the same stone.
Anna wondered how her mother had felt, the first time Elsa moved her hand and made ice.
“Mama!” Anna was nearly knocked over by her daughter running across the room and hurling herself at her. She wrapped her arms round Mathilde and hugged her, fiercely.
“I was just looking at your duck,” she said, keeping her voice as calm as she could. “It’s very good. How did you do it?”
“Oh, it’s easy,” Matti said. And she showed her.
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