#inspires father related content who knew

[tethered-heartstrings]

causing psychological damage on father's day one abigail post at a time

#girl had three father's and they were all terrible #i have so much queued up for today lol sorry in advance #i guess the show about corrupt fatherhood with a character that has complicated relationships and feelings abut her father(s) #inspires father related content who knew #the speaking clown #abigail hobbs #hannibal #hannibal nbc #nbc hannibal #will graham #hannibal lecter

[featherandferns]

rumours (fic)

jj maybank x grumpy!fem!reader | HEAVILY inspired

content warning: mentions of drinking and smoking; absent parents

word count: 20k.

blurb: your life has been surrounded by rumours, and so has JJ Maybank's. One night, out of the blue, he strikes up a conversation with you. From there, the rumours only grow, and some rumours are far worse than others.

There was a rumour that you and your sister weren’t allowed to date until graduating high school. That one was true, until March of Junior Year.

Kildare Academy was full of spoilt assholes.

Well, in fairness, not everyone fit into that category. Some people were spoilt but bearable, and some people were assholes but not particularly spoilt. Rafe Cameron was the perfect culmination of both. He was in your junior year despite being a senior. He flunked so hard last year that the academy insisted that he retake it to graduate with a subpar diploma. At the yacht club, it had been the talk for about two months, much to the displeasure of Ward and Rose Cameron. You’d found yourself sharing nearly every class with Rafe since the year started and, man oh man, was it torture.

He found you the perfect bear to poke, never passing the opportunity to make a jab about your clothes or your face or your overall demeanour. The latter to mean that you weren’t the most approachable of people. Whilst you self-described as tempestuous, others might prefer the term ‘heinous bitch’. Rafe Cameron knew how to push your buttons it seemed, and you in turn knew how to bite back just enough to leave a mark.

“I can’t wait to get out of this town,” you complain to your friend Mia. “If I have to spend another seventeen years surrounded by these half-wits then I’ll pull a Sylvia Plath, I swear.”

“Clearly today has been a good day,” Mia chuckles. She’d known you long enough for the bitter grump of your character not to phase her. “Rafe bothering you again?”

“He’s intolerable,” you tell her, indirectly answering her question. “In music today he thought it’d be funny to put cola in the trombone. Men blow my mind with their stupidity. God knows how the patriarchy was even formed with how little brain cells they use.”

The two of you walk down the stairs of the school, heading to the parking lot amongst the herd of students. The spring weather is finally creeping in now that you're in March. The floral smell of blossoms hangs in the air, embracing the world in a warmish breeze. The briefly pleasant moment is rudely interrupted by none other but the devil-boy himself. His bright red Mercedes whips into the throughway of the parking lot. He doesn't seem to care about hitting anybody. To him, others are like bowling pins: he’d probably take delight in taking someone out.

You and Mia ignore him as you walk up to your car. At least, that was the plan, until you look up from your keys in time to see your younger sister Charlotte hopping into the back of Rafe’s pimped out ride per his offer.

“That’s an interesting development,” Mia remarks.

You watch as Rafe revs the engine - grinning like the pompous asshole he is - before jetting away. He narrowly misses knocking some poor kid off his bike in the process.

“It’s disgusting, is what it is,” you correct, promptly blinking away the surprise.

You follow Mia into your car, tossing your track bag into the backseat, and start up the engine.

Charlotte was only fifteen. She was young, innocent, carefree and (more often than not) insufferable. You couldn’t be more different. Whilst Charlotte searched for the good in people, you tried to find ways to stay as far away from them as possible. The only tell that you were related were your features. The same nose and same chin, you taking your father’s eyes and her your mother’s. At school, Charlotte enjoyed pretending that she didn’t know who you were. Your reputation didn’t pair well with hers, and at fifteen, nothing was more important to Charlotte than popularity. Those things didn’t matter to you. What someone thought of you didn’t make much difference to your mood or your future. Studying on the other hand? That was the stuff of consequence. Nevertheless, you cared for your sister. Her cushioned upbringing made her vulnerable. She had been sheltered by your family’s wealth and because of your father’s obsessive protectiveness, her experiences with boys were minimal. That to say, having her in Rafe’s line of sight certainly made you uneasy.

You drive home chatting to Mia about the plans for the weekend - planning to head to The Wreck for lunch on Saturday - but you can’t stop thinking about Charlotte sat in the back of Rafe’s car. When you pull up outside Mia’s house, she pauses just after opening the door.

“What do you think that was about? With Charlotte and Rafe?”

“Honestly, I have no idea,” you reply, turning down the radio. "But I’m not gonna let it go any further.”

“Amen,” Mia agrees. With that, she gives a small wave and climbs out the car. “See you tomorrow.”

“See ya.”

When you pull up outside your house, you spot your dad sitting on the porch. He’s probably reading notes about the latest case he’s taken on. As one of the best lawyers on Figure Eight, he always has plenty of work to be chipping away at. Sometimes it feels like he has a new client every week.

You make your way up the neatly kept garden path, the creaking gate giving you away.

“Afternoon sweetheart,” he says, not looking up.

“Hey dad,” you reply, walking up the steps.

“How’s your day been? Made anyone cry yet?”

“Not yet, but the day’s still young,” you return, only half joking. With that, he glances up. “How’s the case?”

“Long. Boring. Don’t let on that I said that.” he says. “Where’s your sister?”

Before you can delight in telling, as if manifested into existence, Charlotte comes floating up the pathway. Her ridiculously short white tennis skirt floats in the wind like a dove’s feathered wings taking flight. Not one hair is out of place and not one eyelash misaligned. You resist the urge to roll your eyes as she makes her way up the stairs.

“Where’ve you been?” your dad immediately quizzes.

“Nowhere daddy.”

“How come you’re later home than your sister?”

“Well, somebody wouldn’t give me ride,” Charlotte replies, shooting you a glare. Her perfect smile takes on an edge when you lock eyes.

Your dad sighs and looks up at you. “We talked about this. Until Charlotte gets her license, you drive her to and from school. Y’all are both heading to the same place anyway, so what’s the big whoop?”

“She hijacks my radio and plays fluffy pop crap.”

“Taylor Swift is not ‘fluffy pop crap’. She’s the bible itself. You’re just not used to listening to good music,” Charlotte replies.

Swallowing your anger, you correct your stance, folding your arms across your chest. Biting back a smirk, you say, “ask Charlotte which guy drove her home today.”

“Don’t change the—Guy? What guy?”

Charlotte’s face goes to drop but she recovers quickly. Taking a reproachful step towards your dad like he’s an unpredictable stray dog, she talks in a sickly-sweet voice.

“Now, daddy, don’t be angry, but there’s this boy at school and I think he—”

“Believe me, I think I know what he’ll be thinking,” your dad immediately cuts in. “And the answer is no. It is always no.”

As your little sister’s eyes flash to yours, you grin victoriously. Enjoy, you mouth to her. The angry twitch in her brow is delightful.

“Daddy, this is ridiculous! I’m the only girl in high school who isn’t dating!” Charlotte whines.

“You’re fifteen, you don’t need to be dating. And you’re not the only girl. She isn’t dating either,” your dad replies, shoving a thumb over his shoulder in your direction.

“And I don’t intend to. I got bigger fish to fry,” you say. Charlotte’s deadly stare hardens tenfold. “Besides, the boys in this town are whack jobs.”

“Like music to my ears,” your dad practically sighs. Very rarely do you seem to please him, but your stance on boys appears to be the one common ground the two of you have. “Now y’all both know the rule: no dating ‘til you graduate.”

“This is so unfair! The two of you are so unhinged!” Charlotte goes on. She seems about a minute away from stomping her feet and waving her fists like a toddler throwing a tantrum. You’re only half ashamed to say that you relish in every moment of it.

You see, Charlotte was a daddy’s girl. Pretty, pink and poised, she loved the theatrics of Kook life. At the yacht club gatherings and the monthly dinner parties, the two of them would soak up every minute whilst you’d skulk in the back, headphones in and bitch-face on. You’d never much connected with either of them. Your mom understood you well, but she wasn’t around now, so, what did it matter? All the Kook crap was just that to you: crap. Fickle people who were so rich that their nerves were deadened, leaving them to enjoy nothing more than gossiping about everyone and everything. Whilst one half of the island waited tables and sweated out in the sun day-and-night to keep the lights on, the other was complaining about their golf clubs not being shiny enough. It was all crap.

“Alright, fine. Here’s how we fix this. Old rule out, new rule in. You can date,” your dad says to Charlotte. Her smile is instantaneous. As your mouth goes to gape open in horror – the thought of Rafe Cameron snapping up your sister like a crocodile preying on a bunny – your dad makes your day. “…when your sister does.”

“What!?”

“Har har,” you grin.

Charlotte points accusingly at you. “But she’s a mutant! You couldn’t pay a guy to date her!”

Your grin only grows with the thought.

“Then I guess you’ll never date. Oh! I like the sound of that,” your dad gloats. God, you have never loved him more. “Now get out of my hair, the both of y’all. I need to get these notes done for tomorrow.”

“Thanks dad,” you chirp, promptly heading into the house. Charlotte is quick to follow.

“You’re evil,” she hisses.

You shrug, back facing her as you start up the stairs. “And you’re spoilt.”

“Urgh! Has it ever occurred to you that you’re like clinically insane!?”

“Don’t care!” you sing-song before darting into your room, closing the door behind you. Through the wood, you hear Charlotte let out a shriek.

Smiling, you dump your school bag and take up shop at your desk, hoping to get some studying done, peaceful at last with the thought of Rafe Cameron never getting near your sister.

There was a rumour that when JJ first spoke to you, you spat in his face. That one was false.

“Hiya princess.”

The rasp of a guy’s voice interrupts your conversation about the yacht club’s annual spring-ball with Mia. Slowing turning your head to your left, you come face to face with a dirty-blonde haired boy. He looks to be about seventeen. His skin is slightly glossy, presumably from sunscreen and sweat, and there’s a smirk hiding behind his smile. That’s when you know that this boy is trouble.

“You talking to me?” you ask, unimpressed.

“Who else?”

“Hopefully anyone,” you say.

Mia snorts. You look away from him to share a bemused look with your friend. This guy cannot be serious…

“You need’a hand there?”

Eyebrows pulling together, you glance at him. He seems to think you’re confused about what he’s referring to, nodding down to the Sprite bottle in your hand. The cap’s still on. The truth is, you’re confused as to why he’s even talking to you at all. Wordlessly, you lift the bottle to your mouth and secure your teeth around the cap. There’s the satisfying click-crack as it comes lose and you spit it on the floor by his feet. Then, holding his gaze, you take a drink. His eyebrows quirk up in surprise.

“That’s, uh, certainly one way to get a guy’s attention,” he says, chuckling to try and regain some charm.

“My mission in life,” you return. Then, before he can cook up something else to say, you turn to Mia and loop your arm in hers, guiding the two of you to the exit of The Wreck. You’d been planning on heading out anyway, having finished your lunch earlier, and this was a sign from the universe that whatever good time you’d been having was officially over.

Unfortunately, the guy doesn’t seem so easily deterred.

“I’ll pick up at eight then?”

“Oh, yeah, eight. Uh huh,” you agree dismissively.

He falls in step with you on your left, hands casually shoved in his short pockets, combat boots loudly thudding on the wooden floor.

“Well, you know, the night I take you to places you’ve never been before.”

You see his boyish grin in your peripheral, making you whip your head around to meet his stare.

“Where? The seven-eleven off main street?”

His lips part, blundering for some quick-witted reply, but you don’t give him chance.

“Do you even know my name, screw-boy?”

The smirk is back, full force. Tilting his head slightly, self-assured, he replies, “I know a lot more than you think.”

“Doubtful. Very doubtful,” you assure.

Finally, you and Mia seem to shake him. He doesn’t follow you to your car door and he probably made the right call, because you were moments away from using the bottle of Sprite as a weapon. As you unlock the car, Mia leans against the side of it.

“What was that all about?”

You spare a glance back to The Wreck to find him stood there, glancing inside the building as if debating heading back, scratching the back of his neck. His misplaced confidence seems to have dwindled significantly. Ah, success.

“God knows."

“You know, I think that’s JJ Maybank. One of them Pogues who hangs out with John B,” Mia says.

JJ seems a fitting name for him, you think. You vaguely recall seeing the Pogues hanging around. Kiara from the academy seemed quite close with them. You watch as he pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lighting up and taking a drag. Gross.

Pulling open your car door, you look back to Mia. “Come on. Let’s hang out at the beach.”

“Yeah, and far away from that nutjob,” she snorts, walking around the car to the passenger side.

As you go to climb in, you find yourself looking one final time to the entrance of the restaurant. The messy haired boy is nowhere to be found. Good riddance, you think to yourself. Happiness restored, you swing into the driver’s seat and shut the car door.

There was a rumour that your mum was in witness protection. That one was false.

You weren’t entirely sure how it got so late but it was nearly one in the morning. Having spent the past three hours studying, you’d sort of lost track of time. Your eyes nearly bugged out of your head when you’d checked your phone screen.

“Goddamn,” you mumble. Pushing away from your desk, you close your notebook and switch off your lamp.

Walking to the bathroom, you don’t bother closing the door. You know your dad’s asleep by now and with his own en-suite, there’d be no reason why he’d need to use this bathroom. Charlotte is probably asleep too: beauty rest and all that. You turn on the faucet and pull your hair out of your face. You wash and dry and reach for your toothbrush. That’s when Charlotte appears.

“Oh,” she startles. “Didn’t know you were still up.”

“Could say the same to you.”

You take in her pyjamas. They’re Roller Rabbit, selling at $150 a set. Pastel pink and plum purple, they sit sweetly on her dainty frame. You on the other hand are dressed in an oversized t-shirt that you got given for free at an indie film festival, and a pair of boxer-short bottoms.

“Cute pjs,” you tell her.

“Thanks. Daddy bought them for me,” she chirps.

Charlotte makes a b-line to the vanity. She opens the drawer and retrieves the tweezers. You watch her in the mirror as she tames her already perfect eyebrows. She makes eye contact with you through the reflections, taking in your own nightwear. “You could try a new look, you know? People might like you if you weren’t so hostile.”

“I’m not hostile,” you defend. You put toothpaste on your toothbrush, breaking the line of gaze. “I’m annoyed.”

“Potato potata. I wouldn’t be able to stand it if people didn’t like me.”

“You forget that I don’t care what people think,” you reply honestly. What would it matter if some thought you unwelcoming? Everyone ends up as bones in the ground anyway.

“Sure you do,” Charlotte says. “At least on some level.”

It’s too late in the night (or early in the morning) to argue. Instead, you start brushing your teeth. Charlotte goes on pimping and preening her appearance in the mirror silently. She produces a jade face roller and begins massaging her cheekbones and jawline. It takes everything in you not to roll your eyes. As you’re rinsing out your mouth, you see Charlotte’s extensive skincare routine continue. If someone was to walk in, you’d think she was heading to the Oscars at the crack of dawn. She unbuttons the top two fastenings of her polo pyjama top and shrugs it down enough to reveal her collarbones, taking the effort to jade-roll them too. That’s when you notice the string of pearls around her neck.

“Nice pearls,” you comment, putting your toothbrush away. They did suit her, as did most delicate jewellery.

“Thanks.”

“Dad buy them for you too?”

“No,” she says. “They’re moms.”

Your stomach twists like a viper. “Moms?”

“Yeah. Daddy found them in a drawer last week.”

“And what? Now you’re just gonna start wearing them?” you say aghast, spinning around.

She frowns, looking over her shoulders. “It’s not like she’s coming back to claim them any time soon.”

You scoff. “You’re woefully missing the point.”

“Whatever,” Charlotte mumbles. She looks back to her reflection, smiling at herself, lifting a hand to fiddle with the small beads. “I think they look good on me.”

“Well trust me, they don’t,” you lie before promptly leaving the bathroom.

There was a rumour that you wrecked Rafe Cameron’s car. That one was true.

“Morning Lucy,” you greet, walking into An Offer You Can’t Refuse.

“Morning. Early start for a Saturday, don’t you think?” Lucy replies from behind the counter.

You shrug and shift your tote bag further up your shoulder. “Wanna get first dibs, I guess.”

“Well, all the new stuff is back there, like always,” she says, gesturing with her head to the far end of the store.

You were somewhat a regular at the shop. It was the only spot in town that sold old movies. Not old movies like the nineties. Old movies like the early 20th century: the black and white classics, with extravagant sets and telephone-voices and an untouchable charm that modern things just couldn’t quite capture. You weren’t a film snob exactly. You’d sit through a Marvel movie and tag along with Mia to see the latest cheap jump-scare horror. But those weren’t as gripping, as enthralling, as captivating as the classics. Somewhere along the way, you’d made it your life mission to see every old movie on earth.

Flicking through the cases, you pick out a couple that had been sat on your list. One was a thirty’s flick and the other from the sixties. Lucy settles up with you and you slot one in your bag. You keep the other out to read the back, scanning over the summary as you walk out the door.

“Nice car.”

Stunned, you stop and look up, finding none other than JJ Maybank. He’s sitting on the bonnet of your car with such carelessness that one would assume he owned it.

“Are you following me?” you outright ask.

He looks offended by the insinuation. Gesturing across the street, he says, “I was in the fishing shop. I saw your car and I came over to say hi.”

Rolling your eyes, you put your movie in your bag and continue to your car. “Hi.”

Before you can reach for the handle for the door, JJ slides over, effectively blocking it and forcing you to meet his gaze once more. You catch a whiff of his cologne. It smells more modest than some of the fancy crap the guys at school practically drown themselves in.

“You’re not much of a talker, are ya?”

“Depends on the topic. My car doesn’t really whip me up into a verbal frenzy,” you return, folding your arms across your chest.

JJ takes a moment simply watching you. It’s annoying. First, he interrupts your pleasant weekend by wiping his grubby cargo shorts all over your car, and now he’s trapped you in the most disinteresting conversation of all time. You quirk a brow, hoping that your displeasure reads plain and clear on your face.

“Can I help you?” you prompt, annoyed.

The smile he gives you is less cocky than usual. It’s almost curious. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

You frown. “Afraid of you? Why would I be afraid of you?”

He shrugs. “Well, most people are.”

“Well, I’m not,” you counter.

Whatever he was thinking before seems to have passed. His grin turns smug again, as quick and smooth as the moment dusk turns to flat-out night.

“Well, maybe you’re not afraid of me, but I’m sure you’ve thought about me naked, huh?”

Oh, brother.

You gasp, feigning your fluster by lifting a hand to your sternum. “Am I that transparent? I want you, I need you, oh baby, oh baby.”

With that stellar performance, you practically shove him out the way whilst forcing the car door open. JJ seems to take the hint and backs off, shoving his hands in his short pockets. He watches you climb in your car and he pulls out a cigarette in the process. You’re half-surprised he doesn’t keep blabbering away. JJ doesn’t seem as wounded this time by your dismissal and you’re not sure whether that ticks you off more. As you glance in the rearview to reverse out the parking spot, none other than Rafe Cameron drives up behind you. He then parks illegally in the middle of the parking lot, blocking you in.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

“What is it? Asshole day?”

Rafe shuts off his engine and walks past your car with a faux swagger in his stride. It makes you sick.

“Do you mind?” you loudly ask him as he goes by.

He doesn’t even spare you a glance. “Not at all.”

Your blood is bubbling under your skin, boiling up your nerves and burning up your patience. Doing one last glance at the Rafe’s back as he walks away from you, you don’t think twice before pulling your keys out the ignition. Getting out the car and slamming the door shut, you storm over to the ugly Mercedes. With the car key positioned between two fingers, you lean down slightly and dig it through the paint and into the metal, dragging it along in a satisfying streak. The sound is as pleasing as nails on a chalk board. One cut doesn’t seem to diffuse your anger enough, so you go in for a second. You debate doing a third but better to be safe than sorry. So, you pocket your keys and start walking home. You can pick up your car tomorrow. As you go to leave, you catch JJ’s impressed expression in the reflection of Rafe’s blacked out windows.

There was a rumour that you and JJ hooked up at an outdoor movie night. That was completely false.

Over the dialogue over the movie, the swell of the orchestral music, and the mumbled chatter of friends and families, you can’t hear the soothing lap of the sea waves on the sand. That didn’t take away from the beauty of the scenery. Twilight had painted the sky in the most ethereal pinks, purples, oranges and blues. The boats which had taken anchor looked like shadows with how the sun had dipped. Huge trees framed the waterline cinematically. You can’t seem to help glancing at the view every now and then. It feels like something from a coffee table book. No wonder the beach was your mother's favourite place to be.

There were few island traditions which you liked, but the movie nights were one of your favourites. From March onwards, they ran bi-weekly. A huge screen would be put up in a lawn and people would come with deckchairs and picnic blankets and take up space on the grass. Snacks and cakes and drinks would be shared in the jovially calm atmosphere of the evening. There was a snack bar over near the bathrooms selling bags of candy and pre-prepared tubs of popcorn. When you hadn’t been shooting looks to the view, you’d been looking to the snack bar, debating buying some. At the rumble of your stomach, you relent.

“I’m gonna go get some snacks. Want anything?” you ask Mia in a whisper.

She doesn’t look away from the film when she shakes her head.

“Okay. Be right back.”

Standing up, you whisper out apologies to other movie-goers as you slink away from the lawn, venturing to the snack bar. It’s only when you’re seconds away do you recognise JJ Maybank. He’s wearing longer pants this time, still of the cargo material, and an old t-shirt that says Pelican Docks on the left breast. It looks well-worn at the sleeves. His hair is tucked under a cap. The most notable thing you pick up on is the fact that he isn’t smoking. Every other time you’ve seen him outside, he’s had one of those cancer sticks stuck between his lips. It’s annoying to admit to yourself that he looks good.

Ignoring him, you head straight to the girl manning the snack bar.

“A bag of Sour Patch kids please,” you smile, holding out a couple of dollar bills. She exchanges them for a bag of sweets. Candy in hand, you walk over to JJ.

“If you’re planning on asking me out again, you might as well get it over with,” you tell him, already disgruntled.

He looks away from the movie screen. “You mind? You’re kinda ruining this for me.”

You frown, glancing between himself and the film. “You like ‘Singing In The Rain’?”

JJ shrugs. “Course. Don’t you?”

The guilt from assuming is overshadowed by your curiosity. Before you can think of something to quiz him with, he’s talking again, eyes fixated on the actors.

“I mean, it’s no ‘Casablanca’ or ‘Some Like It Hot’, but I’ll take it,” he says casually.

Your eyebrows must shoot up into your hairline. “You know the movie ‘Some Like It Hot’?”

“No doy. It’s a classic,” JJ says. “Jack Lemmon is a natural in roles like that. It’s kinda rogue of me to say but I gotta admit, I think he’s better in that than in The Odd Couple.”

The question ‘you know The Odd Couple?’ is on the tip of your tongue but it’s silenced by a loud crash in the movie, catching your attention. You watch the theatrics of Cosmo as he performs ‘Make Them Laugh’, and you can’t help but smile. It’s one of your favourite parts of the movie.

“You know, I saw you earlier and I was gonna come over,” JJ admits, drawing your gaze to him once more. “I’ve never seen anyone look so sexy without even trying.”

The pre-teen at the counter snorts, clearly having overheard. When you and JJ look to her at the same time, she flushes bright pink and presses her lips together in embarrassment. It makes you laugh though, and when you look back to JJ, he’s holding back too. The sunset and reflection of the screen is painting his face in a youthful glow. The smile on his lips seems more genuine than before; it’s no longer bolstered up with ostentatious flare. His self-assured demeanour remains though. You can see it in how relaxed he stands, shoulders loose and back.

“You’re not surrounded by your usual cloud of smoke.”

“Yeah, I quit. Turns out they’re bad for you,” JJ says.

“You think?” you mirthfully reply.

Come with me to the keggar tomorrow night,” JJ asks out of the blue.

You don’t roll your eyes this time. In fact, you’re not even annoyed. Instead, you find your smile growing. “You never give up, do you?”

“Is that a yes?”

You chuckle under breath, passing your candy bag between hands and turning to return to Mia. "No."

You begin to walk away.

“Well, is that a no then?” JJ calls. Someone shushes him abruptly.

Sniggering, you call back, “no!”

“Nine tomorrow night! I’ll pick you up!”

“Hey, shut it, man!”

“Sorry, dude. Jeez,” you hear JJ mumble.

You bite back your laugh, making your way back to the film. Mia is waiting impatiently for you. Taking your spot on the blanket again, you fight the urge to look back over your shoulder to JJ. She takes the bag of candy despite her earlier turn-down.

“What took you so long? You missed the best song,” she whispers.

You shake your head and steal a gummy, eyes fixating on the screen again. “Doesn’t matter.”

And then, you’re lost to the cinema. 

There was a rumour that you threw up on JJ’s shoes at the keggar. That one was (unfortunately) true.

You know you’ve made a mistake braving going downstairs for a snack the moment your foot hits the final step.

“Daddy, it’s only for one night!”

Charlotte is there, whinging away, stood beside her friend Laura. You didn’t like Charlotte all that much but you liked Laura even less. Whilst Charlotte was losing her sense of humanity bit by bit, Laura was a hollowed-out husk dressed head to toe in Shien. Maybe if she had a stellar personality you wouldn’t care, but she didn’t. She was cruel, two-faced and you trusted her as far you could throw her. So, you were obviously thrilled to find her stood in your house.

“You know anything about a party?” you dad asks you, roping you unwillingly into the conversation.

You shrug, shaking your head no.

“Of course she doesn’t know, she’s a cave troll,” Charlotte snarls.

“That’s a new one,” you mutter under breath, starting for the kitchen.

“If she isn’t going, you’re not going,” your dad tells Charlotte.

“Urgh!” Charlotte exasperates. She rushes over to you, taking you by the shoulders and forcing you to meet her gaze. You’re a little surprised to find how genuinely desperate she is to leave the house for a dumb keggar. “Can you please forget that you’re completely wicked and just be my sister for one night. Please.”

You suck your teeth, feeling your conviction dwindle. Suddenly the half-completed page of notes about maths drops in your priorities. Charlotte seems to notice. The puppy-dog eyes come out in full effect - the ones that she used to get the new Mac book and the ones that she used to get your old pair of converse when they suddenly became trendy again.

“Please,” she begs, doubling down.

You sigh, shaking your head as if in disbelief of your own actions. “Fine, I can make an appearance.”

Charlotte looks over to Laura and they begin to squeal, hopping up and down like the floor is lava. You realise that she’s wearing the pearls still, but before you can think much more about it, you’re trapped in a hug. Everything tenses, from your head to your toes, and it isn’t over soon enough. You open the downstairs cupboard and retrieve a jacket to combat the spring breeze that’s likely going to haunt the beach at this hour. Your dad is lecturing Charlotte and Laura as you shrug it on; you pass them to the door.

It's a little frightening to open the front door and come face to face with someone who you’re not expecting to be there.

“What are you doing here?” is the first thing out of your mouth when you meet JJ’s eyes.

“Nine o’clock, right?” he replies.

It’s impossible to bite back the smile that’s coming to your face at the sound of his voice. When did that start to happen?

“Well, I’m little late, so,” he admits almost sheepishly.

You blink out of your stupor with that. A man who can’t even be on time for a date that he practically begged for – once again, the bar is on the floor.

“Whatever, I’m driving,” you tell him, brushing past and down the porch steps. He follows.

“Nice digs here.”

“Thanks,” you reply. You pull open the front gate and it creaks like it might snap off any moment.

“Y’all rich and can’t afford to oil that damn thing?"

“Help yourself to it,” you jokingly quip back. You pull your keys out your coat pocket and unlock the car. “Hop in.”

The drive to the keggar is mostly quiet. JJ points out the turnings you need to take and you refuse to let him turn on the radio. He goes to put one leg up on the car seat but must see your sideways glare, making him stop. Instead, he rests an arm on the window frame and taps his fingers along to a non-existent beat.

He’s dressed rather nice. Quite casual, but you supposed for a keggar, it didn’t much matter. It wasn’t like you were dressed to the nines either. A grey sweater hangs slightly big on his frame, but it sits on his broad shoulders a little too nicely. He’s wearing a pair of black cargo shorts which are muddied with dust on the thigh, probably from biking, and those damn cargo boots again. No cap this time, he lets his blonde hair sit mussed, seemingly from running his fingers through it. That’s something he seems to do. A lot.

When the two of you park up, the beach is already buzzing. It’s swarming with people from your school and his, yapping away to one another. People are passing drinks and passing out. Some are carrying coolers in and others are shot-gunning the moment their feet touch the sand. Sighing, you mentally prepare yourself for a hellish night.

JJ tries to walk beside you but you seem to be one step ahead every time. He takes to following your tail around the keggar as you survey the scene. A girl vomiting in the corn; a group passing around a bong; a group of horny dirtbags jeering and cheering as two girls make out. A brunette girl comes stumbling over, practically throwing herself at JJ.

“Kiss me,” she slurs, clearly hammered.

JJ doesn’t look too thrilled but it doesn’t keep you from rolling your eyes and continuing on.

“Not tonight, girly,” you overhear him say. You then hear his footsteps behind you once more.

His popularity among the Pogues is startling. Soon enough, someone else is coming up to him, followed by a third. You overhear good-humoured conversation kick up, spirits high, and the smacking of hands as they enact a brief handshake. It seems a good opportunity to ditch him.

The moment of freedom is over quicker than the final week of summer. Rafe Cameron, in all his knobheaded glory, saunters over.

“Didn’t peg you as a keggar girl,” he tells you. Even on the night, you can’t catch a break from him.

“You know me: full of surprises,” you return dryly.

“Surprising in that outfit too. Nice to see the puppies out today,” he says, licking his teeth as his eyes shamelessly flit down to your top.

You roll your eyes. “Eat crap creep.”

Rafe doesn’t seem to be finished. He follows after you leisurely when you walk around him. “Your little sister coming tonight?”

“Stay away from her, Rafe,” you warn.

“Oh, sure, sure, I’ll stay away,” he nods, raising his hands in mock surrender. The most wicked, twisted grin sinks into his skin. “But I can’t promise she’ll stay away from me.”

Your disgust must read plainly on your face. Rafe chuckles darkly, apparently finished with the interaction, and you watch as he makes his way over to his pack. You shiver out your repugnance and distract yourself by making another lap of the keggar, hoping to find your sister in the process.

Unfortunately, you’re not quick enough to get to her before Rafe. He’s fiddling with a strand of her hair, looking down at her in a way that she might think is doting but you can only read as looming. Your stomach sinks as he notices you, jutting up his chin proudly.

“Yo. Look who found me,” he taunts.

Intestines are now in your shoes as you spot his hand looping around her waist and laying grip. Charlotte tangles her fingers into his, a red solo up in her other hand, and goes to lead the two of them away. You quickly dart after her.

“Charlotte, wait, can I talk to you?”

“Don’t address me in public,” she hisses, horrified.

You hope your expression is as pleading as hers was earlier, but it mustn’t be, because she continues to move away from you.

“Go, enjoy the night,” Charlotte says. She probably thinks she’s being nice, putting your mind at ease, but it makes you all the more concerned. “That’s what I’m gonna do.”

Looking around as if something or someone might tell you what to do next, your eyes fixate on the coolers. You soon find yourself taking a swig of tequila. It burns as it runs down your throat; you close your eyes with wince.

“I’ve been looking all over the place for you!”

You open them to find a very disquieted JJ.

“I’m getting trashed bro,” you reply, lifting the bottle up in proof. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do at a party?”

“Not with that crap,” JJ replies.

Rolling your eyes, you take another shot. “Whatever. I’ll catch you later.”

Then you’re walking away from him and weaving through the crowds. The trashy RnB music playing over a loudspeaker thumps through the sand and rattles through your bones. You find yourself collecting drinks like a pre-teen collects trading cards. With each sip, the alcohol goes down easier and easier, and your control becomes lesser and lesser. You’re only half sure of the time. Nobody here looks familiar to you and you have no idea where Charlotte has gone. The thought of her with Rafe has you reaching for another drink but it’s taken from you before the bottle can meet your lips.

“Hey!”

“How about I have this one?” JJ offers.

You snatch it back. “No way, this one’s mine.”

Was that your voice? Jeez, maybe you’re more drunk than you thought. That doesn’t keep you from necking the whole thing, some dumbass cheering you on. Dumping the bottle in the sand, you pull a face to JJ, extending out your arms as if to say ‘see – what you gonna do about it?’ .

The makeshift dancefloor becomes randomly appealing. The rhythm of the music seems to have finally crept out of the ground and into your bones, and you stagger your way to the crowd of dancing, swaying drunks and begin to move to the music. Closing your eyes, you drag your hands up your sides and into the air, hips dipping and diving to the song. It isn’t your usual thing but you find the groove to it. The reason you lose it is the elbow that suddenly jams into your back. You wince in pain and tumble forward, balance screwed from all the drinks. The ground comes to meet you surprisingly quick and you don’t have time to put your hands out to save your head from hitting a stuck-out branch from driftwood.

“You alright?”

It’s JJ.

“I’m fine,” you slur.

When you go to stand, everything is spinning. It makes you slip in the sand and nearly face plant a second time.

“You’re not fine. Alright, come on,” JJ mumbles as his hands gently take your biceps. You grumble out complaints as he helps you off the ground.

The music drifts away from you as JJ guides you somewhere. The shakiness of the world makes you feel nauseous so you opt with keeping your eyes closed. There’s a throbbing from where you hit your head.

“Can I talk to you?” someone asks. You don't open your eyes to find out who.

“Not right now, man. I’m a little busy,” you hear JJ return, patience clearly dwindling.

“Can you give me a second?”

The firm but friendly hold JJ has on you momentarily vanishes. You hear the crunch of sand as he walks away a few steps but you’re too busy fighting to keep yourself upright to see where he’s gone. Just as you’re about to lose the fight, JJ’s back, catching you and steadying you on your feet.

“Woah, woah,” he chuckles. “Come on.”

As the mayhem of the party fades, you find the pounding in your head to lessen. You’re slowly lowered to sit on a piece of driftwood.

“This is so patronising.”

“Leave it to you to use big words when you’re smashed,” JJ says.

Braving to open your eyes, you find JJ digging around in his cargo pockets. “Why are you helping me?”

“I’m worried you might got a concussion,” he tells you. He produces a small box from his pocket, no bigger than the palm of his hand, and he cracks it open.

“You wouldn’t care if I never wake up,” you snort. The scrunch of your brows has you reaching up to the stinging pain of your head wound. Before you can touch at it, JJ’s pulling your hand away by the wrist.

“Sure I would.”

“Why?”

 “Cause otherwise I’d have to start taking out girls who actually like me.”

“Like you could find one.”

“See? That right there, makin’ me swoon, mama,” JJ ribs. He reaches out for your face then. “Alright, this might sting a little.”

His fingers are warm as they touch your skin. He lightly coaxes your head up and back by the edge of your jaw. You watch with half-blurred vision as he concentrates, gently dapping what must be an alcoholic wipe to your cut.

JJ has a pretty face. Dimples that are visible even when he isn’t smiling. A soft jawline that sharpens when he’s flexing, whether it be in concentration or aggravation. The long slender nose sits nicely on his face, guiding into surprisingly neat eyebrows and eyes with lashes so long Charlotte would cry with envy.

The wipe hits the deepest point of the wound. Flinching back, you hiss in pain.

“Sorry,” JJ mumbles.

“S’okay,” you quietly reply.

He finishes dabbing the blood away and sighs, pulling the wipe back. JJ seems to notice your stare at that point, flitting his eyes down to meet yours.

“What?”

“Your eyes have a little grey in them,” you observe.

His lips twitch in a smile. Maybe it’s the warmth of the booze, but you’re half sure that the boy blushes. Your eyes glance down to his lips, the one part of his face you haven’t yet analysed. JJ clears his throat and removes his hand from your head. He litters the wipe on the beach floor and shoves his hands in his short pockets, creating some distance. He doesn’t move any farther away from you though.

“How’d you know to do all that?”

“Cleaning cuts?”

“Mhm,” you say.

“Kinda have to learn, when you grow up in a house like mine,” JJ vaguely replies.

You spare a glance at his side profile to find his eyes trained ahead in an almost vacant stare. He comes back to himself, looking at you.

“So, uh, why’d you let him get to you?”

“Who? Rafe?”

“Uh huh.”

“I hate him,” you state.

JJ purses his lips and nods. “Fair ‘nough.”

Someone whoops out to another in the far distance. You try to ignore it, instead focusing on the susurrus of the wind, the sighs of the sea, and the steady inhales and exhales of the boy sitting beside you.

“So, your mom a nurse or something?” you ask.

“My ma?”

“Yeah. With the cut cleaning and all that.”

“Nah, she ain’t a nurse,” JJ replies. “Fact, I don’t know what she is. She ain’t around anymore.”

“That sucks,” you say.

He shrugs. “Happened a long time ago. She walked out on us so guess there can’t be much to miss, right?”

“I guess,” you agree, though you’re not sure if you fully do. For some reason – maybe because of the alcohol blurring your barriers – you find yourself telling him, “My mom walked out on us too.”

“Really?”

You nod, and instantly regret it.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It gave the yacht club something to talk about for like a year,” you say, cracking a smile.

JJ grins. “You Kooks gotta have your gossip.”

“Oh yeah,” you whistle, nodding. “Otherwise we’d actually have to start making conversation about shit that matters. Or realise how little we all like each other.”

The two of you laugh and lock eyes. His dimples are now out in full force, teeth shining in the off-cast street lamp glow and enchanting moonlight.

“You know, you’re not as vile as I thought you’d be.”

His smile only grows. “Thanks. I think?”

The pulsating pain in your head seems to vanish for a moment. You think it’s because of JJ and his weirdly wonderful ways. You think it is, until you realise it’s because your body is distracted by a whole new problem.

Head whipping down, you aim away from your shoes and somehow directly at JJ’s.

And then bam: vomit.

There was a rumour that you and JJ hooked up in the back of your car. That one was false.

It’s abnormal seeing JJ sat behind your steering wheel. His elbow is propped up on the window ledge, knuckles cracked as he grips the wheel at the top, guiding it with the other hand. You keep stealing glances. He focuses ahead on the road. It’s pitch-black asides from the glare of the headlights and the few and far between streetlamps. You’re not entirely sure how you got to this point with him, to have him driving your car and to find yourself completely okay with it.

The playlist that the radio is humming out changes to the next song. You instantly feel your body soften in the passenger seat with the swell of violins and cellos. Naturally, gradually, they find a melody. It’s solemn and serene all at once.

“I love this song,” you hear yourself say.

“What is it?”

“Love Theme, from Cinema Paradiso,” you reply.

JJ’s lips twitch with curiosity. “Never heard of it.”

“It’s my favourite piece of music of all time,” you tell him. “It makes me cry.”

“Really? Don’t know if any song’s ever made me cry.”

“Then you’re listening to the wrong things,” you're quick assert.

JJ chuckles at that, but he doesn’t disagree.

The piano chimes in now; steady waltz-like chords which complement the strings flawlessly. You sigh and watch the world pass by through the window. After throwing up, draining the alcohol from your body in the least flattering of ways, you feel more stable. There’s still a blur to the edge of the world hinting that you’re not fully sober but you no longer feel out of control. The three mints which you had the moment you got in the car helped to freshen your mouth.

“It’s a pretty song,” JJ observes. You’re surprised that he’s listening to it. “Is it meant to be happy?”

“Sort of. It’s the third version. There’s three reprises of the song throughout the film. The movie’s sort of a culmination of genres. It’s a love story about Salvatore and Elena, this girl who he’s completely infatuated with throughout his teens. But it doesn’t work out. It’s also about his relationship with Alfredo, this old man who runs the cinema. Salvatore falls in love with cinema and Alfredo is like a father figure to him. As he grows up, he’s pushed to leave the small town and live his life.”

JJ whistles lowly. “That’s a lot’a unpack.”

“Sorry,” you meekly reply. Maybe you rambled on a bit too much.

“Don’t be. It’s interesting,” JJ says.

You glance over to him and see him smiling, and you struggle to bite back your own, looking back to the road.

“You seem to have a thing for movies,” JJ notes.

“I love them,” you sigh, pushing your hair behind your ears. The music builds at that moment, with the wind instruments taking control of the melody and pushing the emotion to another level. You find your eyes slipping shut on reflex. It’s with them closed that you find the confidence to admit, “I want to write movies for a living. But nothing like the new crappy things. Films like the old ones. The ones with real emotion and meaning behind them. I’m so sick of the cheap rewrites and remakes. All the CGI junk that fills the cinema now and the empty scores.”

“So, why don’t you? Write movies, I mean?”

As JJ asks you this question, he pulls up outside your house.

You scoff. “Yeah, my dad would just love that. He wants me to go to school for accounting or economics. Something with ‘a future’.”

The engine shuts off but the song continues to play. JJ glances down at the radio, his eyes scanning over the song title. He seems lost in thought, or perhaps lost in the music, and you feel a small smile settle comfortably on your face. He’s so pretty in this light. He’s pretty in any light.

He seems to remember himself, coming out of his stupor in a similar manner to how he did back on the beach. Looking up to you, JJ catches your gaze. He reflexively switches off the radio, cutting the song off and enveloping the two of you in silence.

“You uh,” he begins, gesturing lamely to the house, “don’t seem the type to ask for your dad’s permission.”

“Oh what? Now you think you know me all of a sudden?” Your tone is teasing. It’s so different to the usual bite it has from your other interactions.

JJ shrugs. “I think I’m starting to.”

The honesty behind his words has your lips parting, somewhat taken aback. The bad-boy façade that he hides behind seems to have slipped tonight. You hold his gaze and he offers you a warm, tender smile. There’s a nervous yet excitable thrum in your chest. It's terrifying.

“Yeah, well, the only thing people know about me is that I’m scary,” you say dismissively.

“Well, I’m no picnic myself, so,” JJ muses.

And it’s things like that which catch you off guard. Your efforts to push him away and close him off are so easily dismissed. He seems to have a talent for peeling away your walls and it never feels intrusive. Instead, it makes you feel seen. Understood. It’s something that you haven’t really known since your mom walked out. Mia understood you to an extent, but you weren’t sure that she knew you. You weren’t sure if you’d ever let her, as awful as it sounds.

“Well, thank you. For driving me back,” you quietly say.

JJ nods. His eyes never stray from yours. He’s so beautiful it’s unfair.

“Course. Anytime.”

He takes a breath and it’s shaky, tempered with nerves, and that’s when you wonder if his heart is beating as fast as yours. If his stomach is full of butterflies too, bringing about the most addictive of anxieties. As his tongue darts out to dampen his lips, you find yourself taking the leap. Slowly, so slow that you’re not sure you even are, you lean forward to him, letting your eyes slip shut. In the moonlight, in your car, after the conversations of the night, you finally feel as though you have seen the real JJ, and he’s seen the real you.

A second passes.

Then another.

Then a third.

You hear the rustle of clothes and the creak of the car seat as JJ shifts. It makes you open your eyes. He’s watching his fingers trail along the leather grip of the steering wheel, knuckles uncomfortably tight and lips rubbing together.  

“Maybe we should do this another time,” he eventually says.

For a moment, you just sit. You take him in. He doesn’t appear cocky or disgusted, or even amused. He seems timorous. It’s so confusing and irritating that you find yourself defaulting to anger. It’s that anger that smothers the burning hot embarrassment you feel deep in your chest. It conceals the crumbling disappointment of not having his lips on yours. Suddenly, you want to be as far away from him as possible.

You scoff and push open the car door. It slams loudly behind you as you storm back up to the house, arms wrapping around yourself in comfort as you feel your heart painfully pulling at your throat. The sting of tears is hard to fight but you manage to keep them at bay until you’re in your bedroom. It’s there that you feel safe enough to cry.

There was a rumour that JJ tracked you down in a movie shop. That one was true.

Have you ever had so much on your mind that it’s physically impossible to concentrate, even on the simplest of things? Ever since the keggar three days ago, that’s how you’ve felt. Studying was more gruelling than usual. You would start reading an exert from Romeo and Juliet and somehow, you’d find your mind drifting to the sound of JJ’s voice on the beach, telling you about his mom. Watching movies was no longer an escape because any guy on screen had you back in the passenger seat, basking in JJ’s beauty. Even now, stood in An Offer You Can’t Refuse, you find yourself staring blankly at the back of a DVD case, trying to make sense of the blurb.

Sighing, you give up and shelve it. You wander back to the main throughway of the store and look at some of the more recent releases. Tugging your cardigan tighter around you, you round the end of the shelve, heading for the exit, to instead come face to face with JJ.

It’s a shame that your stomach twists unpleasantly at the sight of him.

“Excuse me, have you seen ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s?’ I’ve lost my copy?”

You hold back a grunt and opt to roll your eyes instead. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard there was a secret screening,” JJ tells you, humour lining his words.

You scoff. “You’re so…”

“Charming?” he offers.

You breeze past him.

“Wholesome!”

“Unwelcome,” you correct.

“You’re not as mean as you think you are, you know,” JJ suddenly tells you, tone taking an edge.

Mystified, you return, “and you’re not as badass as you think you are.”

“Oh, somebody’s still got their panties in a twist,” JJ quips.

Spinning around, you raise a finger threateningly. “Do not for one second think you had any effect whatsoever on my panties.”

JJ lightly taps your hand away. “What did I have an effect on then?”

It’s moments like these that you’re thankful your mouth is quicker than your mind. “Other than my upchuck reflex, nothing,” you lie.

JJ sighs, frustrated.

In the corner of your eye, you see the movies of the week. The universe works perfectly sometimes. Snatching up a copy, you shove Breakfast at Tiffany's in JJ’s chest before leaving the shop.

It sucks to be mad at JJ. You don’t want to be, but you don’t know how not to be. The whole night felt like an oxymoron. There was a moment when things felt so perfect and then he shattered it. It was abnormal. All that hard work to get you out on a date; the time taken caring for you and driving you back, checking you got home safe; and the conversations that felt far from empty and false…And then nothing. You knew JJ wasn’t a virgin. Not all rumours are based in truth – you knew that – but when it came to JJ Maybank, it was common knowledge that he had a way with girls. You weren’t the first girl for him to lay eyes on, and you certainly wouldn’t be the first girl he’d kiss, so why did he suddenly seem so discouraged? It didn’t make sense.

Whatever.

You close the car door and start up your engine.

You had more important things to sort out than deliberating over JJ’s intentions. Since when had a man ever interrupted your life before? There were some math notes which needed finishing back at home, and a track meet practice to prepare for tomorrow. Life was bigger than some pretty teenage boy.

Catching your eyes in the rearview mirror, you harden your gaze. “Get a grip.”

Your day doesn’t seem to improve when you get home. Whilst you’ve managed to put thoughts of JJ to bed, letting the irritation rest, your dad seems unwilling to give you peace. You walk through the door to hear himself and Charlotte talking animatedly about the Spring Ball at the yacht club.

“I’m not sure,” your dad sighs.

“But daddy, I’ve gone to them before.”

“But this one’s different. The guys there are older now. You’re older now. After last year, and our reputation, I’m just…”

The creaking floorboard before the kitchen doorway gives you away. Charlotte jumps at the chance to lasso you in.

“What if she comes?”

“She has a name,” you mutter, heading to the cupboard for a snack.

“I mean, if your sister goes then you can go, but I doubt she will.”

“She will what?” you ask. Cereal bar in hand, you tug away the wrapper and take a bite.

“Go to the Spring Ball.”

You guffaw loudly. “Yeah. No.”

“Knew it,” your dad says.

“Oh, come on! What’s wrong with the Spring Ball?” Charlotte carps.

You roll your eyes. “They’re stupid and performative and in bad taste. And old-fashioned. It just makes me feel icky. Whilst the Cut are trying to raise money to renovate the parks, we’re throwing balls for the fun of it. Plus, they’re boring. It’s just a bunch of rich morons talking about other rich morons. No offence, dad.”

“Plenty taken,” mutters your dad.

“You’re exhausting,” Charlotte tells you. “And unhinged.”

“Thanks,” you grin before taking another bite of your snack. You go to leave. “I’ll be upstairs.”

There was a rumour that JJ snuck into your school. That one was true.

You started running track following your school guidance counsellor’s advice. It was after you kneed Kelce so hard in the balls that he had to go to the nurse (you pride yourself for that achievement daily). Track was a good way to let off steam though. The world felt smaller and simpler on the circuit. You felt as though you could run away from all the things that were bothering you: Rafe, your dad, Charlotte, your mom. And now, JJ. The steady beat of your feet hitting the sand-topped track works like a metronome for your musings.

You’d heard the rumours that had been circulating about the night of the keggar. Charlotte hadn’t told you what happened between herself and Rafe, but there was a rumour that he didn’t drive her home. Apparently, someone called Louis had given her a ride back. You’d seen him at school every now and then. He’d only transferred a few months back so there wasn’t much to know about him. He seemed harmless enough though. Compared to Rafe, a rabid dog would be preferred.

“Good pace!” your coach praises loudly to you as you complete a third lap.

You’re panting in the warm sun. April was right around the corner now and the temperature was picking up, bit by bit, every day. Slowing to a jog, you direct yourself to the benches and retrieve your water bottle.

As your swallowing your third sip, you hear the loudspeaker system crackle to life. At first you don’t pay it much mind, assuming it’s one of the band members checking everything is working for a game tomorrow night or something. But then a voice is droning out of the speakers. It has a Carolina twang to it that is more common on the Cut and a youthful rasp that’s now all too familiar.

JJ.

‘Morning you wonderful Kook folks.’

You stare wide-eyed at the speaker.

‘Y’all are probably busy preparing your caviar or whatever the hell it is that you be doing out here on Figure Eight, but I’m here to read something I prepared. Brighten up your day and all that.’

Surely you have heatstroke. Surely this is not happening.

“’I’ve come here with no expectations, only to profess, now that I am at liberty to do so, that my heart is, and always will be, yours.’”

Sense and Sensibility. You glance around the field as if to check that you’re not the only one hearing this and - yep, you’re not.

“‘Me? I’m scared of everything. I’m scared of what I saw, I’m scared of what I did, of who I am, and most of all, I’m scared of walking out of this room and never feeling the rest of my whole life the way I feel when I’m with you.’”

Dirty Dancing. Lips twitching into a smile, you’re in disbelief. Some people are sniggering at the cheesiness, others are completely befuddled by the whole thing. It is rather random. If you didn’t know what he was doing, you’d be confused too. Well, you still are, in fact. Did he know you'd be at the track today?

“And my personal favourite, ladies and gentlemen: ‘No, I don’t think I will kiss you, although you need kissing. Badly. That’s what’s wrong with you. You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how.’”

Your perplexed smile turns more sober with that. Something trills in your chest – most probably your heart – and you nod in quiet approval.

“Alright then, Kooks and…Kooklemen. Y’all have a blessed day.”

The speaker clicks off with a crackle and some people on the field whoop and cheer, laughing and jeering. You shake your head and finish your drink, grinning like an idiot.

Maybe, just maybe, you can find some room to give JJ another chance.

There was a rumour that JJ Maybank spent his free time fishing. That one was true.

JJ Maybank was like a candy bar. He had a way of being sweet without being sickly, and he stayed on your mind the same way one gets chocolate stuck between their teeth. After asking around, you’re told that the best place to find the so-called delinquent was at a local fishing spot, down some old jetty. The floorboards creak unnervingly with every step you take. The sun is high in the sky, it only being mid-morning, and you find JJ easily. He’s perched on the end of the jetty, leaning forward against the rotting wooden railing. In one hand he’s supporting a rod, the wire of which is submerged deep in the water, waiting for a bite. There’s a small cooler by his feet alongside a bag of fishing tack. The back of his t-shirt has a large circular graphic on it. It’s well washed but you can make out the ‘sex-wax’ text.

“Yo,” you call out.

He startles then turns. There’s a strange flurry of emotions that cross over his face in a second when he lays eyes on you.

“Hey. How’d you find me?”

“I have my ways,” you reply, finishing the journey to him.

JJ moves so his back rests against the fence, body now facing you, and you pause a comfortable foot or so apart.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh?”

“I was kind’a an asshole at the movie store, the other day,” you say, uncomfortable in your confession. The proud twitch of his brow doesn't go unnoticed. “So, I figured it was only right to fess up.”

“Mhm. Anything in particular brought this on?” JJ wonders innocently.

You smile at that, rolling your eyes. Nevertheless, you play along. “You know, it’s so weird. This voice came over the speakers at school yesterday and it got me thinking.”

“Oh? You know who it was?”

“I don’t know,” you sigh, scratching your hairline. “Maybe God?”

“You sure it weren’t an angel?” he checks, tongue poking through his teeth with his boyish grin.

“Nah, but he sure had the voice of one,” you play along.

The entertained lift of JJ’s brows makes your smile flatten into something more genuine.

“Did you get in trouble for it?”

“For breaking into Kook Academy and hacking your intercom?” JJ asks. His face scrunches up as he shakes his head falsely. “Nah.”

“Mhm. Sure.”

“I’m a pro, sweetheart. I was in and out, like an ops-mission,” he recounts, using his free hand to gesture lamely like a discount spy.

You roll your eyes once more and move to stand next to him, separated only by the cooler. Leaning your arms forward on the jetty fence, you sigh and close your eyes, basking in the sun.

“What’re you doing right now?”

“Right now?” you say, opening your eyes to look at him. He nods. “Nothing much.”

“Wanna go to the break? Hear the waves are meant to be pretty sweet today,” JJ asks.

Your lips twitch at the corners. His seem to mirror. “Sure, yeah. Sounds good.”

“Sweet. Lemme just pack this stuff up,” he says. “My friend’s lent me his car for the day so we can ride there in that.”

There was a rumour that you nearly drowned when you went surfing with JJ. That one was completely made up.

The water is so blue you can almost taste it. The gradient of blues and aquamarines is mouthwatering in beauty.

Sighing, your feet sink into the sand, desensitised to the burn on the soles of your feet. On one shoulder you have your rucksack. It’s packed with snacks that the two of you picked up from a local shop: granola bars and a large back of chips, that sort of thing. JJ found some cans of soda when turfing through the cooler. Tucked under your other arm is a surfboard that JJ’s letting you borrow; there were three attached to the roof of the beat-up camper van he’s borrowing. JJ’s carrying a tattered looking picnic blanket that he dragged off the backseats and his own board. It seems JJ’s surfboard is the thing that is the best kept out of all the belongings he has.

JJ whistles. “Pretty good swell, huh?”

“Hell yeah,” you agree.

He walks in front and dumps the picnic blanket, lazily spreading it out with his foot. You put the rucksack down with it before leaning down to place your board carefully on the sand. As you go to stand, you find your eyes falling on JJ’s back. He’s tugging off his shirt, lats and triceps tensing and relaxing with the quick change. You can’t help but stare. The guy’s in good shape – nobody can disagree with that. He turns and catches your eye just before you can divert your gaze to the water, frowning as if assessing the waves. There’s an amused smirk that comes to his face, cocky like always.

“Enjoying the view?” he asks.

Your face scrunches in deliberation. You pretend that he’s referring to the sea. “Yeah; the waves look pretty strong.”

“Mhm,” he hums, entertained.

It’s then that you decide to seek some revenge. Casually, like the whole situation doesn’t make your heartbeat with elated anxiety, you pull your top off, revealing a crotchet-style bikini top. Living in Kildare meant that bikinis instead of underwear were sort of a given. Unbuttoning your shorts, you wiggle them down your body before stepping out and tossing them on the blanket. Glancing up, acting as if you’d completely forgotten JJ was there, you quirk a brow. He’s staring shamelessly at your body.

“Something up?”

“Not yet,” he mumbles.

It’s hard to bite back your smile. Hard, but not impossible. Dipping down to retrieve the board, you strain a little as you lift it.

“Come on. We’re wasting daylight,” you tell him, walking past towards the water.

“Yes ma’am,” you hear him say.

The crunch of sand behind you tells you he’s following. Then, his pace picks up and he’s rushing past, taking a moment to dab at your head jokingly.

“Hey!”

His laugh is light like buttercream frosting. You chase after him, towards the break, and soon enough you’re sliding atop of your board and paddling through the wake. JJ’s just a bit ahead. His back glistens in the sunlight with saltwater. You swallow your pride and dignity and let your eyes trail up his legs and butt. The water makes his clothes stick more than usual. He steadily rises to his feet, finding his balance on the board in such a natural manner that one would think he was born on it. The way he leans forward and back is effortless. He tames the waves like a creature of the sea, dipping on the currents and following the dives. You can’t help but sit up on your board for a moment and watch. His face is tight with concentration but the joy is as clear as the water. The sharp edge of his jawline teases you as you watch him surf. The tremble of your heart and knot in your stomach isn’t unfamiliar and yet it still catches you by surprise. To distract yourself, you paddle out some more before rising to your feet.

You know the old saying ‘time flies when you’re having fun’? You never much believed it until today. The two of you must have been on the water for an hour. Somehow, simultaneously, the two of you agree that it’s time to call it off. The scratchy over-washed cotton of the blanket is only slightly uncomfortable on your legs as you sit. JJ takes your rucksack and digs about for a snack. You opt for taking in the quietness of the beach; it feels as though you’re the only souls for miles.

“Who’s this?” JJ asks.

You glance over to find JJ holding up a photo he’d taken from your wallet. A part of you wants to make a jab about how he’s snooping around, but you don’t. Instead, you smile weakly.

“My mom.”

“Oh,” JJ says, looking back down at the photo with new interest. “She’s pretty. Can see where you get your looks from.”

“Thanks,” you smile.

JJ reaches back into the back and pulls a can of soda free. He tosses it to you and you crack it open.

“I go through phases of having it in there,” you say, nodding down to the photo that he continues to hold. “Sometimes I want it around and other times I don’t. I know that probably sounds dumb.”

“No, it doesn’t,” JJ responds rather easily.

He tucks the photo back away in the wallet, safe and sound, then grabs a can of sofa for himself. He reclines on his elbows. Your eyes fixate on the shark tooth necklace hung around his neck on a discoloured piece of yarn. It rises and falls with each steady breath he takes. As your eyes trail down his stomach, you notice the water droplets drying in the sunlight. In a desperate effort not to stare, you find yourself watching him crack his feet, outstretching them on the sand. Crossing your legs, you take a sip of your soda and glance back up to his face. Then, you follow JJ’s line of sight to the water. The routine of the waves pulling in and pulling back, over and over, is calming in a way few other things are. As the sky’s mosaic of colour darkens by the minute, the water reflects it back like a mirror with a pretty shimmer.

“Sometimes I wish I had a photo of my ma.”

“Don’t you?” you ask, looking to him again.

He shakes his head. “My dad went on this crazy rager when she left and burnt up all her stuff. I was too young and stupid to take a photo for myself and hide it somewhere.”

“Bold of you to assume that you’re not still those things.”

JJ snorts, shooting you a glance. “Thanks.”

You smile back but correct your manners. “Seriously though, that sucks. I’m sorry.” It’s a lame understatement for the reality of it, but it’s all you can think to say. Tenderness isn’t something that comes very naturally for you.

He shrugs, looking back to the water. You know he’s trying to act like it doesn’t bother him, and maybe if you’d only met yesterday, you’d believe it, but there’s something about his composure that tells you that it isn’t true.

“I just wish I could remember what she looks like, y’know?” he says, looking to you once more as if seeking affirmation. You give a small nod. “I mean, I can’t even remember her voice. Not that it should matter. Fuck her, right? She’s the one who left.”

He takes a hasty sip of his soda, breaking eye contact. You frown and watch him, and deliberate whether to speak your mind. I mean, of course you’re going to, but it feels good to deliberate first.

“Well, no, not ‘fuck her’,” you eventually say.

JJ looks to you, eyebrows knotted: bordering on angry.

You continue. “I think it ain’t that simple. It’s why I go through phases of having that photo of my mom in my wallet. You can be mad at someone and still miss them. At least I think you can. They’re not binary things, or mutually exclusive. So, I don’t think it’s as simple as ‘fuck her’.”

There’s a moment where JJ just looks at you, as if he’s soaking you in the same way the two of you are basking in the warmth of the sun. It’s a certain kind of stare; the kind where you don’t feel calculated under his gaze but unquestionably seen. There’s a momentary concern that you’ve offended him but then JJ gains this almost-smile that’s becoming more and more familiar to you, and he nods.

“I’ve never really talked to anyone about her before,” JJ confesses.

You smile sadly. “Me too. About my mom, I mean. Dad shuts down when I bring it up and Charlotte…She remembers things differently.”

“Well, it’s nice to talk about it.”

“Yeah,” you agree. “It is nice.”

The whispering of sea waves melts into the sound of songbirds and geese, singing and squawking in a weirdly melodic harmony. There’re crickets in the dunes which chime in from time to time and you take a moment to look back to the water, close your eyes, and enjoy it all.

“So, what’s your excuse for it?”

“My excuse for what?” you wonder, never opening your eyes.

“You know.” There’s a soft scrape on your skin as JJ kicks some sand off his feet and onto yours. “For acting the way we do.”

Sighing, you deliberate on how to answer. JJ has this way of opening you up. With others, you were hard-shelled and closed off, but like a pistachio, he knew where to pry just right to get you to spill. It was like he already knew the password so you never questioned letting him through the door.

“I don’t want to care what people think of me. It makes no difference, whether I impress them or not, so what should it matter? Why should I waste my time with it?”

“‘Makes no difference?’ Like makes no difference whether they stick around?” JJ wonders.

You open your eyes and look to him, a little taken aback by how easily he translated your words. “Sure. Like that.”

“Like your mom?”

It doesn’t affect you when he asks that. If someone else were to, your fury would spike suddenly and you’d snap. Say something you’d regret. But maybe because JJ might understand more than others, it doesn’t. So, you nod.

“Yeah,” you quietly reply. “Like my mom.”

“I get that,” JJ muses. It’s with that small token that you feel comfortable to elaborate.

“I think it really came clear after she left, how fake people can be,” you say. “Seeing how all our so-called friends reacted. At the Yacht Club, my dad was the laughingstock. Everyone talked about him, about mom leaving, like they didn’t know him. Like he wasn’t this great guy - which he is - and like they hadn’t been drinking cocktails and pints on his tab for years. It was so fake. That’s when I realised that people will think whatever they want to, even if they say another thing. So…why bend yourself backwards to try and change it?”

Sniffing, JJ nods in understanding as he digests your story. His toes dig into the damp sand and you find your own spare hand reaching out and playing with the grains, sifting through them soothingly.

“What about you? Why do you act the way we do?”

“I guess the same, in a way,” JJ replies. You notice that he likes to gaze ahead when he talks about himself, like eye-contact is too painful. Too vulnerable. “With my dad being who he is, people just assume the worst about me. I’m sick of trying to prove them wrong. They’re gonna think what they wanna think so what’s the point, right?”

“The ones who care enough won’t judge a book by its cover. They’ll get to know you and see through all the bullshit,” you assure him.

His head turns with that. Unblinking, he asks, “like you?”

You’re momentarily stunned by the bluntness of the question but soon enough, you’re smiling at him.

“Yeah. Like me.”

When JJ smiles, his teeth peak through in this adorably youthful way. There’re dimples that poke through his cheeks and no tension in his forehead or jaw. Just happiness. You like him like this, all tousled and sun-kissed and seawater bathed. It’s strange. Sitting here with him on the beach feels like the first time you’ve ever been to the water and truly appreciated it. It’s like you’d always thought you would sink, so you never swam. But now, with JJ looking at you the way he is, and the way the two of you seem to click in an inexplicable manner – as if you’d been the two missing parts of the other’s jigsaw puzzle – you realise that maybe you were wrong to make such an assumption.

“It’s weird. We come from such different lifestyles but I don’t think anyone understands me as good as you do.”

JJ’s voice is quiet but not small when he tells you this. It’s a private thought that you’re honoured for him to have shared. There’s only one way you can think to answer.

Leaning forward, you leave your drink abandoned on the blanket and cup his jaw, fingers damp from condensation. His lips meet yours willingly. The kiss the two of you fall into makes your feelings for him all the more obvious to you, and all the more terrifying.

There was a lot of rumours about the both of you. Some were true, and some were not.

JJ drops the campervan off at his friend John B’s house. It’s this quaint fishing shack that could definitely do with a lick of paint on the boarding, and a few fresh nails to keep the porch from caving in on itself. But it’s homely by how clearly lived-in it is. There’s no emotionless ornaments like in your house; only fishing gear, empty cans of beer by the stairs leading up to the front door, and far-from-new throw pillows. You wait on the grass at the bottom of the stairs as JJ heads up to the door, skipping one of the steps entirely. He raps with his knuckles on the door before letting himself in.

“Yo! John B, you home?”

“Back here!” you hear a guy call back. JJ vanishes into the house, car keys in hand, ready to hand them over.

Shoving your hands in your short pockets, you glance out to the backyard. There’s an impressive sized tree from which a hammock hangs, and a less than stable looking jetty. A sort-of shed stands, filled with all sorts of tools and gear, and a half-waxed board lies on a table.

“Alright, let’s bounce,” JJ says, reappearing. He hops off the porch and grabs your hand like it’s second nature, guiding the two of you away from the house.

“You known John B a long time?”

“Since kindergarten,” JJ replies.

“Damn. Don’t think I’ve ever known someone that long. Well, apart from Charlotte.”

“What’s her deal, anyway?”

“Who? Charlotte?”

“Yeah. Like, is she as conceited as everyone says she is?”

Your brows quirk up. “People say she’s conceited?”

Watching JJ fumble and stumble over his tongue is entertaining. He looks to you, mildly panicked. “Well, like, I don’t say that but—”

“I’m just messing with you,” you grin. He unconsciously gives a small sigh of relief. “I know she’s conceited. And spoilt. And bratty.”

“Hm. Sounds like you’re really fond of her,” JJ chuckles.

You laugh under breath and rock your head from side to side in deliberation. “She’s hard to love but harder to hate.”

“That’s ice cold, girl,” JJ whistles.

The moment your feet hit the tarmac of a main road, you realise that you’ve been following the blonde-haired boy blind.

“Where are we going, by the way?”

“To mine.”

“To yours?”

JJ seems to catch onto the innuendo. He looks to you and adds, “my bike’s there. I can give you a ride home.”

 “Oh.” Something inside you sinks with disappointment. You don’t dwell on it though. “Thanks.”

The weight of JJ’s fingers nestled between yours is casually intimate. Usually you’d feel coddled and clammy and want to pull away, but instead you feel safe.

“What’d you think I meant? When I said we were heading to mine?” JJ asks you.

You quirk a brow and pull a face which seems to be answer enough. He cracks up. “I mean…I’m down if you’re down…”

“Slow and steady, JJ Maybank. Slow and steady,” you return with a grin.

“That’s my motto baby,” is his sultry reply, topped off with a wink.

You’d be lying if you said your body didn’t flush with that comment.

“You’ve got a reputation, JJ. I’m not gonna be another notch on your belt,” you jokingly say.

JJ rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, half of my reputation is bullshit rumours.”

“Same here, amigo.”

“Yeah, I’ve gotta admit, I’ve heard some pretty batshit things about you,” JJ tunefully says.

Smirking, you turn to look at him. “Oh really? Like what?”

He takes a moment to think. The eventide light shadows his skin like a painting. “The state trooper?”

Ah. You remember that one. Bobby Cromack spread a rumour that you’d kicked a state trooper in the balls during a protest. On accounts that no protest ever existed that month in Kildare, that was a lie.

“False,” you say. You take the opportunity to debunk some of that you’d heard about JJ. One that you were certain wasn’t true was the rumour that he ate an entire turtle raw. “The turtle?”

He blows a raspberry. “Bullshit. The college guy?”

“Hearsay,” you say. Apparently, a friend of a friend of someone at Kildare Academy saw you at a frat college party in Wilmington, snorting coke off some guy’s chest. Incredible how easily fake news flies. “The hooker?”

“Lies,” he debunks. So, JJ didn’t lose his virginity to a prostitute. “The Banksy side-gig?”

You guffaw. “Complete crap.”

Yes, it appeared that people at school thought you were spending your free time running around Kildare, throwing up mediocre spray paint art as an act of rebellion. Stunning.

“Damn. You’re just full of disappointments, ain’t ya?”

JJ leads the two of you up a small dirt road and through a culmination of trees and shrubs, a house begins to emerge. It’s slightly bigger than John B’s but still small. It is somehow even more banged up, but not in an inviting way like his friend’s. No, this place looks desolate and lonely. Sad even. You feel a sympathetic tug when you notice JJ’s shoulders tense at the sight of it. You’re not even sure he realises that he’s doing it. There’s a bright red bike that you recognise; it’s sheltered under a small shack in the garden. It seems that neither of you are ready to close off the conversation yet. Instead, JJ takes you to the steps of his porch and the two of you sit. You lean against one pillar and him against the other. The wood is splintering and the paint is peeling off in strips. Facing one another, you slot your feet between his staple combat boots.

“Tell me something true.”

“Something true?” he checks, rubbing at his jaw. You nod. “I don’t like snakes.”

Laughing, you shake your head. He seems to like your laugh, smiling at the sound and sight. “No. Something real.”

JJ reaches out and plays with one of your laces.

“Something nobody else knows,” you explicate.

“Okay,” JJ nods. He retracts his fingers from your shoe, using his hand to help him keep his balance as he leans forward. You can smell the salt on the skin of his neck from the sea as he presses a kiss to your skin. There’s something sensual about the warmth of his breath on the apple of your cheek.

“You’re sweet,” he says. Your lips push together, suppressing your smile, and JJ pulls back only to move to the other cheek. “And sexy.” He pulls back so he can plant a kiss on your lips. You love how JJ kisses. “And completely hot for me.”

You guffaw, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “You’re amazingly self-assured, has anyone ever told you that?”

He frowns momentarily before nodding, saying, “I tell myself that everyday, actually.”

The smile that his joking response brings you quickly fades when he kisses you again. There’s something different about this kiss. Something passionate, and emotive, and sensuous. When his hand reaches up to cup at the place where your jaw fades into your neck, you find yourself leaning into his hold, deepening the kiss. The brush of his tongue on yours sends electricity shooting from your head, down your spine, straight through your toes. It’s over all too soon. When he speaks, he’s close, and he asks his question against your lips.

“Go to the Spring Ball with me.”

“What?” you dumbly ask, eyes slowly opening.

“The Yacht club spring ball. Go with me,” JJ clarifies.

Your smile doesn’t falter as you gaze into his eyes, admiring the flecks of colour. The answer is easy. “No.”

His brows gently tug together. Smiling, he repeats, “come on, go with me.”

“Is that a request or a demand?” you half-joke. The magic of the moment is dissipating as quick as vapour. He doesn’t reply but the way he holds your gaze suggests that he’s still waiting for an answer. “No.”

“No? Why not?”

You pull away now. “Because I don’t want to. Because it’s a dumb tradition for fake rich people.”

“Come on! People won’t expect you to go. Plus, it’d be a laugh seeing the look on those Kook asshole faces when you show up with me, don’t you think?” JJ prompts.

You frown. Something manifests in your gut. It weighs heavy like a stone. Cocking your head, creating more distance between the two of you, you ask, “why are you pushing this?”

JJ’s lips part. You see them try to form words but nothing comes out. It makes you prod further.

“What’s in it for you?”

He turns, sitting fully on the porch, feet side by side on the step below. You watch his side profile and notice how his jaw ticks and tightens, like he’s annoyed. Like you telling him no has annoyed him. That stone turns into a rock.

“So, you’re saying I need a motive to be with you now?” JJ asks, tone clipped.

Your anger ticks. “You tell me.”

He scoffs and shakes his head, glancing out to the unkept yard. Suddenly, he looks to you. There’s a dark, twisted look on his face that’s so scarily unfamiliar. “You need therapy, you know that? Has anyone ever told you that before? Like you’re actually sick in the head.”

The words hit like darts aimed straight for your heart. You swallow the pain and keep your gaze steely but your voice gives you away. It’s shrinking and holds no conviction as you say, “answer the question, JJ.”

The ugliness of him only grows as he shakes his head once more. There’s a sick smile on his face that comes and goes quick like a hurricane before he sardonically says, “nothing, alright? Just the pleasure of your company.”

The rock in your gut is a boulder; it makes you feel like you’re sinking into the ground. The shock barely has time to settle before he delivers another blow. You watch JJ dig into his short pockets and pull out a pack of cigarettes, shucking one free and propping it between his lips. He said he was quitting. Scoffing, you reach out and take it as he searches for his lighter. You toss the cigarette carelessly on the ground before getting to your feet, hastily walking away from him. It’s like you can’t get away fast enough. Your arms wrap around you in a far from comforting hug the minute you feel obscured by the foliage. When you realise that JJ isn’t following you, your head dips and lips tremble. With the call of a songbird, your mind flashes back to earlier that day, at the beach, and your tears finally start to fall.

There was a rumour that your sister wanted to go to the spring ball with Rafe. That one was (thankfully) false.

Academics don’t hurt you the way people do. Math equations can’t talk back and Shakespeare quotes don’t bite. Throwing yourself into your studies seems the best way to get your mind of JJ’s cruel words. The look on his face when he snapped at you was so different to the way he’d been with you before. It was cold and callous and downright mean. It was also befuddling, how defensive he got. JJ and Spring Ball didn’t seem like the most obvious pairing to you. You knew that JJ liked to stick-it-to-the-man and get under the Kook’s skin, but pushing the spring ball just to take the piss was so abnormal. Maybe that was what hurt the most.

You’re halfway through analysing a sonnet from Romeo and Juliet when there’s a soft rap on your bedroom door.

“Come in!”

It creaks open and you glance over to find Charlotte. She softly closes it behind her. Then, she takes a seat on your bed.

“What’s up?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” you say, closing your notebook. Spinning around in your desk chair, you face your younger sister.

She takes a moment to gather her thoughts before speaking. She stands out like a sore thumb in your bedroom, amongst your old movie posters and tapestries and postcards, and the deep grey and white of your bedsheets. Her blossom pink skirt doesn’t quite fit the theme.

“Why don’t you want to go to the spring ball? Is it just to keep me from going?”

You sigh and look away, down at the floor. Shaking your head, you say, “no. I just don’t like the yacht club people. You know that.”

“You act like you’re not one of us,” Charlotte tells you.

“Because I’m not,” you reply quickly, offended. She quirks a brow.

“Look at where we live! At the car you drive! We’re in a lucky position in life and it’s stupid to act like that isn’t true!”

“I can acknowledge my privilege without leaning into it,” you say.

You weren’t stupid. You knew your socio-economic status gave you an advantage in life. Not once had you ever had to worry about money, or not having dinner on the table, or not being able to go for coffee. Your dad worked hard to get to the place where you were at now; it wasn’t handed to him. Nonetheless, spending more time with JJ, seeing his and John B’s homes, made you realise just how easy you had it. That didn’t mean that you liked the frivolities of the lifestyle, though.

“Look, I know you think the yacht club is dumb and fake and all of that stuff,” Charlotte reals off. “But I actually care about it. I really do. It means something to me.”

“But it’s so—”

“You can preach all you want, but it won’t change my opinion,” Charlotte interrupts. You slam your mouth shut. It’s a fair point (something she rarely makes). “Look, there’s a guy that I really like, and he wants to take me.”

“Rafe?”

“No.” She says it in a way that makes you think she’s almost amused at the thought. “Louis. He’s actually nice.”

“Actually?” You check.

She smiles and nods. She has a pretty smile. “Yes. Actually. But daddy won’t let me go if you don’t and I really want to go.”

You swallow. It’s clear where this conversation is going now. Sighing, you look out the window. It’s windy today. Blossoms keep getting blown from the trees and they pass by your window like fake snow.

“The thing with the yacht club isn’t just as simple as not wanting to get all dressed up for some dumb tradition,” you admit. “I don’t like how they treated dad, after mom left.”

“I know,” she says. Then, after a moment’s thought, adds, “But that wasn’t everyone. Remember how Mrs M brought us casserole for a week? And Mr Cameron invited dad out on a fishing trip? Some people are fake, that’s true, but not everyone. Not everyone has ulterior motives.”

That last sentence has your eyes snapping back to hers. She doesn’t seem to realise what she’s said. In fact, it looks like she’s waiting for you to tear into her like you usually would. But when you take her in, you see a sweet fifteen-year-old girl who’s a little tightly wrapped in cotton wool, who wants an excuse to wear a pretty dress and dance to trashy pop music and get to know a cute guy. The thought of keeping her away from that makes you feel guilty. Plus, if you’re there, at least you can keep an eye on her from the outskirts. Check that this Louis isn’t just another Rafe in disguise.

“Fine.”

She blinks at you, confused. “Fine?”

“I’ll go. We can go.”

“We can!?”

The way her whole face lights up like New York at night makes the night of horror already worthwhile. Starting to smile, you nod. The hug that Charlotte fires at you nearly sends you falling out of your chair. As much as you hate hugs, this one might be the best one you’ve ever had from her.

There was a rumour that JJ’s dad beat him. He never told you that was true, but you had a feeling.

JJ’s house seems eerily quiet. It isn’t the sort of quiet that makes you feel as though nobody’s home. It reminds you of the quiet in the movies when the hostages are hiding from the bad guys. The kind where nobody wants to step on a twig and give away their location. Something about it stops you from heading up the porch and knocking on the door. You’ve barely rounded the corner of the house, about to see what you can spot around the back, when someone is grabbing at you from behind. It’s a man, you can tell by their arms. One wraps around your middle, fastening one of your arms to your side, and the other comes to cover your mouth. It muffles your panicked yelps.

“Calm down, calm down, it’s me,” JJ’s whispering frantically in your ear.

It doesn’t stop your struggling though. He’s barely pulled you away from the house before you shake free, shoving him off you. He takes you by the wrist then, guiding you into the marshland.

“What the hell, JJ!”

“Shut up, alright? He’ll hear,” JJ shortly replies.

You do as he says begrudgingly and let him take you further from the house. Eventually, JJ lets go. He takes a second to catch his breath, bringing his arms up to clasp his hands behind his head, back facing you as he paces.

“What’s going on?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “Don’t matter.”

Turning around, it seems as though his whole demeanour has reset. Well, almost. There’s a tension in his muscles that he can’t fully shake. You overlook it the same way you overlook the bruise forming near his eye. It’s brown and purple. Definitely caused by more than a tap on a doorframe.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“I had to come see you,” you say. Suddenly, with the spotlight on you, the confidence that Charlotte instilled within you falters. “About the other day.”

“The other day?”

“Yeah, on your porch…” you clumsily say.

JJ raises his brows, changing his weight from one leg to the other. It seems easier to fixate on his cap rather than meet his eyes. It’s green and purposefully frayed on the edges; it compliments his skin tone well. Swallowing your pride with a sigh, you awkwardly twiddle your fingers.

“I came to apologise for how I reacted.”

“You did?”

Your eyes dart down from his hat to meet his. “Yeah. I shouldn’t have questioned your motives. It was dumb of me, and stupid, and…dumb.”

“Said that one already.”

“Shut up.”

“Right.”

You sigh and rub at your forehead like this conversation is causing you a headache. It turns out pride and stubbornness are sisters.

“Anyway, I just wanted to come and say sorry and see if you still wanted to go. Maybe,” you rush out.

“You wanna go to the spring ball?” JJ frowns.

“Yeah. Charlotte wants to go and my dad—You know what, that doesn’t matter. Because you’re right,” you tell him, cutting yourself off in the process.

His eyebrows almost shoot into his hairline with that. Something tells you that he doesn’t hear that phrase a whole lot.

“It would be funny to rub it in the kook-club faces. And maybe I’d actually enjoy the night if I went with you.”

JJ purses his lips and plants his hands on his hips, looking off to the greenery. You know what he’s doing. He’s basking in this moment, with you stood, tail between your legs, and milking it for what it’s worth. It isn’t exactly amusing, but it does somehow ease your anxiety.

“So, you’re saying that I’m right and that you want me to take you to your fancy spring ball?”

“Yes,” you reply through gritted teeth.

“Huh.” JJ nods, pulling a face. “So this is what it feels like to be right…"

Silence.

"It’s oddly unsettling.”

“Look, do you wanna go or not, cause I’ve got plenty of other things I can do with—”

JJ makes it to you with two large strides. Your face is enveloped by his hands as he guides your lips to yours in a smooch-like kiss. It’s awfully annoying how all of your worries seem to melt away with that one gesture.

“Yes. I’ll go with you,” JJ says the minute he pulls back.

You want his lips on yours again already, but you practice restraint. Bringing a hand up to lay over one of his, you look up into his eyes. God, he’s so dreamy.

“I’m sorry for questioning your motives,” you repeat, more sincerely now.

JJ swallows before nodding. “You’re, uh, you’re forgiven. I’m sorry too, for saying the things that I did. I gotta pretty ugly temper sometimes and I just speak without thinking.”

You missed the smile that comes to your face. Nobody makes you smile like JJ does. Nobody gets you like JJ does either. As if trying to tell him so, you lean up and kiss him again. You can feel his smile against yours, melding and merging like you’re two of the same souls. You assume that this is JJ’s way of saying yes; he’ll join you to the spring ball.

There was a rumour that your sister punched Rafe at the spring ball. That one you weren’t sure about.  

The yacht club was a cream building with pastel green shutters and doors. It stood in front of the beach, surrounded by perfectly trimmed green fields and a stone’s throw from a golf course. Several flags stuck out of the thatched roof, waving proudly in the air. For the spring ball, the porch had been decorated with ivy and flowers. Purple and blue blossoms were intertwined with foliage and string-lights, dancing up the poles as if growing. The main event was held in the back, facing the sea. The extensive decorations continued, only now with white sheer-like fabric hanging from place to place, creating somewhat of a shelter. A makeshift dancefloor was put down using wooden boards directly before a small stage for live musicians to perform throughout the night. Tables for snacks which looked as though they’d been meticulously crafted by God himself lined the back wall of the building.

“Holy crap,” you can’t help but mutter at the sight of it all.

JJ whistles lowly in wordless agreement. His fingers intertwine with yours, squeezing, and you look up to him.

“Ready for this?” he asks.

“Are you?”

He grins with that. “Baby, I was born ready to show these Kooks a good time.”

You roll your eyes, smile flowering on your features, and guide the two of you up the porch. The moment you pass Mr and Mrs Johnson, dressed in the over-the-top attire, you hear their hushed whispers. It makes your smile grow.

JJ manages to snag a couple of drinks for the two of you from the bar. You sip and lead the two of you outside, into the belly of the beast. Adults stand chatting away, gushing falsely over their lives. Did you hear the Carol got accepted into Yale? Oh, isn’t it just marvellous! You spot Charlotte fairly quickly and it brightens the night. She’s dancing with Louis, giggling like a child on Christmas morning, and he’s watching her like she hung the stars shining in the sky above.

You and JJ find a quieter spot to the side to people watch. Your leg rests against his as you perch, sipping on the champagne.

“You look beautiful, by the way,” JJ says, breaking the silence.

Looking to him, you smile. He’s the only person who can make you bashful. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, I kinda forget to say earlier,” he admits, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. You love when he does that. It makes you giddy to know you have that kind of effect on him.

“Well, what I think you said was ‘wow’,” you correct.

You know that’s what he said. You think the look on his face, somewhat mesmerised, and the way that the words made your heart hammer like you’d run a marathon, will be permanently etched in your memory.

JJ smiles, looking down to his shoes. You have no idea where he got them from. They’re seemingly brand-new leather loafers, starkly different to his worn-down combat boots.

“You don’t clean up too bad yourself, Maybank,” you clumsily compliment.

He shrugs, confidence somewhat boosted. Glancing down at you, he asks, “Oh really?”

“Mhm. Kinda like you in a penguin suit,” you say.

You fix his collar just for an excuse to touch him. He seems to realise this, wrapping his fingers around your wrist to hold it steady before dipping his head down. Your lips meet his in a chaste kiss that has your toes squirming.

“You wanna walk around. Show my penguin suit off to a few more people?”

You laugh quietly, nodding. “Sure.”

The peruse of the party is probably heightened by the alcohol that JJ keeps managing to sneak for the two of you. At any opportunity, you’re whispering in his ear or his in yours with jokes and jabs about people’s outfits. Rose, looking like lady liberty. Mr Dulany, here to haunt us from his grave. As the night rumbles on, you find yourself actually enjoying it. Somehow, someway, the two of you find yourselves on the dance floor. You’re letting JJ swing you around in some makeshift jive to the mini orchestra’s upbeat rhythm. His theatrics have you practically doubling over. JJ was born with two left feet and then some. You don’t care though. It’s perfect.

When the song ends, there’s a lull as the band catches their breath and sips on some water. The crowd applauses, including yourself, and JJ nods at you as if approving of the talent. It makes you laugh even more. Just as you go to make a joke about it, an all too familiar swell of violins emerges from the stage. Your lips part, head darting over, hands pausing mid-applause, because there’s no way. There is no way that they’re playing what you think they’re playing.

The melody materialises out of the melancholic chords and your heart breaks into a million pieces. Cinema Paradiso: Love Theme.

You scoff in wonderous disbelief, extending a finger dumbly to the stage as you look to JJ, mouth agape. He’s grinning, watching you like he was waiting for your reaction. It patches your heart back together in an instant.

“They’re…” you begin to say.

He nods. Leaning forward, beside your ear, he tells you, “I called in a favour.”

You pull back suddenly, meeting his gaze, checking for some sign of a lie. But he isn’t. He’s smiling, sweet and safe, and you can’t help but step towards him and wrap your arms over his shoulders, around his neck. He accepts your embrace willingly, hands finding solace around your waist. JJ holds you against him as the two of you sway. You practically hide your face in the lapel of his blazer, smiling like a drunk. He did this for you. He remembered this specific song, this specific reprise, for you. The weight of the realisation nearly brings you to tears. Nearly.

In this cocoon of JJ, it feels as though the music coils around the two of you like a snake, trapping you in the lovingly lugubrious song. It ties in perfectly with the distant sound of the ocean. That’s when you realise that you’ll never be able to hear either of those things again without thinking of the seventeen-year-old boy who busted his ass to win you over. You have no idea what you did to deserve him, or what possessed him to pursue you, but whatever it was, you’re eternally grateful.

It takes a split-second to register the hand shoving at your shoulder. It pushes you apart from JJ, making you stumble over your heels as they catch in your dress. After untangling it, you look up to find Rafe’s back facing you. Stepping around him, about to intervene, you see JJ’s face. Something about his expression stops you. He looks anxious.

No.

He looks terrified.

“Look, I didn’t pay you to take out her psycho sister just so some little punk can take out Charlotte instead.”

In that instant, JJ looks like someone who’s just found out his whole religion is a lie, and it’s his fault.

The words parse together slowly. Each syllable as it registers feels like another vice wrapping around your lungs, robbing you of air.

Pay you…

To take out…

Her psycho sister…

JJ isn’t looking at Rafe. He’s not even acknowledging that he exists. He’s staring at you. It doesn’t feel like his usual stare; the kind that makes you feel like he can see you through smog. No. It makes you feel exploited.

That’s when you finally find enough oxygen in your body to form some words.

“Nothing in it for you, huh?”

That same God-awful feeling from the other days returns but tenfold stronger. The urge to just get as far away from JJ as humanly possible. The urge to run. You turn and rush away from the dancefloor, from the crowds, from whatever chaos is bound to follow Rafe like a shadow. From JJ. From the only person you’ve ever really trusted since your mom.

Even though you’re outside, the air feels suffocating. You’re trying to navigate your way around the building, to the carpark where you can call an Uber or just walk home. Anything, anything¸ but stay here, near him.

But JJ’s persistent. You’d known that from the moment you met him. You can hear him calling for you, his voice desperate, and it makes everything hurt even more. He’s faster than you, especially when you’re wearing heels. When he catches up to you, his fingers wrap around your upper arm.

“Please! Please, just lemme explain!” JJ pleads.

“You were paid to take me out by the one person I truly hate.”

You shake him off and turn to face him. He looks guilty as sin and you can’t do it. Can’t bare it. Turning again, you continue to walk away.

“I knew this was a set up.”

The gut feeling from the porch is so horrifically ironic. You should have known. You should have known.

“It wasn’t like that!” JJ insists.

“Really?” You snap. He grabs for you again and you stop, meeting his gaze. You’re not sure how you’re not sobbing. “What was it like? A down payment now and then a bonus for sleeping with me?”

“No, look, I didn’t care about the money, alright!?” JJ desperately insists. You can’t seem to look away. His eyes hold so much feeling but it all feels so lifeless now. “I…I cared about you.”

It all feels so fake.

“I don’t believe you,” you whisper.

Shaking your head, you swallow thickly. The tears finally come, teasing at your waterline, stinging like Rafe’s words from moments ago.

“You’re so not who I thought you were.”

JJ almost physically winces. You push his hand off your arm and go to leave but he’s relentless. He takes you by the wrist with a firm grip, his other hand taking you by the jaw. Then his lips are on yours. The kiss isn’t like the others. It’s dirty and disgusting and disingenuous and desperate, and you shove him off by the shoulders. You glance over him, wet cheeked, like he didn’t cause this. But he did. He hurt you. He hurt you.

This time, when you walk away, JJ doesn’t chase you. Maybe that’s what hurts most of all.

There was a rumour that JJ was paid to take you out. That one was horrifically, painfully true.

When your mom left you cried for a week. Endlessly, morning through to night, tear after tear. It would sometimes pass, but then it would hit again, out of the blue, like a boat colliding with an iceberg in the sea in the vast darkness of night. But after a week, you didn’t have anything left. You just felt hollow and empty. Then you promised that you wouldn’t cry about her anymore.

“You want the moon? Just say the word and I’ll throw a lasso around it and pull it down.”

You sigh and try to focus on the comforting black and white picture on your laptop. George Bailey stands beside sweet little Mary, stood in the night.

“Hey, that’s a pretty good idea. I’ll give you the moon, Mary.”

“I’ll take it.”

The gentle knock on your door is almost a blessing. It’s hard to distract yourself from the awful pain in your chest.

“Come in,” you call out.

Charlotte creeps in, closing the door behind her. She leans against it and looks at you. You’re wallowing in your bed, tucked under a blanket, surrounded by comfort snacks that Mia brought for you and tissues.

“What’s up?” you ask her when she doesn’t speak.

She shakes her head and walks over, climbing onto the bed. She crawls around so she can lie on her back, and you wordlessly turn yourself over, rest your head on her stomach, and begin to cry for what feels like the millionth time. Her fingers lovingly stroke your hair, soothing you through your pain. Suddenly, you’re immensely thankful for your sister. You wouldn’t want her any other way than how she is, no matter how whiny and spoilt she can sometimes get.

“Charlotte?” you sniffle.

“Yeah?” she quietly asks.

It feels like another splinter cracks into your heart as the confession falls from your lips. “I really miss mom.”

She’s still a moment, and then she’s wrapping her arms around you, hugging you tight and close. For once, you don’t pull back. You let yourself be held by your little sister.

“I know,” she whispers. “I do too.”

There was a rumour that JJ regretted what he did. You weren’t sure if that one was true, but you wanted to know.

About a week after the spring ball, you finally brave the outside world. The old movie shop is your first point of call considering you made your way through all your ‘to be watched’ films in the past seven days. It’s nice knowing that you won’t run into anyone in the shop; that you can lose yourself to the world of fiction in sepia and black and white.

The brass bell chimes as you walk through the door.

“Hiya Lucy,” you say.

She glances up from the spreadsheet she’s ticking at, smiling at the sight of you. Then, as if something dawns upon her, she’s waving out her hands for you to pause. “I have something to give you!”

“Oh?”

You didn’t put anything on hold. Wandering over to the counter, you lean against it as Lucy ducks down to rummage for something under the desk. Eventually, she heaves an old typewriter onto the counter.

“What…”

“There’s a note, too,” she says, bobbing back down to search.

Whilst she looks, you reach out a finger and trace it over the iron letters. They’re cold and a little dusty, and beautifully ornate. It’s painted black with gold accents. You’ve never seen something so beautifully vintage. Maybe your dad or Charlotte put it aside for you, as a pick-me-up. You can’t imagine it to be very cheap, not with the quality it is in and the year it was made.

“Here,” Lucy sighs. She holds out a small envelope for you. You take it with a small thanks and open it up.

For you to write your movies.

JJ

The two initials printed in black ink make you pause. You stare at it, throat constricting painfully at the sight. You look to the typewriter again and then back to the note. Just like everything else with JJ, you’re overcome by a confusing concoction of emotions.

Remembering Lucy, you flash her a hopefully unbothered smile and tuck the note in your back pocket.

“Thanks, Lucy,” you say. You brace yourself and lift the typewriter with a huff.

“You got it?”

“Yep, yep,” you strain, beginning towards the door. Some nice old lady holds it open for you as you struggle out, hollering a farewell to the storeowner as you go.

The whole drive home, the typewriter watches you. It watches you as you park and it watches you fight your way up the stairs. Finally, in the quiet of your room, you sit and digest the note. It’s funny that a one sentence message has left you so stumped. But you don’t know what it means. An apology, most likely. But is that enough? An apology for lying to your face for over a month. For letting you open up to him and for letting you believe that he was doing the same, only to find out there was a paycheck at the end.

It's so frustrating that no matter how you try to, and no matter how much easier it would be if you did, you just don’t hate him. You don’t. You can’t. You can’t believe that everything that happened between you was a front. Every little anecdote and gesture, ever look and kiss, was all an act. It just can’t be. Just like you’d said to JJ on the beach, feelings aren’t mutually exclusive. ‘You can be mad at someone and still miss them.’ Is that what this was?

Pulling open your desk drawer, you turf around for some pages of plain paper. You tuck them into the typewriter and practice a few of the keys. There’s the aesthetic clack as they mark the page and the ping when the edge of the page is met. Once you feel confident in how it works, you slot a new piece of paper in the machine and sigh. And then, you begin to type.

I hate the way you talk to me

And the way you cut your hair.

I hate the way you drive my car.

I hate it when you stare.

I hate your big dumb combat boots

And the way you read my mind.

I hate you so much it makes me sick.

It even makes me rhyme.

I hate the way you’re always right.

I hate it when you lie.

I hate it when you make me laugh

Even worse when you make me cry.

I hate it when you’re not around

And the fact that you didn’t call.

But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you.

Not even close.

Not even a little bit.

Not even at all.

You reread the poem time and time again. It feels like healing, in a strange way, almost as if you’re soothing your wounds with a homemade balm. Finally, for the first time in a week, you feel yourself give a genuine smile. Gently taking the paper from the typewriter, you deliberate what to do with it. The answer comes to you clear like the water at daybreak.

There was a rumour…

Like clockwork, you find JJ on the fishing jetty. His back is to you once more, only this time he’s wearing a loose navy-blue button shirt. Those same cargo shorts and those same combat boots adorn his lower half. His long, tousled mousy-blonde hair is out free, not buried under a cap: your favourite style on him. You make your way down the jetty slowly, giving yourself time to change your mind. There’s a nervousness in your stomach and it doubles when JJ glances over his shoulder at the sound of footsteps. The moment he sees you, he leaves his rod propped and turns around fully.

“Hey,” he breaths.

You come to a stop in front of him, leaving a safe distance. “Hey.”

“What, uh…I didn’t know you were coming here,” he eventually says.

You shrug. “I didn’t know I was, ‘til now.”

He nods, uneasy, and pushes his fingers through his hair. His wonderful nervous fidget. You love that one almost as much as the neck scratch.

“The typewriter?”

“Hm?”

“The typewriter. What’s that for?”

He shrugs, gesturing out to you. “For your movies. So you can write those films that you wanna make.”

“But what’s it for?”

JJ catches your gaze and flounders. He shakes his head and glances off, inspecting a corner of the jetty. You take a step forward but he seems to think you’re going to leave, because suddenly he’s looking up at you again and talking. “I’m really sorry about how everything went down.”

You pause in place and watch him. In one of your hands is the poem, folded up into a tiny rectangle, withered at the seams from fiddling.

JJ shakes his head. “I’m not proud of it. At first, I was happy to. I mean, I was getting paid to take out some random chick. I don’t come from much and that amount of money can stretch a long way.”

“I know,” you quietly say.

“No, you don’t,” JJ says. He isn’t exactly angry; it seems he just wants to be clear. “My dad’s a deadbeat, alright? He gets fired from every gig he gets and I gotta help keep the lights on. It ain’t your fault, and I’m not blaming you, but you don’t know what it’s like living from paycheck to paycheck. You ain’t ever had to worry about going hungry, or not having gas or power for a week, or going without internet for a month. So, when Rafe offered me $50, course I said yes. I’m a scumbag who’s dirt-broke with no fucking morals.”

You can’t help but close your eyes. It hurts to hear him talk about himself like that. It hurts to hear him admit to taking the money.

“But then I actually got to know you,” JJ continues.

He’s watching you when you open your eyes. Gauging your reaction.

“And I meant everything I said to you. I didn’t make any of that shit up – the real stuff. And I meant it when I said nobody has ever understood me like you do,” JJ tells you. His voice is thick and weighty with emotion.

You purse your lips in a bid to keep from crying. “What about the movies?”

“Well, I didn’t like them all that much before I met you,” JJ admits. “But you’ve made me a fan. To be honest, they make me think of you.”

“And the typewriter?” you can’t help but ask.

JJ’s lips tease to smile. “Well, this asshole paid me a whole bunch of money to take this really cool chick out. But I messed up and I fell for her, so I had to do something useful with the money.”

Your thumb brushes over the paper of the poem. It feels like a safety blanket. You can’t tear your eyes from his and it seems he feels the same. He nods, gently, as if confirming whatever doubt you have.

“I don’t expect you to just forgive me. I know you don’t trust easy and I threw that in your face. But I don’t wanna lose you. I want you around forever, if you’d let me.”

The heaviness in your gut is gone. There’s a feeling of enlightenment that washes over you. Here, stood before you, honest and open, pockets empty and heart on a platter…You find yourself taking a chance. The pain from your mom leaving you without rhyme or reason fades behind one simple fact: all people are different people.

You no longer want to give JJ the poem. It doesn’t feel right to, at least not right now. Pocketing it, you dampen your lips and deliberate.

Eventually, you nod, “I’ll let you. It’ll take time for me to trust you again, like I did before…But I don’t want to lose you either.”

JJ’s smile slowly grows. It’s your smile, the one he saves just for you, and you feel the pain already passing just by seeing it. Stepping towards him, you make the first move to reconnect. He’s more than happy to accept, pressing his lips to yours in a tender, tired kiss.

“‘Sides,” you say, looking up at him, arms thrown around his shoulders. “Everyone knows the best movies are when the couple gets together at the very end.”

#jj maybank #jj maybank x reader #jj x reader #jj #outer banks #outerbanks #obx #obx fic #jj maybank fic #jj fic #outerbanks fic #10 things i hate about you

[wonderlandsakura]

I have a Zosan fic inspired by a post I think I saw on Tumblr, but it being Tumblr, I can't find it to reblog it, but I'm gonna post it anyway (just a heads up, it's kinda long)

Sanji Accidentally Reveals Who His Partner Is During A Livestream! (NOT CLICKBAIT)

“Welcome back to Cooking with Sanji, this time we’re Live! Thank you my mellorines for being such sweet, loyal and gorgeous fans and taking time out of your busy schedules to attend my livestream today!” Sanji crowed, making finger hearts at the camera.

He was in the location of all his videos and livestreams, his kitchen, which straddled the line between cluttered and cosy and straight out of a magazine, with its industrial grade appliances and overfull cabinets and refrigerator covered in random memorabilia, such as postcards, polaroids and for some reason, an absurd amount of fish related pictures, magnets and posters.

“Today we’ll be cooking my partner’s favorite, Onigiri!” Sanji continued, going on to list the ingredients while chatting with the stream and answering any questions that pop up and highlighted by his mods.

Sanji’s partner was an elusive mystery his fanbase (and that of the Straw Hat Pirates, the group of content creators he was part of) had long wondered about.

It was no secret the man was married, the man in question having made comments mentioning his partner more than once and flaunted his wedding ring on occasion when it was brought up, though he didn’t often wear it on his hand when he was cooking, choosing to wear it on a chain around his neck.

They knew the man lived with his partner, as he often made mention of them while filming and streaming through snarky comments that would nevertheless dissolve into lovestruck looks and loud confirmations of his love whenever one of the audience (usually a newer fan) wondered why Sanji stayed despite his complaints.

Many of his fan base assumed that the person in question was female, what with Sanji’s womanizing tendencies, believing it to be one of the female straw hats or their associates, though this was quickly disproven as they came out or started dating other people.

However, some fans still held onto this conviction, many of them shipping Sanji with his female friends, or with Pudding, a baker that Sanji had collabed with before, who had then insisted she was Sanji’s partner, despite not having a ring or being mentioned by the Straw Hats, who had confirmed they had long met Sanji's partner, before that moment.

Sanji had long since spoken out to disprove these rumors about their relationship, but still, some of his crazier fans insisted on shipping the two, along with many of Pudding's hardcore fans.

Most of Sanji's fan base however, couldn't care less about when or if he would ever reveal who the person was, or even their gender, respecting his right to his privacy.

They were more than fed on the scraps they were given, after all, as the look Sanji would have on his face and the way he gushed over his partner spoke volumes about his love for them.

At some point, Sanji’s dad, Red_Leg_Zeff, pops up on the stream’s chat and starts scolding Sanji through his comments, urged on and enabled by his mods and audience, who cheer him on and highlight his comments for Sanji to read, much to his chagrin. He complains loudly about how his old man needs to stop worrying and get off his stream and isn’t he supposed to be getting ready to open up his restaurant, the Baratie?

The stream adores the interaction, though some of the newer viewers need to be reassured that this is just the way the father-son cooking duo interact, and that they truly adore each other.

It was just the way Sanji showed love, whether to his adoptive father, his friends, or when he spoke about his partner.

Eventually the stream settles down and Zeff leaves to work, as Sanji continues to deftly shape onigiri balls as he chats with his audience.

The stream runs longer than usual, thanks to Zeff’s appearance, but it is just about to end when they hear a door opening off screen.

Sanji however doesn’t seem to notice, wrapped up in excitedly explaining what the All Blue he mentions in his bio on all his social media is to a new fan. This distraction would be his undoing.

From out of frame, a very familiar man to those who were fans of the Straw Hat Pirates as a whole appeared, sending those that noticed him into a tizzy.

It was the half naked, sweaty form of one Roronoa Zoro, the group’s resident sports addict, or as he was better known in the words of Sanji himself, ‘Directionally Challenged Mossbrain’, who often got lost and ended up being dragged back to the group by Sanji. He was also known to most as Sanji's rival.

The two were known for their spats, spitting insults and jabs at each other at the slightest slight or provocation, the arguments often devolving into brawls with kicks and hits thrown by Sanji and Zoro respectively. So it was a surprise to see the man so casually ambling about the house that was known to be shared by Sanji and his partner.

This surprise and interest continued as the man, who seemed to have just finished one of his morning workouts, walked up to Sanji as he used the towel around his neck to wipe away the sweat on his forehead.

The chat waited with bated breath for something to happen, for Sanji to snap and shout at him or something to break the tension created by the man's appearance.

And break it did, as the man bent his head down towards Sanji and tilted his face towards him, kissing him right on the lips, cutting off the man's words with the action.

The chat started screaming, filling with comments that rushed by quicker than the eye could catch. More viewers started appearing as people called their fellow fans in to see the shocking moment, the mods struggling to tame the hoards.

All this went unnoticed by the two lovers as Sanji melted into the kiss, seeming to forget where he was for a moment.

Finally they broke apart, a look of lovestruck bliss on Sanji's flushed face as he stared into his lover's eyes.

Only for him to redden furiously and start to bluster, flustered as he realized what just happened.

He started screaming, as a fans had foreseen, hitting Zoro as he shooed him away, the man calmly avoiding the hits as he scooped up an onigiri and moved away. Only to double back, calling Sanji's name, making him shout.

“What do you want, Marimo!”

At which his head was cradled and another kiss was bestowed on to his forehead, causing his squawking to redouble in its intensity and resulting in Zoro leaving his haloed kitchen chased by whatever objects were in reach that Sanji could throw.

Sanji finally calmed down at his disappearance, breathing heavily as he stared after the other man.

Finally he turned back to the screen.

A bright, furious blush creeped slowly across his face as he realized who exactly, had just seen the chaotic interaction.

He lunged forward, over the countertop and the stream ended abruptly, sending the viewers back into the waiting room, where they tittered to each other about what they had seen.

It was a moment that would not soon be forgotten, against Sanji's best wishes, and it was the most talked about, dramatic and chaotic coming out of any content creator.

Though despite its suddenness, all Zoro and Sanji's fans would agree that it was utterly, irrevocably, them.

-

We've come to the end, thank you for reading :) you might want to take a moment to rest your eyes before moving on

#zosan #op zosan #op youtuber au #op streamer au #op content creator au #cooking with sanji #one piece #op #one piece zosan #rorona zoro #black leg sanji #red leg zeff #zoro x sanji #sanji's cooking show #charlotte pudding #charlotte pudding bashing #charlotte pudding is a crazy fan #i should have added a law cameo #pudding #pudding has a crush

[h0eznth]

stained.

pairing: kaz brekker x fem!ghafa!reader

genre: hurt/comfort, established relationship

warnings: mentions of reader’s trauma, description of murder (reader’s/inej’s parents), author input of (probably incorrect) lore, mentions of non-consensual sexual activities (only briefly mentioned, nothing major, related to the menagerie), kaz can push past his touch aversion with reader, kind of just a word vomit, mentions of food (pomegranates, obviously), let me know if i missed any :]

a/n: the ghafa!reader idea was inspired by @raven-steinderolo so credits to them for that idea ❤️ (big fan btw), the rest of the fic is all fresh from the mind.

my father had pomegranates at his house and as i was opening one to eat it, i got this idea for a kaz fanfic. i’m probably a bit rusty coming back into the writing scene so please be patient- but i hope you enjoy nonetheless!!

every time the coach pulled by strong, black horses passed that street, she looked to see if her cat was sitting outside of the long abandoned house, waiting for her return; every time, the cat was never there.

after a month of being left alone in that hell hole full of prostitution and lustful men, the coach finally came back. this time, as the black leathered box passed the street, she hadn’t looked up. her eyes were casted down, only peering out of the rain-stained window once the light of the passing village had struck her by surprise.

she hadn’t looked up.

she hadn’t seen if the cat was awaiting her return.

besides being a show for men young and old to pry their eyes at, she was a maid. a cook’s maid. she only did one thing. she peeled the pomegranates.

she picked only the ripest ones, squeezing it to hear the crack of its bones. the sharpest knife in the kitchen would enter her hand. the fruit bled out onto the wooden cutting board placed beneath it. she picked up one half at a time, squeezing the sides with both of her hands as hard as her muscles could muster, watching the remaining blood and few seeds fall into the bowl.

then, she’d get to work. she’d crack the skin, plucking out the stubborn red speckles that latched onto the white silk within the confined walls of the pomegranates.

that’s all she was used for. that’s all the world saw her as able to proceed with. that and pleasuring the disturbed horniness of the men who didn’t care for consent.

her sister was no different, except she never knew how to crack open a pomegranate, how to touch it as if it were a virgin.

there was one thing the sisters shared, though. it seemed that inej had passed down her ability to be silent. the wraith — a most unsuspecting member of the crows passing her knowledge and traits down to her younger sister only to create two of the same person.

that’s how (Y/N) got out of the mess of the menargerie.

and that’s how inej came running up to her, on the ground, pulling the suli sister into a long mourned embrace.

“how on earth do we get these open?”

the three crows were gathered around a small basket, the contents inside of the straw-woven piece red and round. jesper picked one out, tossed it about before inej snatched it off of him, placing the fruit back where it was picked from.

“has anyone actually opened a pomegranate before?” kaz asked, hands on his cane as if it was his default stance. jesper stayed silent, watching the pomegranates as if they could grow legs and run away. inej perked her head up, eyes lighting up with an idea.

“i know someone who can,” the suli girl’s lips pulled into a smirk, feeling the presence of a wanted crow on her back.

“you called?”

(y/n) stepped beside her sister, a hand instinctively wrapping around inej’s bicep. surprisingly, kaz gave a little jump, one gloved hand coming up to rest on his fast paced heart. not so surprisingly, jesper gave a yelp and asked for the umpteenth time, ‘how does she do that?’.

(y/n) looked down to the basket of pomegranates, a frown forming on her lips. inej instantly took notice of the shift in demeanour. it was then that she remembered, she remembered how her sister was taken away every week for one night then brought back a few hours later. a sorry look crossed inej’s eyes, though (y/n) paid it no attention.

before anyone could speak up on the matter, she stepped forward, rolling up the sleeves of her white button up, taking the basket in her hands and disappearing into the small, clammy kitchen that hid behind the bar.

(y/n) picked up the fruit. she squeezed it to hear the crack of its bones. she picked the sharpest knife in the kitchen. the fruit bled out onto the cutting board, small stains of red appearing on her shirt. she picked up one half at a time, squeezing the sides with both of her hands as hard as her muscles could muster, watching the remaining blood and few seeds fall into a bowl. then, she got to work. she cracked the skin, plucking out the stubborn red speckles that latched onto the white silk within the confined walls of the pomegranates.

it was all the same. she saw her young hands below her, soaked in the juice. the dark red stains always reminded her of blood. the blood of her mother as her father stabbed into her back before their baby girl. the blood of her father as she did the same to him, forcing the man to watch himself bleed dry in the mirror before him.

inej had held her after her doing, telling (y/n) that everything was going to be okay. that they were safe now. they thought so. back then, they were.

but when (y/n) looked down at her stained hands and shirt, she knew the hand holding her shoulder wasn’t inej’s. instead of leather, she felt skin. his skin.

kaz’s hand.

she hadn’t realised the tears that had slipped from her eyes. the salty water slipping from her cheeks down her neck.

kaz pulled her to face the side, rubbing a warm, wet cloth over her hands to rid of the red. he unbuttoned her shirt, slipping it off of her shoulders before replacing the soaked material with a shirt of his own. he knew the scent of his cologne always calmed (y/n). the smell of smoke, whiskey and rain mixed all into a muse of kaz himself.

the waters hadn’t risen. he no longer felt the salty liquid lapping at his calves, or his ankles, or his feet. the water no longer appeared when he touched (y/n). it was like that the first time they held hands after a heist. everything that night went smoothly after thinking of all the terrible outcomes. walking shoulder to shoulder, their fingers softly brushed against each other, slowly, but surely, their fingers interlinking with one another.

(y/n)’s breathing slowed to a steady pace. kaz always had that effect on her. their foreheads came to close the gap between their bodies; just a touch of skin-to-skin to tell each other the words ‘i’m here’.

kaz looked down to catch her line of sight, placing a soft kiss to her lips. it felt as if the world around them didn’t exist. the loud buzzing of the crow club dialing down to a low murmur as their lips connected. how (y/n) could’ve used this as a young girl. stuck in that kitchen, the voices in her head screaming at her.

before, all she saw was her father’s blood on her hands. now, she can push past the longing trauma to see fruit that she’d probably bring an extra bowl up to her partner deep into the night as he worked.

“hope is dangerous,” kaz opened his eyes to look at his lover, who was already gazing up at him in awe. “clouds your judgement.” (y/n) finished.

before, that sentence was used to push each other away. now, it’s a way of grounding each other.

hope is dangerous.

if you hope he was still alive somehow, despite the countless blood stains on that mirror, it’ll come back to haunt you. don’t let it haunt you.

clouds your judgement.

i’m not him. you can stab me all you like, i’ll love you like he never could.

#kaz brekker #six of crows #soc #shadow and bone #shadow & bone #kaz brekker x reader #kaz brekker fanfic #kaz brekker fanfiction #reader is inej’s sister #ghafa!reader #inej ghafa #kaz x reader #jesper fahey #leigh bardugo #books #fanfiction #fem reader #female reader

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Man-Sized 5/9 Rebound Effect

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!OC

Tags: Explicit content, +18 audiences only. Smut, romantic angst, fluff. An unapologetic LOVE STORY. Sexual tension, mutual pining, banter, flirting, developing relationship, strangers to lovers. Simon Riley has a dark past (partly inspired by Modern Warfare 2: Ghost comics).

CW/TW: References to PTSD, depression, past torture and abuse in later chapters.

Summary: A uni student who pole dances at a strip club to pay her rent encounters a mysterious giant of a soldier seemingly incapable of falling in love.

He left after that.

And what was more, he left without saying goodbye, he just sneaked out in the morning and left her with a bunch of money on the table. At some level, it made her feel like a prostitute, even when she knew that was not what Simon had meant.

She didn’t harass him for leaving like a thief in the night because the man had obviously freaked out. It would do no good at this point to try and have a therapy session about it. But what she did comment on was the money roll he had left her with.

She wasn't bitter, only bereft. She had thought Simon would stay at least a few nights if he was on leave. Truth be told, she had thought he'd stay for a week like he used to when he came to watch her at the club. But he was running away from guilt, not her; protecting her by pulling back the potential threat that was him. As soon as she realized he only did what a soldier would do, all confusion left her. It was admirable, but she feared it also meant that the silk gloves were back on.

You forgot something on the table.

A gift. Don't take it the wrong way.

If you say so.

Thank you.

Anytime.

The gratitude came mainly from remembering her manners. But it got under her skin, so much so that she felt like there was more to this than just Simon wanting to help her out or play the provider.

In a furious decision of not submitting to the role of someone who just waited for their man to come home from work or war, she tried to concentrate on her studies. But the next time she visited the library, she walked straight to the psychology shelf and loaned books about PTSD and war-related trauma.

She read about the major symptoms of torture victims, the PTSD treatment for combat veterans, she read how to screen for impulse and control issues. Whatever had happened during Simon's career as a soldier had left more than just scars. Combined with a traumatic childhood, it was a marvel he was doing as well as he was. If she were to continue down this path with him, she would have to take it slow.

Slow and steady would win the race. Creating an atmosphere of safety would win the poker game. Again, she could hear the alarm bells ringing but did nothing about it.

Simon had left but wasn’t wholly unavailable this time. He wasn’t working in the field and had more time for her. He even called, and not just once, but nearly every night. For the first few times, it was only a brief session, just an exchange of how are you’s and how’s it been’s. It was a change and a welcome change at that. The calls soon turned into hour-long marathons.

He shared more details about his life in the base of the unnamed military organization he was working for and revealed that he was the commanding officer of his team. The person she had taken for a shady ladies man and a simple soldier turned out to be a warm-hearted, level-headed leader who was fiercely protective of his subordinates.

The way he and his team found humour, even in the most grim situations, was hilarious, and she spent most of the calls laughing with tears in her eyes. Simon seemed especially vexed with a certain Scottish teammate who was the exact opposite of him: extroverted, silly, and cheerful. So lovably childish that it was clear that Simon was more like a father figure than a superior officer to this man. And it was also clear that he wasn’t actually vexed at all: he loved this particular person, who was codenamed after being good at "cleaning", more than anyone.

"What do they call you? Skeletor?"

"Very funny."

"Why is your alias a secret but Soap’s isn’t?"

He finally told her, and another door into his soul opened. It was labeled with one simple word.

"Ghost."

And of course it would be something memorable and ominous.

"What’s the story behind that one?"

There was a short silence on the other end.

"I was buried alive once but came back."

At her end, the silence was much longer, much more palpable. It sounded like a stupid joke, but she knew better. The men she had previously dated were definitely not in the same league as Simon.

This was fucking crazy. She tried to sound casual as she made a quip about another horrible trauma this man had suffered.

"So you’re the Kill Bill Bride instead of 007."

"I used the jawbone of the dead man I was buried with to get out."

Jesus Christ on a motherfucking surfboard.

"Oh, or a MacGyver."

There was a husky laugh at that, but she was fucking horrified.

That stuff followed her even to her dreams. In them, he was the undertaker, and she had to get out of a coffin by using a skull he gave her. Another test… not assigned by Simon, but by Ghost and those eyes that wanted her dead.

In other dreams, she was there with him in the field, invisible to everyone but him, helping him find a way through bombarded buildings like Ariadne escorting Theseus in a labyrinth. She liked those dreams more because in them, Simon needed her and not the other way around.

He seemed hellbent on his protocol of not updating her on where he was, what he was doing, and when they would be able to see each other again. She kept her apartment always tidy in case he would stop by, she put on makeup, even when she went to grab something from the store. Her eyes roamed the campus in search of a tall man dressed in black, and the smell of cigarette smoke made her stomach pinch with excitement. If Simon was even half as into her as she was into him, he would have serious trouble concentrating on his work.

She was tired of being the one always waiting for him. In that department, slow and steady started to feel like an absolute torment. Appearing calm and collected, playing hard to get had worked for a while, but what would happen if she went all in and made him want and wait? What if there was a hidden jackpot in being a tease?

She sent him photos in various states of nudity, cuteness and temptation: when she was chilling on her bed, or about to walk on the stage, once even when she was at school — always with the enticing words Wish you were here or Thinking of you. It was raunchier than the first time, highly uncharacteristic of her, and so much fun that she didn't even have to fake a smile in those photos. It was a pure attempt to seduce him.

And it worked: after only a few days of sending such pictures, Simon came back. As always, there was no warning, unless the radio silence after the fourth photo could be considered a warning that a storm was coming.

She was at the club, and her gaze had turned inwards when Simon had walked into her life. She didn’t choose a guy from the audience anymore. She only danced for herself and him, wherever he was.

She noticed him only in the middle of her show and started smiling, something she never did while on the pole, at least not here. The second she saw him in that familiar setting with a scotch in front of him and those eyes burning, the whole world shifted. Had he taken a day or two off just to come here and make her pay for her little come-hithering? The rest of the dance was energetic and wild, and that beaming smile gave her a roar of applause she had never experienced before. The whistles followed her even to the bar as she went straight to his table and all but radiated delight.

"I've forgotten how bloody good you are on that thing," he said with a thicker voice than usual.

"Nice to see you too, honey."

He looked at her with a full-blown smirk then and was, all in all, completely different from the guarded stranger she had first met at this very same place.

"I've been promoted to honey?"

"Don't take this new position lightly."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

He downed that scotch, and she went to get her things, and when they walked to her apartment, he took her in a gentlemanly arm-in-arm escort. It felt good, the kind of possessive that said he was committed, that they were in a relationship. An established couple.

But as soon as the front door of her home was closed, the gentleman turned into a ravenous mercenary who pinned her against the wall, much in the same way he had done nearly three months ago. The shared kiss was starved and desperate, and she had no trouble whatsoever getting wet for him anymore.

"You're the most infuriating man I have ever met, did you know that?"

They were both panting at that point, and she was feeling high and wild, especially when Simon seemed suddenly more serious than ever.

"I'll take that as another promotion."

"Of course you will," she whispered out of breath as he devoured her neck and pressed her even more fervently against the wall of her hallway. Her heart was racing, and she had never, ever had a feeling that a man could merely lift her skirt and pull her panties aside and slip inside with no effort. Right now, she did, and right now, she would go mad if he wouldn’t do it.

"Ya missed me?"

"Every day."

The whispers were like long-held secrets finally uttered out into the open air. The lights were off, the city was sleeping, her ghost was here, and she wasn’t afraid at all. She was ready for everything, to conquer the whole world with him.

"How about you?"

"I'll show you just how much," he answered and suddenly detached from her, then grabbed her by the shoulder to spin her around and pin her against the wall again. It was a rough treatment that briefly reminded her of The Incident… But she was so drunk on him that even that didn’t spoil this moment that only felt good and right.

"This too much for you?" A slight trepidation in his voice told her that they were both walking on the brink of something new, but his cautiousness only made her feel more sure about letting him do whatever he wanted before they set the world aflame together. The silk gloves and normal dudes could go to hell; she wanted bare, calloused skin and a revenant, she yearned for the shared suffering that was only a kin to passion.

"No."

That steel of muscle kept her in place as the other hand went under her skirt. The garment was loose enough again and made the plundering far too easy. And of course he commented on it.

"I like the skirts you wear."

The arm from her back disappeared, only to descend down her back and grab hold of the lifted clothing. There was a soft rustle and a poignant click, and then her underwear was stretched away from her skin.

"They're convenient."

She didn’t feel the blade as it cut the fabric, but she could feel the sudden snap as the soft material yielded under a sharp edge. The rest of the ruined clothing was torn down from between her legs, and he didn’t even put the knife away, didn’t fold it with another precise flick and tuck it back to wherever it had been hidden.

He drove it to the wall. Next to her face, not close, but close enough for her to draw a panicked gasp. It wasn’t a classic stiletto or a pocket knife; it was sturdy and tactical, something she would never even have guessed was foldable. The silk gloves were nowhere to be seen, and she was overjoyed about it.

"You know what's infuriating?" The next thing she heard was a zipper opening as he got himself out of his jeans, then pressed his whole body against her.

"Watchin' all those fucking blokes drool after you in that joint."

It was that kinky talk again, but something told her there was more than a few months worth of frustration here too, gushing out like a flash flood. The thickness was guided to her opening in an almost blunderous manner, but he wasn't a brute. He only seemed to be in a hurry to get inside her and chuckled when he found her completely ready for him.

"Makes me wanna shoot everyone." And then he did push inside, with one measured but steady thrust, letting out a shaky sigh as he did it. She was watching the blade jutting out from the wall and didn’t give a single fuck what her landlord would say about the dent left on his property. Her ghost slid in and out of her, finally content. Tender, but thoroughly passionate, like he had missed her far more than mere words could express. He didn’t need his hands to keep her steady anymore; his chest did all that, but a hand found its way to her hair and pulled gently, lovingly, as he nuzzled close to whisper in her ear.

"Would ya like that?"

She tightened around him — she didn’t know whether it was his voice or his words that made her so unhinged. But another huff of silent laughter hit her at the response she gave him without uttering a single word.

"Yeah… That's wha' I thought."

His other hand reached for her thigh, slid down under the knee, and lifted, granting him better access to hit even deeper, and she finally moaned. She could almost hear the good girl talk, even when it never came. He didn’t have time for that, for there were more important matters at hand.

The longing of entire months came undone, and the knife on the wall was evidence enough that Simon was very much dedicated. Somehow that ferocious gesture was a vow, a whole pledge from the man who didn’t fuck anyone else after all. And if that didn’t make her wet, then nothing would.

"Dripping all over me here…" He stated the obvious as he continued the pillage she surrendered to — gladly and with an orgasm that came almost without a warning as the mercenary drove deep and grunted his desperation on her skin. She had to bolt her lips tight to not whisper something stupid that would only ruin the moment that was her first experience of a quickie, first experience of a fierce, intense rutting perfectly capable of having a godly amount of affection in it.

She broke against that wall and knew that she was lost: lost in Simon, in Ghost, or whoever he was. From this day forward, he would be forever inside her. Even if and when he pulled out, she would never get him out again.

Simon was a full package, and she had to accept all of it rather than try and fix him. If he would leave her only with his ghost, she would be forever bound in that frozen state of the engraving, the woman who dropped everything for the sake of sulking and only remembered beauty and meaning from a distant past. It was better to take the risk and die one way or another with this man.

"Simon," she sighed, whispered, because she was afraid that the three words that must not be said would come out if she wasn't careful. His hand found hers and entwined their fingers together, a surprisingly gentle lapse in the middle of a rough fuck.

"You're the one who's infuriating," he grunted. It was his way of telling her that he was nearing the point of loving too, and her only answer was another broken sigh as she came down from the overwhelming realization and the stunning, sinful orgasm that felt more like a love confession.

She was being pressed into pieces between that hard wall and an even harder chest, spread open for his taking, but it only felt safe to be trapped there like this. She was crying inwards by the time he came inside her while having all the earmarks of emotional turmoil as well. The controlled, rigid manners were gone, and he didn’t pull out for a good long time, only panted together with her against that wall that she paid rent for, which had a knife on it, a knife he had probably used to end human lives. How could the same man kill someone one day and bring someone back to life the next?

The desperate clutch that had curled both their hands into a fist loosened its hold, and the chest that had heaved her up pulled away just enough for her to catch some air. He pulled out reluctantly, and the seed gushed forth, making a magnificent mess. A gentle hand ran down her back, another released her leg just to slide up her hip like she was the most precious work of art a bloodied man like him had ever looted. She reached a hand behind his neck to tell him that she was his if he wanted her.

"Love," she whispered the most important one of those three words, and he lowered his head to rest on her shoulder. His was a heavy weight to carry, but she didn’t feel like she was Atlas holding the world. This burden was something she shouldered with joy.

---

The next morning was laced with drowsy tenderness and lazy lovemaking, and she couldn’t hold the question in any longer.

"Simon… are we in a situationship or a relationship?"

"You tell me."

She turned in the loose hold of his arms and admired how comfortable he looked under the mundane, flower-patterned linens. Simon still couldn’t be described as someone joyous or carefree, but he did appear calmer than ever. She liked to think that at least some of it was her influence.

"I like you. I like this."

"Yeah... You're okay, I guess," he muttered with a sleepy smile. She laughed and got up with the intention of making some coffee. And tea.

He soon followed in her trail, and the mood in her apartment was heavenly. He sat on her couch with nothing but his boxers and t-shirt on, the sunlight got in, and the coffee machine made cozy sounds and filled the air with the smell she loved. Simon didn’t even go outside for a smoke: it looked like he was in no hurry at all to get anywhere from that little piece of furniture.

She knew that love was a drug. Would Simon find it amusing if she told him he was the only drug she was on? If she confessed that she was an addict who never wanted to go to rehab...

"Why do you wanna be with me of all people?"

She had already asked the question once before, but today, she was feeling unusually confident. Some of his cockiness was contagious, and something had shifted last night, some fragile power, and she felt wild and optimistic again.

"You're a hot school girl."

"Simon…"

"You remind me of… I dunno. Something from back home."

Again, she didn't quite know what to make of him. Did he mean that he liked the girl from next door look? Was she a nice holiday from his exciting, death-defying work, a small slice of wholesome dullness? It wouldn’t bother her if she was. But something in that remark screeched in her head like nails on a blackboard.

"Something from back home? Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

The sunlight didn’t only fill the room with light; it exposed dust and long-forgotten clutter.

"Tell me about your childhood in Manchester."

"No thanks."

Her confidence this morning was more than enough to move whole mountains and seas. She wanted to know, even if it would hurt to know. If this was supposed to last, she needed to know.

"Was your father a beater?"

"Yeah, and a serial cheater."

He didn’t run away; he didn’t escape this conversation in any way. She had braced herself for resistance, but she was met with none, which caused her to mentally tumble all over the place that was Simon’s past.

And suddenly, she didn't like where this was going. Even if she was the one who had dragged them on this path.

"Only with paid women, though," Simon continued without any filter on.

Hold on…

That didn't sound right.

"Could you please tell me what I remind you of from back home.”

He finally stirred, a torturer who realized he was the one being questioned.

"Sarah…"

"I remind you of a hooker and you're trying to save me?"

"That's not… No."

She saw in his eyes that it was a blatant yes. At least for some part. The jealousy, the offering of money… All made perfect sense now. She felt like a project, not a love interest. She was a nut to be cracked, even if he did it gently and with a tenderness that left her writhing with pleasure. The need to set some things straight suddenly chose to override everything else.

"I’m a dancer, not a sex worker. And just for the record, I've had like three men before you. Plus the relative who abused me when I was… almost of age."

She never said "as a child" because that sounded too fucked up. She had been 16, so it wasn't the same as 6. It fucking wasn't.

She immediately got an excellent reminder of why she didn't share this stuff with people; because that pity stare was even worse than the fact that shit like that had happened. It reduced her back to a helpless victim.

"I don't want your money," she declared.

"Got it."

She turned, feeling guilty and idiotic for having ruined the most beautiful morning they could ever have had. The coffee was ready, but she felt like throwing up. She put the kettle on — would he want milk and sugar with his tea? Perhaps another slice of trauma dump served with it?

Whatever happened to slow and steady, to creating that calm atmosphere…

She hadn’t meant to share that. It simply flew out of her mouth. Not because she wanted pity, but because she wanted him to know that in some way, there were things that needed to be saved, ruins that needed to be haunted by different ghosts…

And hadn't he been her project as well?

She wanted more than this, more than tests and strategies and projects. Raw, naked flesh was what she wanted, not a treatment plan. He had disarmed her last night, and apparently, it was time for the final surrender. She waited for the bullet of mercy, but it never came.

She heard him rise and walk behind her, then felt Simon place his hands on her shoulders. He was here amidst her ruins, and her eyes stung, even after all these years.

"Are we gonna have a pity party?" She squeezed the ear of her favourite Don’t make me use my art historian voice mug. She wondered why the hell she had voiced anything at all.

"No."

"I don't want your money."

"You already said that."

The hands wouldn’t draw away, they stayed and felt soothing. At least as comforting as her snug little home and the familiar smell of coffee in the morning. The nausea had left her shaky, but he held her, just with his hands, making it known that he was here and wouldn’t leave her with her shattered self.

"I only want you," she finally said to the coffee machine and the empty mug and waited for a second or two to see if that warmth would leave her.

It didn't. If anything, the sun seemed to shine on whole new parts of her.

"You have me."

She felt bold enough to finally turn, and he immediately closed her into a hug and pressed her against his chest.

He breathed more life into her, day by day. All the goodness in the world returned, the water reached a boiling point in the kettle, and an exceptionally loud magpie made a racket outside.

"Ok," she whispered and let herself soften against his warmth.

Simon wasn’t a phantom or a cold, emotionless soldier. He was a man and very much alive. There was coffee and tea, and even if they strangled each other occasionally with ghosts that weren’t invited, it wasn’t enough to choke the mass of beautiful things that came from having found something as pure as this.

"You have me too," she announced in his shirt.

"I was hoping you would say that."

#ghost x oc #simon riley x oc #ghost smut #simon riley smut #ghost fanfiction #simon riley fanfic #mw2 smut #cod smut #simon ghost riley x female oc #ghost x female oc #simon riley x female oc

[huramuna]

selkie's song - chapter 2.

night's watch aemond x wildling shapeshifter ofc work is 18+, minors do not interact, lest ye be smited.

this is wholly inspired by lonelymagpies depiction of Night's Watch Aemond. please go check out their beautiful work here!

a bit of worldbuilding in this chapter and descriptions of euna's tribe! i have no idea if any of the things i described would actually work but fuck it we ball

previous | next chapter

word count: 2.3k

content: smut (eventually, specifics will be under the cut of chapters with it), enemies to lovers, canon typical violence, canon divergence, ofc is a menace to Aemond and he kind of likes it

enough for now - the fray • heartache - toby fox (undertale ost)

Preservation. Tradition. Perseverance. The mantra of Euna’s family. Her family had once been large— the ones related to her by blood, atleast. 

She remembered faint memories of her mother, her grandmother and grandfather and half a dozen cousins, aunts, uncles, laughing around a fire and eating roasted venison. Her mother’s father would tell stories of ghastly white creatures lurking in the mountains and caves, waiting for naughty children to be alone. Euna would cling to her cousin, half crying and screaming and giggling— she couldn’t even remember her cousin’s name anymore. 

She couldn’t remember their faces, none of them. When she really focused her mind, their visages were like streaky paintings, a collage of colors faded and damaged and the only thing that stuck were her mother’s blue eyes. Sometimes she would dream and see her family again, but they would all be withered and bones protruding, their eyes a sickly blue glow. Nothing like her mother’s— something dangerous. She usually awoke in a cold sweat and in need of a swim. 

Her papa, her father, was the only one left related to her by blood in her tribe. His hair, once deep brown, was now starkened white with age, his beard long and braided. He used a femur bone of an elk mended with a cedar branch as a cane, his left leg lame since the day they lost almost everyone. 

The earth had opened and swallowed them whole, shaking with deathly tremors. Their homes collapsed in on them, the ones who hadn’t fell into the crevices in the ground. Euna and her father had been away from camp that day, swimming near the lake miles away. They came back to destruction of everything they knew— and all traces of any of their family had been destroyed by the quake. It was as if they never existed, and their camp was long abandoned. The earth gives, as it takes away.

She was young then, mayhaps too young to even know what happened. Her mind did her a favor by stowing away those memories— they’re too painful to remember. 

She swam to quell the pain, ever aching and nipping at her heels. Tightening her seal fur cloak, her bare feet dipped into the water. The transformation was a swift feat for her now, as easy as changing one’s clothes, she slipped into the skin of her seal form, gliding through the water. She felt at home here, as if this was where she was meant to be. She swam past the schools of trout, chomping a few for a quick snack– rainbow trout were her favorite next to salmon and red fish. She was supposed to be on patrol, but patrol meant there was some leader, some sort of organization within their ranks. The Free Folk had no laws, no one to tell them what they should and shouldn’t do and the strongest were the ones that usually prevailed. 

They weren’t even meant to be patrolling for crows that day– they could care less about the kneelers beyond the wall, they could do as they liked. Euna’s tribe had been in a few skirmishes with the neighboring free folk that dwelled past the Haunted Woods. 

One of the crows screamed about an ambush– as if it was anything like that, they were just walking through, Euna swimming in the stream near the trail. Lifting her head from the water, she smelled the heady scent of the invading tribe. They had been aiming to shoot one of Euna’s companions– and landed on a crow instead.

Euna had held her knife to many throats, crow and free folk alike— but none interested her like this purple eyed fellow. She could feel his presence, smelling of ash and brimstone, underlying with musk and sandalwood. It reminded her of a smell she couldn’t quite place. The warmth that emanated off of him wasn’t normal and she wondered if he had a second layer of fat to keep warm like she did as a seal– upon second inspection, that couldn’t be true. He was a skinny waif of a man.

‘Aemond’. A silly name, with a proper way of speaking and a gemmed eye. Odd man indeed. 

She strung him along, “You don’t belong with those crows do you?” she asked, “You’re more fancy, primmed n’ proper.” 

He snorted, “I wouldn’t say I’m primmed and proper. But yes, I don’t truly belong to them.” 

“Where are you from then?” she asked as they meandered through the snow laden woods, their feet crunching aloft the frost.

“The South.”

“Everything beyond the wall is the south to us, crow. Be more specific.”

“King’s Landing.” he responded, his voice a bit clipped.

Euna shrugged her shoulders, “Never heard of it.”

This elicited something of a laughing snort from the crow, “You don’t know much, do you, wildling?”

“In terms of you kneeler’s way of life, I ‘spose not. I heard that you all think of women lesser and her value is measured by what old lord’s seed she spawned from, and which old lord she is wedded to. Seems all a bit barbaric to me.”

“Hm.” Aemond hummed.

“You don’t talk much? Seems you’re a bit upset you got bested by a wildling savage woman, huh?”

“No. Not so much that you’re a woman or a wildling. I think I’m more ‘upset’ as you say, that I got bested by a pipsqueak. I thought wildlings were supposed to be tall. You’re hardly taller than my child nephew and niece.”

Euna’s brow furrowed, “You aren’t a solid brick, neither, crow. You’ve got a waist like a svelte little ermine,” she giggled, tugging him along further, “Too tall for an ermine, maybe a marten or polecat.”

“Gods– the punishment doesn’t seem to cease, does it? I’ve gotten captured by the mouthiest wildling in the entirety of the North.”

“Haven’t met many, have you? If you think I’m mouthy, you’re in for a surprise once we get to my camp.”

They walked for the better part of a day, Euna prattling on about various things and Aemond being mostly silent– with a few well timed quips and jabs here and there.

The wind picked up, the smell of salt and brine wafting along with the breeze. They neared a valley hugged by two cliffsides, which bordered the sea. It was a bit icy beyond, shards of glaciers floating in crystal clear waters. Below the surface were expanses of kelp forests, wafting against the tide. The valley led through to a village with quite a few buildings– most were small, home-sized, and there was a large one in the center, lit with a few animal bone sconces. Coastal caves were lining the walls of the cliffs, some lit emitting from within them.

The village came alive with people– husbands and wives welcoming home their significant others, children gathering at the feet of the warriors, and oldened parents checking in on their kin. It was all a sign of warmth, of community. Something about it made Aemond feel homesick– almost.

“Ah, Euna!” an older man bellowed. He was tall and broad with a grizzled brown beard, speckled with white, “See you caught yourself a crow, huh? Something to add to your collection of shiny things?” he clapped her on the shoulder with the force that almost sent her toppling.

“Yup– ain’t no regular stinky crow, either. He’s surely one of those fancy lords– he doesn’t speak like other crows. Mine’s got some decorum– and an odd eye like me.”

The man came forward, scratching at his beard. He observed Aemond up and down– he was at least a head taller than the scorned prince. “What’s your name, crow?”

“Aemond.” he answered, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

“Chieftan Cailean,” the broad man responded, “You’d best listen to Euna, since you’re seemin’ apart of her horde now, eh? Small she may be, but you might wake up with your balls sliced off. Ain’t no exaggeration either, seen it happen.”

“All due respect to the small one, but I am no one’s possession.” Aemond responded quickly, his voice dripping with venom. His lip was curled in slight disgust at the insinuation. 

Cailean put his hands up, “I ain’t got no jurisdiction over what Euna does with her stockpile, that’s all her. But, when I hear you screamin’ and moanin’ about your lost nads, don’t say that Cailean didn’t warn you.”

Euna huffed, “Mouthy crow, don’t need you spewing stuff at my papa when we get there,” she cut a piece of leather from her tunic and wrapped it around his mouth, to which he looked absolutely livid about, “Too noisy.”

Cailean laughed– a deep, clamoring noise, “You’ve done it now, crow.”

Euna led them to a smaller hut near the shore, pushing in the driftwood door. The aroma of sea air was strong in this particular part of the village, mingling with the smell of burning sage and incense. “Papa?” she murmured, “I’m back.”

“Euna? Dear girl, c’mere,” an old voice called, “I’m at the sea door.” 

Walking further into the home, it was quite cozy– a small fire pit was in the center of the main room, filtering out through a hole in the ceiling, as well as some smaller horizontal filters on the siding of the roof. It was decorated with dozens of shells and some of the finest pearls that Aemond’s ever seen– not even anything from Driftmark rivaled the quality of the pearls strung up on the walls of the house. Dried seaweed hung in the windows, which were shrouded by nearly transparent stretched pieces of leather or pelt– likely from some livestock animal, a lamb or goat. Leading on further into the abode, they stopped at the round entrance to some sort of tunnel– Aemond remembered seeing this house pushed to the back of one of the cliff walls. 

An older man was standing there– he was balding, his once brown hair receding into a wispy white, his beard tied into a braid with a pearl inlaid cord. His left leg was crippled and twisted at a wrong angle, but the injury didn’t appear to be new– it was old, the skin set taut like forged steel. Against the wall was a gnarled cane, carved from cedar and a femur bone of an elk. There were images carved into the cedar, the red core of the wood eking out against the sullen brown– it was depictions of seals weaving and bobbing through a kelp forest. The man turned towards them both, raising his brow. One of his eyes was a milky white, a jagged scar going down it. 

Euna felt Aemond shift slightly as he looked at her father, his eye zeroing in on his scar– the old man stared back with the same intensity. “I caught a crow, papa,” she hummed, breaking the slight tension, “He’s got a fancy eye– or two, ‘spose.”

“You got a name, boy?” her father asked, stepping a bit closer and observing him further. His eyes crinkled at the edges as he grinned, “Ah, been too mouthy, then? Euna’s got you stopped up from talkin’. Should be feeling lucky that it’s just temporary and she ain’t taken your tongue. You can call me Atohi.”

Aemond grunted in response, glaring daggers at Euna, who reached up and took out the leather from his mouth. “Aemond. Your daughter is a little beast.”

“Heard that one many times before, you ain’t the first, nay be the last to tell me I got a creature for a child,” Atohi shrugged his shoulders, “Hungry there, Aemond? Got some fish cakes baking.”

The last thing Aemond wanted to do was to feel like a guest rather than a prisoner, which he was. The friendliness of everyone was unnerving to him– their words didn’t seem to be laced with venom or ulterior motive, as far as he could tell. He wanted to refuse– but his stomach growled, and the last seven moons on gruel at Castle Black made it hard to. He clenched his jaw, “I suppose I could eat.”

“Ah, good man. Seems he’s smarter than other crows– it's rude to refuse food.” 

Euna turned to Aemond, cutting through the leather cord binding his hands together, “Let you stretch your wings a bit, you won’t run, will you?”

The scorned prince glared at the wildling woman, his nostrils flaring. He looked at the Catspaw dagger still on her hip– he should grab it and slaughter the both of them and leave– but where would he go? Castle Black was a hell on its own, and he’d likely be marked as craven for returning alive after his brothers had been slain. Lord Commander Fir has had it out for him ever since he arrived, the old bastard likely spinning the tale of the scorned Targaryen prince was a coward and ran away from battle.

Gritting his teeth, he nodded, “What sort of fish is in the cakes?”

Atohi clapped Aemond on the back, leading him towards the larger room once more, “That’d be some red fish, you ever have red fish, son?” he poked at the ashes in the fireplace, turning his cane and hooking a stone grate, revealing the fishcakes within. They were being baked below the surface of the fire in a subterranean oven.

Aemond shook his head, glancing around. Euna was nowhere to be found– she slipped away as soon as she’d cut his bindings. He didn’t hear her leave, the driftwood door in front of them hadn’t been opened.

“Euna is always popping in and out, hope you weren’t too keen on speaking to her soon. She’ll be back in a bit.”

“Hm,” he snorted, sitting down in front of the fire on a log carved chair, “I need a reprieve from that hellion.” 

“You’ll get used to it,” Atohi said, rolling up one of the lambskin window shades, letting the smoke ventilate further, “You kneelers seem to have a way of thinkin’ you can tame women– ain’t no tamin’ that one, you’ll die trying.” 

This particular window was facing the sea, the waves rolling and waning, splashing against the cliffside near them. A gray and white seal was dancing through the tide.

#aemond fic #aemond x oc #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #house of the dragon aemond #aemond x fem!reader #prince aemond #aemond one eye #hotd x reader #hotd fanfic #aemond fanfic #aemond fandom #my writing #selkie's song

[pigeonpeach]

Love Blooms within the Desert

Aka eremite reader x nilou

Contains: stalking? (Might not be classified as that because its not really creepy or malicious maybe?) pining, fluff. Gender neutral reader

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4 the end

A/n Inspiration struck me randomly so i must go with it

The desert is boring. Inbetween your trips and escorts are you often spending alot of time just in the sand doing nothing. Dancing is a common practice amongst tribes to pass the time and lighten the mood. Although you have never had the race and balance for it. You liked watching people dance instead. You had escorted a few merchants across the desert and thus were making your way back to the main central hub for eremites where you would escort another person. Unfortunately your tribe was content with sleeping off the exhaustion instead of any fun card games or dances. You never had the gut to ask, worried your tough exterior might crack. So you headed to the nearest oasis, the intention was just to bathe a little.

The night was beautiful, the stars were on full view with not a cloud in sight. Its as if there was just a blue filter over the desert with how well lit it was. So you quickly saw the figure of the dancing lady in the oasis. You stopped. If it was a fellow eremite you might be in trouble. Territorial disputes, or just adrenaline junkies were common. You weren’t good at negotiations. Come to think of it, you really weren’t good at much aside from strength related activities, and cooking. Hunting in the desert was a pain, scorpion meat wasn’t tasty so spices and marinades was your way of keeping sane and disguising any sneaky sand particles.

But her dance wasn’t similar to most you had seen. Nor were there others eremites around. It wasn’t impossible. Unfortunately sometimes eremites would be the last ones standing in their tribe, you had met a young girl named Jeht who was attracted by your cooking. You shared with her because you were full anyways, your tribe didn’t like that particular experimental marinade you came up with. So she ate her fill, telling you about her father and mothers passing. How she was looking for Babel, you wished her well and pointed to where you thought she was.

Looking at her closer now however you don’t think she’s a eremite. Actually she kind of looked like a goddess of sorts. Long flowy fabrics, her headdress, her movements were so graceful and serene. She danced to the melody of the night, of the nearby birds that chirped and the loud bugs. Her red hair flowed beautifully as she danced in a shallow part of the oasis, letting the water cool her feet. You knew it was wrong to just… watch someone but.. you couldn’t help it. You sat behind one of the bended palm trees and watched closely.

She was humming. A tune you didn’t know. But it was beautiful to watch. Her face was focused, she seemed.. stressed actually. Sweat dripped down her forehead. Before her eyes suddenly landed on you. A shock was evident as you quickly stood up and backed away.

“S-sorry.. just wanted some.. water..” you said, leaving your claymore in the ground as you cautiously approached the water from the other end. Purposely putting distance between you two in hopes she wouldn’t run off.

“O-oh that’s quite fine. Ah i didn’t mean to pollute the water with my uh… feet.. i just was walking for so long on the hot sand that i uh…”

“Don’t worry I’m not drinking it.” You said a little weirded out by that thought, water is water, so long as its safe you would drink it. But she probably had a different opinion of cleanliness.

“Oh okay..” silence fell between you as you took the opportunity to wash your hair. Cupping the water and drenching your face and hair in it. Temporarily did you remove your mask. Making her cover her mouth for a reason you weren’t sure about. “I.. i didn’t expect you to have such striking eyes. Sorry that must sound weird.”

“It doesn’t really. I’ve gotten weirder comments from people.” You say. You shake off the rest of the water. You would have a proper shower back at the main city, but for now you had to do with this. “So, what is your profession?”

“H-hm? Oh right. I’m Nilou, a dancer for the Zubayr Theatre. We put on lots of performances. My most recent performance was supposed to be about a desert girl so I figured it might help to actually go to the desert. I came later but it was still so hot.” She giggled awkwardly. You sat down, the water soaking your shoes.

“That sounds lovely. Eremites do have their own dances but it really isn’t as intricate as yours. But i think it helps to actually see the desert.” You paused trying to come up with a conversation topic to continue.”You know, not many people in Sumeru actually ever come here. they’re too intimidated by the gangs and hot sand and scorpions. I can’t blame them too much but they’re really missing out.”

“really?” She seemed intrigued.

“Well.. i think that’s just kind of like life you know, you gotta fight bad guys, conquer the environment and you get rewarded with sights like this, the cloudless night with endless stars, the oasis’s. Not to mention the foxes.” She smiled at that.

“Oh yes the foxes! They’re so cute but so skiddish. I wish I could pet one.” She sighed.

“Sometimes they actually come near me. Well only this specific family near Aaru village. I fed them a few times and so they’re more comfortable around me. Truth be told they aren’t optimal for meat or food so i hardly ever do try to hurt them.” She seemed a little startled by that concept, likely envisioning a cruel fate for such cute critters at your hands. You felt a embarrassed by that thought. “Not that i ever have eaten one. Scorpions are better food. They hardly ever hide and they provide alot of meat. They have a texture i’d compare to liek… lobster maybe?”

“Oh. I didn’t know they were edible.” She seemed less weirded out. ‘Wait why are you so eager to impress this lady anyway?’ “Although that does sound a little bit tasty.. i guess I should try it sometime.”

“Oh its great with a rosemary, boar fat, and sweet flower marinade with hara hara spice and minimal salt, oh you can pepper too.”

“Wow, is that recipe popular with eremites?” She asked curiously. You shook your head. Again embarrassed, most eremites looked at your weirdly when you showed that much interest in culinary passions. Although they didn’t complain or argue when you had something to show for it and for them to sample. You still felt embarrassed for culinary preferences to your potential weak spot. Getting spices and other flavors isn’t easy out here.

“Just me and my tribe. Mainly because of me.” You said. “I just can’t stand the same old things for too long. I find the process of concocting and working my surroundings to be quite relaxing. I don’t really know how to make much else that isn’t meaty.i hardly ever get vegetables.” You trailed on. She however seemed more comfortable, even sitting across from you.

“They must like you alot. In my troupe our chef is the most important one. You can’t work well on a empty stomach afterall.” She smiled.

“They tolerate it.” You paused as you decided not to divulge your tensions and issues with your tribe to a stranger. “Say, whats your favorite kind of dishes.” You asked curiously. She seemed to light up.

“Oh I simply love padisarah pudding, there’s also Tachin and sheermal!” You were however lost. You never had any puddings, tachin you had, but you were curious about these delicacies. A curiosity was peaked that you couldn’t satiate. Something pulling you now from your homelife right into her world. Into the forests, the city..

“I’ve never had padisarah pudding. Is it a dessert?” You asked. She nodded.

“Oh you should its lovely, if you ever come to sumeru city I’d love to treat you to some.” She smiled. Your embarrassment was different now, less of shame and now of.. confusion and surprise. You hadn’t had someone like her treat you so nicely, offering you what must be a bit pricey of a promise. She was only a dancer after all, her wages can’t be that good. But that offer sparked something in your stone heart. A crush? Love? Attraction? You bottles it away to deal with later.

“Maybe I will. My tribe and I are heading back in the morning actually. Are you going to the Caravan Ribat tomorrow?” You asked.

“Ah i am. But its okay I can go by myself. I don’t want to burden your tribe out of nowhere.”

“I insist. Its not too safe and… well.. i don’t mean to be mean or rude but your outfit might lure.. robbers and such. I’d be happy to accompany you alone if you would feel safer like that.” You said. ‘Whats wrong with you? Why are you insistent on making sure she’s safe now?’

“Well if you insist. I guess I should’ve thought about a plan to go back.. actually… if you don’t mind… could I sleep near your camp or.. in it maybe? I’m worried about sandstorms coming now.” She seemed rather embarrassed.

“I’ll bring my tent over don’t worry.” You said. “I’ll be right back.” You said, leaving your claymore.

‘Gosh what has gotten into you! Usually you would charge for such but you’re offering a escort for completely free just because she indulged your culinary curiosity and was nice! Are you truly so depraved of affection that you would throw yourself at the feet of those stuck up Akademiya nuts? But she’s not in the Akademiya, she’s a dancer, you hear they hate the arts. If anything she’s more familiar with the adversity you face than you would think. Whatever. You’ll just walk to the Ribat and maybe spend the day with her for a change. You can get a break surely. At least to try that pudding and maybe even see her performance…’

You knew deep down that something else was blooming inside. Your heart nurtured a seed of interest that turned into something more romantic as you thought about Nilou more and more. Ignoring the looks of your fellow tribe members who just shrugged and went back to bed as you hauled the whole tent yourself. You knew however that chances of a successful relationship with a non eremite wouldn’t be in your favor. For your home is the sand and hers is the flowers. But.. it couldn’t hurt to indulge your curiosity. She probably doesn’t even reciprocate anyways.

Nilou meanwhile tried her damnest to fix her headdress and her hair. Hoping she wouldn’t look like a slob or improper lady infront of that attractive eremite.

#genshin imagines #genshin x y/n #nilou x reader #gender neutral reader #initially wanted to do fem reader #might do more of this #i know nilou isn’t a main focus with yall but i got inspired okay #fluff #pinning #might make more later

[yooniesim]

I know nobody gives a shit about this in comparison so posting a save file with uncredited builds in it, but reminder of that time @mapanou started calling me out of name and spewing hateful nazi ideology at me out of nowhere just bc i made a lukewarm criticism of a paywaller and I dared to say black people are often criticized more for being angry... but since only one of my parents are black that ain't allowed 😬 some of yall acted like this was okay but I didn't forget it, I notice how some of their friends are acting all betrayed now bc their homie turned out to be a sims content thief but you knew who you were laying down with clearly. You were glad to support an extremely nasty ass person when the vitriol was directed at me, but God forbid someone not credit a build! anyway guess who was struck down and it wasn't me bitch 💀

That aside, since the insufferable cunt had the nerve to mention the One Drop Rule, which has been used as a tool to discriminate against all black people and keep their mixed offspring othered for as many generations as possible, here's some sources on what it actually refers to (and some related articles about the struggles of mixed race people). It's a method of discrimination by white supremacists, not a way for mixed race people that you think are unworthy of speaking to "claim" to be black. If you're lurking, mapanou, i hope you and your friends read them and understand something you should have already at your "very big age".

One Drop Rule on Wikipedia (for the basic concept + more sources)

How The "One Drop Rule" Became a Tool of White Supremacy

How The Nazis Were Inspired by Jim Crow

Understanding the Stressors and Types of Discrimination That Can Affect Multiracial Individuals

Exploring Black mixed-race experiences of Black rejection

Not Enough Or Double The Prejudice: On Being Black & Asian American

Why Imposter Syndrome Goes Deep for Multiracial People

When Your Own Family Is Racist Toward You

^ the basic gist for the lazy. and just an added bit. I don't know if mapanou has ever seen me, because I barely know them and certainly didn't share with them, but I have been doxxed plenty and my pics probably shared to them by others and im obviously not white though i am light skinned. im very proud of my dark natural hair, brown eyes, thick lips and big nose that I all got from my father. I have nothing to prove nor hide about who I am. I am black and asian and white and I love every part of what makes me, me. I am mixed race and if you don't believe or like me as I am that's your problem not mine. just wanna clear that up for all the people that may have been confused about it. and for all my followers that are mixed, especially black and asian, I love you and you have a place here. your voices and experiences are valuable and you deserve to be heard. that's all I got to say.

#ceci speaks #nonsims #text #negative #mapanou #long post #ceci speaks a lot more #white supremacy tw #racism tw #tw antiblackness #i know im gonna get attacked for this but idc #send ur asks make ur vagues whatever idc #yall were wrong for this one #so screenshot and wank and cry all u want in discord ur still shit #and make up some more lies like you do when ur wrong i already expecting that #thank you to all the ppl that supported me when they were saying that shit btw cos ngl it sucked to see ppl just ignoring it #also i dont use she her pronouns so pls dont use them just bc mapanou did thx #why did i write this at 11 pm #also i only saw about the save file so if they did other vile shit idk about it so lmk if so #but it would be on brand if so

[missmungoe]

titles, a little future-fic inspired by a spoiler I saw for chapter 1089. Shanks x Makino & Pirate King!Luffy.

She’d been saying it for so long it had become second nature, from the moment her belly had first started rounding under her hands, talking to the child within, to the mornings she'd work in her bar, her newborn sleeping in the sling against her breast, telling him about the boy who'd used to come running through her doors, leaves in his hair and dirt under his fingernails, and his little hands cupped around a beetle for her; the one who was no longer a boy but a king, although Makino wondered sometimes if he always would be the first, to her.

But she said it often, wanting her son to know him for what he was, ever-growing bounty and long list of monikers notwithstanding, Straw-Hat and Emperor and King. And so it only followed that he would take to saying it, too, the syllables taking shape, first awkwardly as he learned to speak, and then with more confidence, until it became a common occurrence, whenever his photograph appeared in the newspaper, or an updated edition of his wanted poster.

“Big brother!”

“Yes,” she would say, ruffling his hair tenderly where he'd sit on the floor by the bar, his little hands wrapped around the poster, showing her the grinning face on it, the boy she'd once known now a young man, and changed in more ways than just the years that had passed since his departure, his once-black hair bleached the white of a brilliant sun. But even older, and different, she knew the smiling face beneath the black print, and better than most. “That’s your big brother.”

This usually prompted an eager repetition, in the way of children learning how the pieces of their world fit together, mama and papa and uncle, and her son had a hundred and then some, each one as dear as the next. And brother, although she hoped it would be a few more years before he started asking about the specifics of this particular family tree, wonderful and complicated as it was, but Makino would tell him when he did―that brother didn't need to mean by blood, and that no one knew the meaning of the word as well as his own did, the two who lived, and the one she would make sure still did, remembered in the wide brown eyes asking for stories about him.

But accepting their relation was simple enough, the words repeated often, and she quickly learned to distinguish the different inflections and what they meant, spoken to a photograph in the paper, or shrieked at a passerby in a straw-hat in Goa’s market district. And gentler, after tucking him in, the implied request made with those wide brown eyes, “Big brother?”

“Shall we read the story?” Makino would ask, and after a furious nod, she’d read from the latest article in the newspaper, embellishing the sometimes dry journalistic descriptions with the skill of a girl who’d grown up between the pages of books, although the theatrics she’d learned from someone else (his father, who’d tell it better, Makino knew, or at least with more panache, and a flourish that would see their son shrieking with laughter), and glossing over certain segments, included to keep the navy appeased, although she could have read every word verbatim and those wide eyes wouldn’t have changed, the hero in his story untouched by the judgement of the navy and the world press, but then as far as Monkey D. Luffy was concerned, that little heart had already made up its mind about what he was.

And she’d grown so used to hearing the words, babbled to himself as he played, content in his own company as she'd always been in hers, bringing his long-time hero to life with his imagination, the brother he hadn't even met yet, that she didn’t even react, the morning it was suddenly shrieked into the quiet common room of her bar.

“Big brother!!!”

She was in the storeroom trying to focus on doing inventory (it was hard with a hand up her skirt, and she was trying her best to be quiet), when she heard it, pitched with such a shrill delight it made her wonder if the newspaper had arrived with an updated wanted poster, before another voice asked, deeper than she remembered―

“Makino?”

She nearly dropped the bottle in her hands, and only a nimble set of fingers saved it from shattering across the floor of her pantry, and that somehow still had time to adjust her skirt before she fairly threw herself through the door where it sat ajar, a deep laugh chasing her.

A man stood in the doorway of her bar, the bat-wing doors still swinging behind him (she could still remember a time he'd been small enough to walk beneath them, Makino thought, dazed).

Her son had pushed up on his feet, his little hands fisted in the cloak draping from Luffy's shoulders, wider than she remembered, and his own hands lifted to hover around the eager little boy who'd run to greet him.

For his part, Luffy looked like he wasn’t sure he’d entered the right bar.

“Um,” he said, to the toddler excitedly tugging at his cloak.

“Up!"

The demand was answered promptly and without question, but then for all his visible confusion, there were few Makino knew who could readjust as quickly as the young man before her, now holding her son and looking like he still wasn’t sure he’d docked in the right port.

On his hip, Ace was beaming, but then there was no confusion in that little heart of just who’d walked through her doors.

Luffy looked from the toddler on his hip to her, standing behind the counter, his mouth open like he was about to say something, when several more figures appeared through the bat-wing doors behind him.

“Who’s this?” a beautiful young woman with long copper hair asked. Nami, Makino knew her name, but then their wanted posters filled the back wall of her pantry.

“He’s cute,” Nico Robin agreed, appearing on Luffy's other side.

“You’re holding him weird,” Zoro said, his arms crossed, before his one eye swept the common room of her bar. Makino saw it pause on her where she stood, and the sword peeking out from behind her back, slid through the knot of her apron.

“You didn’t mention you had a little brother, Luffy,” Franky said, lifting his sunglasses where he’d ducked through her doorway.

“This must be the enchanting Makino-chan~!”

Sanji had barely made it two steps into her bar before Nami yanked him back by the jacket of his suit.

"Makino-san," greeted the skeleton politely, his cane tucked beneath his arm as he swept her a bow, even going so far as to take off his top hat. Then as he straightened back up, "Might I be so bold as to ask you―"

"No," Nami cut him off.

“Apologies for not calling ahead,” said another voice, as Makino's eyes widened, moving up the towering fishman who'd appeared behind the others, the words directed to her as Jinbei inclined his head in a bow. Then with a grin at Luffy, “Captain wanted it to be a surprise, although it seems he’s been beaten to the punch."

Still holding her son, his wide brown eyes taking in the crew around him, Luffy didn’t seem to know what to say.

"Why are you so shocked?" Usopp asked him. "Dad told me before they left. Didn't Red-Hair say anything?"

Luffy looked at him, his eyes wide, just as calm footsteps drew their collective attention to the tall figure who’d emerged from her pantry, coming to stand beside her as a warm hand brushed over her back. To Luffy, “There you are,” Shanks said, picking up a dish towel to throw over his shoulder. “Took you long enough. We've been here for weeks and we set sail from Laugh Tale after you.”

There was a long pause where Luffy just stared at him, his arms still around the cooing toddler reaching for his straw hat. Then, shrilly, “Shanks?!”

“You didn’t tell him?” Makino asked, and batted his hand away when it not-so-discreetly tugged her blouse into place. He hadn't even bothered buttoning his shirt back up.

That grin knew where her thoughts had gone, but all Shanks said was, “And miss out on this opportunity?”

“Is this why you had the others take the ship to Goa today?” she asked, as he blinked innocently. “So they wouldn’t see it coming into port?”

“Hm?" Shanks asked. "I don't know what you're talking about. That was to pick up our shipment.” When her look wasn't convinced, his grin only grew, and placing his hand over his heart, told her very seriously, “I swear on my honour as a pirate.”

"Not your honour as a barkeep?" Makino parried.

"I think I left that in the pantry with your underw―mmpppfh!"

His filthy grin was too wide for her hands to cover, and ignoring it―and her incriminating blush, which wasn't any more subtle―she primly turned to the Straw-Hats, observing them with amusement, and just in time to catch Brook as he bent his head to murmur to Nami, "I suppose that answers my question."

The girl had enough grace to avert her gaze, although the grin she failed to hide with her cough was less discreet, Makino thought.

For their captain's part, he hadn't moved, his expression frozen where he stared at them behind the bar, the toddler on his hip babbling eagerly.

“He’s processing,” Nami explained.

“Give him a minute,” Robin agreed.

“You’re still holding him weird,” Zoro said, just as Ace made another grab for the straw hat, nearly tumbling out of Luffy's arms, which saw them all scrambling to catch him.

It was what snapped Luffy out of his daze, his arms stretching, grabbing their son before he could hit the floor, to loud objections from his crew, and the shrieking delight of the little boy in their midst, made the sudden centre of attention.

"You almost dropped him!!"

"He's not made of rubber, Luffy!"

"What are you doing? Don't bounce him like that!"

"But he likes it!"

Their voices had risen to fill her bar, although louder was the laughter of the two at the centre of the chaos, as Luffy lifted him up as high as he'd go, his earlier confusion forgotten under that infectious joy.

A big hand brushed her back tenderly, his voice pitched beneath the din as Shanks bent his head towards her ear to murmur, "This is why I didn't tell him."

Her grin couldn't be helped any more than her tears, as Makino tucked her brow to his shoulder, and heard his chuckle as Shanks kissed the top of her head.

Luffy was watching them now, a different look in his eyes, one that belonged to the boy who'd stood there once, his little hands cupped around a beetle for her (a red one to cheer her up, because she'd been so sad, the day he'd left), not the king who'd returned in his place. Their son was back on his hip, the straw hat he'd sought now in his possession, so big it obscured his whole head. Without it, she could see Luffy's face clearly, older than she remembered, his cheeks without their youthful pudge and dusted instead with a dark scruff. They’d have to update his wanted poster soon if he kept this up.

Smiling, the quaver in her voice held years in it, of missing teeth and dirty fingernails and endless gifts of beetles to make her smile, a pride that ached in her chest now, as, “Welcome home, Pirate King,” Makino said, although she'd barely spoken the words when their son turned his head towards the bar, a little hand pushing up the brim of the straw hat as he said, this time with an entirely new inflection, not requesting confirmation or a story but offering a correction.

“Big brother!”

And while she might have thought once that nothing could ever surpass the importance of the first, and the dream he’d held onto so fiercely, seeing the grin that lit Luffy’s face now, Makino didn’t need to wonder which title held the greatest value, at least not to the one who knew, and perhaps better than anyone, the meaning of those two words.

#opspoilers #One Piece 1089 #Shanks x Makino #Monkey D. Luffy #One Piece Makino #Makino's child #Straw-Hats #Straw-Hat Pirates #Shanks #Red-Haired Shanks #One Piece #opfanfic #One Piece fanfic #One Piece fanfiction #mungoe writes

[cece693]

Talk it Out (Steve Rogers x Gender Neutral Reader)

This is inspired by the Tony vs. Steve debates arising when Civil War premiered. I believe both were at fault—but what if there was a voice of reason who diffused the situation?

Summary: Being related to the genius Tony Stark had many benefits, but being stuck in an argument between him and your fiance, Steve Rogers, was never anticipated.

Being a Stark had its fair share of perks: a hefty bank account, influential power, looks that turn heads. But what the public was unaware of was the messy family drama, courtesy of Howard Stark. Despite the world applauding him as a genius inventor, at home, he was anything but wonderful. Work seemed to be his one true love, leaving little room for the whole parenting gig. Affection and care for his kids, especially name, were as rare as a unicorn. And when the Stark siblings were paid attention, it was mostly due to the public image Howard wanted to construct as a loving father.

So, when Tony decided to start flying around New York as Iron Man, name wanted nothing to do with it. Don't get them wrong, they loved their brother, but staying out of the limelight gave name the peace they longed for since childhood. No image they had to uphold nor expectations they needed to live up to, name was content spending their remaining days working on the numerous charities and foundations Stark Industries supported. Name wasn't interested in the media at all, but they guessed being related to Tony Stark and dating fellow Avenger, Captain America aka Steve Rogers would throw that plan out the window.

Their relationship with the Captain had been a surprise to all; meant to be kept a secret from the public, with only the Avengers and Tony (obviously) knowing. However, when a picture leaked of them holding hands, the world went crazy. With everyone, even news channels, speculating the nature of their relationship, it was name who ultimately decided to clear up rumors. Yes, they were dating Captain America, and what about it? The world had bigger problems than worrying about stranger's love affairs. So, even if the public knew about their romance, name withheld that they were also engaged.

But as name said, the world had bigger problems. And indeed they had. After a failed attempt by Loki to take over the world, alongside Ultron's failed destruction of said world, their plate was full. It didn't need unnecessary drama thrown into it: like Steve and Tony bickering due to the recently written Sokovia Accords.

"You're being irrational!"

"Sue me Rogers for wanting to protect the world."

Rolling their eyes, name didn't understand how a friendship like Steve and Tony's was being destroyed over something as stupid as the Accords. If they were being honest, both men were acting like children.

"Can't you guys just talk it out?" Name spoke, sitting up from their seat to glare at their brother and fiance. "I know Tony's a drama queen—"

"Hey!"

"But I expect better from you, Steve. Now, I'm going out with Pepper for lunch. When I return, you better have resolved this or else." Kissing both men's cheeks, name left the room. Looking at each other, Tony and Steve thought the same thing.

'Name is scary when they want to be.'

#marvel #steve rogers #gender neutral reader #tony stark #captain america #iron man #civil war #the avengers #avengers civil war #wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff #scarlet witch #black widow #bucky barnes #winter soldier #james rhodes #iron patriot #pepper potts #hawkeye #clint barton #can be seen as a female reader but why can't men also be affectionate? #hulk #thor odinson

[faintingheroine]

Nihal’s Playfulness and Tendency to Imitate Others

I find it so interesting that we first are introduced to Nihal from the point of view of her father as a sickly weeping girl but when we first see her she is a playful child:

“Ah! Nihal’s sorrowful, jaundiced face that seemed to complain of being alive; and in its yellow hue the deceptive joy of a fugitive pink, trembling with the delicacy of a rose that will fade at once. Those eyes that tried to fool you with their smile when she was ill, that tried to lull those around her into contentment, that laughed while deep within, her sickening soul wept. He saw the meaning behind all of these. He remembered at that time, his daughter’s illnesses, the nervous fits, the headaches that began all the way at the nape of her neck and continued for weeks…

Suddenly, he thought he saw Nihal’s sad, weeping face looking at him. For a minute he wished to have this day erased from his life. Yes, today should be erased, today, like all other days, should be spent in unsuccessful battles; he ought not to be defeated. But now the application looked like a step that could not be retracted; he could find no opportunity in his heart to change or to yield the distance he had covered. Behind that ill visage was another, one with dark hair, long lashes, and large, sleepy eyes, full of poetry and youth, that smiled at him maddeningly.”

(Chapter 2)

“Her father listened smiling as she spoke, adding, in that restless, tireless, fidgety manner peculiar to children, a movement to every word that left her lips; now touching something on the table, now slapping her skirts.

‘If you only knew how much fun we had. Mademoiselle was at her strangest today. She was telling Bülent the story of a beggar whom she knew when she herself was a child. So strange! So strange!… This was an old man who had a large piece of bread…’

As Nihal narrated, she put her hands together – hands so thin that one might think the sun could shine right through them – and lifting them to her mouth pretended to eat a huge piece of bread with her colourless lips.

‘Like this! You must see Mademoiselle do it… You know, Bülent? When he was laughing with that bell-like laugh of his, everyone in the garden was looking at us. Let us tell Mademoiselle to do it for you at the dinner table, father dear…’

Now she was kneeling on the carpet, leaning on her father’s knees, and relating the sights she had seen in the Bebek Gardens down to the smallest detail, like a capricious butterfly flitting here and there. Then suddenly, between her chatter she asked with a serious face, ‘where did you go, now tell me, where did you go secretly from us?’”

(Chapter 2)

And she never loses this playful side that likes to imitate even as she grows up:

“This wedding story gave strength and liveliness to the comedic bent in Nihal. The whole wedding house drifted before Adnan Bey’s eyes in fragmented scenes ornamented with oddities and amusements. After she had drawn an imagined wedding scene, like an inspired artist who creates life with two strokes of a pencil, she was standing before her father, and imitating the bride who sulked in order to look serious.

‘Only think,’ she was saying, ‘hours will pass by, days will pass by, and you will always be like this, always sulking. It’s as if you regret being a bride, as if you resent all of these people who have come to see you… And then afterwards, no, even before…’

Nihal was raising her finger in an admonishing gesture. ‘There is another thing too, as disgusting as this is laughable,’ she was saying. Then, in order to recount the lady who sat on the floor cushion, she was sitting down on the carpet, closing her eyes, swaying her head slowly from side to side to the intoxicating melodies of the saz, and throwing out the blessing, ‘ah! Long may you live!’

(Chapter 13)

“‘Because!.. Because!..’ Nihal said, imitating him. ‘Do you know who you sounded like when you said that? Mlle de Courton!.. She was always answering me like that. Whenever I asked her a difficult question,’ — Nihal was taking on Mlle de Courton’s French accent — ‘she would nod her head, and say, “because”. Oh! These half-answers have caused me to lose so much. See, now I will never be able to understand why everyone gets married.’

As she spoke, Nihal was pretending to be forlorn, but all of a sudden she thought of something.”

(Chapter 18)

“She had kissed Bihter, she reached her forehead to Firdevs Hanım, and then she talked of her white room, of her aunt, of her outings, with the vivacity of a chatty canary. She was finding comical words, imitating her aunt, and laughing intermittently. She even told Bihter that they had chanced to see someone when they had gone out for a ride among the pines last night.

‘Guess who we happened to see,’ she was saying.

Bihter, completely pale, noting only that Nihal and Behlül had been out in the carriage together, but trying to look disinterested, asked, ‘who?’

(Chapter 20)

I am not saying that Nihal is a stand-up comedian but she definitely is a character that has more than one setting and does prove herself to be Bülent’s sister and Behlül’s cousin. It is an interesting contrast to how she is usually typified as the “sad girl” both by other characters and the readers.

#aşk ı memnu #aşk-ı memnu #nihal #comedy/tragedy

[cannedbeefaroni]

Real Men (Burt Fabelman x Fem!Reader) (Angst)

Update: here’s part two. It contains smut btw

Summary: An artist breaks down from burnout in a park. A passerby takes notice and shows her sympathy.  Content: DEPRESSION, HOPELESSNESS, DADDY ISSUES, HURT/COMFORT, PINING, COULD BE ONE-SIDED, NOTHING OUTRIGHT ROMANTIC HAPPENS

Reader is referred to as she/her, and is an art major in college. She is in her mid 20′s. 

(this fic is inspired by the song Real Men by Mitski. is it still cringe to name fanfics after songs?)

Though honestly sir, all I wanna do

Is get naked in front of you

So you can look me up and down

And tell me “well done girl, you’re looking good”

She ripped the pages from her pad one by one, crumbling each one into balls before tossing each one into the trash next to the park bench she sat on. Some went in, and others rolled onto the floor. Her hot, flushed face ran with cold tears. The spring breeze sent chills to her face, reminding her of how exposed this pathetic expression was to the public. Hunching over, she buried her face in her hands, wishing she were home instead. 

Unknown to her, a passerby took notice of her distress, but once she heard approaching footsteps, her body froze. She knew the person would just carry on, not saying a word, but the fact that they were close enough to see every moment of her breakdown made her feel so much worse. The footsteps came to a stop, as she heard the cracking of bones of a person bending over, and the crumbling of paper next to her. To her horror, she looked up and saw a man unfolding one of her drawings, observing her work. 

“It’s beautiful… Why did you throw it out?” The man said, glancing back and forth between the page and her. 

She froze, wanting to just disappear. She dreaded the judgment of older figures, and this man looked as if he could be one of her stone cold professors. Between the white button-up, glasses, and demanding presence of a man with experience, she felt like she was about to get drilled into 

“I messed it up… I’m really bad at drawing landscapes.” She admitted sorrowfully. She was unfamiliar with being approached by polite strangers; she felt backed up against a wall. She dreaded awaiting the man’s response. 

“Aw, don’t say that. You’re clearly a talented artist. You shouldn’t be that hard on yourself.” He sat on the opposite end of the bench, leaving a large gap between the two. She became tense, knowing he was going to engage in more conversation with her. “So, why are you drawing in the park?” 

“I have to draw from life, it's for an assignment,” she answered sheepishly, staring down at her lap. 

“Is it a high school art class?”

“What?! I’m in college! I go to an art school,” she blurted out, her stomach churning at being mistaken for a teenager. 

“Oh, I’m sorry! I just never have met anyone who’s gone to school for art… but I suppose the world needs professional artists as well…” he seemed to have trouble understanding the idea of an art school. 

“I’m trying to get into the industry, and a fine arts degree will make that easier for me.”

“I’ve never been to a school like that myself, but I imagine it’s just as stressful as any other college,” he tried to relate.

She wondered how long ago he graduated college. It was hard to tell his age, but he definitely looked old enough to have a wife and kids. Well, technically she was also, but she had only just reached the age where marriage was on her mind. On the other hand, he seemed to be at the age where his life is figured out, and he’s already created the family he’s always wanted. The way he acted reminded her of a kind and caring father; similar to the type she’d meet while visiting a friend’s house as a child. His demeanor made her smile, and she couldn’t help but trust him already. Ironically, that fact made her also feel wary of him, being unsure if people that nice can actually be genuine. 

“So, you don’t do landscapes; I wonder what kind of artist you are?” he hummed inquisitively to break the silence. Strangely enough, he did seem interested in her art. Her eyes lit up at the question, excited to discuss her interests with him. 

“I love to draw people, as in portraits and studying human anatomy. I want to be an illustrator, but in order to do that I need to improve my background art. That’s why I had to take this landscape class… It’s just so frustrating. It’s just so boring to me,” she rambled to him, flailing her hands around as she spoke to emphasize her points. He nodded along as she spoke, grinning as he looked at her with sincere eyes. 

She felt flustered every time her eyes met his, and she took notice of his expression. She wondered if he looked at her this lovingly even though she was just a stranger, then she couldn’t imagine how much love he gave his wife and kids. The thought wouldn’t leave her mind, and she felt embarrassed for wondering about his personal life so much. She didn’t know a thing about it. Perhaps he didn’t have a family at all, but that was hard to believe when he was so nurturing by nature. 

“I’d love to see your other drawings, if that's okay.” He looked back down at the drawing she threw out, tracing his fingers along the paper as he admired her work. 

She winced at the question, knowing exactly how this would go. She recalled all the times her family, teachers, and classmates would laugh in shock at her anatomical drawings. She worried he’d get the wrong idea about her, and assume she’s some kind of pervert. Or maybe he’d get the wrong idea and start seeing her sexually, as most men tend to do. She spiraled in split seconds as her trust in him dwindled in these hypothetical situations. What if he thought the nude female models she’d drawn were her? 

“I draw naked people,” she sternly blurted out, trying to set the record straight before facing embarrassment. “I have to draw naked models from life in school. I don’t want you getting grossed out by it-” 

“Hey, hey, don’t worry. I already know that. I’ve been to museums; I’ve seen my fair share of nude art,” he cut her off, trying to ease her worries. “Of course, you don’t have to show me. I’d just love to see you in your element.” 

Silently, she passed her sketch pad into his hands. He carefully grabbed it, and began flipping through the pages delicately, as if it were fragile. He spent a considerate amount of time on each page. His eyebrows raised and his eyes widened as he whispered “wow” at the still life’s and figure drawings. He took everything in wholeheartedly. He reached a page with self portrait studies, and paused on it for a little bit.

“Are these of you?” He asked.

“Yeah.”

“They’re gorgeous… and they really look just like you!” he praised. 

She wanted to gasp at that comment. He just indirectly called her gorgeous, and that little bit of praise made her want to explode. Her face grew even hotter than it was when she was crying earlier, and she worried that he could somehow feel the heat emitting from her. She continued to speak, but it was difficult to concentrate as he stared at her so damn innocently.

“I have to draw portraits pretty often. I don’t know anybody who’s willing to let me draw them, so I end up having to draw myself a lot. Sometimes I’m required to draw other people, so when that happens I get stuck.” She rambled until her voice trailed off, trying not to talk too much. 

“Your friends don’t let you draw them?” He raised an eyebrow. . 

“I-I don’t really have any friends, actually. But not because no one likes me; I just… keep to myself too much. I’m fine with it. I don’t really mind being alone,” she nervously laughed as she spoke, trying to seem like what she was saying was actually the truth. 

“I’m sorry. That must be lonely…” He frowned in an almost perfect inverted smile. “I hope you know it’s perfectly normal for girls your age to be shy; but I find you charismatic.” 

“I’m not as young as you think I am… I’m in my mid twenties,” she stated as politely as possible, trying to assert herself.

“You’re still very young, but you carry yourself as a mature young woman. I’m sorry if I made you feel like a child. Just shows my age, I guess,” he laughed nervously. 

“You can’t be that much older than me. I thought you were in your early thirties.” 

“Oh, I wish” he chuckled loudly at the assumption. 

Her heart sank as she realized he was probably old enough to be her father. Her head dropped in embarrassment. 

“Though, I was going to say that if you need someone to draw, I’d gladly be your model,” he grinned. 

“That’d be really helpful, actually… Thank you.” She lifted her head, almost beaming. Despite how shy of a person she was, drawing random strangers was second nature to her. He passed back her sketch pad, and she readied her pencils. 

“So, what pose should I do?” He asked giddily, clearly excited about being drawn. 

“Um, just lean your arm against the bench and rest your head against your hand.” 

She reached over, guiding his arms into position. After doing so, she realized that had moved closer to him, and even touched him. The fact that such a simple thing stuck with her made her mad at herself. Brushing it off, she sat back and began sketching. Starting with round shapes to build the body, she took in just how soft and round everything about his man was. His head shape, body, eyes, and smile were all so pleasantly round. She avoided drawing his face, so she wouldn’t have to make direct eye contact with him. Eventually, she finished rendering the folds on his shirt, the strands of hair, and even the shadows on his skin. 

She looked at him to see him staring back at her. It only just hit her that he was watching her draw this entire time. The way he stared with such a gentle expression was mesmerizing. To her, it felt like his gaze was one of yearning. She wondered if he thought she was beautiful, just like she thought of him. Her heart raced as her desire to capture his expression on paper intensified, but no matter how much she rendered, every stroke felt incorrect. She wasn’t doing his beauty justice, and her thoughts beat her up over it. Eventually she was basically finished, and she held the drawing back to observe from afar. She wished she could’ve tore it up and started over, but she didn’t want to waste his time. 

“Can I see?” He asked eagerly, leaning over to get a glance at the page. 

She looked up at him with worried eyes, and darted them back at the page as she continued to observe her work. “It’s a little rushed…”

“Come on, let me see!” 

She turned the sketch pad around, showing him the portrait. He took it into his hands slowly, staring at it in pure awe. As he occupied his vision, she stared intensely at him. He was wonderstruck. 

“There’s no way you drew this so fast,” he laughed in shock. “This is so… indescribable! I’d buy this off you if it weren’t for your assignment.”

“Thank you,” she replied blankly. 

Staring at the ground, she tried to hide her embarrassment from his overwhelming praise. It felt almost patronizing, but then she realized she hadn’t been praised for her work in so long. Usually, people don’t bat an eye at adult artists, and she only felt like a prodigy up until age eighteen, when she graduated high school. It was strange being appreciated at all, especially by someone she just met. 

“Am I really that handsome? You made me look so flattering.”

“All I did was draw what I saw.” She wondered if she portrayed him more idealized than he actually was, like a schoolgirl doodling her crush.

“Well, it must be a given, since all of your art is so beautiful. The way you view the world must be so… unique.”

“You’re probably… the kindest man I’ve ever met. I hope that doesn’t sound weird.”

“No, not at all,” he smiled sincerely, looking directly at her. “I like to appreciate talent when I see it, and you, my girl, have it.”

That was it. That was the final straw. Her heart was practically threatening to be spat from her throat. The tears from earlier had returned, but the feeling was different. She wasn’t convulsing; she just sat there with tears pouring like a faucet. Foolishly, she looked up at him, eyes wide open. He saw the droplets dripping down her chin and staining her top. She choked out the words “thank you,” trying to somehow salvage the conversation. 

“Oh, poor thing… what’s wrong?” reacting instantly, he placed her pad on the side of the bench, and slid over to sit closer to her. He leaned toward her slightly. 

“No, it’s nothing. I’m being silly,” she dragged her palm across her face, smearing the tears away. 

“But I saw you crying earlier too… are you okay, doll?” 

She sniffed and wiped her nose with the side of her hand before throwing her head back, leaning against the back of the bench and staring at the sky. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.” 

Patiently, he waited for her to continue speaking. 

“I don’t know… if I’ll get anywhere with this.”

“With what specifically?”

“I don’t know. In art. In life. In every way.” She sighed deeply. 

He watched the tears roll down her face as her head was leaned back. There wasn’t much he could do besides watch, as he didn’t want to encroach on her space. “It’s too early to say that. You have so much to look forward to.”

“It feels like… like every time I try I fail. I don’t know if I’ll be able to make a career for myself at all. My only talent is art. If I can’t do that…” she didn’t finish her thought. 

“But you’re doing it. You’re in college.”

“What comes after that?” 

He shifted closer to her, leaning over. “You’ll figure it out. Don’t talk yourself out of your own happiness… just because you’re scared.” 

“If I can’t make a living for myself, I’ll have no one to rely on. I don’t think I’m the kind of girl who can get married. Then my family… is a whole different story.” 

“Wait, what do you mean ‘not the kind of girl?’” 

She stuttered, embarrassed. “I’ve been rejected too many times to count.” 

“That doesn’t mean there's something wrong with you. You just haven’t found the right one yet.” He scoffed at her statement in disbelief that she believed she was unlovable. 

She pulled her head down and hunched over. “I just want to be happy, but it’s so hard,” she started sobbing. 

He felt horrible sitting there, watching her fall apart. So desperately he wanted to do anything that could change her mind. “Do you need a hug?”

She nodded as she leaned into him to rest her face on his shoulder. His arms rested around the back of her shoulders as she weakly wrapped hers around him. He gave her reassuring pats on the back. Even though the hug was from an awkward distance, she couldn’t recall ever feeling so happy to be hugged by someone. She felt like she was sinking deeply into his warmth and softness. She wanted to never let go. In fact, the thought of letting go made her cry even more. 

“You’re gonna be okay…” he tried to let go, but she pulled him back in. He reacted with a shocked grunt. “God, you’re gonna kill me,” he laughed hoarsely. 

She quickly let go and wiped her face. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-“ 

“No, it’s completely fine. Things are really tough for you.” 

The two of them sat silently at a distance from each other again. She sniffed and wiped her nose with the side of her hand, feeling embarrassed of how gross she felt. 

“Hey, I was wondering,” he broke the silence. “If I’m ever in need of an artist, for whatever reason, I’d want to get in touch with you.” 

“You’d want to commission me?” 

“Yes! I’d love to have a piece of art by you on my wall. Your style is beautiful.” Every word he said hit deeply. She couldn’t understand why he was so genuinely captivated by her. 

She wrote her phone number on a sheet of paper, ripped it out of the pad, and handed it to him. He neatly folded it and placed it into his shirt pocket. 

“If you want, I could give you mine as well. You deserve to have someone you can talk to. Although, It’s fine if you don’t want to. I am just some old fart you met at the park, after all.” He laughed as he looked at her with squinted eyes. 

“I think you’re a nice old fart, at least,” she sputtered through laughter. She passed her sketch pad and a pencil over to him, allowing him to write on it. 

“Oh, all this time, I didn’t even think to ask your name. I’m sorry, how rude of me,” he said bashfully. 

“It’s (Y/N),” she said. 

“Mine is Burt. It’s been a pleasure meeting you”

#burt fabelman #burt fabelman x reader #the fablemans #paul dano #paul dano x reader

[mega-aulover]

there’s this popular TikTok account called “North Valley Group” about 3 brothers who work in their dad’s business and it’s giving me Mellark brothers vibes 😭 I can imagine them having a similar account for the bakery in a modern AU and barely actually posting bakery related content and more of them just goofing off and becoming viral sensations for being a funny menaces to society/ Mr. Mellark 😂

Thanks for the ask Nony. I just checked it out NONY and oh MY so cute! I can totally see it too. The lunch one / seat one is the one that I've drawn inspiration from. I hope you like it - Pure Rated G Fluff!

Of Course You Do!

-

"Katniss, Katniss," Prim shouted, as she ran inot the shoe shop.

Katniss watched her fourteen year old siter approach quickly. Luckily there weren't any paterons in the Cartwrites shoe shop at the moment.

"Katnissss," Prim came to a stop in front of her sister.

Katniss stopped whiping down the counter where the Cartwrites kept the finely made wallets and prized handbags. "Prim I'm working, you can't keep on coming in here..."

"Unless you're on a break, or its near the end of my shift..." Prim mimicked.

Katniss scowled at her baby sister but it didn't last long. Prim knew she couldn't stay mad at her for long, something her sister took advantage off. Sighing, she asked, "What is it?"

"They uploaded another one," Prim squealed.

Katniss couldn't help the way heat rushed into her cheeks at the mention of the video. It was because of one boy with the bread, the nickname she gave Peeta, because he smelled like delicious bread.

"You want to see it?"

Her sister was her enabler, when it came to keeping up with the Mellark brothers, newest posting on the social media platform cap-tock. Their hilarious postings were the hit of Panem. The boys sneaking into the Goat Man's pen was one of her favorites. Also the boys dressing up as their mother was another favorite. Prim's was Peeta being followed around town by old man Abernathy's ducklings.

Even though Ghram had gotten married last year, he still participated in their shenanigans. The short videos were so popular they were getting orders from all the way in the Captiol.

"Okay, but it has to be quick. I don't want to get in trouble," Katniss said, looking around before focusing on Prim's phone. She watched as their father said, "Okay boys it's time to go to lunch."

As soon as their father closed the shop the boys ran to the back, hopped on chairs and began racing around the apple tree, to Born to Be Wild. Where they tried to trip each other and at one point the music turned into a classical music and they began dancing lifting the other up and pirouetting as they moved around the tree, dressed in tutu's. Katniss gasped when Peeta lifted Grham in the air as if his brother weighed nothing. This kept going until their father called, "Boys, back to work!"

The music then turned into a frienze as they changed out of the tutus into their work clothing while running back into the bakery. Katniss began giggling as Peeta threw his tutu in Rye's face. They entered the back of the bakery washing their hands and then made their signature puitti poses Ghram crossed his arm across his chest, Rye clapping to one side, and Peeta with his arms open in the air looking at his brothers with his trademarked dimpled smile.

Katniss couldn't help but smile at the end of it, though her filicity was short lived as before her stood the object of her affection.

"So you like our videos," Peeta said displaying his dimples.

Katniss was not someone who was graceful, and momentarily she was like a dear caught in headlights. It was then her sister pipped up.

"Of course she does," Prim said grininng.

"Prim," Katniss was trying to tell her to stop.

"Katniss, of course you do, you drop everything to watch their videos!"

Katniss couldn't deny it and there was no where for her to hide.

#Katniss Everdeen #Peeta Mellark #Mega-AuLover Drabble

[lucreziaq2001]

•TV show: "Criminal minds".

•Content warnings: A teenage girl's death, a mother losing her only child, a son losing his mom at a very young age, both of them still missing the girl, mentions of electroshock and the marks it left on people, the possibility of the girl having died because of it and the hospital staff having gotten rid of her body, the girl wanting her mom to take her home and the mother being unable to because of something her daughter's boyfriend had decided, the girl trying to run away from the hospital but being unable to, the girl being considered mentally ill because she is gay, her having cheated on her boyfriend and her mother at first thinking they were doing the right thing for her child, but now feeling guilty about leaving her.

•Some of the lines are almost the same that are in a scene of the "Cold case" episode this story is inspired by. I did modify them a bit, though. I didn't just copy and paste them.

•I'm sorry if Emily and her mother are out of character. I just thought it made sense for the story to make them the way they are in this chapter.

•Tags: @lex13cm, @golden1u5t, @avis-writeshq, @rynwritesreid, @chrrysgirl, @amerrymango, @marie-sworld, @iluvreid, @babygirl-garcia, @hugyourlungs, @strangermoonlove.

The bridge to Heaven

Chapter 15: A mother's guilt

Two days later, as soon as the retirement home the woman lived in was opened to visitors for the day, around 10 am, David and his wife went to visit Elizabeth Prentiss.

Part of them didn't want to bother Emily's mother again by bringing memories related to the death of her only child to light, but they knew they had to do it if they wanted Elizabeth to know the truth and Emily to get justice.

When they arrived in Elizabeth's bedroom, they found the woman sitting on the sofa next to her bed, with her grandson Declan next to her.

Although he was over 40 years old and also a father by that time, the man was crying desperately, while his grandmother held him in her arms.

"I know she cheated on him, but it was just a kiss, nothing more. Why did Dad have to send Mom to that place? I want my mom" Dave and Erin heard him say through his tears, and their hearts broke for that man who inside, was partly still a small child hoping his mother would come home.

"It wasn't about the kiss, Declan. There was a lot more to that situation. Your mum wasn't sick, but at the time she was believed to be. I'm very sorry" Elizabeth tried to explain, great sadness evident in her voice.

Then, when she looked up and saw Erin and David, she let her grandson cry some more for a few minutes, then she asked him to leave the room while she talked to the writer and his wife.

"We know what happened to Emily" David told her as soon as Declan had left the room "Not the whole story, but most of it. Why did you agree to send your daughter to Brockview?".

"I thought I was doing the best thing for Emily, but when I went to visit her a week after her hospitalization, I realized that wasn't the case" Elizabeth explained "As soon as she saw me, my daughter started screaming and crying, begging me to take her back home. She wanted to come back to me, but Dr. Kearns wouldn't let me take her away. Apparently, Ian had asked him to give only him the chance to get Emily out of there".

"And how long did she stay there?" David asked her.

"Seventeen days, then she died" Elizabeth replied through the tears that were now running down her cheeks "She had tried to escape a couple of times, it seems. Once they caught her and brought her back, the other time she gave up herself. She was probably afraid that I would agree with Ian and send her back to that place. That's why she didn't come to me".

Instinctively, without even thinking about what she was doing, Erin took the woman's hand and squeezed it.

She was a mother too and although she didn't believe she could have been capable of sending one of her children to such a place, she empathized with Elizabeth Prentiss a little and had compassion for her.

She couldn't even imagine what it was like to live with that guilt for all those years.

"Thank you for your help, Mrs Prentiss" Dave then told her, before saying goodbye to Elizabeth and leaving the room with his wife.

"They gave her that dress at the hospital" was the first thing Erin said to her husband when they got to their car "The electroshock explains the marks on her temples".

"During that therapy something went wrong and Emily died, and then the nurses got rid of her body" David responded, thinking he had finally found the solution to that case.

Unfortunately, however, even if only slightly, he and his wife were still off track.

[cordoleo]

hear ye hear ye — the riverlands welcomes queen joanna lannister of king's landing. king matthos baratheon is glad that the forty six year old appears to be munificent and he shall overlook that it’s said they are also egocentric, as long as they are glad to celebrate peace in the seven kingdoms. fortunately for them, matthos remains oblivious that they aren't happy with his reign.

i. background.

full name: joanna lannister.

commonly goes by: your majesty, your highness, the most beautiful queen of the known world. don't try something else ( best known as the lannister queen ).

epitaph: the light of the west.

official title: queen of westeros.

age: forty - six.

birth date: some point in november.

gender + pronouns: cis woman + she/her.

orientation: bisexual.

allegiance: in order - herself, her children, house lannister.

spoken language: the common tongue, some shoddy high valyrian she's all but forgotten about.

religion: the faith of the seven, but she despises religion.

ii. appearance.

faceclaim: rosamund pike.

eye color: blue - green.

hair color: golden blonde, flat straight but curled with hot pins when necessary. she always wears her hair in an intricate fashion during official sightings around court, and is contently insistent on setting the tune for the kingdom.

remarkable markings: none visible.

dominant hand: right.

height: 5'9"

build: tall and elegant.

iii. personality.

virtues: none

vices: all of them

weapon of choice: tba.

moral alignment: likely chaotic evil.

inspired by: cersei lannister (!!!), cora mills from once upon a time.

common tropes: tba.

iv. relationships.

parents: loren lannister + tba.

siblings: jocelyn ( older ), utp ( younger ).

relationship status: married to matthos baratheon ( c. 274 a.c.)

children: utp, syrenna baratheon, tba and tba.

pets: all the courtiers around the red keep.

other relations: steffon, argella and selyse baratheon ( stepchildren, thorns in her way, targets ); her sister's children.

previous relations: tba ( lover and father of her children ).

v. biography.

tw : toxic relationships, abusive relationship, cheating.

if her sister was born to rule over the westerlands with her might, joanna was born to enchant it with ita charm. or so it would seem that would be the case — it is true that she was a beautiful young woman (is beautiful still), but she had inherited her father's ruthless and an ego to match. brought to court as a lady to the queen, whenever she struggled with containing herself, she reminded herself that by acquiescence now, she would receive a glorious future in the end. father would not have it differently, after all.

when the king betrothed the prince viserys to another, she was heartbroken. it was not deep true love she felt for him, no, but the prince was easy on the eyes and, more over, he was to be king. out of spite, she returned to casterly rock, only to fall for another on the way. still, joanna knew to steady her heart — hard and cold as gold, she was quick to dispose of her so called beloved when the kingdom got turned upside down after viserys' and jaehaerys' death. when she was called to kings landing to be matthos' queen, she was elated. a blushing bride that batted her eyes and praised her husband's scars; a wife who learned to look away when her husband turned to whores while she was heavy with child; a queen who held her head up high when, at last, two months after her prince's birth, she was crowned. 

whatever affection she thought to hold for matthos didn't last — he made sure to burn it down when he whispered a dead woman's name in their bed, and joanna made sure to sweep any reminiscents of that as she installed her lover, the one that she shouldn't have, on the kingsguard. though she can only half tell who is the father of her son (sometimes, her boy looks at her in a way she dreads to be too much like matthos), she knows her daughter's to be her steadfast lover's. though joanna believes it entirely her right — it is not as if matthos doesn't have whores and bastards of his own — she also knows better, and maintains the play of dutiful wife.

it is a difficult façade, though. she's a vicious, nasty woman, self-centered and self-important, and she can not cope when matthos doesn't do it her way — and as the years go by and her youth slips, less he is inclined to align himself with her. yet, she grasps, unwilling to let go of power, of anything to fill a never ending hunger. lately, she's had thoughts of something else that can do that: the throne. not only for her, but for her son. surely anyone can see he is the best qualified for it — with the wealth of casterly rock, who can stop her? if she doesn't believe the gods capable of, men better get the fuck out of her way.

vi. note

she was born to be a cunt and a villain, so feel free to canon her treating you as such ( unless you're the fruit of her loins ).

#conquest.intro

[bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls]

This... Is BGNN

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