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oldtowrs · 4 years

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MAYBE’S AND WILDFLOWERS - REMUS LUPIN

inspired by this song and a strong love for remus lupin

summary: a lonely, rainy night brings the reader to remus’s doorstep. remus, after loving the reader since their younger years at hogwarts, cares for her and wishes more than anything that she could be his. but doubts cloud his mind, what with the war at hand and his lycanthropy plaguing him every month. he could never be good enough for her. or maybe he could never be more wrong. maybe...

word count: ~3.5

sin speaks! hey! harry potter imagines anyone? sorry i’ve been gone for so long. this school year is kicking my butt, and i’m most definitely not here for it. anyway, please enjoy this piece about remus lupin. and no-caps is intentional. i’m going for a more aesthetic look now.

soft knocking pulled remus from the scent of old leather, yellowing pages, and worlds of inky black lettering come to life and into the land of the living. hazel eyes flickered to the clock on the wall. its old hands, lit only by the crackling flames of the dying fire in the fireplace, read a time later than even sirius would think to bother remus at. curiosity dogeared the delicate page while paranoia pulled the wand from his pocket and ran through his list of useful spells to use in duels. these were times of war, after all, and remus did not want the eyes of those he loved running over his name in the daily prophet, in the same simple, font as every other name on that list: the list of the dead.

but on the other side of the oaken slab was a sniffling woman, h/c hair soaked and hanging about her shoulders, which were covered by a navy jumper that looked slightly too big for her and oddly familiar. a smile found his lips along with a soft ‘y/n?’ as he realized the jumper was one of his. it had been a gift to her around their fifth year, when he had grown out of it and given it to her. he remembered how she pleaded with him, saying she couldn’t bear to part with the woolen article she had come to associate with the lovesick and bright-eyed boy he had been.

but they were older know, their minds a little sharper, a little wiser, and their hearts a little more broken and wary: something that remus realized as her red-rimmed and tender eyes met his and he realized the glossy trails on her cheeks were from her tears, not the rain that had begun during remus’s escapades through the land of muggle fiction.

“o that this too too solid flesh would melt, thaw, and resolve itself into a dew,” she recited meekly, voice cracking as she mumbled their “password” of sorts they had established one night by the fire months ago, when the war had really begun to pick up. anyone could impersonate anyone these days, foul intentions hiding behind a veil of love and familiarity. acts of soul-tainting murder of the innocent witches and wizards of the magic community were becoming quite frequent in the prophet. remus longed for the day he would be able to hug her close and spin her around, victory and laughter flowing through their young veins as the war came to an end. he might even kiss her. but to get there, they had to get through the war: together and alive.

okay, so maybe he was still a hopeless romantic irreversibly stuck in a sickness called love. it was just quieter now-more scared.

“beauty is terror,” he recited back, dark brows furrowing and shadowing his earthen, sunlit irises and his smile melting and washing off with the rain at the sight of her tears. “what’s the matter?”

“i don’t want to be alone right now is all.” she mumbled, sniffles worsening with every second she stayed in the rain. “i didn’t know who else to go to.”

you’re the only one i want to go to.

“of course, of course.” remus said, a small garden of blushing roses blooming beneath the star-like freckles on his skin as he realized she must be freezing. a twinge of guilt spiked his heart for not letting her into the warmth of his small, run-down cottage the moment she found herself on his doorstep.

i wish i was the only one you wanted to go to.

his pinky finger found hers in the quiet darkness of the night, just as they used to on their rounds about hogwarts, the badges of prefect pinned to their robes proudly, and pulled her through the doorway. a soft, nostalgic smile crept onto the edges of his lip as he realized he had forgotten just how many stars seemed to bloom and burst in his heart whenever he touched her.

do you feel those stars too, budding like wild spring beneath your fingertips?

shivers ran along y/n’s spine, her form quivering with cold and her tears as she tried to rub some warmth into her arm with her free hand as remus lead her to the old, tweed covered couch, plopping her down onto the plump, old cushions.

“these wet clothes won’t do you any good, will they?” he hummed affectionately as he knelt before her to look into her downcast eyes and tuck a strand of h/c behind her ear. “what do you say, i’ll go grab you some dry ones and make you a nice cup of tea?”

“i’d like that very much,” she sighed, trying to give him as much of a smile as she could. it made his heart soften warmly.

even if its a mere ghost of you, i’m still happy i can make you smile.

“chamomile, please.” she murmured, as remus stood to fulfill her wishes and to care for her with only a minor fraction of the affection he held for her.

“‘with a spoonful of honey and a splash of milk,’” he chuckled, reciting the words she had used all those years ago to describe her favorite cup of tea warmly. “i remember.”

“of course you do,” she said, a hint of laughter and lovely familiarity in her tone. it made him smile.

yes, of course. how could i ever forget you?

he left her sitting on his couch, though it was silly, with regret in his heart, wishing he could be the one to warm her up, not the fire or one of his old, moth-eaten cashmere sweaters. his heart longed to hold her, if only for a moment, just as it always had; his affections for her had been a part of his lovesick heart for as long as he could remember. but just as he always had, he’d keep quiet about what he felt for her: the girl who deserved the world and more, who deserved to live a safe and happy life, who deserved every lovely thing he wanted to give her, but could not.

all these thoughts tumbled over and over in his mind, each thought adding a drop of bittersweet love to the ocean his heart harbored as he filled the tea kettle with water and placed it on the stove to boil. melancholy mingled with tender love in his soul as he then walked to his room and shuffled through his closet, deciding which of his jumpers would suit her best: rusty orange or forest green?

green, he decided, remembering the preferences she had whispered to him on late nights in the library or early mornings by the lake just beyond the castle walls of hogwarts, she loves green. green like the trees by the lake, like the fields of the english countryside.

so he slipped the jumper off its hanger and grabbed a pair of shorts she had left after one of her visits a little over a month ago. and just as he was about to leave the room, he decided she would look absolutely adorable wrapped up in the plush blanket on his bed, and grabbed it too.

she was shivering when he reentered the cozy little living room, his heart aching and his arms feeling heavy as he imagined gathering her against him and pressing kisses to her hands, her hair, her cheeks, anywhere, just to warm her up and to see a lovely blush spread across her features: the one that had always appeared whenever they would talk about nothing and everything as the stars shown above them, ancient deities of silver and gold stardust watching them from above. he always wondered if they were up there, observing the blossoming of wildflower love in his heart with every smile sent his way, with every laugh that hung in the air a moment after it stopped, with every tear that caressed her cheek and every shy brush of their hands and bodies against each other in pure, innocent companionship.

did they ever watch that love unfold in her heart? or are the flowers of lavender, crimson and gold confined to bloom in erratically lovely patterns in the ragged mountain valleys of my heart alone?

“here,” he said warmly, placing the little bundle of clothes in her delicate hands and the blanket around her shoulders. “i’ll go make some tea for the both of us, okay?”

she nodded, numbly, but there was a small hint of the familiar glint of lovely light in her eyes, growing warmer and brighter by the second. he admired it, that little glow, for maybe a moment longer than was friendly. but maybe she held his gaze a little longer and with a little bit more desperation than she would’ve if her love for him went only skin deep.

but he couldn’t think like that, couldn’t take advantage of her loving soul like that. he would just memorize the little upturn of her brows over her innocent eyes as they peered up at him thankfully, the way the corners of her lovely lips quirked upwards in a small little grin that he found adorable. he would admire her, memorize her, and tuck the little piece of her into his heart, to protect and regard with love until the day he died.

oh… she was so beautiful.

the kettle shrieked from somewhere in the kitchen, and remus tore his gaze from her e/c eyes and the edges of his finger tips from her own, and frantically ran to the kitchen, identical blushes blooming on both of their features, though that little piece of heavenly knowledge was unknown to him.

remus was a rather tall man, slightly toned and strong, with scars littering his body from his lycanthropy, giving him an edge that contrasted with the gentleness that radiated from his soul, lying just beneath the skin. it commanded his every movement to be one of genteel clemency. his kindness shown through the scars and the pain and prejudice, even as he did something as simple as removing the kettle from the burner and plopping two bags of heavenly mixes of spices, herbs and flowers into their mugs: one chamomile, one earl grey.

water followed, flowing gently from the kettle’s spout, steam rising to great remus’s skin in a cozy fashion. then the honey, melting like warm sunshine into the cups of brown and gold, bringing sweetness to every drop. then the cream, just cold enough to take the burning edge off the lovely drink, but not so much that it took the healing warmth out of the mugs remus worked so hard to perfect.

tidying the little counter space, he took the mugs and sauntered through the tiny hallways of the cottage and into the living room. warmth filled him as his eyes set themselves on y/n, finding her and only her-just as they always had.

the sweater, much too big for her, was bunched up around her lower waist while the sleeves were rolled up to her wrists, the fabric being much to long for her smaller arms. the blanket had been wrapped around her shoulders once more, although much of it pooled on the old carpet beneath her. she had moved from the couch to the floor, he realized, probably to be closer to the warmth of the fire. its orange glow shown on her exposed legs, as she had taken off her rain-soaked pants in favor of the shorts. she looked up at him with her starstruck eyes, a twinge of bewilderment in her irises that foretold of the way her mind wandered around in her thoughts. the fire had seemed to heighten the sparkle in them and the tears had begun to release their aggravated hold on her soft features. she was adorable and remus hoped to merlin that she couldn’t see his blush that had remained since leaving her the bundle of clothing.

“one order of chamomile tea, spoonful of honey and a splash of cream for a lovely ms. y/n,” he smiled, winking goofily as he carefully settled himself on the floor beside her, a hint of his old boyishness still lingering about his mannerisms. memories of many late nights by the fire in the library washed over the pair, the reverence for such treasured moments showing in their twin smiles; one was wide and toothy, parting scars in its wake, while one was more reserved, soft and plump and wonderfully shy.

“thank you,” she mumbled, soft voice calm and gentle as ever as she took the mug from him with delicate hands that brushed his ever so softly. he swore, her voice could calm the raging sea and bring the mountains bowing before her. if only her words could end the war that ravaged the wizarding world, then maybe he could gather some courage and…

“of course, y/n,” he replied happily, cutting his train of thought short. another radiant smile spread across his face like wildfire, as he felt the weight of her head and the slight dampness of her hair befall his shoulder as she snuggled up to him. an arm wrapped loosely around her waist and the weight of his chin on top of her head brought the same smile to her lips. she sipped her tea quietly, humming her pleasure as the warm, flowery taste of it slide down her throat, warming her from the inside out and softening her nerves.

but then melancholy sunk in again, like the rain’s chill into bone, and her voice became small again. “remus?”

“hmm?”

“do you ever feel lonely?”

the truth was that, ever since leaving hogwarts, remus had felt a sense of loneliness creep up on him, like a thick fog unwilling to let the light in. and while he and his mates, y/n and lily included, always met up for dinner at least twice a week and joined up with the order, remus hated returning to his little countryside home only to find it dark and void of any life but him.

he often wondered what it would be like having someone else live with him, someone to share meals with, to wake up and admire the sunsets and the chirping of the birds with or to stay up late and admire the stars above, hands entwined. often, the someone remus longed for eventually took the shape of her, the soft-souled woman whose weight, he found, was pleasant and comforting; the solid feeling of her beside him, leaning against him, bodies accommodating the other’s, was a feeling so warm and homey that not even the feeling of returning to the house he grew up in could compare.

“yes.” the truth slipped from his lips. “often times, yes, i do.”

“do you ever wish there was someone who you could just…i don’t know, share your life with?”

always. it's always been you.

“yeah, someone quite specific actually,” he said, slightly surprised at himself for saying such things. “do you?”

“yes,” she said. her eyes grew glassy and a far away look glazed over them, the flames dancing through the e/c of her irises. “he’s been that someone for so long now. and i’ve always thought there was a chance he loved me back, ya know? but even after all these years, my heart just keeps on loving him, but he’s still said nothing.”

love?

her eyes turned to him then, almost pointedly. but as he lifted his chin to return her gaze, he saw the depth which they held, a depth that was so warm he felt he could’ve fallen into it, let it envelope him in a moment and swallow him whole. they were the depths of the ocean, screaming his name, and remus believed hers were the eyes he could drown in. maybe he already had.

leaning closer to her, his voice became a whisper, a shred of broken vulnerability wavering like a single flame in the wind of his tone. “maybe he’s scared.”

“of what, do you think?”

“of the war,” remus said, truth spilling from his lips as if he had taken a vial of veritaserum. “of himself. of not being all that you deserve. maybe he just wants to give you the whole world, the universe even… maybe he’s just scared that he can’t.”

“well, maybe i don’t need him to give me the world,” she said, almost knowingly, eyes dropping to his jawline, to his slight honeyed stubble, to his defined adam’s apple, to the tip of his collar bones that just peaked out from beneath the cotton t-shirt and cashmere sweater. tears brimmed and her eyes became pink with tender sadness again, supposions and maybes ready on her tongue and falling from her raw, worried lips. “maybe, i just want him to give himself a chance. to give me a chance to show him that while he is far from perfect, i love him, and have loved him for years… just the way he is. maybe i want to show him that i don’t need the world. i just need him.”

“maybe he's scared he’ll hurt you in ways you should never be hurt. maybe he’s scared of what he can’t control, and what it’ll do to you if you get ever closer.” he’s almost crying too, but those tears will never fall. not till much later in their lives, when he holds her ring-adorned hand with his own, golden circles of metal shining on both their fingers in the midday sun, words he’s spent every night, day and waking moment tailoring to show her just how deep the rivers of his love runs spilling from his sun-kissed lips.

“maybe i don’t care that he could hurt me. maybe i would rather be hurt by him, than not have him at all,” she said softly. “maybe i want to spend his most vulnerable moments cleaning his wounds and caring for him the way he deserves, even if it is me that has been hurt more than he has. maybe i want to spend my every moment showing him the same kindness and goodness that he shows that world, but cannot see himself.”

somehow, in the midst of their oceans of maybe’s, his hand had found her cheek, rough calluses meeting soft skin, galaxies rising to the surface, aching to blink through the veils and shields that had been built and sewn over time into a lovely light.

their lips had somehow gotten so close to one another, that they breathed the same air and the heat that radiated from the blooming crimson patches of bashful daisies and brilliant peonies on their cheeks was warmer than the fire which they sat in front of.

“maybe he wishes, more than anything, that he could kiss you,” remus said, lust and love mingling into something sweetly divine in the ragged baritone of his voice.

“maybe i wish, more than anything, that he would.”

and in a moment, remus found himself sinking into those deep and lovely depths, the force of his love a rip current pulling him out to sea and away from the safety of his maybe’s and his assumptions. his lips found hers as his eyelashes fluttered closed, tickling his skin delicately as they ghosted the curve of his flushed cheeks. it was soft, but soon remus found himself leaning into the kiss, the rip tide pulling him under into the soft gentle depths of the woman in his arms.

but after a moment, the petals of their lips drew farther away and their eyes fluttered open, irises glistening with tears in the firelight.

“y/n.” it was a moanful sigh, filled with years of longing. “my love, it’s always been you. you’ve always been my maybe’s.”

“please, rem… please don’t let me just be a maybe. ”

“oh y/n,” he sighed. “if you’ll have me, my love…. i’ll turn our every maybe into an always.”

#remus lupin x reader #remus lupin #hp

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heartofsnark · 4 years

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This Is Love (Chapter One): Welcome to Hope County

Notes: Soooo, I’ve been talking about this for a bit and it’s time to just take the jump and start publishing my Far Cry 5 fic. I hope you enjoy. Also, i have like a series warning for this that will be on every chapter cause it needs it.

Summary: Dahlia Hale is the youngest person working at the Hope County Sheriff’s Department. Hailing from a small town in Louisiana, it’s going to take her some time to fully acclimate to the new environment and living on her own. Developing friendships takes time even for the most functional of people and for disasters like Dahlia it takes even longer. She gets along with her coworkers and there’s some religious family who’s taken a shine to her, for some reason. It seems like she’s on her way to getting the kind of friends she’s only ever dreamed about, even if it’s going to take some more time.

Then everything goes to shit.

Halfway through her six-month probationary hire and that nice religious family has kicked off a holy war with her becoming enemy number one.

To one side she’s a hero.

To the other she’s a monster. She’s not sure which is right.

Word Count: 9,290

Series Warning: I usually do not like to spoil endgame pairings in my fics, but this warrants being up front. This series is polyseed and involves heavy, recurrent themes of at times romanticized noncon, dubcon, large age differences, and stockholm syndrome that develops into a romantic relationship. The relationship between my oc and the Seeds is extremely unhealthy, toxic, and should never be replicated or sought out in real life. No matter how things progress or how they are portrayed at different points, this fact remains the same. i am comfortable exploring and enjoying these themes in fiction, not everyone is. If you are uncomfortable with or triggered by any of these things, please skip this and take the precautions you feel necessary to avoid this material. If you are an individual who struggles with separating reality and fiction; please do not read this. Otherwise, if you’re comfortable with and enjoy that kind of content, please enjoy.

Chapter Warnings: Bliss flowers, hallucinations, threats of violence (really not bad compared to whats to come)

A shiver rolls down Dahlia’s spine, the chill of the Montana night settling into her bones. A sign welcomes her to Hope County, her motorcycle tire spinning dirt at it as she passes. The moon shines bright in the sky, cascading silver light down on everything. It’s beautiful despite the cold, light reflecting off the lakes and streams that pass through the county.

It’s mostly woods and forests, fields of big white flowers and animals wandering through. The entire county is begging to be put on a postcard, from the animals, to the fields, to the…giant cement statue of a guy with a manbun…

Her tires squeal as she comes to a stop on the thankfully vacant road, she pushes the visor of her helmet up, as if the tint could cause her to see something like this. Sure enough, the white hunk of stone is still there. It’s of a man with his hair pulled back in a small bun, in one hand he holds a book and the other gestures outward.

Hair raises on the back of her neck and goosebumps collect across her skin, the statue is…eerie. It looms across the entire region, a creeping specter. Unnerving doesn’t even begin to describe it, her body has started to lean towards it, almost drawn to it.

Maybe it’s a historical figure for the county? People do that right, build monuments to founders or something. The clothes of the figure seem old fashioned, but she’s not sure about how far back the manbun goes.

She shakes her head and slaps her visor back down, she needs sleep. It shouldn’t be much further to her hotel. Dahlia revs her engine and rushes off that way, finally finding the large wooden hotel with its red roof. There’s a large wooden sign welcoming her to the King’s Hot Spring Hotel, the parking lot is decidedly vacant, and she comes to a stop by the smaller stone black sign that sits close to the larger wooden one, easy to overlook if someone wasn’t looking close enough.

“King’s Hot Spring Hotel

On May 12th, 1902 a 7.6 earthquake struck the mountain south of the hotel. It created a 10 million ton landslide that sliced a deep crevice in the earth and destroyed half the King’s hotel. 16 people were killed in the landslide, their bodies never recovered. To this day, their ghosts are said to haunt the site of the rebuilt hotel.

Built 1866.”

So, from a dirty cockroach motel to a haunted hotel, certainly a step up. She doesn’t really believe in ghosts, they’re cool as all hell, she loves creepy shit. But she doesn’t think any of it is real and if she’s wrong, maybe the ghosts will be nice enough to kill her. She parks her bike and shuts off the engine, unclipping her storage bag from it and making her way to the door.

The inside feels warm and welcoming, rustic. A large stone fireplace with a bear skin rug in front of it, wooden stairs leading to the upper floors. Her eyes scan the room and she finds a registration desk where a woman sits, reading from a white book. She stands out slightly in the old styled hotel, tattoos covering her arms. The woman’s light, almost milky, green eyes, look up to see Dahlia as she makes her way to the desk.

“I called ahead and reserved a room for tonight.”

“Hale, right?” The girl flashes a soft smile as she slides the registration forms across the desk and Dahlia finds herself looking down at the receptionist’s arms, SLOTH and ENVY with strikes through them; half tattooed and half scarred in the woman’s skin. Heavy-handed work.

“Yeah, that’s me, how’d you know?”

“Oh, not many folks check in here anymore, between the ghost tales and the new management.”

“Management?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow as she finishes scribbling in her info and handing her card over.

“Here,” the woman hands Dahlia’s card back along with a room key and a map, “I’m sure you’ll find the path.”

“Uhh…thanks…”

She shakes her head as she leaves the desk, doing a double take at the worker, who’s now back to reading the large white tome with a soft smile on her face. Dahlia is entirely too tired to deal with weird cryptic people, maybe she’s trying to play up the creepy factor of the supposedly haunted hotel. Probably intrigues the tourists or some shit. She takes her phone from her pocket, ringing Lloyd as she walks to her room.

“Hey, Stray,” He greets her with the nickname he gave her and she already feels a little better despite the chill and exhaustion.

“Hey,” Dahlia unlocks her room and strides in, there’s a deer head mounted on the wall and a vase of those white flowers on the bedside drawer, “just wanted to let you know that I am officially in Hope County.”

She tosses her luggage, along with the gunk the receptionist gave her onto the bed and does a fist bump for no one’s benefit but her own.

“That’s good, your interview is tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, hopefully it’ll go well, if not it might be another year of me eating cheese puffs on your couch.”

“You make it sound like you’re some sort of bum.”

“I mean…”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m gonna be a mess when you go.”

“If I go, still gotta get the job.”

“You’re gonna nail it, I know it, me and Earl were friends way back. He’s not dumb enough to let you go. And if he is, well, I’ll be having some words with him.”

“You can’t fight someone for not wanting to hire me.”

“I mean, I can, uh, yeah, sweetie it’s stray, I was kinda, oh Caroline wants-“

“Stray, did you throw your fucking phone away?” Caroline, Lloyd’s wife, is on the phone in a second, worriedly yelling.

“I talked to you when I stopped off in Denver.”

“Yeah, in a dingy nasty motel and then we didn’t hear a word from you for over twelve fucking hours!”

“I’m pretty sure I could handle myself,” Dahlia laughs and rolls her eyes, the concern is appreciated but unneeded. She’s a cop and despite her short stature, she’s got muscles and knows how to protect her. Maybe it’s cocky and arrogant, but at this point in her life, she’s not afraid of anything hurting her physically, mentally and emotionally is a whole other ballpark.

“Still, what if you were in an accident. Have you ate? Do you know where you’re eating tonight?”

She ate back in Denver and her stomach is growling now, but she mostly just wants a shower and sleep. She’d rather just grab room service for breakfast.

“I’m fine, I’ve ate and I will eat. Stop worrying, now I’m gonna get settled in for the night, I’ll call you after the interview.”

“Wait, ha-”

“Goodbye, mon cher,” Dahlia ends the call after her casual term of endearment, cher and mon cher as normal to her as bud or pal. Maybe it’s just a Cajun French Louisiana thing, or it’s one of the many things she picked up from her dad. She instinctively plays with the ring that hangs from a chain around her neck, he was always so proud of where he came from, teaching her Cajun French from the moment she could talk. Would he be upset with her leaving the state?

She shakes the thought from her head, she can’t concern herself with the opinions of people who aren’t here, as much as they’d mean to her. Dahlia finally has the tools to be independent and make her own way in this world, she needs to seize any and every opportunity. She double checks that her door is locked, before stripping out of her clothes.

Dahlia sets her phone to play music as she takes a shower, singing along to it as hot water eases her aching muscles. Once she’s cleaned, she dries off and starts to make her way to the bed where her luggage is.

The large white blooms on the table between the bed and window, draw her eye, her suspicion confirmed that they’re the same as the fields of flowers she saw on her way here. They must be a common flower here. She’s not a plant person, but she can appreciate pretty flowers when she sees them. The petals are soft against her finger and she pulls out one of the fresh flowers, sniffing at it. It tickles her nose, the soft scent pleasant, but it makes her want to sneeze. She tucks it back in the vase and scrubs at her nose.

Her vision swims for a moment, suddenly light-headed. She hasn’t slept much and has been driving a lot, her eyes must be tired as well.

Dahlia digs some comfy sleeping clothes from her bag to change into. Content in her shorts and tee, the hotel much warmer than the outside chill. She pushes her luggage off her bed and takes a look at the Hope County map.

Her vision is still swimming but she reaffirms where she needs to be tomorrow for her interview. It’s over in Fall’s End at the Sheriff’s Department. Dahlia fishes a marker out of her discarded jacket pocket and then starts to write directions down on her right forearm before tucking the map away.

She rifles a cigarette from her quickly emptying pack, most places don’t like their hotel rooms stinking like nicotine.

Cool air rushes in as she opens the window, she leans against the windowsill, appreciating the view of the moonlight reflecting in the pool of spring water. Montana really is beautiful.

She lights her cigarette, looking away for a second to ignite it.

“Ooooh ooooh~” A soft melodic voice drifts in, piercing the quiet, and Dahlia’s head snaps back to the window.

In the grass, a woman surrounded by green mist spins and dances, singing softly into the night. She’s young, but still older than Dahlia with dirty blonde hair that falls past her shoulders. A white lace dress with flowers across the waist and skirt. Illuminated by moonlight, a heavenly glow, angelic but singing a siren’s song.

Who would be out there at this time of night?

Dahlia’s the only one in the hotel and she doubts the staff indulges in nightly dance sessions.

When did Dahlia start leaning further out the window?

Every fiber of her being screams at her to run to the woman. To jump out the window if she has to, anything to get closer to the hauntingly beautiful woman dancing along the decks before the spring.

Dahlia slams the window shut, quick and hard enough to rattle it. It’s late, she’s exhausted, she’s ridden her bike almost twenty-eight hours straight. Only stopping for a late night in a shitty hotel in Denver before getting back on the road at eight am this morning.

Between ghost stories and exhaustion her brain is fucking with her.

The woman’s singing is still there.

Softer now but still present, still beckoning.

Every muscle in her body is tense, prepared to bolt in order to go find that woman.

She smashes her fist against the side of her head, the impact of her knuckles rattling her skull as she literally tries to knock sense into herself. Her visions seem to clear a bit and she can’t hear the singing anymore, but she also might have concussed herself.

Her cigarette is stamped out before she’s even halfway through it and she’s setting her phone alarm before jumping into the bed.

She buries her face in the pillow, no matter what she hears or thinks she’ll see, she’s not going anywhere until the morning. This interview is the most stressful thing she’s dealt with in years, so much rides on it, and she can’t be exhausted tomorrow from chasing fairy ghosts or what the fuck ever.

Her mind is just playing tricks on her, it’s an asshole, it does that.

She’s not certain exactly when she fell asleep, but the next thing she knows her alarm is going off. Dahlia groans and forces herself out of bed, she hates waking up. Her interview isn’t even late, but god, fuck waking up.

Her head is clearer now, no swimming in her vision and no singing or sirens. She forces her way out of bed, groggily trying to go about her day.

She’s running late, she’s always running late, time isn’t real.

After taking her sweet sleepy time to get herself put together and inhaling a room service breakfast, Dahlia is running down the hotel stairs and scrubbing syrup off her chin. Why does she do this to herself? The receptionist calls out something and she waves her off.

Helmet slapped on and engine revving, she guns it out of the parking lot and makes her way to towards the Valley. She comes to a bridge and pulls her arm from her jacket to read her scribbled directions, remembering too late that she can’t read her own handwriting.

She squints trying to decipher what the hell she wrote, her chicken scratch leaving a lot to be desired. It looks like it might say she’s going to Holland Valley or Halland Volley or Hallard, something to that effect by crossing the Honne…Benne…Rover….Dridge… Why does she do this to herself?

She’s probably on the right track, probably. Dahlia readjusts her jacket, confirming that her mess of directions won’t be getting any clearer the longer she stares at it and makes her way over the bridge. More signs hang from the inner framework of the bridge, half of them bearing a cross symbol with what looks like sunbeams coming from the center, the other half states The Power Of YES; Take The Leap.

Heebie jeebies nest in her gut, those goosebumps from earlier coming back. Religion…

Maybe it was too optimistic, but she had hoped further up North she’d see less of…that. She did searches online and was told based on some statistical thing that Montana was less religious than Louisiana. But apparently religion isn’t completely avoidable in the United States.

The crisp smell of apples manages to break through her helmet as she leaves the bridge. Apple trees as far as the eye can see, bright red fruit gleaming under sunlight, a giant orchard surrounds the road. People mill about the apple trees; couples holding hands and parents hefting their children up on their shoulders to pick the highest apples their little hands can reach. A few people look at her as she rides past, the rev of her engine and the music pounding from her helmet drawing attention. Some looks are judgmental, others unconcerned, a small kid waves at her as she passes by and she waves back, smile teasing at the corners of her mouth. There’s a constructed Apple Statue in the orchard, noting that she’s riding through the Gardenview Orchard.

Over the horizon, built into the hills of the Holland Valley is a giant Hollywood style sign that says ‘YES’. It’s infinitely less creepy than the weird man statue, but far cheesier. Whether that’s better or worse? Who knows, but Hope County is definitely…weirder than she anticipated.

She passes through the orchard and coming up on the left apple trees are replaced with pumpkins on the ground. Fields growing them, some clearly bigger and further along in the growing process, none fully ripe, however. A house is built among the fields, one fence with a sign that says Rae-Rae’s Pumpkin Farm.

There’s a couple walking around, holding hands, but more importantly there’s a dog. A mottled coat of black, white, and blue gray with a bandana around their neck. The dog’s head raises at the rev of Dahlia’s motorcycle engine passing by on the road, tail wagging but he doesn’t run out, a well-trained doggo.

She’s running late.

She doesn’t have time.

One pet can’t hurt.

Dahlia comes to a screeching halt, tires squealing and bracing herself against her handlebars of her bike so she doesn’t fly across the farm. The couple taken aback, staring wide-eyed at her as she kills her music and yanks off her helmet. The doggie is still wagging its tail, eager to meet their new friend.

“Can I pet your dog?”

The couple is older, by Dahlia standards, so probably around their thirties…or forties…or twenties…ages confuse her. A woman with short sandy hair and a man with a knit hat over his head, the woman’s dropped jaw becomes a soft smile, her eyes gentle.

“Of course,” a thick southern accent tints her voice, “Boomer’s doesn’t know a stranger.”

Dahlia stays outside the wooden fence, not wanting to step on crops or something, but she leans over it. Boomer’s big brown eyes landing on her, so cute, she already loves him. A few coos and he’s already rushing over, standing to put his paws at the top of the fence so he can get some much-deserved love. She pets the top of his head, scratching behind his ears and around his neck. He eagerly leans into scritch and pet, licking her.

“Awww, such a good boy, yes you are,” she praises and laughs, soaking it in. Even if she’s running late, this is more than worth it.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” The woman asks.

“Nah, here for a job interview,” Dahlia answers, hugging around Boomer’s neck as she snuggles him.

“Where you interviewing at?”

“Sheriff’s department.”

“You’re kind of young for a cop, ain’tcha?”

“I’m an adult,” she says, shrugging her shoulders through the hug. She is a young adult and that’s all that needs to be said on that.

“They finally trying to fill that deputy position?”

“Seems like it.”

“Sorry, to brush you off so soon, but we have to go pick up some equipment before noon and we’re already cutting it close.”

Shit, right, time. She’s running late too, but the dog was worth it.

“No problem, have a good one, you keep being a good boy, Boomer.”

She gives a final scratch to his head, then slides her helmet back on, waving off the couple as she hops back on her bike. Her nerves have eased slightly at having gotten some time with a dog and even if she’s late, she doesn’t regret it.

Her engine revs and she’s back to traveling down the quiet Montana roads. The sheriff’s department is in Fall’s End. A water tower baring the town’s name lets her know she’s arrived in the right area. It’s not a huge town. Along the main road, there’s the sheriff’s department, a general store, a bar, a church. There’s little streets and roadways showing that beyond those there’s houses and an apartment complex. Not huge, but certainly bigger than where she’s from, which…isn’t saying much.

Dahlia parks her motorcycle outside the sheriff’s department, all those initially dissipated nerves are bubbling back to the surface. Her stomach in absolute knots and her muscles tense with anxiety. She shuts off her bike and pockets her keys then pulls off her helmet, fiddling with her hair. A deep breath, before she finally steels herself to step into the building.

There’s a desk to Dahlia’s right when she enters the building, an older woman with a layered bob of red hair.

“There something I can help you with, darling?” Her southern accented voice asks.

“I have an interview with the sheriff.”

“Really,” the woman’s eyes scan Dahlia up and down, eyebrows furrowed in judgement, “can I get your name?”

“Hale,” she murmurs, once again fiddling with her messy strands of dark hair. She knows she doesn’t exactly look the most professional right now. But professional clothes and motorcycles don’t truly mix. The woman, her desk tag says N. McClure, shuffles through some documents and reads over something.

“Okay, just take a seat and I’ll let Earl know you’re here.”

Dahlia plops down in one of the reception area’s chairs, fiddling with the cat ears on her motorcycle helmet. Her leg bounces up and down, shaking out excess energy as the woman at the desk starts to call back, asking for Whitehorse. It’ll be fine, Dahlia reassures herself, Lloyd and Caroline have been talking her up to their old friend. All she needs to do is be herself, maybe, probably not. She’s kind of a mess.

The clock hand ticks slowly, Dahlia feeling like she’s about to go crazy waiting for her interview to start. Finally, the woman hangs up the phone she was calling back to Whitehorse on, a soft smile on her face that pulls at the wrinkles around her eyes.

“Earl’s ready to talk to you, come on back.”

The older woman steps out and helps show Dahlia to the office door, passing through a bullpen style office area to get there, Sheriff Whitehorse is scrawled on a plaque by the door. Dahlia knocks and he tells her to come on in, she slowly opens the door and steps in. There’s a modest sized quaint office with only a few personal touches. She’s only seen old photos Lloyd had of himself and Whitehorse, from way back in police academy. The man before her is much older than he was in those photos, weathered with wrinkled skin. He looks like an old sheriff pulled directly from a movie; green uniform, cowboy hat, scraggly brown hair, and a mustache.

“You’re Lloyd and Caroline’s Stray, right?” He says, standing up from his desk to shake her hand over it. He’s over a foot taller than her, probably close to a foot and a half. His hand swallows her own whole, it’s probably bigger than her face.

“Holy shit, you’re tall.”

That’s not a good way to start an interview, but he seems to be laughing and smiling. So, maybe it’s fine. Lloyd once said she has a charm about her despite her lack of tact or decorum. She’s still trying to figure out what that charm is, but still.

“Go ahead and take a seat,” he says, gesturing at the chair in front of his desk. She follows suit, leg still bouncing like it was in the waiting room. Whitehorse puts a manilla folder down on the desk, the little tab labeled D. Hale. It’s surprisingly thick for someone who’s never met her in person.

“Lloyd and Caroline talk highly of you, hell the whole town does.”

“The whole town…?” She raises an eyebrow, what’s that supposed to mean? Reinette, Louisiana is a small town, it’s police department has about six people in total and everyone knows everyone. But certainly, they wouldn’t call up Whitehorse to talk about her.

“I swear Lloyd must have handed out the stations number to everyone down there, we’ve been getting two, three calls a day of people who can’t say enough good things about you.”

“Oh god.” Heat flushes up Dahlia’s cheeks, god damn it, Lloyd.

“You’ve left quite an impression on the place.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess.” Dahlia pushes some hair off her face, fidgeting with the locks.

“And you haven’t been working there long, have you?”

“Not counting training, about a year and a half, I know I don’t have much experience.”

“Still making such an impact in a short amount of time, says something.”

“Thanks.” His words soothe her nerves and embarrassment a bit, maybe this will go well.

“But, there’s the issue of your record…”

“My record…?” She shouldn’t have a record, he opens the manilla folder and she feels bile raise in the back of her throat.

“Between what’s on the books and what everyone was saying, I was starting to wonder if there were two of you, Hale. Runaways, break in, fights, attempted grand theft auto, and petty thefts, the list goes on. Doesn’t exactly scream future cop.”

“I thought records got expunged at eighteen.”

“If you request it.”

“Oh…well then…”

“I know this all happened when you were a minor and you’ve been clear for the past two or so years, but…”

“It still looks bad, I know, I know. I’m not going to try to tell you some bullshit excuse or sob story. I did a lot of shit I shouldn’t have for a lot of reasons. I regret most of it, not all of it, but most of it. Lloyd and Caroline helped me get my life back on track, I know two years doesn’t seem like a long time, but I’m not the same kid I was when I did that shit.”

That what she tells him, but she’s not sure how much she believes it. It feels more like her situation’s changed than she’s changed, but if she just said that she’s no longer a delinquent because she doesn’t need to be, well, it wouldn’t sound as good or employable.

“What made you wanna be a cop?”

“Wanted to help people,” she answers with a shrug, it’s not really anything more complicated than that. Whitehorse huffs out what sounds like a laugh, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Okay, I gotta ask, why here? Lloyd and the whole town loves you. It’s a hell of a move and the pay raise ain’t much.”

“Look,” she sighs and folds her hands on top of her motorcycle helmet, calming her body down, “I love Reinette, I love Lloyd and I love Caroline. I owe them and the whole town a debt that I’ll never pay back. But, I’m twenty years old. I’m not their kid and even if I was it’d be time for me to go, I’ve taken enough of their time, money, and everything. Reinette, bless the town’s heart, it’s...dying. There’s more cows than people, our station has more cars than officers. It won’t be long before they do away with the town’s department and just do everything through the Parish. And the parish’s department doesn’t need any more officers.”

Her throat constricts as bile raises in the back of it, her stomach churning. After everything that town and its people have done for her, she’s leaving them. A traitor, betrayer.

“You figure any of those officers will even find work in the parish, at all?” He asks with a knowing, soft look in his eye. If he keeps in contact with Lloyd, he’s already well aware of the trouble in Reinette.

“I doubt it, town’s a sinking ship. Lloyd…he’s willing to go down with it,” her eyes sting and she clenches her jaw, containing herself, “I can’t do that. As much as they all mean to me, I can’t. Lloyd’s gonna retire when it goes under, I’m twenty, the fuck am I supposed to do? I’m trying to help people; I’m trying to make a difference. But my hands keep getting tied because of money, resources, anything and everything. Lloyd and Caroline gave me the means and the tools to make something of myself, I’m not gonna piss that away because some fucker decided we weren’t worth investing in, I…”

She’s clenching her fists and nearly smacking her helmet, anger and frustration welling up inside of her, a geyser of emotions threatening to break through. This is an interview, she can’t do this, can’t be emotional. She needs to stop this, a deep breath before she starts to speak again.

“I can do more here, I know no place is perfect, but I can do more here.”

“Well, no one can say you’re not passionate.” Whitehorse lets out another chuckle, seemingly amused.

“Sorry, certain shit, just winds me up.” She massages the back of her neck, why is she such a fucking idiot? No one wants to hire a cop who can’t keep their cool and throws a fit. She was supposed to tone down her dumbassery, not ramp it up.

“There’s nothing wrong with caring about what you’re doing.”

“Yeah…” She half-heartedly agrees, Whitehorse is trying to make her feel better. Her interview has become him trying to console her, absolutely pathetic. She might as well call Lloyd and Caroline now and tell them she blew it.

“You got any questions for me?”

“Uh…”

Did she just fuck this up as bad as she thinks she did?

“Not really, I just wanna get to work.” That earns her another chuckle from Whitehorse, even if he doesn’t think she’s competent, at least she’s entertaining it seems.

“Full of piss and vinegar, ain’t ya?”

“To say the least.” She lets out a dry laugh, but there’s no mirth of joy behind it. Not a shred of happiness as she thinks about what a fucking idiot she is.

“Well, if that’s all,” Whitehorse stands up from his desk, “I’ll go ahead and show you out.”

Dahlia stands up, the sheriff places a large hand on her back as they leave his office, finding their way back into the reception area.

“It was nice to finally meet you, Hale.”

“Same, thanks for taking the time to talk to me.” She’s sure that he’d rather be doing literally anything else, especially after that beyond trash interview.

“It’s no problem at all, I-”

The doors to the department open, a man and a woman in green deputy uniforms coming in. Another giant, the man is barely an inch of two shorter than Whitehorse, with shaggy dark hair and hazel eyes. More importantly, the woman while taller doesn’t absolutely tower over Dahlia, her long black hair is braided over her shoulder and her olive skin makes her hunter green eyes stand out all the more.

Dahlia’s throat feels tight and her heart race is a little faster. So…that’s a thing.

“We running a daycare, now?” The guy asks, looking down his nose at Dahlia, though that might just be because of the height difference. Either way, she glares at him, he’s been around her a grand total of five seconds and he’s being a dick.

“Pratt…” The woman, her name tag says J. Hudson, rolls her eyes at him. Her voice is warm and rich; why is Dahlia’s face so hot? Is she sick? Has the Montana weather already kicked her ass, what is this?

“This is one of the interviewees. Hale, these are my deputies.”

“Nice to meet you.” Hudson flashes a soft smile and what is Dahlia’s heart doing? It’s like someone’s squeezing it and filled her gut with bugs while they were at it. She fucks up an interview and now she needs a doctor, great.

“Same, I was, uh, just on my way out actually.” She needs to go sleep off whatever the fuck has just hit her.

“Good luck,” the taller woman gives a friendly tap to Dahlia’s bicep, “hopefully we’ll be seeing more of you around here.”

Dahlia is dying.

That’s the only explanation. She fucked up an interview and now she has the heart plague or some shit, hell of a day.

“Uh, yeah, I, um, ‘preciate it.” She’s avoiding eye contact and she doesn’t know why she's stumbling over her words and she doesn’t know why.

“Pssh,” Pratt scoffs, “she’s gonna need it.”

Suddenly, she can talk again. Weird. Hudson and Whitehorse shake their heads, clearly use to his bullshit

“Sorry about Pratt, he’s, well he’s Pratt.”

“Eh, every station has at least one cop who’s just trying to make up for his tiny dick.”

“I assure you, I-”

“Enough,” Whitehorse cuts him off, talking like he’s breaking up a child’s squabbling. Doesn’t really help make her look any more mature or competent, way to steer into the skid, Dahlia.

“For the millionth time, no one wants to hear about your dick, Pratt.” Hudson rolls her eyes, why is that being said for the millionth time?

“Well, that’s certainly my cue to go, have a good one.”

Dahlia quickly waves off the sheriff and deputies, making her escape. She takes the couple steps to her motorcycle with quick rigid movement, making sure she’s away from windows or the glass door, not wanting any of them to see her.

She lets out a low guttural groan muffled by how tightly her jaw is clenched jaw and knocks her knuckles against the back of her head.

Idiot, she fucked everything up by going on some huge ass fucking rant.

Despite the distance, this was a phenomenal opportunity the best she’s had. It’s not like she hasn’t looked into place in Louisiana, but something is always wrong. She’s never made it as far as the interview. Either she never gets a call back, maybe they’d seen her records the same way Whitehorse did and didn’t even bother giving her that chance. Or she’d learn the town, parish, city, whatever was no better off than Reinette. One of the sheriffs she talked to on the phone knew her stepfather and recognized her name, nearly making her puke before she hung up.

This was beyond a shadow of a doubt the best chance she’s had. Whitehorse has the Lloyd seal of approval which is as good as gold. And as much as the distance is guilt inducing…, the fear of betrayal and abandoning people who mean so much to her. But, she needs somewhere far away.

As many good memories as Lloyd, Caroline, and the people of Reinette have given her. There are still too many bad ones, too many people figuring out where she came from, one too many bad memories trying to be more than just that. As much as it may eat her up to leave, it’ll eat her up even more to stay. Between the impending unemployment and her own past, every good moment there has a shadow looming over it.

When she gets back to Reinette she’ll start working to get her record taken care of. Once that’s settled, it’s back to job hunting. A bump in the road, a moment of frustration, but she’ll come out the other end. She always does.

Her stomach growls, burning through a pack of cigarettes and stress binge eating sound like a great way to deal with this. She’ll find some place to stuff her face and call Lloyd once she gets back to the hotel.

There’s a general store, she doesn’t know if the bar lets minors in, so it’s probably her best place to grab some quick snack. She plops her helmet on and makes the short drive to the store, parking her bike outside and pulling her helmet back off to light a cigarette by the dumpsters. Her stressed brain is desperately craving nicotine.

She rips open her pack of cigarettes and lights one up, bringing it to her lips. Smoke pools in her lungs, clawing to her insides and easing her nerves if only for a second. Holding it there for a moment before breathing it out into the air. Her eyes are drawn to the neon sign of The Spread Eagle bar, even bright in the daylight. It also seems to have some activity despite the early hour. Well, early for a bar. A white truck pulls up in front of the building, a man with long grungy hair climbing out of the passenger seat.

Those odd pains in her chest and churns in her stomach fade as she inhales the smoke, looking up at the clear blue sky. A soft breeze blows through, carrying the gray trails away with it. Montana really is beautiful…

“Get back here!” A woman yells out, door to the bar swinging open violent as the man with long hair comes rushing back out, arms piled high with crates of alcohol.

Dahlia drops her cigarette and helmet, bolting towards the bar, as the thief tries to scramble into the back of the pickup truck. He gets the crates set down, but she’s grabbed the back of his shirt before he can climb in. A harsh yank, pulling the tall man back into her and away from the truck. She encircles her arms under his armpits and locks her hands behind his neck, grappling into a full nelson hold that keeps him from running off. The odd angle of these heights and the way he was yanked from the back of the truck leaves him on his knees in his grasp.

“Someone call the sheriff’s department!” She yells out, she doesn’t have any jurisdiction here or cuffs to actually arrest the guy.

He tries to fight back against the hold, attempting to break free, but all he manages to do is writhe and squirm. The door of the truck swings open, the driver jumping out, his feet hitting the ground with a heavy sound. Another man easily a foot or more taller than her.

“Help me, brother Theodore,” the man in her hold struggles to beg for help.

“We have strict orders from John Seed to confiscate this liquor.”

“Don’t know or care who that is, mon cher.”

“Someone like you doesn’t deserve to know him,” the guy tells her, sneering and she sees his finger twitch, brushing over the gun in his belt holster. She can’t have firearms going off in a residential area.

“All you’ll do is end up shootin’ your friend, don’t be stupid. Liquor ain’t worth bloodshed.”

He lets out a sigh and his hand relax, something clicking in his mind. The man, Theodore, chews his lip, eyes flickering as she nearly sees the gears turning in his head.

“What’s going on here?” A familiar rough voice asks over Dahlia’s shoulder, she doesn’t need to look to know Whitehorse has come to investigate. Even if she did, she wouldn’t dare look away from the man in front of her, not until she’s sure he won’t try to shoot.

“These pieces of shit peggies were trying to steal my liquor stash,” a woman explains, somewhere behind Dahlia.

“Liquors still in the back of the truck,” Dahlia tells them, none of it seemed to break, so hopefully it won’t hurt the bar too much.

“If it wasn’t for her, they would have cost me a month’s worth of sales.”

“Pratt, Hudson,” Whitehorse calls the names of his deputies.

“I got it here,” Hudson taps on Dahlia arm, cuffs in hand, and that weird heart thing is happening again.

“Um, yeah, o-of course.” She maneuvers away from the guy, she’s never stumbled over her words like that before. Hudson cuffs the guy and starts reading his rights off.

“Keep your hands where I can see ‘em,” Pratt barks out at the Theodore guy who's surprisingly obedient as he lets the deputy cuff him.

Dahlia scratches at her nose, watching the scene unfold. She’s finally gotten a good look at the woman who was being robbed.

And, not only is everyone here tall, they’re also apparently beautiful. The woman is than both Dahlia and Hudson, with honey blonde hair tucked up into a bun and soft blue eyes. Her features are soft, cherubic almost, with freckles over the bridge of her nose.

Have women always been this pretty?

When did women start being this pretty?

The fuck is her heart doing?

“Looks like it’s a good thing you were here,” Whitehorse tells her, a soft smile tugging at his lips, “you managed to get Mary May’s liquor back and stopped it from escalating.”

“Oh, yeah, I guess.”

“Someone you know, sheriff?” The blonde, Mary May asks. His smile gets wider and he squeezes Dahlia’s shoulder, a comforting touch.

“This is my new Junior Deputy.”

“I am?”

He’s not serious, there’s no way, he has to be fucking with her.

“Unless you changed your mind?”

“Hell no,” she shakes her head, “I am the new Junior Deputy, wait, Junior?”

“You’ll start with a six-month probationary hire, paid of course, manage that and we’ll take you on permanently.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“You’ll start next, c’mon down to the station Mary, we’ll book ‘em and get your report in.”

“See you around, stranger,” Mary May tells her as she follows after Whitehorse, Hudson and Pratt forcing the thieves along. Theodore shooting a glare Dahlia’s way.

“Look forward to working with you, Rookie.”

“Pfft, I give her a week, tops.”

And with that, Dahlia is left alone on the road of Falls End…with a new job.

She got the job.

She’s got to get through the probationary hire, but she got the job. Holy shit. Holy shit. And she starts in a week. She needs to call Lloyd and Caroline, she needs to find somewhere to live, there’s so much to do.

Dahlia is practically skipping back over to her helmet and bike. She’s gotta start getting her ducks in a row.

She speeds her way back through Hope County, making her way back to the hotel. She has so many fucking calls to make and shit to go through. Before she knows it she’s back in the Kings Spring Hotel parking lot, fumbling to get her phone. As silly as it may be, she’d rather call Lloyd and Caroline in a less populated area. She’s grinning ear to ear, enough to hurt her cheeks, she looks like a dork and that’s not going to get any better. Helmet under her arm, she dials Lloyd as she paces in the isolated parking lot.

“How’d it go?” Lloyd is asking before she even says hi.

“Six months, probationary hire, then we’ll go from there.”

‘So, you got the job?”

“That was the bummer way of saying I got the job, yeah.”

“I can hear you smiling!”

“Shut it!”

“Caroline! She got the job, yeah!”

“I,” she rubs a hand down her face, “I thought for sure I blew it.”

“What changed?”

“Some bar across the street got robbed right after my interview, I stepped in, next thing I know I’m the Junior Deputy.”

“Holy fuck, do you know what that is, Stray?”

“Dumb luck?”

“Fate, Stray, it’s fucking fate! The world telling you that you’re exactly where you’re meant to be!”

“You really are a sap, ain’t ya?”

“What are you doing now?”

“I’m staying another night here, but once I hop off I gotta start looking into where I’m gonna stay. I start in a week, so I gotta start moving, I’ll see you all in two or three days once I make the drive. It’s gonna be tight, but I’ll manage.”

“Man, you’re really leaving.”

“No crying.”

“Seems like yesterday Caroline found you in the barn.”

“No crying.”

“You were so thin, just a little bag of bones…” His voice is choking up.

“I’m hanging up, you cry baby!”

She does just that, smiling up at the sky. It’s happening, it’s really happening. It feels like the start of a new life, a new her. There’s a jump in her step as she makes her way back into the hotel, room service food and she’ll start making phone calls.

“Miss Hale!” The soft lilted voice of the receptionist calls out when she sees Dahlia.

“Oh, hey.” Dahlia walks to the desk, head tilted in question, what could she need?

“A heads up, we’re switching the water in the tank for the shower and bath system to water pumped in from the spring.”

“Oh, that’s cool.”

“It’s so much more relaxing than regular tap water, be sure to use it tonight.”

“Uh yeah, thanks, by the way can I order some room service?”

“Of course.”

Dahlia goes through her order for room service, being assured the order will be put in and delivered before she knows it. With that she goes back up to her room, she starts digging through the bedside drawer, searching for a phone book for the area. There’s a white book in the top drawer, with that same strange cross like symbol that was on the signs along the bridge. She throws it on the bed, finding a local phone book beneath it, much more important.

She starts rifling through pages. Hope County is mostly a trailer park town, for people who can’t afford to build or buy an actual home and land. There is an apartment complex in Falls End, but the rent is high for pretty small apartments. The prices probably jacked since housing is so limited. She’d rather get a whole trailer to herself for cheaper and just travel further for work.

Hours pass by her making phone calls, seeing about housing and stuffing food in her face when she’s not talking. The Silver Lake Trailer Park that’s nearest the station has no vacancy or trailers available for rent, but they refer her to the Moonflower Trailer Park. It’s some distance, but with how fast she rides her bike, it’s doable. It’s the only place with vacancy, she’ll drop by with a down payment and check out the trailer tomorrow before she heads back to Louisiana to get her stuff and everything tidied up there. The world outside the hotel window has gone dark, moon hanging bright in the sky.

That settled she finishes off her food and collapses back on the bed. She’s still smiling, grinning ear to ear.

“Wooooooo!” She yells out and pumps her fist up at the ceiling, fuck yeah, she’s got this.

She’ll grab one of those spring water showers and then pass out for the night. She grabs her phone and sets it up to play music in the bathroom while she washes up. Her clothes hit the floor, air conditioner chilling her skin as she waits for the water to heat up. It has a soft floral scent and is tinted slightly green, spring water.

She steps in under the hot spray of water, letting it wash away the sweat and dirt of the day. Her muscles relax under the water and steam, as she scrubs the hotel soap into her skin. She blinks her eyes open once she’s done washing her hair, finding her vision clouding, her body feeling heavier and heavier. Must be the exhaustion of the day. Dahlia quickly finishes washing, the last thing she needs is to fall asleep in the shower again.

Her steps are shaky, her body swaying as the world swims around her. Colors distort and shift in prisms before her eyes. It’s like the night before, but times a million. Her movements sluggish as she dries herself and quickly pulls on her sleep clothes. She was feeling ill earlier, maybe it’s catching up to her? But it doesn’t feel the same. Not panicky and nervous. One of her favorite songs starts to play through her phone, though its eerie tones aren’t as welcomed in this moment.

She grips the sink for leverage, steadying herself as she looks into the mirror

All our times have come.

Her dark brown eyes aren’t dark brown, not quite. She tugs at her eyelids, the iris growing milkier and lighter than she’s ever seen it. What the hell is this? A soft melodic laugh echoes through the room, like it’s near.

Here but now they're gone.

She stumbles out of the bathroom, finding her empty bedroom. Nothing unusual.

Seasons don't fear the reaper.

The laugh rings out again, a flash of white passing by her open door. When did it open? She didn’t leave it open.

Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain...

She’s walking out her door before she can give it another thought, looking back and forth across the hall, who’s there?

We can be like they are

Her feet pad down the hallway, steps suddenly sure and confident as she tries to follow the voice. Like her body is being drawn, pulled, following sheer instinct. She needs to find them.

Come on baby... don't fear the reaper

A flash of white, the swish of lace fabric, that laugh again vanishing into one of the rooms. Dahlia is there, trying to wrench open the door. Then it rings out from behind her.

Baby take my hand... don't fear the reaper

A woman stands at the end of a long hallway, the one from the tight before. Long sandy hair and beautiful green eyes. A blue butterfly perches itself on her fingers, the woman looking at it in awe. Dahlia takes slow steps forward, she wants to speak, ask who she is and what she’s doing here. But her tongue is heavy, her throat tight, vocal cords numb, not a sound escaping.

Baby I'm your man...

Green eyes flicker from the butterfly to Dahlia, a soft almost mischievous smile tugging at the woman’s lips. She laughs again as Dahlia nears her, then she runs, childish and giggling she runs towards one of the rooms. Dahlia is chasing her even after she vanishes from sight, legs moving without her permission, instinct driving her to reach this woman. She doesn’t know why, but she needs to reach her, touch her. Be closer.

La la la la la

The laughter turns into soft humming, singing echoing through the halls. Somehow the sound is everywhere, all consuming and right in her ear, but also distant the source too far away for her to find. She walks down the halls, taking turns and climbing up stairs, following her instinct that pulls her in each direction she goes.

Valentine is done

Flashes of white fabric, doors closing and shutting. It’s a game of tag that she can’t seem to win, the small hotel has somehow become a labyrinth as she tries to find the humming woman. Short hallways and few rooms have been traded for never ending paths with room lining them.

Here but now they're gone

Sometimes spacious and open, other times claustrophobic, choking, walls scraping the skin of her arms where she has to fear she might become stuck. More halls and more floors than she’s ever seen, winding paths that make her dizzy. But she can’t stop searching for that woman.

Romeo and Juliet

One more turn, the woman is at the end of a hallway. Standing before a door, softly singing to what is now two butterflies balanced on her fingers. Dahlia starts to walk down the hallway, tight, claustrophobic. She keeps her hands on the walls as if it will give her more space, as if she could force the walls to open wider for her.

Are together in eternity...Romeo and Juliet

Her heartbeat races as she walks closer and closer, the walls threatening to crush her between them. She can hardly breathe, every breath ragged and tight. Dying. She feels like she’s dying, air being stolen from her lungs and heart pounding lie it’s trying to escape her chest. It worsens with every step she takes near the woman.

40,000 men and women everyday... Like Romeo and Juliet

Some part of her brain, the small part that doesn’t have a thick haze of fog clinging to it, tells her to run the other way. That with this feeling only growing with every step towards the siren, with her heart pounding harsher, breathing getting raspier, she’ll die if she keeps going. That this truly is a siren luring her to death, but she can’t listen to that part of her. Her body won’t. She needs to reach her.

40,000 men and women everyday... Redefine happiness

She’s getting closer and closer; the woman isn’t running this time. Just calming singly, like she doesn’t even notice Dahlia. She tries to reach out for the woman, her fingers nearly brushing the woman’s dress sleeve.

Another 40,000 coming everyday... We can be like they are

Then the woman walks through the door, Dahlia could curse and cry if her vocal cords would only work. Once again, the woman evading her, being just out of reach. But this hall has no doors along its sides, no turns or twists. The only two options are going back or going through the door after her. It’s not even a choice.

Come on baby... don't fear the reaper

She wrenches the door open and she’s in another world. No more wood walls and floors, her bare feet touching lush grass that tickles her skin. White petals float in the air and scatter across the ground. Trees curl around the area and when she looks out at the horizon, she sees that large statue of that man looming over the area.

Baby take my hand... don't fear the reaper

When she looks straight ahead at the middle of the field is the woman, she twirls, short white dress fanning out around her hips. She stops, turning to face Dahlia, she smiles softly. Delicate and angel like, she stretches her hand out. An offer, a beckoning.

We'll be able to fly... don't fear the reaper

The feeling of impending death lifts the very moment she sees the woman. Her heartbeat and her breathing easing, relief and contentment filling her body. She’s smiling and she doesn’t know why she feels alive. Free, like she can do anything. She’s walking closer and closer to the woman, each step making her happier and happier. Her body lighter and lighter. Calm and peace, she’s never known. She’s right where she belongs, she doesn’t need to be anywhere else.

Dahlia reaches out, finally about to touch her, a touch of their hands is so simple, so minor. But it feels like the only thing she wants. All she’s ever want, like every moment in her entire life has been building up to this, being here with her, whoever she is.

Before skin can meet skin, the siren fades to mist.

No, no, no!

She grasps desperately at the air where the woman once was, her heart racing, her lungs stinging like the airs been knocked out of them. The world is crumbling, falling down, everything going out beneath her feet. It’s falling apart and she can’t stop it, she can’t fix it.

Dahlia takes a heavy gasp, desperately sucking in a heavy breath and she blinks, the world around her has completely shifted. Her vision isn’t blurred, no more prisms of color before her eyes.

Cold, goosebumps raising up on her skin, shorts and tee doing nothing to save her from the Montana breeze. She’s outside the hotel, in the world she knows. That damn statue looming still in the distance ahead of her.

Dull.

The landscaped she was so mesmerized by this day, seems so dull now. She feels dull, after so many emotions, so much intensity both in fear and happiness…she feels so numb. Dahlia rubs her fingers together, her craving for the feeling of another’s hand in her own…there’s an ache. She was so close, but now she’s been plunged back into reality.

She stands out in the field outside the hotel, staring at that cement statue, it still seems to call her. Her heart telling her to go towards that looming structure, but her head tells her to go back inside the hotel.

So, she doesn’t move.

She doesn’t know how long she stands there, just staring.

“Miss Hale!” A voice pulls her further back into reality, the hotel receptionist walking out towards her with a large blanket.

Dahlia blinks a few times, she no longer feels numb, the very real emotion of shame flooding in. She’s standing out in public, in her pajamas. Did she just wander out of her hotel room in her sleep clothes? She must look ridiculous.

“Hey…”

“Is everything alright? You just walked out of your hotel, looked like you were sleepwalking.”

“Uh…yeah, I guess.”

That makes sense, she must have went to bed and had a weird dream…yeah.

“Here,” the woman wraps the large blanket around Dahlia, “you must be freezing.”

“Thanks, sorry, I, just, weird dream.” She murmurs as they walk back to the hotel, Dahlia giving one last glance at the hotel.

“Dreams are nice, aren’t they? Sometimes you just wanna stay there forever.”

#far cry 5 #fc5 #joseph seed #john seed #faith seed #jacob seed #deputy oc #This Is Love #Dahlia Hale

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madamhatter · 4 years

Text

ACT I. PROLOGUE your name is.....

NOTE(S): District names, locations, and NPC names (and roles) are ‘noncanonical’ by reasoning that I’m not the creator! Please enjoy! C= C= C= C= C=┌(;・ω・)┘

Tucked away between a valley had once been the memory of a home for one who longed for any semblance of being. Even in the peaceful times in the country, one would always wish for more. For how the circumstances came to be, this was certainly one surprising. Yet, she stands among passing figures, avoiding brushing and impolite touches with strangers, and her story, to her relief, disappears among converging crowds.

Tucked away between a bar committed to long-wasted lives to alcoholism and a brothel bustling at this time of night was an alleyway that led to freedom. Even in the quiet times in the city, one could never find peace. For how the situation came to be, this was certainly one unavoidable. Yet, they scurry through busy streets, avoiding getting hit by cars and certain death, and their story, to their irritation, drags on with rushing pursuers.

Eyes alight to the horizon, taking a glimpse of the rising sun with the rim of her hair providing shade from the rays. Not too far had been the crescent moon, its ghostly form blending into the powder blue sky. The day has only begun.

Eyes dart to the horizon, taking notice of the bleak night with the extensions of roofs providing no help with the chasers. Not too far had been the crescent moon, its phantasmic form illuminating from the black night sky. The night has yet to end.

However, today had been different from the other 364 days spent in the suspended city of Topaxi; no matter what the track of daily fate ushered them into, she couldn’t miss what the date meant. It was the first anniversary of her arrival to the empire’s capital, a place to call home.

In a distant memory away, her home had once been a roaming countryside of wheat fields and plains from how far the eye could see. A winding river dividing the northern and southern half, its serpent form bring cultivation and life for either side; the upper half wealthier than the lower, but all still with fortune and prosperity in sight. A pocket hidden from the modern marvels in the ever-growing, ever-moving world, one that embraced its temporal stasis to times forgotten.

In the closest memory, soot and ash snowed down on her small frame, hellish ember glowing in the distance above the thick smog that overtook home. Matting down her unnaturally silver locks and remains of natural white hair had been the debris and remains of dust and spared gravel from the wreckage. A never-ending whirl of blaring whistles and ear-rupturing drops, a place engulfed by cataclysmic finis, and she bears witness to the desolation of her world.

A flower weed endures adversity and scatters to survive. It survives to..

Get through another day.

Get the hell out of here!

12 D2, commonly known as the “El Pecho de Rosas,” was among the largest flower bazar available to massive municipal capital; most of the rarest and endangered flora, strangely unavailable for a place so grand and plentiful with endless possibilities, were often imported and sold at the open-air market. Given the bonus that the district was among the closest to the major shipping ports, the privileged and wealthy taken all their pleasure to walk carefree through and not feel at all endangered. And the ever-so curious was, not surprisingly, not one of those ‘gifted’ with such fortune, but she found herself falling into the bad habits that curiosity brought.

24 D24, coined by the locals as the “Cayo Condenado,” was among the festering pits that existed in the crevices of cracks in the pristine image of the massive municipal capital; typical unsanctioned and illicit crime, among other things, were subjugated in the nearly-claustrophobic space. Given the benefit that the district was compact and no longer than several blocks, squished between two massive guild wards, the unhinged and the deviants roamed taken all their pleasure to walk between the shadows and public space, eagerly awaiting for those to take the wrong steps into a place that was seemingly harmless by day. And the ever-so impulsive was, not surprisingly, not one of those visibly aberrant, but they found themselves falling into the bad habits that curiosity brought.

Form weaves through languid foot traffic, taking precaution to avoid any other humanoid presences, but far too drawn into the potted and hanging plants on display. She notes an empty stall, its vendor taking a step away, and her head tilts. How curious.

Form weaves through haste traffic, taking urgency to avoid being caught or hit by a car, but far too restricted to stay on the sidewalk and pass by the other businesses. They note growing bunches of crowds, most taking little care of the group of men behind them, and they bow their head. What a pain.

A potted plumeria was what first drew her towards the corner of the booth. Most of their buds had been closed and unwilling to bloom; she could only suspect that being in such a pot restricted itself from growing to full potential.

Two men holding together an assortment of mechanical parts, most likely torn from cars, was what first caught their attention amid their run. Rusted, jagged, sharp pieces bunched together, poorly ripped apart from unsuspecting vehicles; they could only suspect that being in such a rush meant the thieves wouldn’t be able to reap all the wealth they could’ve gotten from their impromptu thievery and terrible scavenging.

She leans over, tucking a loose strand from her ponytail behind her ear. Her brows lower, a soft frown emerging as she pats the top of the branch. Words of encouragement and sympathy given, she couldn’t help but whisper and pour out her feelings to the plant that deserved to be rightfully in the ground and growing to be the largest tree it could be for their flowers. After each sentence, the tree was already starting to look better.

Their posture straightens, shaking their head to keep their hair from falling over their eyes. Their brows raised, and their lips were slightly part, far too caught up in whatever was brewing in their mind. They nipped their thumb, glancing over their shoulder and back towards the incoming men, as they couldn’t hold onto their breath and ponder anymore. After each second spent in silence, they remove their hand from their mouth, finally set to do something.

Which was perhaps the literal interpretation one has to take when the wilting plumerias began twirling out, blossoming, with several of its branches began reaching out towards her. Her hand rests against the rim of the pot, watching the tree gain several more centimeters, hopefully not that stark of a difference. Several of the in-ground roots began peeping out from the soil -- to an unfortunate sound of a crack.

Which would explain the sudden rush they gave past two men, nearing knocking them off of their feet. Discernible bile and yelling mixed on their faces, uniting with the consistent shouts and jeers that came from the men still hot on the young runner’s trail. However, there was only yelling until a loud clatter overcame them. Bumpers, tires, tailgates, and loose doors had flown out of the two men’s arms, colliding with the pursuers, flying in whichever direction, but it always made contact with the group of men.

“Oh no, no more growing--” A quick breath left the young woman, ready to fan her hand to quell the sudden growth of the plumeria. “You’re cracking the pot; you need that still.” She pats the roots as they were slowly curling around her fingers, and she sighs, giving them an affectionate squeeze. Her expression softens, noticing the insistence behind the plant. If not, it was unsought desire, but she couldn’t provide any more. Her hand draws back hesitantly, quietly yet playfully scolding the curling out vines that hovered seconds more for what she’d given. Again, they slowly return into the recesses of the earth, and her hands rest over her abdomen.

“Oh, that wasn’t supposed to hit as hard.” A sigh left them, quick to turn backward and remain jogging in place. With three or four men either flat on the ground, out cold, or stumbling around, trying to find their way, guilt has taken its weight. Their expression loured as they remained paused...until one the burliest one of the bunch stumbled in the right direction. Black eyes met brown eyes, the moment of placidity vanishes as he takes his first step forward. Without any other option, they continue running, pushing forward, bracing themselves to reach the alleyway.

"My, my, what beautiful flowers. Miss Hatter, you have a keen eye.” A throaty yet serene voice calls out from behind her. Upon the sound, she hurriedly turns to acknowledge the recognizable voice, her body purposely stepping in the way to obscure the sight of the unsightly crack on the pot.

“Get back here, bastard! Give it back!” An out-of-breath and hostile voice calls out from behind them. Upon the demands, they continue flitting and refuse to acknowledge the remaining voice behind them; their body purposely remaining straight ahead to withdraw any inkling of power the stranger thunk he had over them.

“Good day,” she hums.

“Fuck off,” they retort.

Elisabeth Belmonte, age 83, jet-black hair that hasn’t shone any sign of age with amber eyes that would always give away when they’re watching someone, no taller than 157 centimeters, and the current guild master for the folklorist society of Topaxia. All this information came immediately to the woman as she presents a genial smile and a welcoming aura.

Raggedy Jack, age not relevant, hair missing and flesh used to be inked with numerous hand-poked tattoos, from a local artist in the city, with puny black eyes that are always scolding, taller than the runner, and one of the leading man in a gang circuit that hasn’t made its name yet. All this information came immediately to them, as they groaned and rolled their eyes with blasé.

Stepping forward, she offers her arm to the older woman, who graciously takes it and pats the younger woman’s forearm as both saunter away. “You’re doing quite well for yourself, Mrs. Belmonte, I wasn’t expecting such your appearance,” she muses, “especially in such official garbs. Is today special for your guild?” Yellow irises widened, proud smile on the guild master’s face, as she gestures to her robs with the shrug of her shoulders, “Several of our latest scouted members had their induction ceremony today, of course, I had to dress the part.” Elisabeth, though, glances at her companion’s attire. “As for yourself, what would have you wearing such a thick shirt for the summer? Had you already ran out of clothes? Shouldn’t a seamstress have closets’ worth of clothing?” The young woman looks down at her shirt, a long black turtleneck with its collar reaching below her chin. She hooks her finger into the collar, ensuring it is kept up. “While all the more peculiar, it just happens to be a habit of fashion, one could say. It isn’t that dense for the cool morning weather.”

Several steps forward, they are finally between the buildings that squeezed one of the few accesses out of the district. Desperation tangled itself into their thought process as the narrow gap to their safety was only guided now by the moonlight; most of the passing headlights and standing lampposts never had their lights meet the area. “Finally,” they breathed out in relief, their jogging finally coming to a slow halt. Hunched forward, their heavy lids finally closed and allowed the fresh night air to graze against their perspiring nape. Alleviation came in the most indirect forms, and their fingers groomed back the bangs stuck on their forehead from their sweat. Taking in all the air they could breathe, an invisible hunger sated, yet their stomach was far from full, but it was their lungs they’d concerned themselves more with. Scarred palms begin patting down the front of their thick jacket, accounting for their belongings, and they even checked inside, paying close attention to the hidden pockets. “Alright, all are there,” they muse, straightening themselves out, and they close their coat. Yet, it looks darker in the alleyway. “All’s there? Good.” And it feels more crowded.

“I take it you’re looking for congratulatory gifts for your newly initiated,” the young girl presumes, and she’s met with a thumb’s up from Elisabeth. “I encourage you to consider such flora like the laelia orchids, asters, and bougainvilleas. Quite hardy flowers, they are,” she waves her finger in the air, looking around at the other booths. “There is so much available here that I haven’t ever had the chance to see in person,” the words leave her lips, quieter, as if in a confessional, “a lot of these I‘ve only read in books--.” The older woman’s eyebrows raise upon hearing the whisper and eagerly jumps in to speak, “Of course, Topixa has plenty to offer for someone like you. Where else can you find one of the empire’s most elaborate and extensive collections of flowers? Compared to the rest of the world, we’re far too ahead of most in preserving, and some of these plants can no longer be found. Even in the few countries remaining outside of the alliance, just like yo--.” As chatty as a the empire-born citizen was, pride came second-nature to describing the internationally-recognized behemoth of power. Yet, as she turns her head, realizing the younger woman never shared which country she was from, there was only a polite smile. One from a face turned away from her, eyes remaining forward and away from her, and as much warmth there was seemingly in that smile, Elisabeth dared to ask herself: ‘how could one be so summery yet so cold on the inside?’

“Whatever kind of parlor trick you pulled or whatever you coordinated didn’t work.” A large hand came forth, groping centimeters between the runner’s face and Raggedy Jack’s palm, so large it could’ve held and crushed their entire face whole. Instinctively, they took a step back and rushed back to straightened posture, turning themselves to face the other. “Did you really think you had a one-man job?” He jeers, taking no hesitation to take all advantage of the wide-eyed startle and paralysis that overwhelmed the other moments ago. A swift step to the left and an answer he receives, “Are you qualified to ask that? You needed five for this job.” Hand-to-hand combat and close-quarters brawling hadn’t ever been a particular liking for the shorter; it wasn’t a matter of inexperience any ‘honorable’ code they followed, just a matter of cleanliness and time-consumption they overtly valued. Neither of their movements had been anchored, the constant back-and-forth between an aggressively offensive and an equally defensive opponent. Jack imposed to find any weak spots and take out all their anger through each blow their arms could make, and the scrawnier prioritized following their movements. Each swing and movement always had a prompt. All thoughts had a neurological function connected to the physiological effect, and much to their credit, they’ve been taking advantage of it. Twitching fingers, eye movements, footing, breathing -- any minuscule detail they could find within the fabric of this man’s fighting style only benefited them and their dodges. Strength was in no way an opportunity to overwhelm them in this situation. However, the fact stands that this was a stalemate if they persisted hopping and dodging in each of their counters. A rush of wind whistles near their cheek and the younger blinks, focus returning to reality; their objective isn’t to fight, nor was it any personal pleasure to fight, and the only thing racing against them was time. To run now or not? Their mind concludes the percentages, failure outweighing success, with considered and varied variables in play. But, there isn’t time for that; there isn’t time for anything. Seconds could mean everything at that moment, and they took the risk as they quickly turn and push themselves ahead -- to the rude awakening of their shirt collar pinned against their throat.

Whispered exchanges were made between the guild master and the foreigner, the last topic uncomfortably dying on the former’s lips as all she received was a pointed nod and the same polite smile yet unnerving gaze. Quietly, the young woman offers a gesture towards several of the booths, with personal recommendations of their vendors, musing the most about ‘sunflowers’ with nostalgic in her tone. It was then that both parted from another, leaving the silver-haired alone and still in the crowds. Her hand hovers over her covered neck and she hangs her head low.

Inaudible and adamant protests came between the silver-haired youth and their pursuer, frantic kicks in the air and nails burrowed and dragging down the man’s exposed arms. Broken flesh and drawn blood weren’t enough against him. Tighter and tighter, his palm closed around their neck, windpipes struggling to hold air and loud gasping emitted from the tenaciously desperate one. All the pressure forced into the larynx, forced coughing and wheezing growing louder and louder from them. Every inch of their body consumed in wild heat, frenzied resistance growing wilder as Jack raised them slowly into the air; they brutally bit down on their tongue, trying to breathe through the nostrils, unwavering to feed the sadist behind his black eyes. Resistance was met with equal brutality; his raised clutch smashing their frame against the brick wall.

Head turned by someone’s call, the sunflowers bloomed in the reflection of her earthly irises, dazzling golden and youthfully as it was a fragment of the home she finds. Crimson stains the apples of their cheeks, overwhelming their composure and stance had been flightiness. It continues stunting the fine lines of their facade and leaves a chill down the spine.

Head forced back by their throat, the stars swam in the reflection earthly irises, twinkling hopefully and brightly as it was the only fragment of peace they find. Crimson stains the corners of their mouth, iron overwhelming their nose and mouth. It continues spilling between the fine lines of their lips and drip down their nose.

Hurrying over, the silver-haired woman murmurs ‘excuses mes’ and ‘my apologies’ to each person that she might’ve bumped into. Her hands clasp together as she approaches and halts to a stop, a respectful distance from the guild master and the sunflowers in her possession. Bright eyes dazzled at the marveling sight of home, one that used to belong to roaming hills and fields untouched by anyone, no less, the empire. Her hands twitch from excitement and she takes a deep breath, keeping herself together, despite the tingling sinking in her boots. The guild master blinks before smiling, surprised by the sudden reaction, and could only assume that these were flowers that the younger had only read about. At the first inquiry, and needing a suggestion, Elisabeth asks if these flowers were appropriate for fits -- despite their height and how unusual it might be for any gift.

Dangling like an unstrung marionette, head laying back, every weight in their body finally welcomes gravity and its drag towards the ground. Unmoving and silent, the rampant monologue that Raggedy Jack is only met by a tough crowd of one seemingly dead rat from the streets. The man jerks his hand, his victim’s head slumps to their side, eyes glazed over and expression overwhelmingly calm, despite the gore smeared across their face. An inquiry he gives, only met with silence. An accusation he gives, only met with silence once more. A smug grin crosses his face, though vexed by how suddenly done the fight was. His mouth opens, ready to cry out --- and he was then met with the entirety of a foot shoved down their throat, stuffed right into oropharnyx.

Drool drips down the corners of their mouth, jaw hinged and incapable of movement, Jack’s clutch is quick to tighten once more around the attacker’s throat. And immediately, the heel of the other boot comes their way, whizzing to then become a hollow and a dull thud against the bridge of his nose. Any retaliation was met now their heel into their eye, specifically targeted right into the socket of the man’s left eye. Squelching, wet noises mixed through gurgling, agonizing screaming muffled by the stuffed foot in the man’s foot. And as the scelera of the eye mashed against the edge of the heel, white turning redder and redder by the minute,losing its once solid form, they continued kicked. Repeatedly, repeatedly, repeatedly. No sign of emotion legible on their expression. And then, in his own desperation, he tossed against his attacker, his yowls now echoing into the alleyway and mixing together with the seedy sounds of the district.

Raggedy Jack and the runner unceremoniously drop onto the backs against the pavement, one out of searing and hysterical pain, and the other out of a successful ruse -- yet, they are still taking desperate and loud breaths to regain themselves. They covered their head with their arms as they met the impact of the ground, while the other was writhing against the ground, yelling and screaming curses that were lost on ears that were still recovering from the blow to the back of their head.

Hurriedly, the runner drags their shoes against the ground, trying their hardest to get rid of the remains of mushed white, blood, and saliva on them. Turning their head, a quick spit of their blood and saliva left their mouth before they swiped off the drying blood from underneath their nostrils and corners of their lips. Both of their palms slowly greet the cold ground, thundering pounding apparent in their head, slightly swaying their head. It was a little longer until they managed to collect themselves, push through the pain, and regain their footing. On their feet, struggling to hold themselves together, they managed to speak, despite the large red hand print around their throat, which’ll soon bleed to purples, blues, and blacks in the upcoming days.

"These are wonderful!”

"I didn’t quite catch that. But I, nonetheless, don’t fancy myself to be your listener.”

No matter where I’ve begun, I must still move. I was nameless, a no one, and I want to remain that way. This journey I lived was but a footnote in a book that I wasn’t ever meant to be a part of. I am going by many things like the seamstress or the informant, depending on who I must be or what I must be. I am, undeniably, Sophie, the sorceress. But, I do not wish to be, and fate has proven to be untrue, breakable by my hands. It’s something man-made and not at all true to what it’s known to be. And I work in spite of it.

Yet, I fear something terrible is in the near future -- worse than what I was ‘fated’ for.

(want a funky start, instead? | want a morbid start, instead? | want a melancholic start, instead?)

NOTE(S): Thank you for reading and thank you having me! ^^9 A compact version of Sophie’s stats will be available shortly. If you have any questions, concerns, or anything of the sort, please DM on Discord or IM me on here. I will address everything that I can in a timely fashion. Thank you once again for reading!

#topaxi verse #( verse: ¿cual tu vas a ser? dentro del espejo ves; ¿algiuen más en ese cuerpo? | yni )#suffocation tw #suffocation #violence #violence tw #eye trauma tw #eye trauma #[ bocadito de helado time.....and also back to terraria woooo - ]

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thenovelartist · 5 years

Text

His Heart Song

Hot dang, this was supposed to be short!!! But my muses wouldn’t fricking shut up. This is based off @edendaphne‘s Lukanette commission for @bbwoulfc.

Even if you don’t like the pairing, it’s a beautiful picture and I LOVE IT!!!!

~AO3~ ~Fanfiction~

...

The first time he met her was because his sister brought her over to hang out. Just like Juleka, she was thirteen, two years younger than him. She was adorable and easily flustered and all over the place like a bee over a flower field.

He enjoyed teasing her when she stuttered. Surprisingly, it got her to relax, which got her to calm down just enough for him to hear her heart song.

He played it for her, and that was the beginning of their friendship.

Within weeks, he was able to read her inside and out, and she didn’t hang out here with his sister that often. Yet, reading her was second nature. Which was surprising considering he had to dig under her wave of notes to get to her heart song. And even if it did take extra time, he found out…

It was worth it.

…

“Why is your heart like this?” he asked, playing her heart song, something sharp and stuttering.

She smiled bitterly. “I’m just a little nervous.”

“Why? For the date?”

She nodded. “I mean, I’m excited to go and he’s a nice guy. I’ve just never been on a date before.”

He hummed. “Would you feel more comfortable if I took you there and took you home?”

She mulled it over, her lips in a line. She didn’t want to bother him.

He smiled. “That’s a yes?” Luka said.

“How do you do that?”

“Magic,” he always said.

It always got her to smile. “Only if you’re willing.”

“Of course. Anything for a friend.”

“Then yes, I’d appreciate that, Luka.”

…

She was fifteen when Luka lead her to a first date for the last time. He would always be there for her, because she was his sister’s friend, because she was her friend, because she meant more to him than just a friend would.

And because he loved her that way, he encouraged her to go chase the guy she really liked.

He regretted it from the selfish standpoint. But he remembered true love wasn’t selfish. She didn’t owe him anything. And she didn’t belong to him. He couldn’t hold onto her nor old her back. So he let her go.

He played his heart song that night, and it sounded an awful lot like the breaking of a guitar string.

…

“Stay still,” she said, holding a sharpie to his arm.

“Why?” he asked with a chuckle.

The sixteen-year-old beauty flipped her hair away as she leveled him with a blue-eyed gaze. She was growing into a stunning woman, and her heart song was beautiful, too.

“You always know how to play people’s feelings,” she said. “While it took me a while, I finally figured out your pattern.”

“My pattern?” he asked, though he surrendered his arm to her as she tugged at it.

She nodded. “Yup. You know how some people walk down the street in a color or a pattern or a symbol that just screams ‘them’?” her face fell when she realized that she was the designer and he was the musician. “Oh, no, that’s not your thing. Anyways, it’s totally a thing, and you have a pattern that I only just figured out.”

He chuckled. She’d dove head first into fashion, and just when Luka was beginning to think she had reached the bottom, she dove deeper. But she was so passionate. Her heart song when she was like this was wild and wonderful and free. He could rock out to it for hours, easily.

Instead of rocking, though, he was listening. Listening to her hum everything from his original tunes to Jagged Stone songs as she doodled on his arm with the sharpie.

Two sharpies, actually. The black was shadows, but everything else was his favorite teal blue. “It suits you,” she had said.

For half an hour, he stayed and relaxed, feeling the sharpie color his arm and watching her expression change with every portion of it.

She grinned when she was done. “Your pattern, sir.”

He looked over the artwork that covered his arm from his shoulder to his wrist. The detail and time she put into it… it just fit. He could hear her heart song sing proudly over the work she’d done. It was such a beautiful sound. He played those chords over and over in his head until he memorized them. “I love it.”

She grinned in pride, and that song took off.

“What’s your symbol, pattern, color?”

She shrugged. “Symbol.”

“What is it?”

“A flower.”

“What kind?”

She shrugged. “A flower.”

“I want to see it,” he said. He looked up and down his arm before pointing to a free patch. “Here. I want to see it.”

She looked at him with a slowly growing smile of amusement. “If you insist.”

“I do.”

Which he rarely ever did.

She pulled out a pink sharpie, one that suited her to a tee, and doodled her flower in that open spot on his arm, right in the crook of his elbow that he could keep protected.

“It suits you,” he said, looking at the flower and feeling a warm beat fill his heart.

She just shrugged.

When she left, his mind raced back to her song. He wrote it down as quick as he could, then began playing it over and over again.

As he looked in the mirror that night and took in the artwork on his arm, the artwork the girl his heart sang for had done just for him, he realized that he couldn’t bear to part with it.

The next morning found him in a tattoo shop. It wasn’t cheap, but walking out at the end of the day, he knew it was worth it.

She was worth any cost.

…

“Luka, you did not get that tattooed on you.”

“I did.”

“I can’t believe you.”

“I like it,” he said with a smile. “Do you have a problem that I’m forever wearing your artwork?”

She shook her head, her grin unable to be hidden. “No,” she eventually said. “Not at all.”

…

He was so excited to share the news with her. Nineteen, and his dreams were coming true in the best way. His favorite artist had heard his stuff, loved it, and was ready to beg and grovel to buy a couple songs.

Luka had laughed at that.

But for the Jagged Stone to come to him and admit he loved Luka’s music was incredible, and Luka was willing to sell a couple on one condition.

“I want to play with you.”

Their impromptu jam session had been amazing. Jagged was a true artist, and Luka counted himself lucky his idol hadn’t let him down. He was a great guy who warned Luka to never stop honing his talent.

“Luka,” his mother called out, “Marinette’s here.”

He was buzzing with energy. And that all came to a halt when he caught sight of her, her heart song playing in his ears. Something slow that tugged on the heart strings and overflowed your tear ducts.

“What happened?”

She sniffed, wiping away a tear. “He just… ended it.”

So they sat on his bed, her head against his shoulder while he played anything that would ease the tears.

“You know,” he said once she had calmed down and was paying attention to his music. “Your heart it beautiful. It beats like this,” and he played for her.

“And I don’t like hearing it sound like this.” He played a few more notes, and he saw a smile pick up on the corners of her lips.

“And for that guy,” he continued. “To just end it like that?” He plucked a few disharmonious chords.

He felt like a winner when she huffed a laugh.

“Thank you, Luka.”

He smiled and continued playing a song for her. “Anything for you, Marinette.”

…

“So you’re really leaving?”

As excited as he was, he hated that the answer to her question was yes.

“Don’t get me wrong,” the eighteen-year-old girl said. “I’m really happy for you. Like, really happy. It’s amazing that you’ll be touring with Jagged Stone and playing your music and I’m really really happy for you to be living your dream.”

He could feel a ‘but’ coming.

She tackled him in a hug. “I’m going to miss you.”

He held her as tightly as he dared. Heaven help him, this was going to rip his heart out. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he lied.

“I know,” she said. “And I know you have to go. This… this is your dream. And people will love you and your songs and it will be amazing. I’m really happy for you.”

But she wasn’t happy. And he wasn’t happy she wasn’t happy.

“Keep in touch,” she begged.

“I promise.” Because his heart couldn’t take it if he didn’t.

…

He was loved by the crowds. People were buying up his music and his gear and talking about how much they loved Jagged Stone’s opening act.

But none of that love came from a girl with a beautiful heart song. They came from screaming fans who all wanted a piece of him. He couldn’t hear their music. He couldn’t play it back to them. But honestly, he didn’t quite care. There was only one song he wanted to hear.

And he hadn’t heard it in months.

Sometimes, he’d play her songs that he’d written down. It reminded him of her. Reminded him of home. Mostly, it grounded him. But there was always a part of him that realized that the songs were just a little emptier than he would like it to be.

“That’s some good stuff, mate,” Jagged commented.

“Thanks, but that’s not something I wrote.”

“Huh. Who wrote it?”

He paused. “People have songs. I just listen for them.”

“I hear where this is going,” Jagged said, smile in his tone. “Your girl?”

“I wish she was my girl,” Luka said. “But she’s just the girl I love.”

Jagged hummed. “You’ve told me about her, I think.”

“Probably,” Luka said with a mirthless smile.

“You see her lately?”

“With time differences and all, I rarely get a call. Mostly its e-mails and texts.”

Jagged hummed his understanding. “You should invite her to a show.”

“She’s busy studying her passion,” Luka said. “I won’t take that away from her.”

“Well, you can’t always go off living your dream while she’s living hers. You two gotta be a part of each other’s dream, too. Penny taught me that.”

Luka smiled in fondness. Jagged may be a rock star with a bunch of women screaming at him for his attention, but he understood the power of one woman vs a thousand. “Yeah, well, I won’t make her sacrifice too much. I’ll wait for her school to go on break.”

Jagged smirked. “Whatever you say. Just be careful that in letting her be, you aren’t pushing her away.”

Luka didn’t like how those words settled in his heart. So he put his guitar away for the night. And didn’t pick it up again until the show.

…

Two weeks later, and he was trying to figure out Marinette’s schedule so he could send her tickets.

“Luka,” Penny called form outside his door at the hotel. “Someone is here to see you.”

His brow furrowed in confusion, but he walked out into the hallway—

And his jaw dropped.

There, in a red tank top and jeans with her hair cascading around her shoulders was the one who made his heart sing.

She smiled. He couldn’t help it, he scooped her up as she flew into his arms, and he spun her in a couple circles before slowly setting her down on the ground.

“I missed you,” he murmured, one arm holding her against him while the other wove into her hair.

“I missed you, too,” she responded.

“How did you know I was here?”

She pulled away, and her expression turned confused. “You weren’t the one to send me tickets?”

“No,” he answered honestly. “I was waiting until you were out of school because I wouldn’t want you to miss it.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh,” she breathed out. “And… and here I thought it was because you didn’t want to see me.”

His eyes widened as something akin to a screeching violin sounded in his head. “Of course I wanted to see you,” he quickly assured. “But I couldn’t ask you to put your dream on hold for me.”

She smiled, a myriad of emotions pouring off her in one wonderful symphony. “It’s one week. That’s not ‘putting my dream on hold’.”

“I still didn’t want to interrupt your school work,” he said. “Design is your passion. Your dream.”

“And you don’t think you’re important enough to interrupt it?”

The tune changed right then and there. Everything changed to suddenly become harmonious and wonderful to his ears, and he could just stand there and listen to it forever.

“Are best friends important enough for that?” he asked quietly.

Her eyes fell away from his, her cheeks suddenly turning pink. However, her eyes fell to his tattoo. More specifically, her symbol in his pattern. Gingerly, she touched it, and he was certain his face turned pink, too.

“Luka,” she began, looking up to meet his gaze. Her breathing quickened, and his heart begged her to say the words he could hear in the wonderful melody rolling off her. “You… you need to know… after you left, things… they weren’t the same.”

“They haven’t been the same for me, either,” he encouraged.

“And…” her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m sorry for taking you for granted.”

“When have you ever?” he asked.

She touched his arm, the one with the tattooed sleeve on it, then looked back up to him. “Friends just don’t spontaneously decide to tattoo a doodle on their arm.”

“It’s my pattern,” he argued.

“Not this part,” she said, rubbing circles with her thumb over her symbol.

He smiled.

The music changed once again as understanding passed between them.

“Luka,” she whispered, her blush deepening. “I’m sorry for only just figuring it out.”

“It’s okay,” he assured.

“I love you.”

He beamed. He couldn’t help it. His fingers buried deep in her hair, wrapping around to cradle the back of her head as he pulled her closer to him. “I have always loved you, Marinette.”

She smiled, leaning into his embrace as he smiled so widely his cheeks hurt.

“And,” he continued as he pulled her against his chest and pressed his nose into her hair. “I always will.”

#miraculous ladybug #fanfiction #Fan-fanfiction? I think #edendaphne is AMAZING!#marinette dupain cheng #luka couffaine #lukanette #romance #friends to lovers

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damienthepious · 5 years

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this week’s lizard kiss fic contains... exactly zero kisses. and is entirely angst. and doesn’t even feature Arum physically. oops. uh, it still counts because it is rad bouquet endgame, fight me.

You Want To Live (When Life Is Achingly Unfair) [Chapter 1]

[ao3]

Archive Warning: Major Character Death

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Sir Damien/Rilla, Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Sir Damien, Rilla, Lord Arum, Sir Angelo

Additional Tags: (angelo isn’t mentioned by name but You Know), (also arum won't technically 'be here' until next chapter), Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Alternate Universe - Orpheus/Eurydice/Hades, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, (though there will NOT be relief until later chapters), Death, (Death but it's Weird when the afterlife is a place you can just Go), Singing

Summary: Damien’s beloved dies in spring. His flower dies, among flowers. This cruelty is not without beauty.

Notes: The Orpheus/Eurydice/Hades au that I've been thinking about since before I even started writing Penumbra fanfic. Please hang in there with me. This is... very different from my usual style. Title from the song Don't Give Up by The Whitest Boy Alive.

Damien’s beloved dies in spring. His flower dies, among flowers. This cruelty is not without beauty.

Damien weeps. He rages. He barters with empty air, beats his fists bloody among lilies in the grass, howls his despair. He cannot understand.

Damien is a poet. Damien knows how stories are meant to go, knows the flow of meeting and curiosity and affection and settling comfort and long long years of peace that should follow. Damien the poet and his clever, keen-eyed betrothed are meant to be in the midst of a beginning, in a place of promise.

Endings come whenever they please, Damien learns, and then he weeps violently enough to make himself ill.

The flowers for their wedding are given new purpose. The ceremony shifts. The almost-widower is expected to speak, and when he is led with strong gentle hands to the front of the congregation he opens his mouth and for long, long minutes he fully believes his gift and his tongue and his own heart have died as well, have crawled in beside Rilla’s motionless, vacant form to be laid to rest.

Words, on their own, cannot carry her weight.

So, Damien sings.

If there are words among the melody, he does not remember them. All in attendance weep, as he weeps. All grieve, as he grieves. Like ribs cracked, like poison, like stillness within. He is led away again. He is caressed with words of comfort. With praise, for his weavers gift, spinning despair into melodic silk. He cannot speak to answer.

His mourning song is begun, his love pouring out from within him, and it will not stop, now. Not until every drop of lamentation is wrung out. Even with his mouth pressed closed, he cannot help but hum.

Damien languishes. Cannot remember hunger, cannot remember thirst. Cannot remember the straining of the sapling towards the sun. Remembers only the weight of Rilla’s smile, and the memory is as stone. Heavy, unmoving, unchanging, until the (distant, distant, still please distant) time when it will erode as well.

No other weight can Damien bear. Not even his own hands. Not even his own head, which bows his neck like the weakest of willows.

Blessed is he, then, with friendship bright and strong enough to lift such weight for him. If friendship need weep to be beside him as he croons and keens, friendship will never, never complain. Friendship will lift sweet water to his lips when they crack from his withering song. Friendship will carry him, feed him, sit beside him and mourn and love and mourn, and believe in change and light and sunrise soft and sweet enough until Damien at last lifts his head again to see it too. He sees the sunlight, sees that love is still here, though it is not the love that pulls his soul from his bones, though it is not the love that pours unceasing from his lips. He begins to play the part of the living again, feeds and cares for the body which still lives, to honor the sacrifices of his friend. To allow his companion, at last, to relent in his vigil.

Damien cannot cease his song, but he will remember, in time, to be half in love with life, for all it reminds him of the woman who once lived and loved him. He sees her smile in the waves, feels her touch in rainstorm gusts, hears her laughter in all laughter, and he aches. He is haunted by life that echoes and remembers the beauty and movement that once was his beloved. He is haunted by these pieces of her that transmute and shift, that move on while she cannot. While he cannot.

Damien falls half in love with death, as well. For it is death who embraces his flower now, and they who love Amaryllis must themself be lovely in turn. She touches everything with light; even death. Even grief.

He is more and less aware. More aware of change. Less aware of time. More attuned to decay, to erosion, to endings. Less aligned with his own body. The world changes, all inevitability running like a river, time unspooling each thread one by one, and all of life is change-

Amaryllis has ceased to change.

The dead are only ever still.

Damien sings, notes that move and flow as time does, notes that slide in subtle knives up his throat but never, ever stop, and the grief within him becomes grief without him, curling the tops of grass and summoning the keening howls of distant wolves. Her death is a living thing, his song a cloak whose hood shades his eyes and trails behind him, touching all.

He wanders, rather than allowing his misery to pool in one place, rather than allowing his pain to fester in the fields of his home. He wanders, and takes his sorrow with him, painting gray across the land.

He wanders, he sings, and rivers flow faster as he passes, tears of the mountains following him down. A copse of dryads wilt and weep with his passing, begging for relief at his heel, and he smiles sadly and quickens his pace, though he cannot put a stopper to his song. The stones shiver underfoot. The earth groans with mourning. The sky cracks, and roils, and pours.

He sings. He sings. Grief, and love, and every way he is changing and unchanging without her. He sings.

Once, his songs were sung in duet. He forgets where harmonies once lived, and he grieves for that as well.

Damien sings. The world listens. Damien yearns, and in some small way Amaryllis lives in echo as the world yearns in his wake.

Helios comes to him, eventually, wearing the face of his friend. Else his friend is sunlight itself and never thought it bore mentioning. The god embraces him, and Damien weeps for comfort, weeps as he did on the very first day, weeps as he sings his every fear and pain and plea, and the god weeps with him. The god weeps with him, but nonetheless Helios smiles when he leans close enough to whisper in Damien’s ear.

Hope is a flower which blooms slowly, and the god is already gone before Damien understands the gift he has been given.

Hope blooms slow, but it also blooms bright and hardy, and Damien knows at last what he must do.

Damien sings, and Damien descends.

End Notes: Oh please hang in there. It will not always be this sad.

#elle's fanfic #the penumbra podcast #second citadel #lizard kissin' tuesday #rad bouquet #sir damien #amaryllis of exile #penumbra au zone #mourning bouquet au #(which is i guess what i'm tagging this *shrug*)

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abreuofcoffee · 5 years

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We Bloom Until We Ache

— Word Count: 2k

— Genre: Hanahaki AU, Angst, Fluff and Light Comedy if you squint very hard enough

Ch. 1 | 2

It was a dark gloomy night, streetlights illuminating the avenue and cars wandering around the city. She stood in front of her apartment building, mindlessly wondering where it all had gone wrong. She thought there was something between them for the past years with him. She did love him very much. But him ? It was all a lie. Recalling what happened just moments ago entered her mind. It was in the midst of their bickering when she asked, “So all of that was, what, just an illusion?”, she asked and looked into his eyes, hoping for something -- anything. “I don’t have anything left to say. You should go” was the only thing he said, voice dull and emotionless. Gathering up all her courage and preventing herself from cracking her voice she said, “I let you get this far with your lies, but I know you well enough, and I think it’s about time we put an end to it.” and she did, she went to their room, packed her bags and left. It was thirty minutes ago when she had broken things up and moved out. Now, she waits for a taxi to pick her up and distract her from her wandering thoughts.

Inside the taxi where she hoped to be distracted from her recent break up, his words still ring and sting through her heart. “Celestine, I don’t want to be with you anymore. I think it’s about time to tell you, i’ve been seeing someone new.”. And that was it, her breaking point. Celestine broke down in a backseat of an old cab, heartbroken and homeless.

Half a month later, she found and moved in her apartment. Filled with hope for a new beginning, she wished to focus on herself and try to forget the things that happened. “Let’s forget the past and move on to the present”. A line that causally became her motto as time went by. The past weeks and days were nothing but hell to her. It was hard getting over someone you’ve loved and known for years. While fixing her things in her new apartment, she saw a photo album. Inside were numerous photos of him -- of them. And suddenly, she laughs. Anyone who can see her state right now would say she’s out of her mind. Her laughs turned to soft whimpers and some tears even escaped her eyes. Soon enough, those whimpers and tears turned to a total breakdown in the middle of her flat. She felt so stupid to believe that they would be able get married someday but the certain turn of events proved her otherwise. Loud sobbing and screams surround her flat as she continues to bawl her eyes out and break down.

There came a knock on her door, not knowing who interrupted her breakdown session, she went to peep who the person was but she became too lazy to tiptoe and peep. “Who would even knock on my door at 3 am?” she murmur. “Who would even does a heavy mental breakdown in the middle of the night? At three 3 am?” said in a tone of both disbelief and worry by the unknown weird person on the other side of the door. With furrowed brows and a confused face plastered on her face, she opened her door and can’t help but ogle at tall good-looking man standing in front of her door, wearing what it seems of a black hoodie and pajamas. Sleep, worry and something else she can’t quite decipher written all over his face. “Are you seriously staring at my face right now? We have other issues, woman!” disbelief laced in his tone as he barged into the said apartment. “I.. uhh.. umm… well… WHAT THE? WHO ARE YOU AND WHY ARE YOU BARGING INTO MY FLAT?” she exclaimed, angrily following the man into her flat. She gasped when she sees him holding a plastic bag holding two large buckets of ice cream. “My name’s Keith and I live next door to you by the way and the reason i’m inside your apartment because apparently I heard someone crying over….. perhaps her ex ? I don’t know for sure but that definitely came into my concern so here we are! I don’t want to see nor hear anyone having a hard time, people should have someone or anyone in that matter to comfort them.”-- having to be raised by a rather tight family, Keith’s used to being a child loved by everyone and he vowed to himself that he will help anyone who is need when he once saw his little sister crying and didn’t know what to do, he felt so helpless that day and that vow to himself was made. “Seeing that you have no one, I gladly accept that position!” he says cheerfully for a person at 3 in the godforsaken morning while removing the ice cream from the plastic bag. “I don’t need anyone to comfort me. I am comfortable by myself and ok as far as i'm concerned, thank you very much.. Keith.” Celestine isn’t really a person who would let someone just barge into her home and tell them her deepest emotions. She thinks it utterly impossible to have someone do that anyway but well, that proved her otherwise tonight. “Oh trust me, you do, darling. And it’s okay, we can go slow and take our time, we have all night anyway. Or perhaps, the whole day?” he chuckled, and Celestine never knew someone’s chuckle could be that cute. Anyways, going back to this weird attractive guy, Celestine is actually thinking through this. What more could she lose, right? And the boy actually seems very trustworthy anyway. Speaking of the devil, he interrupted her thoughts just in time. “What flavor do you want? Mint Chocolate or Cookie Batter?” “The cookie one” she grabbed the cold ice cream with both hands and wrapped a towel around it, to prevent her hands from getting cold. Whilst scooping from her ice cream, she started to open up to this strange neighbor, “Well I used to have this boyfriend for how many years and…”. The night was spent like that, Celestine opened up and Keith dropped few remarks here and there on how awful the break up was and soon after, their conversation moved to other things like how they have mutual interest on contemporary art, Durant, their insights in the latest episode of How To Get Away With Murder and how Keith almost had a criminal offense of vandalising in their college campus’ pristine white walls near the dean’s office and rather in front of the whole football field, showing it on display for the whole campus to see. That night became from one depressing evening of Celestine to somewhere between having a new friend and achieving happiness after a whole month of crying over someone who hurt her.

Few weeks past, bearing with the break up became much more easier with Keith around. He helped her get over him with their Friday movie nights --usually alternating on whose place they will hang out and their ice cream shenanigans in an ice cream shop just a block away from their apartment building. She’s slowly recovering, becoming more of herself and is finally trying to focus and love herself.

During one of their Friday movie nights in her place, Keith noticed something. While she was boringly scrolling through the featured section of Netflix, the television’s light illuminating her face, her hair softly falling from the its previous place behind her ear and her soft grunts and constant complaints of, “I don’t know what to choose! All these movies are all either about love-sick couples or a dumb person trying to escape a haunted house” with a stupefied expression, Keith stayed motionless in his position. He’s suddenly attracted to this beautiful girl sitting next to her. His thoughts surround the fact that it can be possible and it’s not morally right since she just had a quite awful breakup just months ago.“But it can’t be. I’m probably just joking myself. I don’t like her, I just care for her. It’s what i’m here for and what she needs right now, right?” -- he always believed that people sometimes get attracted to chaotic, untimely things and he thinks this is just one of those.

Celestine’s life is actually pretty normal. Being an aspiring writer that hardly gets any acknowledgements on her stories, novels and poems, she had to work in another field for a secured source of income to support herself. That work being said is just being an average corporate staff working eight hours a day. She works as a journalist in one of the most famous magazine and entertainment company that mainly focuses on celebrity news and drama -- the so called “tea” as the millennials and Gen Z people would say. After a tiring day of work, well tiring is actually an understatement. A co-journalist got fired, one A-list celebrity became the most talked about because of their magazine’s latest scoop of the celebrity’s scandal and a famous fashion designer was murdered in front of his house that day, resulting her and the team hurriedly going to the scene for the latest scoop of the happening and to inform the eager netizens about it. All that could be said was she has had enough of that day and just wanna relax in a warm bubble bath with her favorite bath bomb, smelling the relaxing aroma of lavender oil and listening to her favorite R&B playlist. Needless to say, she was met unexpectedly by Keith’s car in front of her company’s building. The car was nice -- more than nice actually, it was a sleek gray SUV with rich and class written all over it. “Do you mind if we catch dinner together and go home?” Keith asked her through the window of the passenger’s seat. “Yeah, why not? I would die for some god-tier food right now” while approaching the vehicle, she noticed pink and red flower petals, daffodil to be exact, scattered along the floor of the car but she just paid no mind to it. On the ride going to the restaurant Keith picked, he kept on talking about this one music artist he just found out recently and how one of that artist’s cover art is of Icarus and he then went on and on talking about greek gods and goddesses and how problematic they are. In that sudden moment due to Keith’s non stop blabbering about greek mythology, Celestine was vastly inspired to write a story that she think would really be acknowledged by the public. Her story would then be about the reincarnations of greek gods and goddesses in the present time, here in 21st century. She hurriedly got her phone out of her pocket and started typing out ideas and the plot of her upcoming story. Little does she know those daffodil petals hold a huge meaning.

It was two weeks after that Friday night where Keith denied himself of falling in love with his neighbor that he started to weirdly cough up flowers. Weird. He thought, “Ah! Maybe I accidentally swallowed some at the flower shop earlier.”. But then, it didn’t stop there. It occurred frequently, especially when Celestine enters his mind or whenever he tries to see her (but he fails anyway, because of his current situation of coughing flowers). And so, he went to a doctor to find out what is happening to him. He found out that he is having a condition called Hanahaki Disease and it is quite deadly. The root cause of this disease is unrequited love, the person who has Hanahaki definitely is experiencing unrequited love. Flowers bloom in the patient’s lungs and the harder the patient falls in an unrequited love with someone, the more it congests in the lungs and making the patient cough it up. If it gets worse, the congestion of the flowers blooming will cause the death of the patient. This disease entails unrequited love and will be the inevitable cause of the person’s death. Knowing his condition, he continues to be by Celestine’s side -- as a friend who needs him and as someone who loves her secretly.

#text #text au #scenario #imagine #freeform #spilled writing #word vomit #spilled ink #love letter #love #writes #writing #free write #asl writes

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ukdamo · 3 years

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A Manchester Poem

George Macdonald

'Tis a poor drizzly morning, dark and sad. The cloud has fallen, and filled with fold on fold The chimneyed city; and the smoke is caught, And spreads diluted in the cloud, and sinks, A black precipitate, on miry streets. And faces grey glide through the darkened fog. Slave engines utter again their ugly growl, And soon the iron bands and blocks of stone That prison them to their task, will strain and quiver Until the city tremble. The clamour of bells, Importunate, keeps calling pale-faced forms To gather and feed those Samsons' groaning strength With labour; and among the many come A man and woman - the woman with her gown Drawn over her head, the man with bended neck Submissive to the rain. Amid the jar, And clash, and shudder of the awful force, They enter and part - each to a different task, But each a soul of knowledge to brute force, Working a will through the organized whole Of cranks and belts and levers, pinions and screws Wherewith small man has eked his body out, And made himself a mighty, weary giant. In labour close they pass the murky day, 'Mid floating dust of swift-revolving wheels, And filmy spoil of quick contorted threads, Which weave a sultry chaos all about; Until, at length, old darkness, swelling slow Up from the caves of night to make an end, Chokes in its tide the clanking of the looms, The monster-engines, and the flying gear. 'Tis Earth that draws her curtains, and calls home Her little ones, and sets her down to nurse Her tired children - like a mother-ghost With her neglected darlings in the dark. So out they walk, with sense of glad release, And home - to a dreary place! Unfinished walls, Earth-heaps, and broken bricks, and muddy pools Lie round it like a rampart against the spring, The summer, and all sieges of the year. But, Lo, the dark has opened an eye of fire! The room reveals a temple, witnessed by signs Seen in the ancient place! Lo, here is light, Yea, burning fire, with darkness on its skirts; Pure water, ready to baptize; and bread; And in the twilight edges of the light, A book; and, for the cunning-woven veil, Their faces - hiding God's own holiest place! Even their bed figures the would-be grave Where One arose triumphant, slept no more! So at their altar-table they sit down To eat their Eucharist; for, to the heart That reads the live will in the dead command, He is the bread, yea, all of every meal. But as, in weary rest, they silent sit, They gradually grow aware of light That overcomes their lamp, and, through the blind, Casts from the window-frame two shadow-glooms That make a cross of darkness on the white. The woman rises, eagerly looks out: Lo, some fair wind has mown the earth-sprung fog, And, far aloft, the white exultant moon, From her blue window, curtained all with white, Looks greeting them - God's creatures they and she! Smiling she turns; he understands the smile: To-morrow will be fair - as holy, fair! And lying down, in sleep they die till morn, While through their night throb low aurora-gleams Of resurrection and the coming dawn. They wake: 'tis Sunday. Still the moon is there, But thin and ghostly-clothed upon with light, As if, while they were sleeping, she had died. They dress themselves, like priests, in clean attire, And, through their lowly door, enter God's room. The sun is up, the emblem on his shield. One side the street, the windows all are moons To light the other side that lies in shade. See, down the sun-side, an old woman come In a red cloak that makes the whole street glad! A long-belated autumn-flower she seems, Dazed by the rushing of the new-born life Up hidden stairs to see the calling sun, But in her cloak and smile they know the spring, And haste to meet her through slow dissolving streets Widening to larger glimmers of growing green. Oh, far away the streets repel the spring! Yet every stone in the dull pavement shares The life that thrills anew the outworn earth, A right Bethesda angel - for all, not some! A street unfinished leads them forth at length Where green fields bask, and hedgerow trees, apart, Stand waiting in the air as for some good, And the sky is broad and blue - and there is all! No peaceful river meditates along The weary flat to the less level sea! No forest brown, on pillared stems, its boughs Meeting in gothic arches, bears aloft A groined vault, fretted with tremulous leaves! No mountains lift their snows, and send their brooks Down babbling with the news of silent things! But love itself is commonest of all, And loveliest of all, in all the worlds! And he that hath not forest, brook, or hill, Must learn to read aright what commoner books Unfold before him. If ocean solitudes - Then darkness dashed with glory, infinite shades, And misty minglings of the sea and sky. If only fields - the humble man of heart Will revel in the grass beneath his foot, And from the lea lift his glad eye to heaven, God's palette, where his careless painter-hand Sweeps comet-clouds that net the gazing soul; Streaks endless stairs, and blots half-sculptured blocks; Curves filmy pallors; heaps huge mountain-crags; Nor touches where it leaves not beauty's mark. To them the sun and air are feast enough, As through field-paths and lanes they slowly walk; But sometimes, on the far horizon dim A veil is lifted, and they spy the hills, Cloudlike and faint, yet sharp against the sky; Then wakes an unknown want, which asks and looks As for some thing forgot - loved long ago, But on the hither verge of childhood dropt: 'Tis but home-sickness roused in the soul by Spring! Fresh birth and eager growth, reviving life, Which is because it would be, fill the world;

The very light is new-born with the grass; The stones themselves are warm; the brown earth swells, Filled, sponge-like, with dark beams, which nestle close And brood unseen and shy, and potent warm In every little corner, nest, and crack Where buried lurks a blind and sleepy seed Waiting the touch of the finger of the sun. The mossy stems and boughs, where yet no life Oozes exuberant in brown and green, Are clad in golden splendours, crossed and lined With shuttle-shadows weaving lovely change. Through the tree-tops the west wind rushing goes, Calling and rousing the dull sap within: The fine jar down the stem sinks tremulous, From airy root thrilling to earthy branch. And though as yet no buddy baby dots Sparkle the darkness of the hedgerow twigs, The smoke-dried bark appears to spread and swell In the soft nurture of the warm light-bath. The sun had left behind him the keystone Of his low arch half-way when they turned home, Filled with pure air, and light, and operant spring: Back, like the bees, they went to their dark house To store their innocent spoil in honeyed thought. But on their way, crossing a field, they chanced Upon a spot where once had been a home, And roots of walls still peered out, grown with moss. 'Twas a dead cottage, mouldered quite, where yet Lay the old shadow of a vanished care; The little garden's blunt, half-blotted map Was yet discernible by thinner grass Upon the walks. There, in the midst of dry Bushes, dead flowers, rampant, uncomely weeds, A single snowdrop drooped its snowy drop, The lonely remnant of a family That in the garden dwelt about the home - Reviving with the spring when home was gone: They see; its spiritual counterpart Wakes up and blossoms white in their meek souls - A longing, patient, waiting hopefulness, The snowdrop of the heart; a heavenly child, That, pale with the earthly cold, hangs its fair head As it had nought to say 'gainst any world; While they in whom it dwells, nor knows itself, Inherit in their meekness all the worlds. I love thee, flower, as a slow lingerer Upon the verge of my humanity. Lo, on thine inner leaves and in thy heart The loveliest green, acknowledging the grass - White-minded memory of lowly friends! But almost more I love thee for the earth Which clings to thy transfigured radiancy, Uplifted with thee from thine abandoned grave; Say rather the soiling of thy garments pure Upon thy road into the light and air, The heaven of thy new birth. Some gentle rain Will one day wash thee white, and send the earth Back to the earth; but, sweet friend, while it clings, I love the cognizance of our family. With careful hands uprooting it, they bore The little plant a willing captive home - Fearless of dark abode, because secure In its own tale of light. As once of old The angel of the annunciation shone, Bearing all heaven into a common house, It brings in with it field and sky and air. A pot of mould its one poor tie to earth, Its heaven an ell of blue 'twixt chimney-tops, Its world the priests of that small temple-room, It takes its prophet-place with fire and book, Type of primeval spring, whose mighty arc Hath not yet drawn the summer up the sky. At night, when the dark shadow of the cross Will enter, clothed in moonlight, still and wan Like a pale mourner at its foot the flower Will, drooping, wait the dawn. Then the dark bird Which holds breast-caged the secret of the sun, And therefore hangs himself a prisoner caged, Will break into its song-Lo, God is light! Weary and hopeful, to their sleep they go; And all night long the snowdrop glimmers white Thinning the dark, unknowing it, and unseen. Out of my verse I woke, and saw my room, My precious books, the cherub-forms above, And rose, and walked abroad, and sought the woods; And roving odours met me on my way. I entered Nature's church, a shimmering vault Of boughs, and clouded leaves - filmy and pale Betwixt me and the sun, while at my feet Their shadows, dark and seeming solid, lay Like tombstones o'er the vanished flowers of Spring. The place was silent, save for the broken song Of some Memnonian, glory-stricken bird That burst into a carol and was still; It was not lonely: golden beetles crept, Green goblins, in the roots; and squirrel things Ran, wild as cherubs, through the tracery; And here and yonder a flaky butterfly Was doubting in the air, scarlet and blue. But 'twixt my heart and summer's perfect grace, Drove a dividing wedge, and far away It seemed, like voice heard loud yet far away By one who, waking half, soon sleeps outright:- Where was the snowdrop? where the flower of hope? In me the spring was throbbing; round me lay Resting fulfilled, the odour-breathing summer! My heart heaved swelling like a prisoned bud, And summer crushed it with its weight of light! Winter is full of stings and sharp reproofs, Healthsome, not hurtful, but yet hurting sore; Summer is too complete for growing hearts - Too idle its noons, its morns too triumphing, Too full of slumberous dreams its dusky eves; Autumn is full of ripeness and the grave; We need a broken season, where the cloud Is ruffled into glory, and the dark Falls rainful o'er the sunset; need a world Whose shadows ever point away from it; A scheme of cones abrupt, and flattened spheres, And circles cut, and perfect laws the while That marvellous imperfection ever points To higher perfectness than heart can think; Therefore to us, a flower of harassed Spring, Crocus, or primrose, or anemone, Is lovely as was never rosiest rose; A heath-bell on a waste, lonely and dry, Says more than lily, stately in breathing white; A window through a vaulted roof of rain Lets in a light that comes from farther away, And, sinking deeper, spreads a finer joy Than cloudless noon-tide splendorous o'er the world: Man seeks a better home than Paradise; Therefore high hope is more than deepest joy, A disappointment better than a feast, And the first daisy on a wind-swept lea Dearer than Eden-groves with rivers four.

#manchester #industrial landscape #nature #seasons #hope #snowdrop #winter #sunday #rest

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peterjonesparker · 7 years

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Are you interested in any oyher Spiderman characters? (Homecoming and/or not?)

oh hello!! honestly, i really loved all the characters in spiderman: homecoming. and i’m gonna be so extra right now and like…give mini headcanons for all my babes. so i’m sorry in advance. but like…

we have our decathlon team babies

so like…liz is totally the mama bear. she’s the only senior on the team because she was one of the founding members her junior year and her friends were all too busy focusing on their other extracurriculars and college apps so it was just a bunch of little freshman she’d managed to convince to join the team

and liz did so much research and trained the team and asked her cousin who won a decathlon competition when he was in high school what was helpful for their team

so she takes over and gets mr. harrington to work with the team and she shapes the team into one that could win

and they’re all her babies like let’s be honest

charles and abraham are the twins that are attached at the hip but never stop fighting. they’re the dynamic duo and what abraham doesn’t know, charles does. they’re best friends and they hang out all the time and they obsess over star trek and have a secret rivalry going on with ned and peter because they are the star wars kids. and they’re sworn to hate each other until the end of time. (but also charles and abraham will freak out when the trailer for the last jedi gets released and immediately text the group chat nerds in space to ask peter and ned what they thought.) and abraham has to smack charles on the head when the boy catches his friend staring at sally for too long and charles just mumbles something about how she had something on her shirt and it’s fine.

and then you have sally and cindy. who are just like…so done with the team half the time. like, you’ve got peter, ned, charles, and abraham who just spend all their time obsessing over space themed movies. and flash just constantly berates everyone. michelle is lowkey kinda scary. (they are also lowkey in love with her but shhh.) and liz is like…well, liz is their mom so they love liz. but even mr. harrington is a mess. but sally and cindy make the best of it because they love each other and they love decathlon and they watch a week’s worth of jeopardy together every sunday and they quiz each other in cindy’s mom’s car on the way to school. and they talk about sally’s small, minuscule crush on charles (”really, sally? charles??? he’s a nerd!!” “you think i don’t know that and am also disappointed in myself!!” “oh my goodness but you guys would be so cute who am i kidding”) and they talk about cindy’s very large crush on betty brant (”cindy, she totally checked you out just now!!” “wHAT? omg, how is my hair??”). and they talk about which classes they’re taking so they can be in most of the same classes and they talk about college and their hearts lowkey break when they think about how cindy wants to stay in new york and sally wants to go to the west coast but they’ll be bffs forever so they have hope. (”we have skype, it’ll be okay, yeah?”)

and then you have flash. and flash has got so much shit going on like wtf dude. his parents are super wealthy and try to support him and try to be there but they’re always traveling for work and he’s basically been raised by his nanny. so it’s his nanny who pesters him about this massive crush he has on someone on the decathlon team because each day she picks him up from decathlon practice he’s always raging and sighing and looking sad. and flash just vehemently denies this. because that’s ridiculous, please don’t suggest something like that. but she knows him so well. she’s raised him. she just doesn’t realize that it’s fucking peter parker. peter parker who he terrorizes because he doesn’t want to deal with how he’s feeling. peter parker who has a great ass that he couldn’t help but slap that one time before nationals on the way to the pool. peter parker, who’s a dork and definitely not worthy of flash’s attention but has it anyway. so, maybe he’s not dealing healthily. but he’s got a silent war raging in his head and he doesn’t want to have to tell his parents that he’s bi because once his dad had made an offhand comment and it decided things for him. so flash just…rages and hides behind his wealth and intelligence and snaky comments. because he doesn’t wanna deal with anything

and omg i’ve talked about peter and mj and even ned a bit so i won’t write about them here but i love my babies so much okay???

we also have our peter parker protection squad

may parker, the loml. who’s characterization i can never get bc we have civil war may and then also homecoming may. but may parker who is a hero in her own right because we all know about that scene where she saves a little girl and doesn’t mention it that got cut from the movie. (rip me, honestly.) and like…can we talk about may?? because she seems like such a groovy, fun loving person. and she was married to her husband ben. they were totally wild in college or something. just…always doing crazy shit and laughing and having sex and just enjoying being with each other. and then they get married and get jobs and live together, being happy little hippies. (maybe they partake in some substances, idk, you never know.) and then her husband’s brother and wife die and they’re taking in peter parker. and may falls in love with this little boy because he’s so…good. and she and ben raise him as their own and try to give him an exciting and happy childhood and encourage his interests in science and his friendship with ned. and then he tells them he’s joining the decathlon team and there’s a field trip and he’s so excited about life. and then he acts all dodgy and then ben dies. and like…may is heartbroken. because ben was her person. and peter’s stopped talking to her. but then he gets the stark internship (which he didn’t tell her about, so rude) and then he’s happy and if he’s happy then she’s happy because she takes every good thing she can these days because they are so far and few between. so she takes every little piece of happiness she can find in life. like talking to mr. delmar and chatting with his daughter she’s she in the shop. like the woman who sells flowers on the corner on her way to work. like the cute couple that works at the supermarket by the apartment who give her recipes like ones for walnut date bread. and even like tony stark, who for whatever reason has become peter’s mentor of sorts and who makes him happy. and if someone makes her nephew happy, they make her happy

and dad!tony. who gives his spider son anything he wants and invites him upstate every so often so he can train with the avengers and learn to control his powers. because even if he isn’t going to be an avenger, he’s still going to be your friendly neighborhood spiderman. and he throws peter parker a birthday party in the summer at a fancy restaurant he’s bought out for the night. and all of peter’s little high school friends come and tony’s happy to give this to peter because the kid just needs to be a kid and needs to be happy. and don’t think tony doesn’t notice the way peter’s eyes follow that girl michelle all night. the girl who’s also asking him all these questions about the sokovia accords and his decision to move upstate and how he almost let a bunch of avenger and alien tech get stolen and about wakanda and if he’s ever been. and tony just wishes peter good luck at the end of the night and smiles because the boy is so confused. (if peter doesn’t realize it yet, oh goodness, good luck to this boy, honestly.) and tony pulls some strings to make sure that peter gets into mit and then finds out that he didn’t even need to because peter’s already a great candidate. and when he helps peter move into his dorm and sees michelle there, who just so happens to go to harvard down the block, well, peter just smiles and wishes peter good luck again

happy hogan disappointed me and doesn’t get to have a whole paragraph. but he can REDEEM HIMSELF later on because peter is a smol bean and needs protection and happy starts answering his calls and listening to his voicemails. and maybe happy laughs occasionally at the lame jokes peter makes, but that’s bESIDE THE POINT

and then just like...our small mentions

aaron davis exists in mcu and mentioned his nephew MILES MORALES. like, dude, idek what they’re gonna do with miles morales but i am soooo hype. idek. i am just so excited. bc donald glover was inspired as aaron davis. (“i like bread!) he was such a cool character and i wanna know if he becomes the prowler. and i wanna see him with his family and talking to his little nephew about how he met spiderman twice and he was like…a chill dude and he’s doing his part to keep their home safe. and miles morales is probably like…the biggest fan of spiderman and dresses up as him for halloween and then one day he gets bitten by this crazy huge spider while visiting his favorite uncle aaron and he starts developing superpowers? like omg this is his greatest dream come true? and then he starts going out in hopes of finding spiderman so he can team up with the dude that once saved his uncle. and then one day he’s trying to stop a mugging and spiderman comes and is just like…”what??” so they stop the muggers and then they go to a rooftop and spiderman is super confused like, “what? you have my powers?? how did this happen?” and miles is just like, “omg! you’re the spiderman! you’re my hero! omg! hi, i just want to help!!” and then maybe we get an older and younger brother dynamic between the two? idk i’m just excited to see what happens because they have to put miles morales in mcu. it’s decided

also i don’t think she’s gonna be in mcu but i love my baby gwen stacy. my smart beautiful dorky bean gwen. and i love when she’s put into fics. and she was put into this fic as liz allan’s love interest and it was inspired and i fell in love. so. yes. #putgweninfic2k17

not sure if this is what you were asking for but here it is anyway!

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ohlookahiddenblade · 7 years

Text

Little Town [Part 1]

Words: 3292

Summary: Overall - Reader moves to London to escape her ties with her father and the Templar Order. In the process she makes friends with Jacob Frye and comes to the realization the world is a small place. Eventual Jacob x f!Reader.

Warnings: None as of now.

Author’s Note: Oh dear, what is this? I don’t even really know to be honest. I’ve been poking it with a pointy stick all day, but I told myself it was going up. It’s a bit slow at first, but now that intros are done there should be some Frye fun. You’ll probably notice it has some inspiration from Beauty and the Beast, as I’ve been watching it all week. Whoops. Good news - I still have a job and got a promotion of sorts. So that’s what I’ve been doing. Now that I’m stretching my legs (and hopefully not butchering Mr. Frye) I’m hoping to get some requests out. Much love <3

The sun had barely risen above the horizon when you made your way to the station. Faint whispers hovered in clumps of mumbled conversations, none of which you paid any particular attention to. There was nothing worth your attention in this small little corner of the quaint little village you had called home for the last ten years of your life. A variety of people littered the station's boarding area – more than you thought there would be at this time of the morning. The children looked considerably duller than their parents, but you had to admit you would be too if the thrill of adventure hadn't been thrumming through your veins. Adrenaline crept up your spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake as the large steam engine came pulling into the station.

A frown tugged at the corner of your lips as a group of women fell silent in the brief moment you walked past, their eyes bearing down on you. Soon all of that would be behind you. The gossiping whispers – the side-eyed looks - all of it would disappear the moment you stepped into London. London was too big of a city to draw much attention to yourself, much unlike here where everyone knew everyone else. Your father's wealthy and powerful reputation had not spared you the mumbled breathless comments of 'odd girl'.

Perhaps that was something to be proud of. You had branched away from family tradition, losing yourself for hours in books, sometimes while wandering the outer lying fields. Escape was always at your fingertips, even when your father was scolding you for straying from your preordained purpose. You were not meant to be a Templar as he so readily declared; you had decided that long ago. Though you agreed that the Order's purpose was certainly ambitious, it wasn't a place you could see yourself staying. There was so much to see and do in the world, and this little place was not going to further that.

Your younger brother had always been a better study anyways.

Hesitating, you looked over your shoulder, swearing you could almost see your father's angry and disappointed face staring back at you. But it wasn't. He wasn't standing in the crowd, his arms crossed sternly over a chest bearing the symbol of the Order. No, there were only ordinary people in an ordinary place.

The steam engine's whistle shrieked unhappily as the brakes squeaked the massive contraption to a stop. The cars were filed neatly behind it, painted a dark green color. It was a nice sophisticated contrast to the jet black engine sitting at the helm. People exited, oblivious to everything going on around them it seemed. Once they were clear, the small group of waiting passengers began to board. No one shoved or jostled another, instead patiently waiting their turn. Even the children remained compliant as their mothers ushered them forward.

Uncertainty had begun to settle like a rock in the pit of your stomach, lodging what felt like pebbles of doubt in your throat. No, now was not the time for soul searching, as if you could somehow convince yourself that this was where you were meant to stay. Steeling yourself, you straightened, adjusted a pack that was sitting slightly heavier on your shoulder, and strode through the mouth of the car. You were going to do this – you were going to go to a place where you could start over, where no one would know your name.

You were going to London.

Tugging the shawl tighter around your shoulders, you tilted your head to let the warmth of the spring sun run along your jaw and cheek. It was a relief from the still frigid air, a small glimpse of hope that summer was coming. Bringing your gaze back down to the cobblestone street, your eye trailed over the people slowly coming out of their homes. Women dressed in fabrics of muted blues, greens, and browns filed down the way, some accompanied by children, empty baskets resting in the crooks of their elbows.

London was slowly coming to life, and it was time for you to hurry to the orphanage. Clutching a weathered book to your chest, you looked both ways before stepping into the street, weaving through the variously decorated stalls. Vendors boasted their wares, some of which you were sure were exaggerated, their tables littered with colorful food and flowers. Turning, you begun to walk towards the bridge when a hand came out to stop you.

Whirling around, you frowned as a finely dressed young man held out a bright yellow daisy to you. He was a familiar face – one you had seen around town every once in a while. Though you had never spoken to him, he gave you the impression that he was mostly harmless. His bright hazel eyes were sparkling with a mischievous mirth, coupled with a charming smirk that made him rather cute. Add in the dash of slicked back brown hair beneath his cap and you would even dare to call him handsome.

You opened your mouth, about to decline the offer as you were sure he was going to try to sell it to you, when he spoke. “A beautiful flower for a beautiful lady. Enjoy your day, miss.”

His voice was smooth as silk, though friendly, and all the anxious tension in your back melted away. You reached out, taking the delicate flower from his fingers. “Thank you, sir,” you said, offering him a small smile before turning back to go on your way.

Yet, as you walked towards the Thames, you felt a chill run up your spine as if you were being watched. Your pace faltered as you glanced over your shoulder. No one immediately stood out as suspicious. Everyone seemed absorbed in their own business, bustling around as more bodies began to fill the streets. A part of you had expected to see the man with bright hazel eyes and charming smile. Instead, no one seemed to realize you even existed, which was a relief in itself.

Laughing softly under your breath at yourself, you shook your head and continued walking, crossing the broad river. You were being absolutely ridiculous; several months had already passed since your arrival in London. If nothing else, your father was a very resourceful man, and if he wanted to find you he would have already. It wasn't as if he didn't know where you had gone, either. At the end of your last dispute you had made it clear that you were leaving for the city – not to mention it was overrun with members of the Order. Perhaps not a good choice for a getaway.

The excitement of your new found freedom still simmered in your blood, and you didn't want to lose that.

Drawing yourself up, you began to cross the wide river, the daisy pressed gently against the leather bound book. The carriages rumbled past, the horses' hooves clapping rhythmically against the stones. Your boots carried the same beat as you made it to the other side, hanging a right onto a small side street that would wind through the clustered homes to the City of London district.

The back alleys were considerably quieter, only the occasional stray dog and line of drying laundry to be seen. It made the rest of the journey only that much more pleasant. You preferred to use your walks to and from the orphanage as time for reflection.

Emerging back into the sunlight lazily draped across the brick buildings, you turned left and then hung a quick right, following the street up to a small cute little building. It was made of the same brick as the rest of the surrounding structures. The only difference was the roof had quite the patch job and the paint on the low fence needed to be touched up. The path leading up to the door was uneven, creating a hazard if one wasn't careful. Still, it filled your belly with warmth as you pressed the gate open. It creaked and groaned in protest under your touch, but quickly fell silent as you allowed it to fall closed behind you.

Even from the fence you could hear several excited squeals inside. Several little red faces peered out from the large window, their quick breaths fogging up the glass. “[Y/N]!” a little girl squealed as she pulled the wooden door open.

She couldn't have been more than seven, and was always eager to be the first to greet you when stopped by. “Sophie,” you greeted pleasantly, wrapping your arms around her gently as she ran to you. “Come, let's go grab the others. We can sit outside during lessons today.”

The girl giggled happily, her bright red curly hair bouncing around her shoulders as she tore back into the building to grab the other children. An older woman with short peppered hair stood in the doorway, leaning against it lightly as she watched the exchange. She didn't seem cross, or even phased by the squealing. “Ms. Penny,” you said lightly, tipping your head.

“Welcome, [Y/N]. I must stop by the market today. I don't supposed you would mind watching the children while I go? Ms. Caroline won't be in until later, and I would prefer to get started early with the cooking,” the older woman asked.

“Of course not, Ms. Penny. We'll be fine, as long as John doesn't start a fight this time,” you joked, your mind briefly flitting to when the young boy had nearly started an all out brawl over a few pieces of candy.

Ms. Penny rolled her eyes, but nodded. “Only heaven knows how I have patience for that child.”

“You're a saint,” you offered with a small smile. “Go on, then. We're going to get started.”

The older woman nodded and expressed her thanks before reentering the small house. Not a moment after her disappearance seven children came filing out. They were a mix of boys and girls between the ages of four and nine. Some had missing teeth, their gap-toothed smiles radiant as they saw you. Others were merely gruff looking, but you could easily see past the indifference.

“Ready?” you asked easily.

“Yes, Ms. [Y/N],” they replied in unison.

Satisfied, you smoothed the skirts of your dress and sat down on the edge of a stone bench, opening the book to the latest chapter. The group crowded around you, each vying for the seats closest to you. Sophie had managed to wiggle into your lap, her fingers tracing the words on the page as you began to read out loud. With the warmth of the sun on your back, you lost yourself in the ink and paper.

“Goodnight, Ms. Penny,” you said, offering her a smile. With a full belly you were more than happy to trudge back to your bed. It was a humble little room out of many in the building, but it was yours. To be honest, you really couldn't wait to get back to continue reading the book you had started the night before.

“Are you sure you'll be alright?” Ms. Penny asked, a hint of worry in her voice as she glanced up at the darkening sky. It had taken on darker tones of blue, casting a shadow down on the city that was only broken by the gas lights dotting the street.

“I'll be fine,” you assured. “It really isn't that far.”

“Goodnight then. We will see you next week.”

Bowing your head, you turned and began to make your way back to the bridge. Your boots clanked lightly against the street, the book at its usual place against your chest. The only difference was the daisy lightly pressed between its pages. The petals held their shape, though the stem drooped slightly from a day's use as a bookmark. Scrunching your nose against the pungent smell of tobacco, you decided to take the main road back to the Thames. The journey would have been quicker by carriage, but the little money you had in your pockets had to be saved for your landlord.

Cocking your head, you noticed several men standing off to the side, chatting quietly. Their bright red jackets made you inwardly cringe. The local gang was well known, though there were rumors going around that a new crew had taken up residence in Whitechapel. It wasn't news you had kept close attention to, but your neighbor had a mouth the size of the borough, so it was impossible not to hear.

Shrugging the uneasiness away with a good roll of your shoulders, you kept your eyes on the road in front of you. An indistinct dark shape ahead of you forced tension back into your spine as you tightened your grip on your book. The man took shape, but seemed to take no notice of you as he silently continued.

In several more paces you had come to the familiar bridge spanning the Thames. It looked different in the moonlight, almost sullen, as the hard edges became lined with shadows. The traffic was just as sparse here as it had been back in the streets, giving you at least a little comfort. Glancing over the wall, you noticed how the light reflected off the surface of the water like glass. It certainly made it more beautiful than it was in the daylight. Your steps slowed until they fully stopped. The small village, while beautiful in its own way, had nothing on the city. Against your better judgment you lingered, admiring the stillness of the boats along the docks.

A sound caught your attention, drawing your gaze to a hunched over man leaning against the wall. He seemed ill, but every alarm bell was ringing in the back of your head, drawing you away from him. Turning, the breath was quickly snatched from your lungs as you collided with something very solid. A hand came out to steady you; the touch that lingered was gentle, though the fingers were calloused.

“Pardon me, miss,” a voice you recognized rang softly.

“I'm so sorry,” you breathed, gasping to regain control of your nerves.

The man from the market earlier in the day stood just a pace from you, his head tilted as he observed you for a moment. It was almost uncomfortable the way he stared, the hairs along the back of your neck standing up. He gave a wave of his hand, his sharp gaze moving from you to the man behind you, and then back.

“Please, allow me to walk you home,” he offered.

You hesitated, looking around. “Oh, it's really fine,” you insisted. “Mr.?”

“Jacob Frye at your service,” he replied, glancing around as well. “Wouldn't do for you to run into any trouble on your way home, now would it?”

He was right as much as you hated to admit it. You were more than capable of taking care of yourself, but the streets of London weren't always forgiving and with it being so late it was taking a bigger chance. Despite your reservations you found yourself nodding. “That would be great. Thank you, Mr. Frye.”

“After you, miss,” he said, flashing you a small grin as he gestured for you to lead the way.

“[Y/N],” you replied, giving him a small smile of your own.

He tipped his hat. “[Y/N],” he repeated, almost as if he was testing to see how it would roll off his tongue.

The two of you walked in relative silence, asking a question here and there about the other but not too much as to be invasive. You had to admit it was kind of nice to have the company, and it felt short lived as you approached the door to the building. Reaching into your pocket, you pulled out a key, only to have confusion and panic hit you as it failed to open the lock. Heat flushed your cheeks a bright pink that was hidden by the dark as you cleared your throat and tried again.

“Oh, well, this is awkward,” you choked out, glancing around. “This is the right place, I swear. I don't understand why I can't get in.”

Jacob raised a brow and looked at the door, trailing up the side of the building. None of the windows were open, leaving him with the option of breaking one of them out. While normally he may not have thought twice about it, he doubted you wanted shattered glass all over the place. Instead, he cleared his throat softly and looked at you, noting the distress lines creasing your brow.

“If I may?”

You looked at him questioningly, your stomach knotting as you rubbed the skin along your arms. When you remained silent he continued. “I have a place not far from here with an empty room. You are welcome to it, and I'm sure my sister has left some of her things there.”

Alarm tightened the muscles along your neck and shoulders, uneasiness threatening to suffocate you. As you considered your options, you realized they were few and rather pitiful. A room sounded much better than freezing to death in the early spring night air. Again you found yourself nodding in agreement.

“I would appreciate it.”

“Right this way, then.” Jacob seemed pleased with your acceptance as he turned, leading the way towards Whitechapel. It didn't take long to come up on a building set apart from the rest. It was several stories tall with various windows, made squarely from wood. It didn't look weathered – normal might be a word you would use to describe it.

Jacob strolled up to the door without a care, opening the door with ease. Despite his self-assured posture, he seemed to tip-toe across the threshold into the darkened house. You followed suit, being as quiet as you could be as he led you to a room not far past the entry way. “Here we are, then,” he whispered, pushing the bedroom door open.

It was a cozy little room with a simple bed, dresser, and desk with chair. The bed was made up with some linens and a candle sat unlit on the polished wooden desk.

“Everything you need should be here. Some of the lads may be here in the morning, so don't be alarmed if you hear them,” he said simply.

“I... thank you, Mr. Frye. I appreciate it.”

You wanted to ask him the dozens of questions that were buzzing in the back of your mind, but the late hour stilled your tongue. On top of exhaustion, it would be rude to ask your host so many questions. Without another word you slipped into the room before you changed your mind and let the door gently shut.

Jacob's footfalls gradually echoed and died, leaving you alone in the foreign room. Taking a deep breath, you quietly wedged the chair under the door handle. It wouldn't hold against any real assault, but it would at least serve as an alarm and give you the opportunity to get your wits about you. In the dresser you found a pair of casual pants and woven shirt. They were a bit loose, but you wouldn't complain.

Climbing into the bed, you finally allowed yourself to relax, the tension seeping away. You didn't have much time to reflect on what had happened as exhaustion tugged at the corners of your mind. There was so much to do in the morning, and you felt obligated to find out more about your proverbial knight in shining armor. But for now, sleep.

#jacob frye #jacob x reader #jacob frye x reader #ac syndicate

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