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strawberryspence · 3 years

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A Dinner and A Future

Fluff | Spencer Reid x Reader

Summary: Spencer just wants your first date to be perfect and surprisingly, it goes really well.

Word Count: 3,7k.

Warnings: some cursing, first date nerves, but that's it. just pure mindless fluff.

Writer’s Note: Hello! I've been going through a writing dry spell and the thing that solved it was writing this. I've been seeing a lot of edits on tiktok about Spencer's traumas and I just wanted to give him something simple and happy. I was also listening to Kodaline on repeat while reading this, so yeah it's going be hella sappy. Enjoy! <3

Gif is mine. Lesley Smith-Juniment, you have my heart.

Spencer is nervous.

Wait no, scratch that, nervous is not good enough. He was brimming to the edge with worry and queasiness. What other synonyms does nervous have? Spencer was antsy, anxious, perturbed, uneasy, at this point he can recite the whole thesaurus.

Spencer closes his eyes and takes a deep breathe. He can do this. He has waited for this for a long time and he won’t waste it because of burnt pasta.

Okay, he looks back at the note that David Rossi himself wrote in his own special handwriting.

1. Cook 1 pound pasta until Al Dente. Boy Genius, Al Dente should be firm when bitten. You cook it on a boiling water with salt and oil. SALT AND OIL.

2. While that’s cooking, do nothing. LITERALLY DO NOTHING. Watch it. Do the sauce later. In some miraculous way, if you don’t watch the pasta you’ll burn it.

A grin spreads across Spencer’s face as he puts down the paper and reaches for the fettuccine pasta and dropping it on the boiling water (which he measured with measuring cups he borrowed from JJ)

“Okay, now I wait for it to boil.” Spencer stares at the pasta as it cooks. Did he buy enough parmesan cheese? or enough pecorino cheese? Oh no. He looks over the other side of his counter where all the (complete) ingredients sit and he sighs in relief as if he hasn’t checked it 15 times since he started.

The pasta was still cooking and isn’t going to be firm anytime soon. Spencer ponders if he should just cook the sauce while waiting but he knows he’s going to mess it up if he doesn’t give it his undivided attention.

He looks at the watch on his wrist as it ticks to 5:21. He has one hour, thirty nine minutes and forty six seconds. He still has time before the date. The date with you.

It took him nine months, Derek and Emily annoying him to death to just ask the pretty librarian out, one extensive background research from Penelope, two separate talks of the “You deserve to be happy” advice from JJ and Hotch and one lecture about marriage from Rossi to finally ask you out.

He’s kinda annoyed really because he spent so much time thinking about you and thinking of the perfect way to ask you out but he shows up at the library you work at one day with a cup of coffee in hand and his heart on the other.

You didn’t even hesitate. There was no pause to process what he asked, there was no questions following the embarrassing stumbling of the words, “W-will you go have d-dinner with me? L-like a date... Date?” You immediately said yes with a small hop and the biggest smile on your face.

This date has to be perfect. He asked you to come to his apartment at 7. Spencer would’ve picked you up but he was making you a home made dinner and the date was taking place on the rooftop of you apartment, which Penelope and Derek helped him decorate with lights.

He tries the pasta and when its finally firm to the bite, he takes this as his queue to read the paper again. Of course, he can remember all of the instructions but Rossi still wrote it down and reading it calms his nerves.

3. If its cooked, drain your pasta water but leave a little pasta water on the side. Then you can continue.

4. In a pan on MEDIUM heat (just around 2-3 on the stove setting) cook one pound diced pancetta and 1 cup chopped onions in olive. Put this down and chop chop!

Spencer puts the paper down as he follows the instructions to drain the pasta. After he was done with it he puts the pan on the stove and starts chopping up the ingredients he needs.

Cooking is strangely calming. He never thought he’d find it calming. He always found himself burning stuff. So he sticks to the microwaveable meals and fast foods, even if he knows the statistics about these kinds of food.

After finishing the chopping he reaches over the paper and reads it again.

5. Are you done? Okay. Put the chopped stuff on the pan with olive oil and cook it until the pancetta is browned and onions are soft.

He immediately follows the instructions written. The onion and pancetta create a silent hiss as it hits the pan. As it cook he looks down again.

6. That’s going to take a while, so leave it but stay by its side. I am giving you permission to do two things at once. Dr. Reid, please be mindful of it.

Spencer rolls his eyes before proceeding to #7.

7. Combine the two cheeses. Then divide it in half. Then pour the half into 4 egg YOLKS. Just yolks! The yellow ones! Then beat it lightly until its really combined.

He has already separated the egg yolks from the whites (a job he didn’t think would be that hard but was surprisingly very hard) before he started cooking. He adds the combination of cheeses to the eggs and lightly beats it as he watches the pan of onions and pancetta sizzle.

When done with the egg and cheese combo, he gives the pan a stir before looking back down.

8. Is the egg done? Yes? Good. Is the pancetta and onion good? Yes? Good.

9. Okay, now you put your pasta in the pancetta pan.

10. REMOVE IT FROM THE HEAT! REMOVE IT!

Spencer follows the instructions to the T. He puts the pasta on the pancetta, gives it a stir and immediately removes it from the heat. He sighs in relief. He hasn’t burned anything yet.

11. You haven’t burned anything yet? I am proud of you.

12. Now, pour the egg mixture into the pan and toss the pasta until coated. TOSS IT GENTLY. If you’re scared use tongs.

13. Pour about 1/4 cup of the pasta water I told you to set aside earlier. You don’t have to pour all 1/4 cup, just until you get the creaminess you want.

Spencer reaches over the nearest tongs. He’s not going to toss anything tonight that involves pastas or pans. He’s taking the safe road because he wants everything to be perfect.

14. Add the rest of your cheese! Toss some more and then add salt and pepper as NEEDED!

15. You can serve it with parsley.

16. Now, go take a shower and change into some cleaner clothes.

17. Just be you and have fun, Spencer. Goodluck! :)

Spencer smiles as he puts the paper down and makes the finals touches to the pasta. He starts doing what was instructed and it surprisingly, ends up in the perfect texture. Just like the one he tasted when Rossi had a pasta night.

He was proud of himself as he takes it off the stove and makes sure that all the stoves are turned off. There was this report he read in 2018, that cooking and leaving the stove open was the leading cause of home fires.

He takes the food, puts it into a fancy tupperware (another thing he borrowed from JJ) and puts it in the microwave. He cleans up a little and stuffs the pans and pots to the dishwasher, because you are coming in his apartment even for a second.

He starts getting himself ready for the date with a shower. As the warm water glides through his body he thinks of how funny life could be.

Spencer first meets you in the library. He has not slept well in weeks so instead he opts to go to the library to get some reading done. But as soon as he sits in one of the (surprisingly) comfortable leather chairs, its as if sleep knocks him out. It wasn’t until the closing time that you wake him up and he thinks that you were an angel sent for him. This elicits a giggle from you.

“I am sorry, I am not an angel. I am just the librarian and we’ve been close for over an hour now. I just didn’t want to wake you up. You looked like you really needed that sleep.” Spencer immediately jumps to his feet as he apologizes profusely to the kind librarian, “Oh, it’s okay! Don’t say sorry. I was also reading so I didn’t mind the peace and quiet.”

That’s how Spencer meets you. He comes back a few days later after a case with coffee, croissant and an apology. You immediately become friends and thats how all of this started. Spencer finds himself falling in love with the kind, gorgeous, clever librarian faster than he expected.

Every week after that, Spencer comes to the library with pastries and coffees for his favourite librarian and every week, you welcome Spencer with a warm smile and a new book for him to read. He can read it in one sitting but he reads it in the slowest pace he could so it can last for a week.

Spencer comes out the shower and stares at his closet. Should he go casual or formal? Casual or formal? Its just dinner, he’s chill and casual is the way. He picks one of the few plaid shirts that he has and puts it on with a white shirt underneath. He tries to brush his hair, it sits for a moment before it starts curling again. He cringes but leaves it be.

Spencer proceeds to the kitchen to start packing the food into a wicker basket (that he also borrowed from JJ, he basically borrowed her whole kitchen). He packs the utensils in a table napkin that comes with the basket. The main course for the date was the carbonara, and the dessert was a tiramisu Penelope made.

He reaches over his sofa where the bouquet of paper flowers are. He made it a few nights ago with Penelope’s help. He stayed up to make more of it with old books he found in the BAU.

Because what kind of flowers is the best flowers for librarians? Origami flowers made with old book pages.

He shouldn’t be nervous. You’ve been friends for all the months that he didn’t have enough courage to ask you out. You’ve taken trips to old bookstores together for book hunting. This shouldn’t be different from your other trips.

The pitter patter of rain against his window takes him out of his thoughts.

“Shit! Is it raining!?” Spencer yelps, before opening the closed curtains. Beads of water runs down his windows and if its any other day he would love it. But not tonight, when he planned a rooftop date. He cringes as he thinks of the fairy lights hanged up and the table set up that is probably soaked now.

“Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Think, Spencer, think.” Spencer thinks fast. He finds the extra table cloth that JJ gave him because “Just in case.” He reminds himself to buy her a bottle of wine as a thank you. He places it in his small kitchen table before taking the utensils out of the basket and placing it on the table in a fancy way.

Candles. Does he have candles? Spencer scrambles around his kitchen, like a chicken without its head, looking for candles and he finds it underneath the kitchen sink. He lights some of it up and props it into some glasses (he doesn’t have a candle holder he realizes after lighting it up).

With the lights dimmed down leaving the light from the window and the light from the candles, his dark apartment gives off a romantic, kind of comfortable, vibes. It was kind of perfect because with the books on his shelves and the lighting, it actually has the same vibes a library gives off.

He was ready now, bouquet of paper flowers in hand. He can’t believe how smooth things are going, minus the damn rain. Only thing that’s missing is you.

A knock comes to the door and he instantly opens it. There you were, hair a bit wet and messed up from the rain.

His future was bundled up in a cozy cardigan and a pair of jeans right in front of his eyes and he didn’t even know it.

“Hi.” Spencer smiles.

“Hi.” You smile.

“A little to the right. No. No. Too much right, now give it a little bit to the left.” You sigh, your hand under your chin, “No, no, baby, its crooked.”

“Love, can we do this later? The pancetta is going to burn.” Spencer laughs as he climbs down the ladder with the frame.

“But you said you’ll help me with putting up the frames!” You pout at him, Spencer chuckles before kissing your nose, “I know but you also asked for my famous carbonara and I can’t do both at the same time.”

“Hmmm. I still don’t think you can call it yours when its originally Dave’s.” You follow him to the kitchen, zigzagging through the boxes of books you’ve both barely opened.

“What he doesn’t know, won’t kill him.” He winks at you before giving the pancetta and onions a stir.

“It already smells good, love.” You snake your arms through his waist and lean your head on his back. Spencer lets go of the spatula and spins around to face you.

“Thank you, sweetheart. Go unbox some of the books and I’ll call you when its cooked so we can fix the frames. Okay?” Spencer kisses the top of your head and lets you go.

You walk out of the kitchen to the hallway full of boxes full of books. You chuckle as you open the nearest box and its just full of chemistry books. You push it to the room where Luke, Derek and Spencer has built shelves for all of your books. An olive green couch sits in the corner beside the built in fireplace.

Hmmm. This is your home library but as a former librarian the dewey decimal is calling you. But then again, the books you and Spencer have doesn’t have classifications on them. You began unpacking the chemistry books and placing it on the shelf. You can hear the distinct hiss of the pan and Spencer humming Kodaline’s The One.

You push in another box from the hallway to the room and its another one of Spencer’s, this one full of philosophy books. You start unpacking it to the shelf below the chemistry books before stopping as you pull out a book that doesn't belong with the philosophy books. A smile graces your face as your hands glides unto it. It was the book Spencer bought for you on your first anniversary.

The Peter Pan cover is a bit tattered, it was an older edition he found in your favorite old bookstore. You open the book and Spencer’s messy writing greets you with nostalgia.

“We are most alive when we are in love. Thank you for making me feel alive everyday for the past year. Happy Anniversary, love. I live a full life as I love you fully.”

You smile at the book before hugging it to your chest. You sigh deeply as you looked around the room and how it felt so surreal to be in the new home you share with Spencer.

“Love, I am finish. Come meet me in the hallway!” You leave the book on the shelf as you hear Spencer calling you.

“Are you helping me with the frames?” You clap, excited to finally put up the frames. Spencer smiles as he sees you excited to put up the pictures.

“Yes, okay you need to tell me if they’re straight okay?” He instructs before climbing the ladder.

“To the right, just a bit. Oh! Perfect!” You scramble to reach for another frame as he comes down the ladder to move it, “Here! This one.” He climbs again and you instruct him with directions for the frame again.

After a few more frames, he finally comes down and looks at the frames you asked to be put up.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Spencer smiles down at you and gives your cheek a kiss as he wraps his hands around your waist, “It is. Thank you for framing them.”

The frames comes in different shapes and forms, the biggest one in the middle is the picture of your wedding day. Your wedding took place in a library you immediately fell in love with when looking for places to get married at.

In the picture, you were smiling, your head rested on Spencer's shoulder as he reads a Harry Potter book he found in the kids section. It was a candid moment, both of you running to the back of the shelves to get a moment to yourselves after the wedding and the photographer snapped it before leaving the two of you in peace.

Beside it are pictures with the team on the wedding day, some on thanksgiving, christmas, new year with the BAU team, some with your family, some with Diana and in the corner is a shadow box containing the paper bouquet that Spencer gave you on your first date, the same exact flowers that was in your hands as you walk down the aisle to him.

“So, how's the first six months of officially being a Reid-Y/L/N?” Spencer teases as he lets you go from the back hug to face you and you roll your eyes at him, “Oh very hard. They hear Reid and they immediately expect greatness.”

Spencer laughs, “Same as the last name Y/L/N.” This time your the one who laughs at his statement, “Uhhh. I am not the one with 3 PhDs and 3 BAs.”

“And I am not the one whose a New York Times best selling author.” Spencer laughs even more when he sees your nose crinkles, making his heart dance and swell in glee.

“Hey, let’s dance.” He takes your arms and leaves it on his shoulders as he wraps his arms on your waist.

“We don’t have music, you silly goofy boy.” Spencer rolls his eyes at the endearment used, “I’ll sing.” He hushes you down.

“You make my heart feel like it's summer when the rain is pouring down.” Spencer’s singing voice was soft and sweet in the edges. Most nights you lull him to sleep with your humming to keep the monsters at bay and some days, his better days, he’s the one who sings and these were the days you treasure the most.

“You make my whole world feel so right when it's wrong, that's how I know you are the one... That’s how I know you are the one.” He sways you to the gentle buzz of his voice. You close your eyes as he sings the same song he sings to your ears on the dance floor for you first dance as a married couple.

“When we are together, you make me feel like my mind is free and my dreams are reachable hmmm.” Spencer hums as he runs his hands on your back. Your head on his chest and your ear listening to the way his heart is beating for you.

“You know I never ever believed in love, I believed one day that you would come along and free me.” Spencer feels at ease as he sways and sings, knowing that he’ll have you in his arms for the rest of his life.

The song ends but you and Spencer continue to sway to the music of silence.

“Can you believe its been 4 years since our first date?” Spencer asks, in disbelief of how fast time is running when he’s with you. You pull away from his chest so you can face him. You find a small spark in Spencer’s eyes as he thinks fondly of the night.

“Really? 4 years since our first date got rained on and Penelope cried because we broke all her fairy lights?” Spencer laughs before protesting, “Hey! I paid for that!”

"4 years later and I still can't get enough of that damn carbonara." Spence cackles, like an evil villain, "Don't tell Rossi that I stole his recipe for my beautiful partner."

"4 years later and I am still completely in love with you." Spencer smiles as he leans down to place a small kiss on your temple.

"4 years since I almost completely lost my mind because I was so nervous about our date." You roll your eyes, "Love, our first date was perfect. We've had this debate how many times now?"

"19 times." Spencer answers and you pinch his nose before looking around the room that’s still full of unopened boxes, “See. We should probably eat lunch and unpack. Why do we even have so many boxes of books?”

“Honey, you were a librarian and you are a writer. I am a professor and FBI agent that can read 20,000 words per minute.” Spencer answers as he looks around the unpacked house.

You smile fondly at him before standing on your tiptoes a bit to reach him and give him a kiss and he immediately steadies you with his hands. Kissing you was intoxicating and Spencer loves every bit of it. You only pull away when the kiss finally takes away your breathe.

“I love you, Spence.” You smile as you hold his face in your hands, “I love you more, sweetheart.” He smiles at you as you untangle yourself from him.

“Let’s eat your famous carbonara and unpack the rest of our house. It doesn’t really feel like home when all we can see is boxes.” You giggle before dragging him to the kitchen, making Spencer sit on the island as you prepare the pasta he cooked. Spencer watches you as you sing and dance through the kitchen in one of his old cardigans.

He doesn’t say anything but you were wrong. Home is not four walls with unpacked boxes and hundreds of books.

Home was when you showed up bundled in a cardigan, wet from the rain for your first date with him and home is still you, four years later, bundled up in his old cardigans and singing songs that magically fills and heals the crevices of his heart.

the recipe i copied for the famous carbonara!

taglist (if you want to be added, please message me 🥰): @all-tings-diego @shemarmooresfedora @averyhotchner @samuel-de-champagne-problems @bingereid

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t-o-m-hollands · 3 years

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And so finally here it is, the fourth and final part of this series.

Warnings: Smoking, drinking and smut. One scene contains memories back to an emotionally abusive relationship (not between main characters). This is set in Nice in the 1950’s, I have never been to the French riviera and I wasn’t alive in the 50’s, so probably a very inaccurate description of the place (also at times simply just made up). Also features a PROFOUND misunderstanding of Nietzsche’s work.

Summary: Can you and Timothée make a life together?

Themes: Artist!Timmy, period piece (1950's).

READ THE PREVIOUS THREE CHAPTERS HERE,

this is the final part of this series.

August, 1953

The days are spent like this, one much like the other, settling into life without either one of you ever really noticing. The future is never mentioned more than a few days ahead and all plans are made for the day only.

But without really meaning to, you both make a home out of villa Marguerite.

Timmy buys a vespa from a man in town. It’s rusty and old but steers easily. His sore feet thanks him for no longer having to walk up and down the long hill each time you’ve forgotten to buy something in the village, instead he now just swings his leg over the saddle and swiftly sets out to buy it for you (“unpitted black olives, please”).

Each night you insist on doing the cooking, telling him you find pleasure in it; and well, who is he to deny you anything that brings you joy? So each night you cook and after the food and the wine shared on the terrace he goes back inside to do the dirty dishes. With shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows he sets to work, going over each utensil with great care. Louise snickers at him most nights, tells him there’s no need, that it is her job; looks at him with a knowing smirk he can’t quite translate to meaning. Still, he does the washing up. Wants to do it. Loves the domesticity of it, you cooking; feeding the both of you, and him cleaning after; helping out.

One afternoon as the sky above shifts in shades of pink and lilac Timothée and Marco sit by the square, playing chess. Marco is winning, a habit he has when they are playing together. Timothée in turn is trying not to sulk, something he spectacularly fails at, which is entertaining Marco to no end.

It is not the losing that has got him in such a terrible mood.

You have had to go back to London for a few days, (“there are papers that need to be looked over and signed”).

“Honestly” Marco says, as he takes Timothée's queen. “Why don’t you just tell her you are crazy about her?”

“Afraid that ship’s sailed, mate” Timothée mutters, taking one of Marco’s pawns, a small victory indeed when one has just lost his queen. With his head resting on his folded arms on the table he observes the chess board in front of him with vague interest, trying to figure out Marco’s plan of action.

“Why’s that? She has clearly not kicked you out of the house so she must be somewhat fond of your sulking ass?”

Timothée snorts. “Fond? How nice, the word we save for people we can’t force ourselves to love”.

“Then why do you stay there? Leave. Find another woman, let yourself heal.”

Timothée’s head snaps up, and for a second he’s stunned silent. “No” he says eventually, but not after having first considered the idea. “ No, I can’t do that” he says. It is not as if Marco had suggested something impossible, like walking on water or turning water into wine. Timothée could leave. He could go back to your home, pack his bags and take the first train back to Paris. It would not be an equal action to that of the resurrection. Marco moves his queen across the board but Timothée isn’t looking, has his mind somewhere else; far away. For the first time he truly ponders about the option to leave. To start anew; to forget he ever met you.

But he doesn’t want to.

It’s as easy as that. Living with you, sharing space with you; why would he ever leave that? Even if he’ll never get to kiss your soft lips again he’d still stay. As long as he sees you in the morning, unguarded with tousled hair; drinking coffee he’s made you; as long as his days end with a meal shared with you, drinking wine and talking.

Marco waves a hand before him, a sly smile on his face, “your turn, Romeo”.

Timothée rolls his eyes and moves his king out of Marco’s queen’s way.

“And shack mate” Marco says, a broad smile on his face as he knocks Timothée’s king over with his knight. “Next time maybe keep your focus on the game” he adds, winking at him.

“Oh you fucker” Timothée grumbles, taking a swing from his wine glas.

Later that night as he walks home, having drunk much too much to drive, he hears a small, injured whimper. He stands very still for a moment, trying to ignore all other noise, before he hears the sound again. Following the injured mewling he soon discovers the source. It’s a kitten. Looking not older than a few weeks old and tiny enough to fit in the palm of his hand, with fur completely black from head to paw and eyes shining yellow in the night. It looks strangely like a very small panther. It looks slightly worse for wear as well. Skinny and small and with uneven fur. The kitten looks up at him, opens its mouth and lets out the same whimpering sound once again.

Timothée stands up, presses the small animal against his chest to keep it warm, and takes him home. He lets it sleep in his bed and it curls up beside him and the next day he takes it to the vet; who informs him that the creature, all though underfed, is in perfectly good health.

When you come back from London the next day, face more strained than before but seemingly happy to be back, Timothée tells you the story.

“What have you named him?” you ask, scratching the purring kitten behind his ear.

“Well, I thought that maybe you should be with me on the decision” he says, watching you pet his newfound friend.

“Any suggestions?”

“Well,” Timothée begins, suddenly shy. “I was thinking maybe Chopin?”

You smile at him, with genuine fondness in your eyes, and he feels his cheeks heat up. “Chopin it is. It was very good of you to save him, Timothée”.

And something like hope blooms in his chest.

That night as he lays in bed, Chopin sleeping on his chest, he reflects on his conversation with Marco and the words ‘let yourself heal’ comes back to him. The words had startled him, confused him, and maybe even shocked a little. He ponders over the words, the meaning and the implications, and decides that no. He cannot heal.

Because he is not wounded. He had been, after you left Paris that spring, he had been a wounded thing; a child who flew too close to what he wanted, only to find his wings melting and his body falling down into the sea.

But he wasn’t wounded anymore.

Through the other side of the wall he can hear how you walk around your room, going through the nightly routine. He hears the squeaking sound as you lay down on the big iron bed. Chopin purrs on his chest and Timothée closes his eyes, ready for sleep to take him.

There’s no use in thinking ahead, he decides. What will be, will be.

September

Late one night Timothée is playing cards with some new-found friends.

Marco had finally given in and arranged a jazz night to Nathaniel’s and Timothée’s great joy. The Milanese jazz band consists of five free-spirited and unbound vagabonds. When they play the whole village square dances. After their performance Timothée, Nathaniel, Marco and the musicians sit down to play cards. The night passes and the rum flows as easy as the conversation. The room is quickly filled up with cigarette smoke and wild anecdotes of past victories. The musicians, although a cheerful lot, have not got much to bet with, so the stakes are kept low and the spirits high.

So how exactly it came about that Marco lost the old piano in the bistro to Timothée no one can remember the following day, for the details are blurry and stained by drink. Nevertheless, as they wave the five musicians off the following morning, it is clear to them both that Marco owes him a piano.

“Ridiculous” Marco grumbles, his Italian accent clearer when aggravated, as he and Timothée push the piano up to the truck. “You can’t even play the damn thing!”

Timothée snorts, “I can learn!”

“Oh really?” Marco bursts out, sarcasm heavy in his words “like how you’ve ‘learned’ Italian you mean?”

Sweat runs down his back, the afternoon sun is bearing down on them and the heat feels like a physical pressure against his skin. “I speak perfect Italian, thank you very much” he defends himself.

It is Marco’s time to snort, which he does with great satisfaction before announcing “speaking French while putting on an Italian accent is in fact not speaking Italian at all”.

His head is pounding; but he is in a good mood and so he laughs. With much effort and even more grumbling from Marco they manage to load the heavy thing inside the rented truck and after having driven it up the hill they carry it into the villa. Deciding to place the instrument in the drawing room they lean on each other’s shoulder for a bit, trying to catch their breath; laughing.

He offers the older man a beer, but Marco declines; has a business to get back to.

So Timothée steps out into the burning sun on his own, the stone floor of the terrace scorching his bare feet. The world feels peaceful in all its golden glory. He can hear the rhythmic waves of the ocean far below, the radio playing in the kitchen; the seagull’s calling in the sky. He takes a deep breath and tastes the salt of sea water on his tongue.

His oil paints and canvas are still where he left them yesterday, a half-finished attempt of a sunrise pictured on it. On the table stand a vase with bright blue hyacinth and blood red poppies that you must have picked.

For a few minutes he just stands there, soaking in the sun. With unhurried fingers he starts to unbutton his white linen shirt. Removing it he lays it on the sunchair beside him and his trousers soon follow suit. Turning away from the sun he walks down the hot stony steps by the terrace and down to the private beach. It’s a long walk down, but he feels a great need to wash himself clean of the sweat, the dirt, the booze from last night.

With his eyes glued on the steps in front of him he makes his way down, and only as he jumps the last hot stone does he rise his head; and he sees you. You are already out in the water, swimming on the spot, your face turned towards the horizon. He clears his throat, not wanting to pry on you, nor does he want to scare you. He fails, as you turn around, startles, and lets out a sharp gasp.

“Hi,” he says, feeling awkward, shifting from foot to foot, aware that he is only in his underwear. “Didn’t know you were here”.

“’s alright” you say, sinking down into the water slightly.

Knowing not where else to look he looks down at the ground, spotting with surprise a white towel thrown on the sand, next to your dress. It is only then he realizes that you are completely naked.

“Mind if I take a swim as well?” he asks. He’s almost certain that you will ask him yes; tell him to wait until you are done but you just shake your head.

“Hop in” you say “the water’s nice and cool”. And so he asks you to turn around, so that he too can rid himself of his last remaining piece of clothing before walking out on the jetty and jumping down into the deep water.

Swimming out to you he keeps a few meters distance out of respect. The water is still somewhat clear, and he doesn’t want to peep, even by mistake.

And so there, wading in the water, avoiding the others eyes, you both watch as the sea and sky in front of you slowly turn from vibrant blue to lilac as the sun begins its journey down the horizon.

“I, eh, I won a piano” he says eventually, wanting to break the somewhat awkward silence. You turn to him, wading the water, surprise written on your face. “A piano?”

“Yeah, put it in the drawing room, hope that was okay?”

You laugh, the sound clear and bright and something flutters in Timothée’s stomach like the wings of a butterfly. He tells you the story of how he came by it and you laugh some more and he can’t help but smile at the sound, can’t help but stare himself blind at your beautiful face.

You swim on the spot and you talk; about everyday life, how you both think Louise has fallen in love with a baker in the village, about Chopin scratching on the furniture, about the pasta you had for lunch. About life in all its domestic simplicity.

You’re looking at the sun. It is the golden hour and it has painted you golden as well. You seem to shine in the light, laughing at something he’s said as you wade the water in front of you, the water golden as way; a reflection of the sky above. It hits him almost with brutal force, how beautiful you are. He looks at you thinks; Aphrodite, who entered the world fully formed, born out of sea foam, the goddess of love and beauty. You blink up at him, eyelashes fluttering like the wings of a butterfly and his chest feels too tight, as if something inside where his heart should be is taking up too much space

Without either one having realized it you’ve swam closer to each other. You are so close that he could easily reach out and touch you; could easily lean in and taste the saltwater on your lips. You are looking at his mouth and he is wondering if that is what you want him to do but he is not sure and because he is afraid to ruin the tender friendship you have built by blundering in - he doesn’t. And you don’t either.

‘But, we used to be lovers’ he thinks. His body used to know your body like it was a continuation of his own. And perhaps that is why it hurts so bad to be parted from you.

“I should get back” you say in the end, avoiding his eyes. “We haven’t even had dinner yet”.

“Alright” he says “I’ll come join you in a minute”. He turns away from the beach, leaves you to get out of the water and get dressed in privacy.

Later that night there is dinner, and drinks, and your bare feet as you dance in the dining room to a jazzy tune, a glass of sangria in hand as Chopin runs circles around the hem of your dress. Later there is laughter as Timothée tries to teach you poker, something you turn out to be disastrously bad at.

And later somewhere in the village church bells are ringing.

***

One day is much like another. You wake up in the morning and Timothée makes you coffee and you share it on the terrace. Then he paints and you move through the house; going through the things that need to be gone through, doing the tasks of the day. You read your correspondents and write your letters back.

You set out to the market, chat with the vendors. You learn their names and their stories and in turn they share their family recipes for the perfect pasta vongole or ratatouille. You buy your vegetables and bread, your fish and meat, your wine and cheese, excited for the dinner ahead.

Sometimes you go to the tailor and you share a cappuccino in the sun with Claudette, the old woman running it. You chat about clothes, of fashion in the past versus the fashion of now, about the passing of time. She tells you about the war and the occupation. Of the rationing of fabrics and how she has learned how to make each cut of cloth work - wasting nothing.

In her store you pick out a light floral pattern chiffon and Claudette turns it into a beautiful summer dress, so light and different from the heavier material you wore in London.

You buy handmade pottery from the woman in the square. Big pots and jars and urns that she’s crafted with her own hands and with handpainted flowers and patterns on them; made by her sister. You keep olive oil and flour and flowers in them, and place them around the house in their rightful place.

You go to the beach and you collect seashells. Bringing them with you home you tie them up on strings and you hang them by the terrace door and with each dust of wind the gentle noise of the seashells rattling against each other can be heard.

You don’t talk about the future and never plan ahead. You are not together; just two people living in the same house after all.

You watch him, laying on some faded old sheets on the terrace floor, soaking up sun. Timothée approaches sunbathing the way he does everything else in life; with reckless abandon. Despite Louise’s warning words that he’ll burn his pale skin he lays under the scorching sun for hours, wearing nothing on his skin but white bathing shorts. His nose has already turned an angry pinkish colour that will surely change to red soon. Beside him lay an open book, Robert Graves - The Greek Myths. His half-finished landscape painting of today lay abandoned on the table.

In the kitchen you hear the clattering of dishes as Louise does the washing up after lunch. She’s singing along to a tune on the radio and without looking you know that she is dancing.

Walking back into the house, up the steps and into your bedroom, you lay down on the bed. The bedchamber had been your aunt’s at one point and her style still lingers over the room like her old perfume, a bottle of which still lay on the antique vanity. A comforting presence.

Staring up at the white ceiling you’re trying to put a name to the feelings you’ve been having lately.

It feels, you decide, like you’re playing a game with the past and you’re not sure you’re winning. Going back to London had been a mistake. You had walked the same old streets, dined in the same old restaurants and met the same old people as you had when you lived there with Freddie. It had been a mistake to go back, and hear all the tittle-tattle gossip of the divorce, of your absence from the London scene. You had sat there, in the great white dining room of The Luxembourg, you’re back straight and poise perfected, and the gossiping tongues around you had played in your head like an orchestra. You had seen your dinner companions mouths moving, but the words all seemed distorted and slow, coming to you as in a haze. Your face feeling strangely taut, as if you were wearing a mask over your own skin, unable to move the mask's features.

The only success of the journey had been that it made you all the more certain of your decision; to sell the Mayfair flat and rid yourself of the London scene once and for all.

You had visited your parents as well. Had sat through a luncheon with them and calmly listened to their grief and despair over your split from Freddie. Had heard their praises and glorification of your former husband and you had kept quiet all the way through it, poking at your food and feeling rather sick.

In London baron Freddie Fairfax was a constant presence even in his absence.

Your marriage had consisted of days filled with silence. Days spent apart, seeing different people; living different lives. Thought not at all really, since it was all in the same small social circle. Any secret relieved between friends between crystal glasses of wine at lunch would not stay secret for long. By cocktail hour it’d be known by one and all of the tight-knitted, blue-blooded social circle you called friends. Any secret shared to a confidant would reach Freddie’s ears before the sun set, no matter how much time you spent apart; dining and drinking in different restaurants.

The evenings, if shared just the two of you, would either be spent in total silence; during which you would turn on the radio just to fill the space between you. In the night he would touch you, move in and out of you with sharp thrusts as you pretended to be somewhere else, his grunts filling the only sound in the night.

Or, if he was in one of his moods, the evenings would consist of him leaning over your shoulder, wherever you turned. Breathing down your neck. Always ready with a comment, a sly remark on your clothes, your face, your figure; you’re thoughts and opinions. On the things you said, or on your defeated silence. He never asked you any questions about yourself, had no curiosity about who you were or what you thought. The only exception was when he interrogated you about the men you conversed with, or at times about your female friends; how long you’d known them, if they were dating anyone. How attractive he found them.

Your feelings were his to toy with, because in his eyes you were his plaything to do with as he pleased. Because to Freddie love would always go hand in hand with possession and to you love would always mean hunger.

Hunger for something gentler, warmer, and altogether different. Hunger for someone else.

Pictures of dark curls play in your mind. Timothée, his eyes furrowed and a pencil in his mouth, looking at the canvas in front of him with great concentration. Timothée, with blue paint splattered on his pale cheek, the sun shining in through the dirty windows of his artist flat, illuminating him.

Timothée who had slowly helped you put yourself together again when you fled to Paris; thought he’d never asked for glory for his role in the mending of your heart.

Nevertheless, he had. With great care and gentle hands.

Once in Switzerland you had gone with your father to the horologist. Your father was to have his watch repaired. You had watched the horologist with great interest as he sat down by his desk, thick glasses resting on his nose as he opened the back of the clock. The old man had furrowed his grey brows and with great focus and piety set to work with repairing the complicated machinery of the timepiece. Putting it together with the expertise of a mechanic who not only knows how each fragile piece works but why.

That’s how you imagine Timothée loving you; with great precision, knowing just how every piece of you fit.

And so maybe in the end that is what love means to you; not hunger, but being understood.

The windows are all wide opened, but no breeze makes its way inside and the room remains boiling hot under the late summer sun. The warmth feels like a heavy blanket covering you as you lay there in bed, just taking in the sounds of the house. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall, the seagulls screeching in the sky, the far-away sound of Louise singing in the kitchen and further away still; the ocean.

The bedchamber remains stuffy and hot.

Sitting up you reach for the cigarette package on your bedside table, discovering that they are Lucky Strikes; instead of your usual Gauloises. Timothée’s cigarettes then. You must have taken them by mistake. Grabbing the package you walk down stairs and out on the terrace again, where Timothée lay where you left him, sprawled out on the floor, the tip of his nose now bright red.

“You’re burning yourself” you tell him, throwing the cigarette package down on the ground beside him. Timothée lifts a hand to shade his eyes, otherwise blinded by the light. He looks at you with a lazy grin, before moving on the sheets to make room for you. Keeping his eyes on you he pats the spot next to him on the floor and so you lay down beside him.

“Think you have my Gauloises” you say, the entire world orange as the sun shines through your closed eyelids. “Must have taken your Lucky Strikes by mistake”.

Timothée hums, before rising and moving into the house. A minute later he is back with your package of cigarettes and an ashtray. Handing you the cigarettes he then helps you light up with his precious silver gift, his dark curly hair falling down his face as he does so. He smells of seawater and turpentine and as you lay down on the ground beside him on the ruffled sheets you feel like you can breath again.

Laying there under the sun you smoke and observe him. His hand with their specks of blue paint left from his work this morning, his legs slightly spread, his chest slowly moving up and down with each breath. His eyes are closed, and the ghost of a smile still plays on his lips. He seems at peace.

You wonder how long this fine line you both have been walking is going to last before one of you tumbles. The fine line between lover and ex lover. You wonder what will happen next.

Or perhaps this is the way things will always be. Each day lived out ad infinitum, one much like the other. A foolish thought; a childish one. For sooner or later he will take another lover, find someone new to cherish. Someone in no need of healing. And you think of Lucy, and her laugh as light as the bubbles in champagne, her easy charm and carefree personality.

You’ll wonder if he’ll take someone home with him one day, make her love to her in the room next to yours. Where he’ll learn her body like he once knew yours .

You wonder if you’ll do the same.

***

October

The days are cooler now, still pleasantly warm but not intensely so, and most of the tourists have left the stony shores; leaving the whole village less crowded and easier to move through.

For two weeks Timothée goes back to Paris. He sits in the street and paints the people he sees in their everyday life; reading newspapers on the park benches, friends sipping cappuccinos on rotting chairs outside the café, old women choosing their bread with great care at the boulangerie. He adds no drama or sensationalism to the scenes, but settles for painting the people in all their simplicity and its realism.

He visits his art dealer, who with great astonishment accepts nine landscape paintings and a handful of sketches. “No portraits then, monsieur?”

And Timothée tells him no. He is waiting for the perfect model for the job.

He goes to his artist studio, and is surprised to find that it feels less like home than before. He doesn’t linger for long, and when two weeks are up he books a new compartment on the Blue Train, treating himself with a first class ticket this time.

On his way to the station, his bag slung over his shoulder and a package of new pots of paints tucked in underneath his arm, he walks by a bookshop. Casting an eye at the shop window he stops dead in his tracks. A placard with William’s face stares back at him through the window, his mouth twisted into a wide smile and his hair styled neatly.

Timothée walks into the store and five minutes later he walks out with a freshly printed copy of ‘A siren calls’ in his hands.

He borders the train, lays down in his train compartment and he begins to read. And through the entire journey home he reads.

Villa Marguerite is much the same when he returns from Paris. Chopin greets him as he hears him come in, happily accepting scratches behind his ear as an excuse for his absence. Placing his bag and his paints on the floor, but book still firmly in hand, he walks out on the terrace in search of you, but finds it empty.

Walking upstairs he knocks at your door and upon hearing you call ‘enter’ from the other side he steps inside.

You are laying on your stomach on the bed, wearing your silk canary yellow robe, flipping through a copy of Tatler, the gramophone in the corner playing Chopin. You look up at him, eyebrow raised in silent question.

He clears his throat, unsure how to approach this any other way but straight on. “Have you seen this?” he says, and raises the book for you to see.

“Oh that” you say and sigh. “Yes, he wrote to me informing me of it weeks ago”.

“You knew?�� he says, astonished.

“That William’s great piece of literature was going to be about me” you flip a page in your magazine “of course I did.”

Timothée leans against the doorway feeling like the air has been pushed out of him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You look up at him again, and again with a surprised expression on your face. “I didn’t know you wanted to know that” and then “is it any good? The Tatler’s reviewer calls him the new Fitzgerald”, you nod down to the magazine in front of you.

Timothée hesitates, unsure how to respond. “It's, well yes I suppose it’s alright. The prose is quite stunning, if not slightly overworked”.

“But?” you say, sensing an objection.

“He’s made a caricature out of you”.

“He’s written me as he saw me, just as you’ve painted me as you saw me. And you’ve both sold your works for money. On this, if perhaps on this only, you are the same”.

Again he is stunned. Then, voice slightly shaking with held back frustration, he says “please tell me I’m closer to the real you then this” and he holds up the book again “this rubbish. He’s made you out as this, this…” he wrecks his head for the right word before finally settles for the obvious one “siren. This woman he can’t help but love but his love for her is standing in the way for the life he wants to live of unbound pleasures. A siren that keeps calling him back from his path on the search for perfect bliss. This siren that drowns him with her love”.

Silence for a heartbeat, then “you were”. He blinks, and you continue “you were closer to, as you refer to it, the real me. But that doesn’t make his interpretation of me any less real. Like I said, I’m sure that is how he sees me”.

“Well he’s dedicated the book to you”

“That’s sweet”

“I’m not sure it’s meant to be. Before it could be up for assumption who the book is abou. Now it’s crystal clear for everyone to see.”

“You don’t think he’s meant that as a compliment?” Standing up you tighten your silk robe around you. “I think so. I think he’ll consider it a great honour to have a book written in your honour, no matter the subject matter”. You walk past him “but never mind, let’s have drinks on the balcony upstairs, I think it’s going to rain tonight”.

“You never talk about Freddie” he states. It is late at night, rain dipping against the ceiling above, and they are sharing a bottle of wine.

“There’s not much to talk about” you say, avoiding his eyes, eyes set on the rainy scenery in front of you.

“He was cruel to you, wasn’t he?”

“There are others who’ve had it worse.”

“Doesn’t make it less cruel” he says. Feelings are fighting with each other in his stomach, like a nest of vipers they twist and turn inside him, fighting for dominance. Feelings of anger, empathy, sadness and love.

He walks over to you, and sits down on the bench beside you, his warm hand cups your cheek and you close your eyes, looking ready to weep.

“I’m so sorry, ma chérie, I really am” he presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, moves his arms so that he holds you to his chest instead. Soon you let yourself cry. He holds you to him, his chin resting on the top of your head and as far beneath you the waves are crashing against the rocks and in the chill evening air he keeps you warm.

He holds you for the longest time and somewhere in the village church bells are ringing.

***

An early morning some days later you walk out on the terrace. It is decidedly cooler outside this morning and the air feels crisp in your lungs and pulling your robe tighter around you you sit down by the laid table.

Timothée sits hunched over a book, a cigarette in hand, a cup of black coffee next to him. Despite the morning chill he’s only wearing his usual paint-stained linen trousers.

“What are you reading?” you ask, pouring yourself coffee into a small, porcelain cup. His eyes are still on the book, brows furrowed, and so you look around, take in the scenery around you; the cerulean blue sky stretching out over a landscape of hills and pastel coloured villas, and further down - the ocean.

“Nietzsche”.

“It’s too early for Nietzsche”

“I never went to sleep” he answers.

You try to keep your eyes on the horizon in front of you, but despite your might they dart back towards the tussle of brown, curly hair on the other side of the table. He’s hunched over his book and it is hard to tell, but you think you can see shadows of blue underneath his eyes. He looks tired.

“And what does Nietzsche have to say?”

“Well” he starts, before going on to read from the page. “Nietzsche claimed that the exemplary human being must craft their own identity through self-realization and do so without relying on anything transcending – such as God or a soul. This way of living should be affirmed even if one were one to adopt, most problematically, a radical vision of eternity, one suggesting the eternal recurrence of all events.”

“What does that mean, the eternal recurrence of all events?”

“That the universe and all existence and energy has been recurring, and will continue to recur, in a self-similar form an infinite number of times across infinite time or space”.

You stay silent, contemplating this momentous new idea.

“You know, scientists say that we are made out of stardust” Timothée says.

You don’t follow his train of thoughts but you go along with it and ask, “how could that be?”

“Well, everything we are and everything in the universe and on earth originated from stardust, and it continually floats through us still. It directly connects us to the universe, rebuilding our bodies over and again over our lifetimes. When stars get to the end of their lives, they swell up and fall together again, throwing off their outer layers. If a star is heavy enough, it will explode in a supernova. The brighter the star; the faster it burns. So you see, most of the material that we're made of comes out of dying stars, or stars that died in explosions. And those stellar explosions continue. And so, we have stardust in us as old as the universe, and then some that landed here maybe only a hundred years ago. And all of that mixes in our bodies.”

You stay silent for a while, him with his eyes stuck on the page in front of him, obstinately avoiding your eyes and you; eyes fixed on him, sipping your coffee.

“I don’t understand what you are trying to tell me, Timothée” you say in the end.

He blinks, eyelashes fluttering over cheekbones delicate like fine china, now tanned after months spent on the riviera. The sun is shining down on the both of you by now, and through tousles of dark curls you can now clearly see the dark shadows underneath his eyes. The wind whistles through the cypress trees.

“Just that there is nothing new under the sun” he says after a long silence. “And I guess that I’m trying to talk to you about destiny; how we are born, and reborn ad infinitum. Again and again and again our dice are cast, casting out our roles in life. We all have our parts to play. Parts that we are destined to play, and they are decided for us. It is beyond our control.”

“And what do we learn from this?”

“Amor fati”

“To love one’s fate?”

“To love one’s fate”.

***

One afternoon Timothée wakes up from a nap on the terrace. He opens his eyes and for a moment he’s blinded by the light, seeing only silhouettes in front of him. Stretching out his arms and legs, his body stiff from laying on the terrace floor, he groans. His limbs feel heavy and numb and his mind is unusually quiet, as it has a habit of being just after he wakes from slumber. Closing his eyes again he lets the bright sunlight turn the world white behind his eyelids.

Above him the seashells you’ve put up tinkle in the soft breeze. From way down below he can hear the ocean, steady today in this fine autumn weather. But he can hear something else as well. The clinking of a piano being played. Standing up, as in a haze, he follows the sound.

Walking into the house, past the tinkling seashells and white curtains, through the kitchen and hall he follows the sound into the drawing room.

You are sitting by the piano, playing Für Elise with unpractised hands. The sun is coming through the large windows, lighting you up, painting a halo atop your head.

“Can I paint you?” he asks, for the first time in months.

Your fingers fumble with the piano chords for a second before carrying on, showing no other signs of having heard him. You continue playing until the piece comes to an end.

Then, in the silence, your soft voice.

“Alright”

***

Someone has dug out an old Fletcher Henderson record and the music is blaring from the gramophone as people dance to the old jazz music, one woman has gotten up on the table and is stamping her bare feet along to the rhythm, twirling her dress and swinging her hips. Others are standing in groups, laughing and chatting; cocktail glasses in hand. Others still are sitting by the table.

You can’t tear your eyes from Timothée as he sits leaned back in his chair, arms draped over the railing and head thrown back in laughter. The afternoon light has turned the entire world golden, but Timothée seems to have been more blessed by the light than anybody else; as if he had been picked out and touched by Midas himself. He seems to shine as he laughs with his new-found friends, cheering them with a glass of cheap wine. They’re discussing new revolutionary ideas and he laughs as they clink their glasses in celebration of their own drunken brilliance. He’s wearing his nice white dress shirt and suspenders. The first couple of buttons are undone at the top, and sunkissed skin peeks through. His hair a mess of sea-salt curls, falling over his face, and pearls of water falling from his skin like little stars; the party having gotten back from a swim just moments before. They are mostly Timothée’s friends, though some are yours. Locals, whom you’ve befriended during your time here; with the added number of guests being a couple of british and dutch backpackers Timothée met up with on the way back to the villa.

You look at him, carefree and golden in the sun, and you know the image of him like this will stay with you forever – that you never will see anyone or anything this beautiful again. You don’t think of rebirth, or of reincarnation - of lives destined to be lived over and over again until the sun finally implodes and swallows you all; thus setting you all free from your destinies. You don’t think destined, star-crossed or fated.

Or of amor fati.

Instead you look at him and you think of immortality. Of gods and heroes of the ancient past and of all the holy creatures legends say has roamed the earth since there was anything to roam. You watch him in the golden afternoon light and you think of Achilles and of Apollo and of the archangel Gabriel.

(And you understand why the ancient Greek believed in heroes and god amongst men. You believe as well.)

On the first day God created light.

And so, the scientists say we are all made of stardust. You watch the golden boy in front of you, seemingly shining in the sun, and you wonder to yourself if perhaps the stardust he was made of ever really settled into human skin.

You have never felt more blue, like a sea creature dragged up to the surface against its will; but he is half boy, half ethereal creature. Something Holy. You can almost see it; heavy white wings sprouting out between his shoulder blades, casting a great shadow beneath him, wherever he goes; a golden halo atop the mess of curls on his head. There, at the table under the golden mimosa tree, he throws his head back in laughter again and the sound rings clear over the music, over the other’s voices.

His eyes meet yours where you stand in the shadow underneath the roof and the laughter seems to die in his mouth.

On the third day God created the seas.

The sun goes over the horizon; the golden hour has passed, and everything is set in shadow. You keep your eyes on each other while the rest of the party roars on around you. Their laughter, the clinking of their glasses and the loud music falling on deaf ears as he keeps his eyes fixed on you.

The sun has set, and the boy in front of you is no longer golden for you are all in shadow now; you are both human again.

Yet you still swear you can see the faint light of a halo atop his head and you can still feel the heavy weight of saltwater inside your lungs, taste it on your lips.

Eyes still fixed on his, you raise your glass to your lips, and you drown the last of your red wine. You can feel a drop slip from the corner of your mouth and make its way down your chin, your throat, your chest; down on your white silk dress. You put the glass down beside you and turn away from his gaze, walking away from him.

On the fourth day God created the moon and the stars.

The deep steps down to the water are wet from the passing tide and you move your feet carefully forward as you make your way down to the water. The sounds of music and laughter are soon replaced by that of waves. Passing by the old wooden jetty you walk down to the small piece of stony beach by the rocks. And there you stand. In front of you, a landscape of water so dark it appears black, and reflected on it from the sky above, the moon and the stars.

You hear the creaking sounds of someone stepping on the jetty.

And on the sixth day god created mankind in his own image.

Timothée stands in front of you, hands in pockets, his shirt undone and suspenders slightly astray; looking at you with such intent that you swear there’s thunder in the air, though the sky remains cloudless. Slowly, as if giving you plenty of time to retreat, he moves closer. Then, with his hands holding on to you, he kisses you. It is saltwater and sweet wine. It is red hot and wet and slow, until both of your breaths come heavy and your hands are fumbling over the other’s clothes. You tumble back against the flattened cliff wall behind you and you’re pulling him closer to you, tugging at his clothes until he’s pressed against you, chest to chest. Your hearts as close to each other as can be.

Your hands fumble with his zipper until it finally comes undone, and lifts up the skirt of your dress, pushing down your underwear until they fall at your feet. Hooking your leg around him you struggle for a second with finding the right position. Then, with a jagged thrust he’s inside you and you suck in a sharp breath. “Careful now” you moan in his ear, your arms around him holding onto him tightly. “It’s been a while”.

The reminder seems to soothe him, and the thrusts become slower, more dragged out but deeper too. His hands become gentler, less rushed, but still firm as he holds on to you; each hand pressing into the smooth flesh of your thighs. Your arms are clinging onto his shoulders, painted red nails digging into his back, your own back arched from pleasure. Moans and whimpers are falling from your lips and into his ear; his hair, still wet from the earlier swim, feels cold against your cheek.

There, in the dark; the night only lit up by moonlight, with waves crashing against the stones beneath your feet, he moves in and out of you and the air itself tastes of seawater.

You lean down and kiss his exposed tanned collarbones peeking through his half-opened white shirt and as you gently bite down he hisses and fumbles with the pace for a second, before regaining his posure; pressing you harder up against the wall again.

“That’s right” you moan, hands clutching onto his shirt and your head thrown back. “Fuck, harder!”

And he does.

And when you come it is white-hot bliss. Like the invisible strings holding together reality are all pulled out and you tumble through existence; unsure of where anything ends or begins.

Except that maybe the answer to both of those things are Timothée’s ragged breaths as he fucks you with feverish pace. Maybe there is where it all ends and begins. He comes in a whimper, your hands in his hair, his face in the crook of your neck.

And there you both stand, holding each other; fighting for air, as the waves crash around your feet.

***

You’re in the market and nothing feels real to you.

It is like you’re watching it all happen on film in front of you, the vendors shouting out prices and shoppers picking out their vegetables. It is like you are watching it all happen very far away.

The sun is high in the sky, and it is unusually warm for a day in late october. Your skin is clammy and your palms feel sweaty; yet you feel strangely cold. And you are trembling, feeling certain that if someone were to prick you with a needle right now – you wouldn’t feel a thing.

You see the people moving, arguing over prices of leek one moment and laughing the next. People carrying wicker baskets filled to the rim with ripe fruit and vegetables. It is like they all move in slow-motion, the sounds they make muffled and far off.

You step away from the crowd but when you turn around you walk straight into Timothée. He stumbles backward a step, unprepared for the collusion. He says something, swears perhaps, but you can’t hear him. There’s a ringing in your ear and the ground feels unsteady underneath your feet, the sun glaring down at you.

Then his hands are cupping your face, and you see him mouthing your name. He looks at you, eyes full of worry. He takes your hand, leads you away from the market and into the ancient church. His hand warm in yours he leads you down the aisle before turning into one of the box pews. You sit down beside him and he takes your hands in his.

“Your hands are cold” he says, before lifting them his his lips to kiss them.

He had been inside you just hours ago. You had cleaned up as best you could, before walking up the stairs again and re-joining the party. You had retired early, claiming a headache, while Timothée stayed out on the terrace with his friends. In the morning you had risen before him, heading down into the market before breakfast.

“Do you think we can ever be happy?” he asks and you want to laugh. Because the question is so precisely what has been on your mind ever since last night.

You think of the ocean; the way it can carry you or drown you depending on its whim. You think of the seawater in your veins, of lungs heaving for air. You think of never ceasing, impossible blue. Of bones engraved with memories from the past. And how all of this is who you are, that it is not a temporary blueness.

“Do you think we can ever be happy?” you ask back.

“I don’t know” he says. The church is cool and drafty, despite the warm weather outside and his hands around yours feels warm and safe. It wakes an unholy sort of wanting inside of you.

“Ask me who I am” he says.

“Who are you?”

“Someone that loves you.” His voice is low. You are not the only two people in church, a few rows ahead there is a woman praying and at the front two priests are conversing with one another. He continues in his soft voice, “I can’t promise you perfect happiness forever, no one can, and frankly; I’m not sure that is what you really want either. It’s perhaps what you think you should want, but that’s not the same as actually wanting it. I think part of you loves your melancholia”.

“Well then, what can you promise me?”

“I promise you that on the days you feel like you’re drowning I will keep us afloat and I’ll hold you until it passes. I’ll keep you warm”.

“And you don’t wish I was more yellow?” you ask, voice sightly trembling.

“You know, I’ve always loved the ocean. I’ve never felt the need to change its hue, despite its darkest blue”.

“It’s that easy?”

“It’s that easy” he says, and kisses your hands again.

***

On the balcony floor outside your bedroom you both lay that night, spread out on sheets and plush pillows you’ve carried out. You lay there, your head on his stomach, and stare up at the stars. Neither one of you is wearing a thread of clothing, but you are both tangled up in sheets. There’s an empty bottle of wine beside you and in Timothée’s hand his book on Nietzsche’s philosophies.

“So what do you think?” he asks. “Do we have a free will or is it as Nietzsche believes, that the dice have already been cast far before we’re born, leaving us to live out our stories without the ability to ever change the outcome. Leaving us to simply accept our fate; to love our fate”.

“It sounds terribly defeatist to me” you say

“Or brave” Timothée says, “I’m really not so sure which. Perhaps both.”

“So you agree with him? You agree with Nietzsche? We are not ourselves in charge of our lives?”

“No, no not at all” he objects “I don’t believe he’s right. I’ve made my own choices in life. I’ve created my own mistakes and fortunes. And my fate has never been to love you, I’ve done that intentionally.”

You love me on purpose?

Yes I love you on purpose. I chose it, I chose you”

“I chose you too”

*****

Inspirations: Jenny Slate’s tweet about wanting someone to love her on purpose, my own quite frankly disastrous relationships, Johnny Cash saying paradise is “this morning, with her, having coffee”, Anna Karenina, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (OBSESSED with https://www.ntathome.com/packages/cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof/videos/cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof-full-play version, highly recommend renting it), Greek mythology, The Blue Train adaptation by ITV Poirot (season 10 episode 1, watch it, every episode is individually based on one of her books so no need to see it chronologically) that has been playing on repeat and also the fact that for the last month I’ve been thinking of nothing else than traveling to Italy, France and Greece again.

#timothée chalamet #timothee chalamet #timothee x reader #timothee x y/n #timothee fanfic

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seacottons · 4 years

Text

uni!au with ateez — [ part one ]

—[ san - performing arts ]

ironically, you met when you helped him after a taller male shoved him down whilst in a heated argument.

he burst out laughing when you asked if he was okay.

“don’t worry, we’re just practicing our lines!”

you quickly glanced up at the building and grimaced once taking sight of the gleaming silver ‘performing arts building’ plaque.

of course.

to say you were embarrassed was only scratching the surface.

you had no regrets, because the incident was the catalyst that formed your friendship and eventual relationship.

will never let you live that moment down.

“remember when you tried to save me from mingi?”

“i thought we promised not to bring that up again-”

“why can’t i? i was saved by an angel that day?”

san invites you to both his dance and theatre shows.

will appear to be very professional on stage, but you catch his eyes frantically darting to the crowd to try and spot you.

and once he does, he will repeatedly smile and wink in your direction.

you’re always early, so you manage to snag a seat in either front two rows.

likes when you bring him bouquets as a congratulation gift after his performances.

gets very loud backstage just to let everyone know you bought him a gift.

a huge show-off.

is very good at facial expressions.

you fall for every time he pretends he’s crying or hurt when you don’t give him attention.

he will imitate different characters and repeat after actors while you two watch movies together.

“it sounded sexier when i said it, right (y/n)?”

is a very clingy cuddle bug.

and a leech.

will always have his arms around you while walking at campus.

loves to give you back hugs.

is the type to wait outside for you until you finish class.

and takes you to the cafeteria afterwards for lunch.

embarrasses you in said cafeteria by spinning the lunch tray while waiting in line.

also likes to spin your phone just to freak you out.

also the type to excitedly text you about the donuts and coffee they’re giving away at the library’s breezeway.

likes to refer to you as ‘angel’.

will beg you join the different clubs he’s in.

and then brag about you to the others once you do.

will hype your choice of attire even if he’s already seen you earlier that day.

the type to also sneak you a latte in the middle of your class.

also the type to sneak in with you during your auditorium classes.

you regret it sometimes because he leaves no room for you to pay attention to your professor.

often times, so much so that you have to lightly pinch his side in protest.

“do you want me to fail this class?”

he likes to participate in the many events held at campus.

everyone knows him.

challenges you to dance offs in the middle of campus.

you refuse and push forward a startled mingi instead.

“mingi wants to have a turn this time!”

also likes to lay in your arms whilst you play with his hair.

“were you a cat in your previous life?”

he will then proceed to meow in your ear.

“i’ll take that as a yes.”

—[ hongjoong - fashion design ]

dating him would consist of always admiring his new projects.

supplying him with unhealthy amounts of coffee.

trying out new pieces he made.

offering to carry his overly large portfolio binder sometimes.

sitting down and listening to him rant about how his roomates fail to wash clothes properly.

he has a guide taped to the washing machine with the different symbols of clothing labels.

“no, san, you can’t use shampoo as detergent.”

“but seonghwa finished all the detergent!”

using seonghwa’s lint rollers to remove all the fabric fibers stuck on hongjoong’s clothes.

you scold him while cleaning the bleeding scratches on his fingers from his sewing needles and pins.

“don’t worry, it’s nothing i can’t handle.”

“but i don’t like seeing you get hurt, you bum.”

you bought him strawberry bandaids because he thought they were cute.

sometimes, when he has time, he’ll custom make clothes just for you.

he insists on having multiple matching outfits.

will ask you to model his work for his social media page.

thinks you look best in skirts.

you’ll be the source of comfort during presentation week.

he’ll be a wreck whilst making a new collection.

but you’re always there to pick him back up.

most of the time, you’re the source of his inspiration as well.

you insist he shouldn’t sit for hours writing essays or sketching numerous ideas for future work.

but he’s stubborn as a mule.

nights with him include binge watching fashion shows or cute cartoons.

or painting your nails.

you both enjoy coffee dates when you have time.

he tells you he wants to open a fashion line one day.

you’re trying to stand still as he plucks numerous pins into the dress you’re trying on.

“what do you think i should call it?”

“hj couture? does that sound too basic?”

he pauses momentarily before spooling the leftover red thread.

“(y/n). i’ll call the line (y/n).”

—[ wooyoung - culinary arts ]

invites you to his dorm and cooks for you.

his apartment always smells of warm spices and comforting meals.

pretends his roommates’ teasing doesn’t affect him, but the tips of ears always glow red.

will always bring over leftovers he made in class.

“i just thought you wanted to try this mille feuille.”

“which one is better? the salted rosemary loaf or the oregano and olive oil one?”

loves to bake and cook with you.

will make your birthday cake from scratch and will go all out decorating it.

has an annoying habit of taking pictures of you mid-bite.

“delete that right now.”

“but babe, you look so cute.”

“jung wooyoung!”

will wrestle with you as you attempt to take his phone away.

“okay, look! i swear i’ll delete it!”

he saves it in a hidden folder.

calls you his ‘cupcake’ or ‘sugarplum’.

teases you nonstop when you fail at something in the kitchen.

“babe! no! gentle folds! you pulverized those poor blueberries!”

“but the instructions say to mix!”

“the dough isn’t supposed to be blue!”

he’ll whine nonstop about how much he hates baking bread in class.

“do you know how abnoxiously long the fermentation process is!? i’m losing my mind.”

will wave and yell your name to catch your attention if he spots you nearby at campus.

you hear him every time.

he’s just that loud.

drags you to new restaurants just so you can rate them with him.

also drags you to go cutlery shopping.

accidentally dropped a plate in the store.

and when the employee came sauntering in the aisle suspiciously-

“(y/n) did it.”

once gave you food poisoning by accident.

you never wanted to eat scallops again.

you don’t mind his hands smelling like garlic or ginger most of the time.

or stained with spices.

“turmeric is a bitch.”

“woo, who wears white while cooking with turmeric anyway?”

will show off and brag about his knife skills.

demands to race with you to see who can chop the vegetables the quickest.

“you’re going down, (y/n).”

“uh- i don’t think i ever stood a chance to begin with.”

he lets you win sometimes though.

will beg you to visit him at his part time job at the cute cafe not too far by.

you always try to when you have the time.

and when he finds out you went to the rival cafe across the street one day..

“on a scale of 10 to 10, how bad is kang yeosang’s cooking?”

“what?”

“answer the question, (y/n).”

“woo, it’s 3 a.m.”

the next day, you explained that you were merely invited by your classmates to that particular cafe because one of them was a former employee there.

he childishly ignored you with crossed arms and a subtle pout.

“your jajangmyeon is much better. they didn’t even like the food there!”

he finally perks up with a large smile.

“wait, really?”

you think he looks endearing with his apron and chef’s hat.

will post cheesy captioned pictures of you after serving you delicately decorated plates of food.

‘two delicious meals for tonight, hehe.’

“gross. did you really have to say that?”

—[ jongho - kinesiology ]

you met him at the university gym and instantly clicked.

found yourself months later agreeing to go out with him.

a giant goofball.

sometimes makes faces at you while you exercise across the gym.

makes sure you watch him when he deadlifts.

loves when you hype him up.

opens all the jars for you.

and cuts all the fruit for you.

“why use a knife when you have my hands, love?”

you nearly choked on your saliva when he punched open the watermelon.

“can we ever just have a perfectly sliced watermelon!?”

“no- unless i break my arm one day.”

insists you jog with him around campus early in the morning.

likes to practice wrapping elastic tape on you.

you own half of his hoodies.

takes you to watch basketball matches.

then challenges you to a match when you go on dates to the park.

will persistently tease you about your poor aim.

and will absolutely not let you have the ball for more than a few seconds.

“stop cheating!”

“i’m not cheating! you just suck!”

joined you in some of your elective classes.

will also wear sleeveless shirts because he knows how flustered you get while his sculpted muscles are on display.

“what did professor kim just say?”

“what?” you tore your gaze from his biceps to glance at his face.

“are you staring at my arms again?” he snickers.

“no,” you say too quickly, face heating quite considerably.

despite his teasing, he’ll always baby you and take care of your needs.

has the cutest gummy smile.

you like to call him your gummy bear.

he hated the name at first, but grew to accept it over time.

likes to randomly pick you up.

sometimes will throw you over his shoulder.

has a habit of patting your thighs.

sometimes asks you to sit on his back while he does push-ups.

your eye bulged at the sight of a mop of ruby hair.

“don’t say anything.”

“you like apples so much you dyed your hair red?”

“i lost a bet.”

“you look cute though.”

you tugged at his tresses, smiling as you admired the shade against his tanned skin.

“baby?” you brushed his bangs away to display his forehead.

“hm?”

“you’re the apple of my eye.”

“i’m-,” he sucked on his teeth and pursed his lips, face scrunching in a mock grimace, “i’m going to throw up.”

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dc41896 · 3 years

Text

One of Those Days

Pairing: Chris EvansxBlack Reader

⚠️: None, fluff💕!

Turning the ignition of your car off, an exhausted sigh slips from your lips as your eyes close, head falling back on the leather headrest behind you. You spend the next few minutes letting your body relax enjoying the silence before having to step back out into the cold to enter your house. Closing your door, you hear the wild laughters of your three year old and husband from the backyard, prompting you to make a quick detour from how you’d usually get in.

Tottering around in her boots and thick winter coat with small, orange beanie and hood pulled over her head, she tries her best to run from her father, but looks unsteady due to the jacket not really giving her room to move. After a couple steps she stumbles, falling forward but putting out her hands stopping her from landing on her tummy.

“Uh oh!,” she repeats after Chris, who quickly squats by her side cleaning the dirt from her hands. Like the protective big brother he is, Dodger also joins her side nudging his nose to her cheek as if checking on her and returning her laughter.

“You okay bean?,” he asks checking her hands to make sure she didn’t get poked or cut by anything hidden in the dirt. The sight was too cute giving you a much needed laugh after the day you’d experienced.

Inching closer, you catch Chris’ eye giving a small wave as he winks before tapping Willow and pointing in your direction. “Look! Who’s that over there?”

“Mama!!” Wide smile on her face, you meet her halfway lifting her in your arms to shower her face in kisses. In this moment, holding your baby close with her head on your shoulder, you feel so at peace and truly happy to be home, the tears you kept blocked and shoved away all day come to a head.

“Uh oh mama.” Her small hands begin to wipe away your tears making more fall at how sweet she was.

“It’s okay honey I’m fine,” you smile through your sniffling. “Just happy to be home and see you.”

“Alright, I think it’s time we go back inside and get you cleaned up for dinner miss,” Chris states tapping under her chin. “Can you put back your toys?”

With a “tay,” she wiggles down to return her toys scattered along the yard to the bin next to her playhouse while Dodger walks beside her.

“Bad day?”

“Yea.” Pulling you closer, your arms wrap around his sweater covered waist as he leans down sweetly kissing your lips and wiping the remaining tears from your cheeks. Standing in his warmth, your head falls to his chest and eyes close breathing in the leftover cologne still present from the grocery run last weekend.

You didn’t realize how much you just needed to be held until more tears pricked the corners of your eyes making your husband gently rub your back as he softly shushed your cries.

“I got Willow and dinner. You go ahead and try to relax, okay?”

“You have dinner?,” you question looking up to see that dazzling smile as he chuckles.

“I’m heating up leftovers for us and chicken nuggets for bean, but yes I have dinner. Now, you go before I take you myself.”

His lips kiss your temple and hand lightly taps your hip as you both pull away. Crossing through the sliding glass doors into the comfortably heated home, Chris and Willow aren’t too far behind stopping on the patio deck so he can remove her boots and ask if she had fun today, which of course was an ecstatic yes.

After your bath, complete with eucalyptus and lavender soap bringing the perfect amount of bubbles and a couple lit candles on the sink counter, you join your family for a dinner filled with laughs and smiles from them telling you about their day. How they watched movies and played with dolls before going outside to play some more.

“Ready to tell me what happened?,” he asks putting the last of the dishes in the washer before turning to you perched on the counter. You tried to help, but he forbade you from lifting a finger for the rest of the night going as far to even swat your hand away when you still attempted to clear the dishes from the table.

Thus why you were sat on the counter “overseeing” everything.

“I just felt overwhelmed. Like I’m trying my best to get everything done, but it feels like I’m not moving fast enough. Then the person that’s supposed to be helping me really isn’t doing anything and didn’t show up today. So now I’m getting emails asking when stuff will get done, which I don’t know, and feel like everyone’s looking at me like I’m not doing my job.”

“Well first, I’m sorry that you feel that way and today wasn’t the best for you,” he smiles sympathetically with hands caressing your cheeks. “And you’ve been working there for years, so I’m sure your boss and everyone there knows how hard of a worker you are.”

“Hopefully.”

“Maybe you should talk to her and say how that other person isn’t really doing anything? Or talk to the person themselves?”

“You know I hate confrontation,” you groan bringing your hands up to hold his forearms.

“I know, but this is bothering you and you gotta say something for it to get better.”

“I know..”

“Unless you want me to go up there.”

“And do what?,” you ask amused.

“Anything that’ll fix it,” he laughs briefly meeting your lips before you’re both interrupted by your daughter banging her plastic, toy pot on the floor humming a made up tune.

“And I’ll bring Willow as back up just in case.”

“Great plan.” you snort wrapping your arms around his neck and gliding your finger along the hairs at his nape as his hands fall to your thighs.

“Seriously though, you know I’d do anything to make you happy. I hate to see you upset.”

“I know, and as long as you’re there, that’s more than enough.”

“Uggies!” Arms outstretched with a small pout on her lips, Willow’s small footsteps pad up to you and Chris making you both aww as he lifts her to rest on his hip.

“Did you think we’d leave you out of uggies?,” you ask tickling her side to cause an eruption of giggles. All of you hugging closely together, you smile feeling the weight of the day finally leaving your shoulders. Your work was still waiting back in the office, but you chose to bask in the calmness of the moment letting what may come tomorrow wait until then.

Taglist: @fumbling-fanfics @honeychicanawrites @honeychicana @lady-olive-oil @themyscxiras @melinda-january @lovelymari4 @maxcullen @literaturefeen @damnitaa @curlyhairclub @plokyu23 @fullofmelaninsarcasmandepression @nunubug99 @felicity-x0 @ellixthea @jojolu @jnk-812 @brwn-sgr @captainsamwlsn @wildfirecracker @nina-sj @iammyownlover @chaneajoyyy @scoop93535 @secretmysteriousperson

If anybody wants to be tagged, have asked to be tagged but don’t see your name, only want to be tagged for certain people I write for (can be found on my masterlist), or no longer wish to be tagged just let me know🤓!

#chris evans #chrisxblackreader #chrisxwoc #chrisxreader

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outofcontextelderscrolls · 3 years

Text

A quick and easy (but also in depth) lotion bar tutorial

A few of you have been asking about this and and now that I have some time I figured I would finally put out this tutorial. This post would be way to long if I covered absolutely everything. So if you have any questions send me an ask and I can answer them there.

The bars pictured above are made with the same formula im about to show you. I choose these bars specifically because 2 out of the 3 ingredients can be found at any market.

(To illustrate this i am using the supermarket brand for both my oils. I own better oils. You can even see them in the back of the photo. But thats not the point of this particular tutorial)

Here is everything you would need to make a very simple bar. (One without fragrance)

Beeswax

A spray bottle of isopropyl alcohol

A measuring cup

A thermometer

A scale

Two spoons

Coconut oil

Olive oil

A mold of some kind, preferably silicone

You can substitute the oils and the waxes for other oils and waxes. But please understand that changing them can and will effect how the bar feels and how it holds up in warmer climates. For example if you live in a warmer climate than myself you might want to try a harder oil than coconut oil so that it holds up better in the heat.

You also don't really need the scale or thermometer as long as you can measure your ingredients properly without it and arnt using a fragrance oil.

Step 1. Spray the equipment you are using with the isopropyl alcohol (please keep things as clean as possible)

Step 1.5. Put one spoon in the freezer (this will come into play later)

Step 2. Measure out your ingredients. 1 part wax, 1 part carrier oli (in this case the olive oil). And 1 part hard butter (in this case thats the coconut oil

As long as there are equal parts of all 3 ingredients the amount you use is up to you and based more on how many lotion bars you want. For the above bars I used about 10 grams of each ingredient

With all your oils in the container its time for the next step

Step 3. Microwave untill everything is melted. Please make sure to do so slowly. And in short bursts, stiring occasionally. You do not want to over heat these oils.

Step 4.Once you have melted everything down go and get your cold spoon out of the freezer and dip it in. The mixture will solidify instantly. Allowing you to test how the bar is going to look and feel before you do the final step. If you want a harder bar ad more wax. For a softer bar add more oil and melt it all down again.

Step 5. Pour it into the mold. It will look clear at first. But quickly get cloudy as it cools. If you want you can put the mold into a freezer to speed up the hardening process.

Unmold your bar for something that resembles this. And your pretty much done. Make sure to stor it in a place that doesn't get to hot. It may start to melt.

And there you have it! A perfectly usable lotion bar! These are my favorite things to make right now. And in my opinion they are better for dry skin than a traditional liquid lotion.

#i know some of you guys requested this #i really love making them

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makeupremovercleansingbalmnew · 3 years

Text

Be Careful For This Makeup Remover Cleansing Balm

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Skincare By Category

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As health and wellness bloggers, our readers usually ask us if we cleanse and in that case, how we do it.

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Other kinds of cleanses contain colonic cleanses utilizing enemas, laxatives, or colon hydrotherapy .

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sillyrabbit81 · 3 years

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Her Heavy Cross

Summary: Three years after tragedy hits, Lana she decides to start dating again. She meets Will through a dating app and they begin an online romance. After months of constant requests, Lana relents and agrees to meet and go on an irl date with Will. But is Will who he says he is? Lana is quickly pulled into an intense relationship forcing her to confront her tragic past. Will Lana face it or will she close her heart forever?

Pairing: OMC x OFC

Word Count: approx 2.5k

Warnings: Smut, swearing

Authors Note: The story started as a Henry Cavill fanfiction but I changed it to be an original character, but shades of Henry are still there. Hope you enjoy the story and thanks for reading.

Part 6 Part 8

Part 7

Liam's phone rang. He ignored it and let it go to voicemail. When it rang again, he made a noise of disgust and took his phone out of his pocket to look at it. "It's my publicist. I had better take this."

Liam answered the phone and went outside to talk. I turned the oven on and started to unpack the groceries. Then I got the roast, put it in a baking tray, poured olive oil over the top and seasoned it with salt and some pepper. I got out some onions and garlic and started to cut them up to place around the roast to give it some added flavour.

"That looks great," Liam said when he came back in.

"Thanks," I said, and I gave him a grin. I took the tray and put it in the oven. I got my phone and put an alarm on, giving myself time to cook the veggies before they finished. A thought came to me, and before I could bite my tongue, I said, "They do say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach."

"Really?" Liam licked his lips, looked down at his pants and said, "I'd say they were aiming too high."

It took me a minute to work out what the joke was. When I finally did, I couldn't help but laugh and hide my face in my hands.

"You've gone so red!" Liam appeared to be having fun with my inability to control my blushes.

"Oh, my God!" I said, still hiding my face and laughing. "Alright, that was funny."

It took me a while to stop laughing. When I did, Liam said sombrely, "Sweetheart, I have to tell you something."

"Uh, oh, it doesn't sound good."

"It's not bad. I don't know how you will feel about it." Liam then told me that his publicist had called to let him know there were pictures put on Instagram and Twitter of the two of us kissing at the pub last night. "Your name hasn't been mentioned, and the photos look to be shot from pretty far away on a mobile, so someone in the pub took the pictures. Sarah says they probably aren't going to tell who you are by the pictures unless someone who knows you well comes forward."

I think if my eyes bulged out of my head any further, they would have fallen out and rolled on the floor. "That quick?" It was all I could think to say.

"Yeah. It's hard to know what will come out and when. A lot of times I go out, and no one notices me, but other times I have paps or members of the public following me for hours."

"Who's Sarah?"

"My publicist." Liam reached across the bench and took my hand in his. "Are you ok?"

"You say they don't know who I am?" Liam nodded, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I wasn't happy but what was I going to do about it? I picked at my nails. I needed to paint them; the pale pink polish was starting to chip.

"You ok?" Liam asked again

I shrugged. "Your life is weird."

Liam chucked. "You keep telling me that."

"So, what happens now?"

"Well, usually Sarah would say to private all social media, but she had a look and said she could only find a Facebook profile for you which was already private. Do you have any others? Instagram? Twitter? Snapchat?"

"No. I have a YouTube account that I use to watch videos, but that isn't linked to my real name or email. Also, a Tumblr account, again not associated with my name. And no pictures of me."

"Tumblr?" He raised an eyebrow. His fucking lip twitched.

"I was a confused 22-year-old ok?" I said a bit defensively. "I haven't used it in years," I remembered then the dating site we met on. I quickly logged on and selected the options to hide the account.

"Ok, well, there's not much else right now. A few rags called Sarah for comment. She said the standard no comment and asked for my privacy to be respected. The rest is up to you."

"Up to me?" I asked, confused. "What's up to me?"

"When you want to confirm the relationship and release your name."

"Liam, I met you less than 24 hours ago and have known you only a few months. I'm not ready for that. I like you a lot, but maybe you pick your nose and eat it, and I'll have to dump your arse tomorrow and then it's been a big song and dance over nothing." I joked. The mood had gotten too heavy for me. I wanted to talk about something else.

"Sweetheart, I'd never do that." He smiled sweetly, "I'd make you eat it."

"Ewww!" I screamed.

"Get over here." He chased me around the bench, and after a few evasions and some more squeals, he caught me. Perrin came in through the doggy door and barked at Liam a few times. Our behaviour obviously scandalised him. "Perrin," I called. "Come here, boy."

"You think your dog can save you?"

"Of course, he's very protective of my honour."

"We will see about that." Liam bent over, and I thought he was going to tackle me. Instead of flying backwards, I was hoisted forward and found myself over his shoulder. I screamed as I heard a loud crack, my hands flying to my bum.

"Did you just smack my arse?" I must admit I was finding all the manhandling arousing. I wasn't going to let him know that, though.

"Yes, I did. Want another?" Liam was heading down the hallway, taking me to the bedroom.

I giggled. "No!"

"The lady doth protest too much, methinks," Liam quoted. Shakespeare sounded good with his accent. I giggled some more, and I got another one. Yes, very arousing.

Liam hummed. "I quite like the view here." He rubbed my bottom and took me into my bedroom.

I was very close to his round bum. "This view is not so bad either," I said and smacked his arse. Unfortunately, it probably hurt me more than it hurt him. His butt was tight!

Liam dropped me onto the bed at that point, and the look on his face was hysterical. I couldn't stop laughing, and tears were rolling down my face. Then I did the most embarrassing thing: I snorted.

That was it. Both of us couldn't stop. Every time I calmed enough to think I could speak, one look at Liam's face, and I'd be off again.

Eventually, we stopped, and I was able to say, "Oh my God, your face! That was so bloody funny." I wiped my eyes.

"I think that may have been the first time someone's done that to me."

"Really? Didn't you go to an all-boys school?"

"Yes, but it wasn't the US." Liam tried suppressing a grin as he said, "we got ball taps."

I tried not to laugh. I really did. "Oh, my God!" I was off again.

We watched the original Mad Max before I had to go and finish dinner. I was horrified when Liam said he hadn't seen it before. I immediately made him watch it. He said it was ok, the concept was great, but he didn't love it. I told him he needed a brain scan.

When I went to make dinner, Liam offered to help, but I told him not to be silly.

Liam sat at the kitchen bench chatting to me while I chopped and blanched the vegetables. After a while, he said he had to call Sarah and his assistant Ryan to make sure he had organised the dog walker to take Cole for a walk and play.

"Any update from Sarah?" I asked Liam when he returned. I feigned disinterest while I finished slicing the roast.

"All the same right now. Some sites have posted the pictures, saying I was spotted drinking with an "unknown female companion." The pictures have circulated a bit on Twitter, but it's mostly just by fans. They haven't hit the mainstream yet. It's all fairly standard, and it will go away by tomorrow by the looks of it."

"Good," I said. A look I couldn't interpret passed over Liam's face. He masked it pretty quickly. I opened my mouth to ask if he was ok but shut it again. I said, instead, "dinner's ready." I passed Liam his plate.

"Thank you," Liam said, leaning over to kiss me before eating. I watched as he cut up some beef and started chewing. "Pretty good. Almost as good as Mum's," he teased with a wink.

I elbowed him, and God bless him; he pretended it hurt.

We ate in silence for a while. I gave a few pieces to Perrin. He was so old, and I couldn't help but spoil him occasionally. He won't be around forever.

After dinner, Liam insisted on helping me clean up, and we stacked the dishwasher. Watching him bend over, his jeans straining as he put the plates in, stirred some feelings. Erotic feelings.

"Want to watch another movie?" He asked.

"Not really," I said. "I'm in the mood for some dessert."

"Ice-cream? I can't have any, but you can."

"Not ice-cream," I said, shaking my head. I looked at him with my very best bedroom eyes.

"What do you want then? Want me to go to the shops?" He said, not catching on. I put my arms around his waist. "If you let me borrow your car, I'll go. I can just go on my own."

"No, you wombat." I met his hips with mine, his eyes widened. "What I want is right here." I wriggled against him. Liam grinned widely, his cheeks creasing in such a sexy way.

"I thought you were shy."

"I am getting used to you," I said. "The real me is coming out." The truth of my words took me by surprise. I looked away, second-guessing myself. Why did I do that?

"I like her," Liam said hoarsely. If he hadn't spoken then, I think I would have stopped. But when his hands went into my hair, and he pulled, stretching my throat, I knew I wasn't going to stop. He kissed me there, and his teeth grazed my skin. My fingers reached under his shirt, and they gripped his back. My nails dug into his skin.

"Bedroom?" I whispered.

"Bedroom," he agreed and walked me backwards to my room.

"You promised me something earlier today," Liam said in between kisses. We were close to my bed.

"What's that?"

He stopped kissing me and cupped my face with his hands. "You said I could undress you."

Liam took hold of my t-shirt and waited. I nodded. He slowly lifted my shirt up and over my head before dropping it to the ground. He tilted his head as if contemplating and gently turned me around.

I felt Liam gather my hair and put it over my shoulder. He caressed my back with his fingertips, making me shiver with pleasure. I heard him give a satisfied hum before undoing my bra. He turned me around again and took hold of my bra straps, pulling them down my arms.

When I dropped my bra beside my shirt, Liam took a step back. He looked me up and down, his eyes hungry. I wanted to cover myself under his intense gaze, my earlier courage wavering under his scrutiny.

My arms started to move, and he gave me a stern look. "You're not thinking of hiding now, are you?"

I shook my head and forced my arms back by my sides. "Good, because I want to look. You're quite the sight." As if to emphasise his point, he adjusted himself through his pants. I felt a thrill of excitement flow through me and felt the familiar throbbing between my legs.

Liam got down on his knees and kissed my belly. His rough stubble tickled. "Your skin is so soft," he said in a low voice. He undid my jeans and kissed a trail down as he unzipped me. His breath was warm, and I felt it through the cotton of my briefs, his last kiss placed just above my slit.

It was almost agony. I moaned at his teasing breath and lips. Then Liam pulled down my underwear and kissed my mound. I felt his tongue part my lips, and when he found what he was looking for, he flattened his tongue and moaned into me.

I didn't know what to do. For a moment, I wanted to stop Liam, but it felt too good. I could feel my resolve waning. I didn't want to wait. Why should we wait? What was I waiting for? I had to stop thinking and go with it, enjoy him, enjoy the experience. I put my fingers in his hair as he licked and sucked at me. He seemed to remember what I liked, and soon I was close to my peak.

One of his fingers played at my entrance. I silently begged for Liam to put it in. My core was desperate to be filled. His finger slowly entered me, and I was lost. I needed him. At that moment, all I wanted was to feel more of him inside me, have him fill me.

I felt like this was the moment. If I don't ask Liam now, I probably never would. If I didn't want him now, why am I even allowing this to happen? I wanted him. He excited me like no one had done since Andy. He had knocked down the defences I'd built to keep myself alone. Keep me in my grief and guilt. I didn't want to be alone anymore. I wanted to feel desired again.

"Fuck me?" I asked. The words just tumbled out. I knew at that moment I would beg if I had to. "Please, Liam, I want you to fuck me."

I wasn't sure if Liam heard me. He increased his attention, and I felt the pressure building. His hand gripped my arse, his fingers digging into my cheeks as he pulled me closer to him. The short rough hair on his cheeks and chin tickled against my thighs. My legs buckled. I couldn't stand up anymore. He held me there while I panted and moaned, seeking release.

I felt my climax arrive like a bolt of lightning. It was sudden and intense. My body contracted as waves of pleasure exploded over me. Short, wordless shouts came from my mouth until it was over. I collapsed onto the bed.

I laid there a while, eyes closed, trying to catch my breath. Liam was shuffling around and heard his belt come undone. I felt the bed dip, and I opened my eyes to find Liam naked, climbing up the bed until his face was above mine.

Liam supported some of his weight with one hand and laid on me, our whole bodies skin to skin. He was warm to touch, and he almost felt hot to my now cooled skin.

"Ask me again," Liam said.

Part 8

#original story #original fiction #romantic story

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ohholyfanfics · 4 years

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Cherries & A Little Loving| Tom Holland

The First Date & Cherry Jars

Based off this prompt request here: Cherries

Note by Ellie: Part two maybe, I have another draft which is a continuation of this thats like another 3.4k words in. But anyways I hope you guys enjoyed and I tagged everyone who asked for a part too. Also much thanks to @oyesmendes for their support in getting me to finish this today.

His heart was beating a little quicker than usual as he moved in record speed. After practically begging for the night off, and much to Harrison’s dismay Tom wish was granted. He had been sweeping and vacuuming the whole flat for the past four hours, it was safe to say Harrison was getting light-headed with the smell of bleach and some wired scented candle Tom had purchased a bit too much off.

“Mate, she’s only gonna be over for a few hours..” Harrison reminded him as Tom sent him a glare while he pulled a couple of jars of maraschino cherries from a reusable bag. The blond’s eye widened before a loud laugh filled the small kitchen.

The brunette couldn’t help the fluttering feeling spreading through his body, he knew she was joking back the other night. Yet a certain part of him truly wanted to wow her, and he had spent his free time looking up the most romantic but super low key ways truly impressing a bird you fancied. So far he thought he was doing okay, and having Harrison laughing at his attempt truly wasn’t doing any good.

“Seriously mate..” he mumbled picking up a jar and turning it over reading the label. It was the same ones Steve always bought at the bar, the same ones that she had taken a liken too. “You must really like her huh?”

Tom shrugged his shoulders as he pulled a few more ingredients from the bag. As much as he wanted to wow her with his amazing skills, the truth was there wasn’t really a lot he could do in the kitchen. So he did the one thing he could do, he picked something he was decent at and decided that shrimp tacos were the way to go. He also, may or may not have tested a different recipe almost every day and brought it to his co-works for their thoughts and opinions.

“I just want to impress her is all, kinda wanna make up for all the shit date she’s been on.”

“She already likes ya mate.”

“It doesn’t hurt to put in a little effort Harrison.” he hummed while pulling out a cutting board placing the fresh shrimp on it. “plus I’m kinda hoping this would actually lead to something more.”

By the time she was set to arrive Tom had everything prepared, and he was freshly showered. After a few changes of outfits and messing with his hair in the mirror he had decided comfort was best, the last thing he needed was to look like he was trying too hard. When a soft knock was heard at the door, he had just finished filling a tiny little plate with the cherries. He couldn’t help but stop at the little mirror in the hallway giving himself a once over before finally opening the door.

Tom swore right then and there that God had personally sent down a choir of angels to sing when he opened the door. Her smile was blinding and she looked perfect beyond comparison. Her legs were covered in black ripped jeans as her torso was covered with a light pink sweater. Her makeup done similarly to the night of her awful date, and her hair was left in a tight bun.

“Um Hey.” He breathed out as she giggled softly leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Hey, oh wow, it smells lovely in here.”

His cheeks flushed as he closed the door behind her, he watched as she neatly placed her shoes beside him and a warm feeling rushed through him. It felt all so perfect almost as if that spot was meant for her.

“Um thinks..” he breathed out as his cheeks flushed. Truth was, everything kinda went south after he hopped out of the shower. After accidentally knocking over the filling for the tacos, he knew there wasn’t enough time to even try and remake more. Naturally, after a few curses and a quick clean up, he decided pizza was definitely the best way to go.

Way to go mate.

“I hope you don’t mind but I ordered us pizza.” He sighed softly with a soft frown. His hands were a sweaty mess as she looked at him. “I had this whole taco night thing planned out but I acciden-“

“Hey, it’s fine really,” she mumbled with a soft smile. Her right hand rested on his lower arm as she gently rubbed the spot causing a wave of fire to shoot through him. “you didn’t have to do all that Tom really.”

“I just, I want you to have fun tonight.”

“Tom, I couldn’t literally be sitting at the bar watching you make drinks and get people pints and I would still be having fun.”

“You don’t have to say that.” he flushed as she giggled softly.

“I don’t have too but I mean it.” she nodded as his cheeks flushed. There she was standing before him, literally stating that she didn’t give a flying fuck about what they did. She honestly just admitted that she enjoyed being with him, she enjoyed his company and that right there was more than enough.

“But I did get you something.”

Walking back into the room with a plate of cherries, her whole body became fuzzy and light. Her heart rate increased as he stood before her, the bright red treats making her eyes water as a soft giggle escaped her lips.

“You really know how to wow a girl.” she stated before she looked around at the small flat and an idea came to mind. “do happen to have flour? Cheese, ya know basic pizza ingredients?”

His smile widens seeing where and what she was trying to do. Her hands were gripping his own as her eyes held a twinkle in them that had him begging for air, and his whole world spinning. He hated to admit it by Harrison was right, he could’ve gone out to some fancy place ordered take out and she still wouldn’t care. After all, she had just admitted that she enjoyed being in his presence and that right there was enough to ease some of the nerves he was feeling that night.

“Yeah, I think we do.”

“Then let's get a cooking chief Tom.”

His eyes were loving as they watched her read the instructions out to her. Tom had managed to pull all of the basic ingredients needed out as they stood beside each other, her hands rested on her hips as she started to measure the ingredients while he carefully watched with a soft smile and a look in his eyes that one would describe as love.

“Have you ever done this before?”

She stopped measuring the yeast as she looked at him with a soft smile and a slow nod of her. Her breathing controlled and relaxed as she went back to measure and pouring everything in the bowl he set out for her.

“My brother and his best friend are both in the restaurant business, so pizza nights were a huge thing growing up.”

“You have an older brother?”

“Three brothers actually, I’m the only girl,” she stated as he raised an eyebrow.

“Should I be worried?”

“Not unless your plan on hurting me to a point of no return.” She teased bumping her hips with his. He rolled his eyes taken the bowl from her. “what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Ever made pizza? Do you have any siblings?” She asked watching as he mixed together the things in the bowl before letting it rest.

“I mean we’ve bought the pre-made dough before if that counts..” he chuckled looking back at the bowl and back to her. She nodded her head telling him it was fine.

“Just gotta wait till it gets all foamy and bubbly.” she stated looking past his shoulder. “should take at least five minutes or so.”

“Gotcha ya, but I’m the oldest of four.” He started as she smiled softly. This was a different side of the bartender, a more shy and reserved one. “All boys no sister.”

“Oh no, your poor mãe Tom..” she giggled softly as he tilted his head in confusion. Her eyes widen lightly understanding the look.

“Mãe means mom in Portuguese.”

“Ah, a woman of many talents I see..”

It wasn’t long before the pair were adding the olive oil, flour and salt. Tom insisting to be the one to mix it all together, not having the heart to go against him, she took the pleasure of adding more flour as needed. His hands mixing as she floured a clear surface.

“Want me to do it?” she asked as he handed her the small sticky ball of dough. He watched with fascination her skilled hands working the dough as it formed the most perfectly round shape he’d ever seen a person make. Her flour-covered hands reaching for the cup as she rolled out the dough.

“I think I need to get a roller..” he breathed out as she giggled softly giving him a wink before continuing rolling it out. “ now what?” He asked as she placed it on the baking sheet.

“Now you place it in the oven for a few minutes.” she breathed as she placed in the preheated oven. “just until it’s a little to pre-bake the crust, my brother always says 5 minutes for pre-bake.”

“He sounds like a wise man.” Tom smiled as she nodded her head chewing on her bottom lip. “Does he live around here?”

“No, he actually moved to Birmingham.”

“Ah not too far than..” he breathed as she nodded her head and took the crust out from the oven. Her eyes soften as she looked back at him with a soft smile to match her eyes.

“Now for toppings…” she asked, holding out a jar of cherries as he laughed, shaking his head.

“Definitely not, but I’m not opposed to pineapple.”

“Where have you been all my life.”

Tom was surprised at how well everything had turned out. They spent the remaining of the time cleaning up the kitchen as the rest of the pizza was baking. A small glass filled with her go-to drink at the bar, and a bottle of beer for him. His mind relaxing completely as she slowly opened up in his presence, making his heart swell at the beautiful woman before him.

“I have to say, I thought I’d fuck up.”

She giggled softly and took a sip of her drink. She found it completely and utterly adorable at his confession. The mere thought that he had put so much thought into something that was supposed to be simple, yet it was so simple but the most fun she’d ever had on a date.

“I don’t think so Tom.” she breathed out as his smile widened reaching for another slice of pizza.

It was safe to say that the date had gone absolutely better than he had expected. It was a rather low key date, but totally something that she loved. She also let him know just how much she had appreciated all his efforts and even pressed the softest of kisses on his lips before slipping through the door. Tom was on cloud nine the next morning and Harrison took that as a good sign.

That same night was like any other, the usual Saturday night crowd. His mood was a little brighter and it most definitely had something to do with the young woman who just walked in. His eyes held nothing but adoration as he quickly pulled out the white plate with the treats.

“You know Steve is gonna give you shit for all the missing cherry jars.” Harrison piped up as Tom shrugged his shoulders placing her drink and plate as she approached. It was a Saturday and she never came in on Saturdays, Tom knew that Harrison knew that. Hell, even the young college freshman knew it.

“Hey, darling.” He smiled softly as she sent him a smile and a small wave in Harrison’s direction.

“Is it weird that I miss you?” she breathed out chewing on her bottom lip as he let out a small laugh shaking his head. Truth was, the few hours they had spent together before he left for work truly wasn’t enough, he found himself craving more and more of her.

“No.,” he stated as he filled up an empty pint, their eyes meeting briefly. “Cause I missed you too.”

Her cheeks flushed as she played with one of the cherries on the plate before her. Her cheeks red as she avoided his eyes. Harrison couldn’t hide his amusement as he gave Tom a small nudge, in assurance. The two had spent a good while analyzing everything that had gone on during their date and little hang out at the coffee shop down the street before he had to get ready for work.

“Mate, she wouldn’t have asked to see you if she didn’t feel something towards ya.” he breathed outpointing the neck of the bottle in his direction.

“Still mate, I just really like her.”

“Didn’t she say she liked being with ya?” Harrison stressed as Tom nodded his head, a hand rubbing the back of his neck. “that’s a good sign, plus she doesn’t strike me as the kind of girl to play with feelings.”

“I don’t know mate, I just-it’s intense what I feel.”

“Maybe this runs deeper than a crush Tom.”

She brought the last few cherries to her lips as she studied the place. The pub had become a signature hangout spot for herself and her friends. Will’s being a bit too far of a drive and no one really wanted to drive that far for drinks. The first time they walked in was a little shorter than three months ago, and that was the first time she and Tom had met.

“I’ll be done with my shift soon.” He announced as she smiled brightly and leaned closer to him. Her butt lifting off the barstool as her hands rested on the counter.

“Wanna meet me at my place?” she smiled softly as his cheeks burned at the thought of finally having that alone time with her that he caved.

“I don’t wanna-“

“Stop with that Tommy..” she cooed as Harrison let out a chuckle at the nickname that slipped past her lips.

“Yeah Tommy, stop..”

The two couldn’t help but laugh at Tom’s expense. Harrison giving her a soft wink before grabbing a clean up and working on a drink as he left the two alone.

“I’ll make something to eat, I bet you're hungry..”

“If you don’t mind.”

She waved him off leaning closer and pressing a soft kiss to his lips, he smiled softly looking at her with so much love in his eyes it was overwhelming. Her cheeks flushed as she stood up straight, took her bag, and promised to have dinner ready and told Harrison she’d be sure to send Tom home with leftovers.

“I like her,” Harrison smirked looking at his flushed friend who nodded his head with a bright smile.

“Me too mate.”

Tom whipped his hands with the towel as he threw it with the others. His hands a little clammy as he took a hold of his coat, his head spinning at the thought of going over to hers. Sure, it wasn’t as late as he had thought but it was certainly not a time he would be planning to go to a girl’s house, Netherlands a girl that he wasn’t officially seeing. Though he did like to think they were a bit past the uncertainty of emotions.

“Tom a word.”

Shrugging his jacket on, Tom followed Steve into the back office. The door closed behind him and he suddenly felt a wave of nerves flood through his body. He tried his hardest to pinpoint anything he could’ve possibly done that was against policy rules, other than the cherries, he couldn’t find any. He did his job fairly well, and Steve had even stated time and time again that he was one of his best bartenders. The last thing Tom needed was to get fired before his job was finalized.

“I’ve noticed a few of our cherry jars have been missing.”

Tom’s cheeks redden with the smirk on his boss’ face, Harrison was right. He sighed more than ready to defend himself.

“I get you like the girl mate, just try and not give out too many cherries okay?”

“Shit I’m not fired?”

A loud laugh filled the room along with Tom’s nervous chuckle as Steve shook his head. He knew how much Tom needed this job and the last thing he was gonna do is lose a bartender over some shitty cherries no one really ate.

“Course not, just try not to give her too many.”

“I’m no- I don’t- fuck” he was a wordless mess as he tried his hardest to defend himself, of course, he came out short. “Just wanna impress her.”

“Does she like you?” Steve asked with a raised eyebrow. He had missed the sweet little encounter and knew that Tom deserved a good girl in his life.

“I think so, I’m actually heading to her in a bit.” He mumbled with a dreamy smile on his face as Steve let out another laugh.

“Bring her a jar.”

“You sure? I have some at home.”

“You have cherries at home?”

“The same brand actually..” he admitted embarrassedly. He really was pulling out all the cards in hopes of impressing this girl, even though he already had her. “It’s her favorite thing.”

If that Tom left the bar with a small brown bag carrying a few jars of cherries. Harrison couldn’t help the smug look in his direction as he waved him goodbye. His mood shifting as he pulled his phone out wondering if it was okay to text her, or should he wait until he actually leaves his place to do so. There was so much uncertainty it was doing his head in. He was an adult acting like a lovesick teenager and he wasn’t sure he wanted it to ever stop.

Picking the later, Tom stopped by an open corner store buying a display of flowers that he deemed acceptable. Once he was changed, showered and he may or may not have spent a few moments wondering if it was appropriate to spend the night at her place, after a few inner battles he decided that he didn’t want to get too ahead of himself and possibly spoil something that could be so good. So with a bouquet of flowers and a bag full of cherries Tom made his way to her flat.

To say Tom was completely and utterly shitting himself when he arrived would be an understatement, he double-checked the address twice. He didn’t know much about her but what he did know he was learning to love, but now sitting in a rather posh neighborhood in central London his breathing was a bit ragged and his hands a sweaty mess.

Her door was decorated with the most adorable welcome sign, that his mother would no doubt question where she could get one as well. He couldn’t help but smile at the pink and white flower plants leading up the steps to her front door. It was black and unfit for the small colorful display she had set up, the lights were on, unlike the others around them.

Taken a deep breath, he looked over his outfit. Jeans and a hoodie, simple but perfect for the small little hang out, but was it a hangout? What if this was another date and he had completely overlooked the whole situation. Before he could even think twice he was ringing the doorbell and his heart was beating out of his chest as she opened the door.

“You came..”

“Of course I did darling..” he breathed out giving her a smile as he reached out and handed her the flowers.

“You didn’t have to get me flowers Tommy..” she breathed out shutting the door behind him. His eyes taken in her flat, the white walls lingered with pictures and a small little menu that he could only guess was from her brother’s bar.

“No worries.” he smiled pulling her in with one arm wrapped around her waist. Her cheeks flushed as she rested her free hand on his chest. Her eyes twinking as she pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

“Ready to eat?”

“Starved.”

“Perfect, I made my mae’s famous pasta.”She smiled as they walked down the hall towards her open kitchen. Tom noticed that the house seemed to follow the same color scheme. Everything was really white and clean, it was simple and it screamed her.

“What’s in the bag?” She asked as she turned to face him with a raised eyebrow. She watched as his smile widen as he pulled out two little jars of the cherries she was munching on.

“You really gotta stop spoiling me with all these cherries Tom..” she breathed out as she got closer to the brunette with a giddy feeling spreading all over her.

“Why’s that?”

“Cause I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let you go.”

“That’s the plan sugar.”

Taglist:

@littlebookbengal @mars1599 @averyfosterthoughts @tholland96

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whatisthisidefk · 3 years

Text

The River, the Sea, and the Stars Part 3 (SFW version)

***

Andros danced with him in a wooded glade, willow weeds flowing like curtains around them. It was a wild dance, with no real steps, but they laughed and whirled around each other, hands clasped, until Andros pulled him close and kissed him. They fell to their knees on the mossy ground, then tumbled to lie under the moon in each other's arms.

Andros fought the choppy waves alongside him; they both needed every ounce of strength to make headway in the icy water. They reached the black rocks at the edge of the shore and hauled each other up to shiver in the early morning air. Andros tucked a lock of hair behind Therien's ear and leaned in to kiss him, salty like the sea.

Andros held him, golden skin reflecting the red of the fire beside them. Therien held him back, his arms wrapped around Andros's waist.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you," said Andros.

"I'm going to find you," he said.

Andros laughed, and said, "I'm waiting."

Therien woke.

The little room was cold and still, muffled from the outside world. If he closed his eyes, Therien thought he truly could be back in Provence. He'd felt removed from the world there, too. In those days, there hadn't been an Andros, nor a Dra, nor an American scholarship. All he'd had were a doting set of adoptive parents and a joy of swimming.

Grey morning light filtered through the thin paper blind and turned everything into a muted palette of cool greys and washed-out reds and blues. It felt like the air before a snowstorm, though it was far too early in the season for that.

Dra hadn't been joking. The dreams had been vivid and so real; he had to shake his head to dispel them. He'd never danced with Andros or made love to him like that, but they felt less like fantasies and more like memories.

If only.

He swung his legs off the bed and stretched. A hunt through his suitcase found him a clean change of clothes, though he figured he'd need to do laundry soon. Jeans and a t-shirt, with a hoodie from an international competition made it onto his body before he felt alive enough to emerge from his room.

"I'm awake," he called into the apartment. "Bonjour, Dra."

"Bonjour," came her reply from behind the rightmost door in the hall. "Go freshen up and I'll meet you in the living room shortly."

"Merci." He found the bathroom behind the middle door, or what he supposed was the bathroom. It was hard to tell under the forest of houseplants that grew in pots from every corner. Even the freestanding iron tub was surrounded not by a shower curtain, but a literal curtain of broad-leafed vines.

Therien caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked like hell, though better than he had the day before. He'd need a shave, but that could wait, as his kit was buried somewhere in his bag in the other room. He did manage to tame his unruly black curls into some semblance of fashionable and skimmed his hands over the short fade at the back and sides.

He scrubbed at his face with the washcloth. He hadn't properly washed since before the banquet, when he'd put on a hint of gold eyeliner to accentuate his eyes. Whatever brand it was, it lived up to its claims of staying power. He enjoyed the contrast against his dark olive skin and he'd wanted to feel as attractive as possible for whatever would happen with Andros.

That thought drove him to wash it off, as if that could wash away the fear and worry that still roiled in his gut. But once it was gone, he only felt more vulnerable, so he made a decision.

He dug through his suitcase to find the small toiletries bag and the eyeliner pen, then marched back to the bathroom to carefully apply the shimmering gold ink to his eyes again as if it was some kind of armor. When he finished, he stepped back.

Now he was ready.

***

Dra gave him an appraising look when she finally emerged from her own room. "Nice job on the eyes," was all she said, before she dumped an armload of things into the center of the living room floor. "Grab us each a cuppa, would you, love? Should be done steeping by now."

"What is all this for?" he asked, nudging a small hand axe with his foot as he went to the kitchen. "I thought we were going to find Andros. Are we camping?"

"In a way, yes. I hope you remember your time as an Éclaireur. You'll need it."

"I never told you about that, did I?" He handed her a teacup and sat on the ottoman to watch her sort through the pile.

"Oh, you most certainly did! 'Éclaireurs--Toujours Prêt!'" She laughed. "It was some college mixer where we had to tell things about ourselves. You were adorable, with your accent and your big eyes taking everything in."

"How you recall my scout motto after all this time is beyond me."

She shrugged a shoulder. "It was one of those phrases that stick in your mind. Once I learned it, it became a kind of chant. I liked how it sounded." She held up an old leather knapsack, the kind that would fetch hundreds of dollars at auction for its patina and excellent construction. Knowing Dra, she'd found it in some bargain bin at a thrift shop. "Here, you can have this one. We need to pack fairly light, but I don't want to be without a few comforts. You carry the firestarters, that little bag there."

Within an hour, the entire pile had been dispersed and neatly packed away between them. Therien had been given a belt--well, two belts, as one of Dra's was too small even for his narrow hips--and from it hung an array of bags and pouches of medical supplies, the hand axe, a multitool, and a wickedly sharp hunting knife that made Therien nervous. The satchel held the firestarters, a change of socks and underwear, and Therien's toiletries bag. Dra insisted that leaving a little space would be handy later, so he didn't argue.

Dra carried a similar set of tools, though she also added a variety of oilcloth bags of teas and herbs. Several vials of oils from the shop clinked in one of the square pouches on her own belt, and a coiled rope was fastened to her waist. Therien thought they rather looked like they were heading to a medieval faire rather than going to rescue his erstwhile boyfriend, and he told her so as they descended the stairs from her apartment into the empty shop below.

"That, my love, is because you don't know where we're going." They stood in the center of the shop, in a clear spot on the creaky wood floor. "I'm going to show you first, and then I can answer any of your questions. All right? Good. Now, stand back behind me. I need to concentrate."

Dra closed her eyes with a centering breath. She drew a large circle in the air and muttered something too softly for Therien to hear, then thrust both of her hands before her, crossing her arms straight out, fingers spread wide as she braced her legs as if against a strong wind. Her words came louder, more urgently, until she opened her eyes and flung her arms open.

With that motion, the air rippled and a faint sizzle of blue light scribed a circle before them.

Its edge rested on the floor like a tall oval mirror, but through it, instead of the opposite wall of the shop, Therien could see a wooded place, carpeted in yellow leaves. The scent of autumn came through and a breeze ruffled their hair. Therien felt weak in the knees. This shouldn't be real. It couldn't be real.

But then he remembered those golden chains stealing Andros away, and he decided that this was no less impossible.

"Step through," said Dra, her voice tight. "I can't hold this up for too long. I'm right behind you."

He wanted to hang back, but he made his feet start moving. Passing through the portal gave him a sense of vertigo, but once both feet were on the other side, it passed. He looked over his shoulder to see Dra stepping through after him. The image of the shop wavered as soon as she fully came through, then closed like an aperture and vanished.

Dra glanced around. "Not as close as I wanted to be, but it will do. This way." She strode in a seemingly random direction, though she moved with purpose. Even with his much longer legs, Therien had to hurry to catch up with her.

"Where...is this place?" he asked, looking around. "How did you do that? What was that??"

She laughed but kept walking. "That was a portal. It cuts down on travel time like you wouldn't believe." She paused, adjusted her direction, and continued along whatever path she perceived. "And we're in upstate New York."

He stopped in his tracks. "Wait--what?"

"You can't get to the Feywild directly," she called over her shoulder. "But there are places where you can pass through the veil, and this is the one I know best. Keep up, sweetheart!"

"The Fey...what?" None of it made sense, but he tried gamely to follow his friend. At least she seemed to know what she was doing.

The area they hiked through was hilly and cold, colder than Northampton had been. After an hour of endless trees and falling leaves, Dra called for a short break. They sat on a large, flat rock at the top of the hill they'd just climbed, and Dra handed him one of her homemade granola bars. "We're almost there. I should tell you about a few things before we cross over."

"That sounds ominous." As if Therien hadn't seen and experienced actual magic just that morning. But he was trying, so hard, to accept everything as it came.

Dra took pity on him. "I know this is hard to grasp, and we don't have a lot of time to go over everything. But I'm going to prepare you as much as I can." She shifted to face him. "Andros and I...we're Fey. We live human lives, but we weren't born here. We came from the Feywild, and that's where we need to go now."

"Both of you?"

"Yeah, what are the odds, right? Northampton is a hub for all sorts of weird and mystical things. That's why I settled there, and that's why Andros was drawn there to UMASS for the swim team. I mean, there are schools with better programs, but no others that promised him the shelter he needed."

Therien frowned. "You were both my best friends," he said. "How did I not know?"

"He and I figured it out not long after we met, and we promised to watch out for each other." She looked down at her hands, turning them over and flexing her fingers. "We both cared for you, you know. He begged me not to tell you because it's never good for a mortal to get tangled up in Fey politics."

"And yet--"

She shrugged ruefully. "And yet, here we are. Now, I come and go as I please, though not often these days. Andros, though...he was always running from something. That's why he took the name he did. Andros Kaitos. It's Greek, for 'man who runs away'."

"That wasn't even his real name." Therien took a shaky breath. "How much else didn't I know about him?"

"Not much," she reassured him. "Everyone has secrets, even you. But he was usually an open book with you, bar the obvious. And," she put a hand on his arm, "he loved you. Loves, I mean. I wouldn't be doing this at all if I didn't think it was worth the risk to both of you."

He covered her hand with his. "I know. Go on. I want to be ready for whatever happens."

She leaned back on her elbows and looked up at the trees. Therien couldn't hear any traffic sounds, just the wind in the canopy above and the calls of songbirds, the rustle of dry leaves on the ground.

"Andros had an assigned place in the Feywild. He was created to be a river guardian. You see them in Greek myth a lot, and I suspect that's where his story began. River guardians come in many forms, depending on their origins, and some don't conform to any particular country's lore. In general, though, they manage a certain river or stream, and they're meant to be tied to that place at all times. Andros, though--he just couldn't sit still. And the Court to which he belonged was not known for kindness. He loved being in your world."

"So he ran away," Therien said, a question. Dra nodded.

"He escaped," she clarified. "Honestly, I'm surprised he avoided capture as long as he did. He never set down roots anywhere because he was terrified he'd be found."

Therien toyed with a leaf that blew across his foot. "It's my fault, then."

"No, no," Dra insisted, "Darling, it's not--"

"It is," he cut her off. "He said it himself that night. He'd let his guard down. That's because I caught him by surprise."

Dra studied him for a moment. "That might be," she said at length, "but it's still not on you. It was bound to happen one day. At least he's not alone, you know? Imagine if he'd been found before you could tell each other about your feelings. Imagine if he'd just disappeared without anyone around!" She glanced away. "If he'd just vanished, you might not have thought to call me. You wouldn't have learned about any of this."

He tried to imagine it, as she said. What if he hadn't been there? What if Andros had just not shown up for practice, or if they'd never spoken of their feelings? He probably wouldn't have been frantic enough to reach out to her in a moment of need. "You're right," he said aloud.

"Of course I am." She pushed herself off the rock and brushed her legs down. "Okay. Once we reach the top of the mountain, I'll need you to step only in my footsteps. That's how things work."

"Oui, mon amie."

She kept up her lecture as they resumed their walk up the hill. "The Feywild is a beautiful place, but it's called wild for a reason. Things can be as deadly as they are pleasing to the eye, and trickery abounds. There are strict rules in place that may not be broken, and that has caused the Fey folk to learn and exploit every loophole imaginable."

The hill steepened, and Dra slipped a little on the leaves. Therien helped her stand, and stayed by her in case it happened again. Even at his current peak fitness level, Therien found himself breathing hard over those last few yards to the top of the hill.

Or ravine, he realized, looking back at the way they had come. The disturbed leaves showed their passing, the path stretching down and out of sight between the trees.

But when he turned around, the scene ahead made him gasp. Aside from the slight marring of the countryside by a row of power lines and a distant cell phone tower, he could see for miles of rolling hills that turned into mountains at the horizon. The valley floor was carpeted with trees in hues of orange, yellow, brown, and occasionally red. A pair of eagles sailed above in great circles, and a flock of crows took flight and resettled not far off.

If the entrance to the fey realm was anywhere, surely this seemed as good a place as any.

Dra tugged at his arm. "This way. Remember, step in my footsteps exactly. Even if it seems silly or redundant. Got it?"

"Got it." His heart pounded. He trusted Dra. He trusted her. He had to.

She checked behind her with each step to be sure he was following her instructions. They walked toward an apparently random tree, but then circled around it to the right--counterclockwise--until they crossed their original path. Dra wove them between a series of saplings and hopped over a pointed stone that stuck out of the ground. The next tree they approached, they went around clockwise and continued toward a natural arch formed of a fallen tree caught in the crook of another.

"Through that," said Dra, startling him, "and we'll be in the Feywild." She glanced up at him and held out her hand. "Ready?"

"I trust you."

The corner of her mouth quirked up. "I'll take that as a yes. Let's go save your boyfriend."

They walked through.

***

#river sea stars #jenny writes #original fiction

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getthebutters · 3 years

Text

Bruise Soother 🩹 Butters w Arnica X Calendula

Summary:

Say hello to elevated bruise aftercare, however you got them. By popular demand, Bruise Soother Butters w/ home-slow-cold-extracted arnica & calendula is here for the clumsy, kinky, post-surgical, and easy to bruise among you! Packed with the healing power of Aloe X Shea Butters, the antiseptic & analgesic effects of arnica, and the healing nutrient boost provided by calendula, Bruise Soother Butters is ready to ease your discomfort!

2oz jar

Shelf life is 1 Year min.

Alcohol, paraben, silicone, wheat, and bullshit free

Usage: Apply a thin layer up to 3x daily. Melt between hands and apply to area. Rub in will help it absorb but if that’s too much just let it melt on you. Great to use before or after a massage or as kink play aftercare. External usage only.

Ingredients: Aloe Barbadensis Leaf Juice, Butyrospermum Parkii (Shea Butter), Elaeis Guineensis (Sustainable Palm) Oil, Cocos Nucifera (Coconut) Oil, Olea Europaea (olive) oil, Vitis vinifera (Grape) Seed Oil, Glycine Soja (Soybean) Oil, Calendula Officinalis Flower Extract, Arnica Montana Flower Extract, Cyamopsis Tetragonoloba (Guar Gum), less than .5% potassium sorbate, Glycerin & Acetic Acid (apple cider vinegar)

Allergen info: Arnica products may cause allergic reactions in people who are sensitive to ragweed and other members of the Asteraceae/Compositae family (such as chrysanthemums, marigolds, calendula, sunflowers, and daisies)

How Bruise Soother herbs works:

Calendula: A nutrition packed anti-inflammatory, healing powerhouse. One of the strongest anti-viral herbs known to humans. Also, highly anti-bacterial. Packed with flavonoids and other antioxidants. Its flower extracts are also known to soothe muscle spasms, constipation, and as such PMS and PCOS related symptoms. Speeds healing, even in slow healing wounds and ulcers. An animal study saw 90% wound closure (healing) in 8 days with calendula topicals vs 51% closure with the no treatment control. Supports circulation and blood flow to applied areas. Fights gingivitis, bad breath, and improves overall oral health.

Arnica: flowering herb related to calendula and a classic remedy recently finding new life in modern herbal remedies. Lauded for its antiseptic, anti-inflammatory, topical analgesic. Found often in blends for bruising, arthritis relief, muscle soreness, scrapes, dandruff, sore throats, & eczema. Today, it's primarily used for ointments, creams, gels and other external applications. Great for post-surgery care.

How The Butters works:

For pure, easy to absorb moisture, we have aloe juice. To give your skin essential vitamins and lipids we have coconut and grapeseed oil. To protect from the elements and give your skin time to fully absorb the thinner oils, we add soybean and palm oil. For extended release moisture, conditioning and protection from ashiness, I add shea. To hold that moisture to your skin, balance shine and absorb sweat, we have guar gum. Finally, to make sure you're balanced inside and out, clean and shining healthily, we add apple cider vinegar.

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Please note: Use for no more than 2 weeks at a time is generally recommended. The problem should be solved by then - if not, see your doctor. Not for use in pregnant/breastfeeding persons or ingested by children. Arnica still needs more study for potential side effects and medicinal interactions. In extremely large concentrations, it can be an irritant to mucus membranes. As with all exotic plants, use with caution.

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jawlawsenpai · 4 years

Text

Foretell Chapter 2: Awakened

As he makes his way to school Simon meets up with Sebastian. Sebastian was wearing a black and red striped long sleeved shirt, while Simon on the other hand was wearing a blue shirt with a print of a cartoon turtle that has a lightning bolt on its shell with the text "I'm the fastest turtle alive." Sebastian saw Simon and waved at him.

"Morning!" Simon greets Sebastian.

"Hey! happy birthday... Are you okay? You look kinda pale." Sebastian asks.

"I had a really messed up nightmare and I really don't want to talk about it." Simon's proclamation.

"Okay then, so what do you want to cook tonight?"

"I was thinking, how about lasagna?"

"Oh yeah definitely your lasagna tastes amazing."

"Cool I'll make the list of ingredients later and we'll buy some at the store okay?"

"Sounds like a plan."

The two headed to class where they met their other friends. Vicky was wearing a Sunday dress that has floral designs and is still completely ignoring Simon. Liz is wearing a white and yellow blouse along with some jeans who also greeted Simon a happy birthday and once again Simon was red as an apple. Rob is wearing his signature red hoodie with a black shirt inside with a pac-man print on it ,he greeted the two boys and gave them both high fives. Vina was wearing a sleeveless white muscle shirt with a crow sitting on top of a skull as a design and ripped jeans, her hair is braided which gives her sex appeal a whole new level, she also has mascara on along with some leather bracelets. On the other hand her sister Rina is wearing a sweat jacket with a print of an aliens head with the text "believe" on it. The twins went up to Simon and hugged him while greeting him a happy birthday. A few moments later the teacher walks in and starts the class.

Without saying it everyone's excited for the party. Simon as well, he's looking forward to cook lasagna for his friends, but at the same time he still questions the nightmare that he saw. Who was that woman? What was that flower all about? How did he manage to dream something like that? Simon simply thought he should stop watching too much horror films.

After an excruciating math test, everyone was relieved for it to be over, more so for Simon's friends. This means that school is over and that they can party at Simon's place. They spent the entire day just talking about the party, now that school's over they all can no longer wait.

Everyone had their own thing to do. Liz and Vicky plan to buy a cake for Simon, even though Simon protests about them buying, Liz is very persistent and in the end Simon can't really stop her. Rob, Vina, and Rina plan to buy party decorations and they plan to go to Simon's house first to prepare and just simply wait for the others to come afterwards. Simon was hesitant at first because his father might be there but then again he remembered that his father didn't come last night and it's highly unlikely for him to return today. After much consideration Simon allowed the three of them to go ahead to his house first after buying the decorations.

After everything was settled they all went their separate ways and went to do their respective jobs. Liz and Vicky went to the bakery, while Rob, Vina, and Rina went to the nearest convenience store. Simon and Sebastian went to the grocery store.

While walking Simon and Sebastian were sightseeing around, it has been a long time since they've been in this part of the valley. Once they saw the old play ground they both smiled, those were happier times. They remembered Simon's mother watching over them as they play on the swing.

"She would've been so proud of you right now, and she'd be the most excited about your birthday out of all of us." Sebastian proclaims.

"Yeah I know she would. She would've been the first one to remind me that it's my birthday today."

As the two walk along they noticed a crowd of people standing around next to an apartment near the play ground. Simon immediately felt a sudden pain in his head. Sebastian notices this and asks Simon if everything was alright. Simon replies saying that everything is fine and that it was just a sudden headache. For some reason Simon felt anxious and afraid. He swallowed his fear and forced himself to go to the crowd.

He pushed his way through the crowd. As he reaches the source of all the commotion he saw the paramedics zipping up a body bag, in a split second Simon manages to take a quick glance. Simon was immediately filled with fear and disgust the face he saw was the same face of the woman from his nightmare, without a doubt, how can he forget such a horrifying scene, a scene so terrifying that it is forever etched into his mind. The only things that are different is the fact that the body will not rise again and that the weird flower that is supposed to be on her chest is nowhere to be seen.

Simon immediately ran to the nearest public restroom, he felt sick and thought of nothing but just vomiting. Sebastian quickly chased after him, once Simon found a restroom and quickly found an empty stall he immediately vomited in it. Sebastian looking confused asked Simon what was going on. Simon immediately replied that he was alright and that he was feeling a little sick because of what he saw.

After the entire ordeal Simon manages to convince Sebastian for them to just leave and go to the grocery store. As soon as they leave Simon witnesses the body bag being taken in the ambulance, in order to not risk him vomiting again he quickly walks away along with Sebastian. Sebastian is still very worried about Simon but he knows when Simon doesn't want to talk about anything he won't so he just went along with Simon in order for them to get home already.

Finally they made it to the grocery store.

"So you got the list?" Asked Sebastian.

"Yup it's in here in my bag hold on a sec."

As Simon picks out his list Sebastian was shocked to see how many ingredients they needed to buy. The list consists of olive oil, 3-4 onions, 2 large bell peppers, tomato sauce, 4-5 tomatoes, some Italian seasoning, garlic powder and that was just for the sauce. For the lasagna itself they needed lasagna noodles, ricotta cheese, mozzarella cheese, and Parmesan cheese. Basically different types of cheese.

" Do we even have the budget for these?" Sebastian's worried question.

"Yeah, I mean I have some of the other ingredients at home I only wrote those so that I wont forget what I need later."

Sebastian is in a state shock for this is the first time he has seen Simon so very competent. Simon understood that look and lightly jabs Sebastian's arm. It took some time but they managed to buy everything they needed. They immediately went to Simon's house to cook the food.

As soon as they arrived at the house they saw Rob blowing up balloons on the floor while Vina and Rina are putting up streamers on the walls, they promised that they'll clean it up afterwards. Simon started cooking the lasagna and Sebastian helped out with the balloons because Rob is clearly having a difficult time. When the lasagna was finished Liz and Vicky made it just in time along with the cake, written on the icing said "Happy 15th Birthday Simon from all your Friends!" Simon was touched, but this isn't an occasion for crying. They all dig in the food and had a wonderful evening. Vina is totally crushing it on karaoke and Rina is taking memorable pictures of everybody. Later on everyone else danced to the songs that Vina picked out except for Vicky and Sebastian who were to awkward and shy to dance in the first place. All in all that night was one of the best nights that everyone had, until someone came along. "What's all that noise!"

The voice came from outside the door, as soon as Simon opened it, it was his father still clearly drunk and with a beer in hand. "What's going on! Who are you kids?! What are you all doing in my house?!" He yelled. Everyone was silent for a moment, they knew that this is what Simon's father is like, until Liz suddenly spoke.

"We were celebrating Simon's birthday Mr.Cross."

"What? It's your birthday? Why didn't you tell me?" The confused question of Mr.Cross.

"Yeah its my birthday dad, I just thought you had more important stuff to do so I didn't bother."

"You could've at least told me!"

"It's okay dad its not a big deal."

"It is a big deal. I'm your father I need to be here at times like these!"

Something just suddenly snapped in Simon.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but when have you ever been here? You spend most of your time in the bar than here. Even when you are here your not here your either drunk or sleeping!" Simon yells.

"Hey! I work my ass off for this family so don't talk to me like that!"

"What family! We haven't been a family ever since mom died. I've moved on dad you clearly haven't!"

"That's it you can't talk to me like that while you're still under my roof!"

"Maybe I don't want to be under your roof anymore! There's nothing here for me anymore!" Simon proclaims.

Blinded by rage Simon's father punched him in the face so hard he fell to the floor and his cheek is swelling and his mouth is bleeding. Rob being the biggest one of them tried to hold Simon's father back but he just get shoved away by the massive man. Simon's father looks at him intently and says. "If that's what you want then fine leave." The burly man went up the stairs and to his bedroom. Simon's friends quickly went to him and helped him get back up.

"If you need a place to go you could stay at my place." Said Sebastian.

"Is that okay with you? Simon asks.

"Of course, you should pack now though."

"We'll go get your stuff and pack for you" Said Rob.

"You guys don't have to." Said Simon.

"Can you guys go get his stuff I'll patch him up." Said Liz.

Everyone nodded. Rob, Vina, Sebastian, Rina, and even Vicky went up to his room to get his stuff. Liz is looking under the cabinets to look for a first aid kit to use. She found one and immediately returns to Simon.

"Has he ever hit you like that before?" Liz's worried question while she cleans Simon's face and hold an ice bag to it.

"Couple of times, and in all of those times he was drunk." He says this in a joking manner.

"This isn't funny Simon, you got hurt. you can report him you know?"

"As much as I hate him he's still my dad. Whatever I said earlier it'll never change the fact that he's my family, the last one to be exact. Besides maybe a little space could do us good."

"I hope you know what you're dong."

Just as she finishes treating Simon's cheek the others came down stairs with two plastic bags and his regular school bag all packed and ready to go. Before they all left they took out garbage bags and cleaned out the living room. As they all walk outside they left the garbage bags out on the porch. As they further walked Simon took one last look at the house, it was a pretty out of placed house to be in an urban area to begin with, pieces of it has gone missing, its rich white and yellow color already faded and the windows are all boarded up, the roof is in serious need of cleaning and repair. Now Simon is expected to live in Sebastian's house, at least for now.

Simon and Sebastian went their way while the others went their own. They all said happy birthday to Simon even though it wasn't all happy in the end. Simon notices their faces clearly showing them being worried. Simon reassures them and tells them that everything will be alright, after that they all left and they all said good night to one another.

As they arrived at Sebastian's house the place was all dark and still a little stuffy. Nevertheless Simon proclaims that its alright for him to sleep on couch, Sebastian tried to change his mind offers him his bedroom, but knowing Simon he knew that he can't convince him. The time was 10:00 p.m. As Sebastian walks up the stairs to sleep Simon quickly dozes of due to him being way to tired and fatigued.

Walking on a garden of strange looking violet flowers. The sky was as red as blood, the clouds were moving at an impossible speed. Simon heard whispers all over the place, the whispers were coming from the distance while at other times it was near as if the person whispering was up next to his ear. Suddenly the clouds stopped moving and poured out rain, but it was no ordinary rain by the color of it and the smell it wasn't water that was falling on Simon it was blood. Simon looked up to the clouds raining blood, as soon as he looked back down he was immediately greeted by the corpse of the woman he saw earlier. The woman once again had no eyes and was crying out blood and smiling right at him. Out of disbelief Simon rubbed his eyes and once he opened his eyes once more the weather was normal again, Simon's clothes were no longer drenched in blood, nothing but odd looking violet flowers can be seen for miles, the whispers has also stopped. Then suddenly the woman was once again beside Simon and whispered right into his ears "Smell the pretty flowers." Out of shocked Simon quickly turned around and like before the woman was no where to be seen. As soon as Simon puts his guard down a bloody hand sprouted from the ground and grabbed Simon's leg and slowly pulls him down the ground. Desperate he tries to claw his way out grabbing on to anything he can get his hands on, and yet it is too late he was then completely submerged underground.

Once again Simon woke up in the middle of the night gasping for air and sweating. He then looks at the time on his phone and on it says that it is 12:00 a.m. Out of frustration Simon scratched his head and buried his head on the pillow and asks himself.

"What's going on? What's happening to me?"

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