I go to sleep to this shit, I wake up and smoke straight Ethel Cain, you wouldn’t get it. We’re out here smoking straight Houseofpsychoticwomn, snorting pure Nettles and Etienne. You just wouldn’t get it. Putting Vacillator into me.
it sucks that em dashes are now a hallmark of AI writing. i love those things. there is nothing quite like the purity of a long em dash. no period, no comma, no semi colon can rival it. i mean that.
summary: traveling between worlds is no easy feat. unless, of course, peter pevensie is there to hold your hand.
content warning: mild descriptions of violence
word count: 4.2k (estimated 17 min reading time)
a/n: following a winter break-induced narnia fixation, i wrote this blurb about a year ago. i've been holding onto it, waiting to post until i had another piece to post alongside it since i fear there isn't a strong demand for narnia fics LOL. but i'm in the middle of a big piece right now (for thg...), and pretty stuck in one spot, so i went and started reading my drafts. this one is sweet and simple and innocent. i really enjoyed hunkering down to write it and listening to my lion witch wardrobe soundtrack cd (you have to immerse yourself when doing these things, otherwise what's the point!) last winter. thank you to everyone who still reads my work! i usually don't come on here until i'm about to post something, which is infrequent. but i'd like to change that. all love to each of you
masterlist archive of our own
Summary: Traveling between worlds is no easy feat. Unless, of course, Peter Pevensie is there to hold your hand.
The underground was a mess. Students were hurrying over one another to make it home in time for high tea, eager to escape the station and fall into the embrace of the warm homes that long-awaited them.
Peter Pevensie strode through the current effortlessly, his tall stature and calm demeanor dividing the sea of people with ease. Beside him, a girl in a distinguished Saint Finbar’s uniform walked closely. It was frequent a passerby’s luggage would knock against her knees as they squished between her and Peter to find their train. However, their progress was unhurried, and the two of them were lost in a conversation that drowned out the surrounding pandemonium. Having missed him since the day before, she had much to say about what transpired in their hours apart, particularly about a classmate who had taken to stealing her ideas for a series of paintings.
Peter shook his head. “People like her are probably too insecure about their own ideas that they feel they have to steal from others to prove they’re better than them. Though it makes sense she has her eyes on you. You’re the best artist I know,” he said matter-of-factly. It could hardly be read as a compliment and just a mere observation as plain as truth to him.
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Peter Pevensie,” she said with a roll of her eyes.
He grinned, raising his voice to be heard over raucous students, “I mean it! You couldn’t pay anyone else at that school to have a thought half as original or interesting as yours.”
She looked away, warmth in her cheeks forcing her to avert her gaze.
“I guess so,” she said. “Thanks, Peter.”
It ended up sounding mechanical and not at all sincere but her mind had drifted somewhere else by the time she parted her mouth.
There was something unusual about Peter. He wasn’t at all like any other boy she’d met before, and she’d always known this but never had the words to explain what the difference was exactly. This frustrated her to no end, just as it did right then. It could be something as simple as a look in his eye that held an uncanny sense of knowing, or a turn of phrase that she should hear from a man twice if not three times his age. The only other people she’d met to inhabit a similar strangeness happened to be the three other Pevensie siblings she’d become acquainted with. As much as she’d grown to enjoy their company, if there were ever an automobile made with five wheels, she’d certainly be the fifth one.
As her mind wandered, Peter started talking about football: a topic he’d recently become passionate about after joining the school’s team at the beginning of the term, when suddenly, a forceful shove interrupted him.
“Watch where you’re going!” Someone spat and continued on.
Peter turned and glanced down his nose at the boy, whom he recognized as a younger student from Hendon House. He turned back and resumed talking, apparently deciding it wasn’t worth the trouble.
He was then quickly shoved again, this time from behind with glaring intentionality. It was the same boy.
“You think you can just push people around, tosser?” He said. He’d completely halted in his tracks and had no intention of disarming himself.
Peter, taken aback by the unfounded abrasiveness, put his hands up in a calming manner as one would do with a riled dog. She held her tongue, despite choice words surfacing in her mind.
“There’s no need for that. We’re not looking for trouble, kid,” Peter said, looking down on the boy who barely made it past his shoulders.
“Kid?” he echoed indignantly. “Who’re you calling ‘kid’? Are you trying to have a go at me?” He inched closer, his hot face nearly in Peter’s chest.
“That’s alright, mate,” Peter said dismissively, ultimately deciding to turn away. He placed a guiding hand on the girl’s back to draw the two of them away from the boy, but when she looked back she noticed he was dropping his bag and rolling up his sleeves. It became apparent then that the situation was about to escalate past words. Of course, they should be the unlucky ones to cross paths with a rampaging child.
She ignored Peter’s attempt to leave and spun around to face the boy.
“Can’t you just bugger off already?” She snapped, uninterested in imitating Peter’s poise.
Peter’s head whipped at the sound of her voice, unable to hide the smirk on his face. The boy, already tinged red to his ears, now bore a striking resemblance to a summer beet. He stammered and shifted in such a way that she couldn’t be sure he had the decency not to strike a girl.
“Shut your mouth, cow. This doesn’t concern you!” He shouted.
The thing that happened next occurred so quickly, that it took a few seconds for her to register it. Peter’s smile fell in an instant and a blurring motion soared past her eyes that she realized to be his fist. It collided with the boy’s jaw and sent him flailing to the ground with a wince-worthy thud.
“Peter!” she exclaimed, her hand flying to her mouth as he moved to stand over the kid, his fists clenched at his side.
Passersby scurried like ants at the sight of a dispute, but some of them in Hendon House uniforms couldn’t help but watch with their mouths agape. Peter stood unmoving, waiting for the kid to stand back up.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t want to say that again, would you?” He asked, and she found herself grateful not to be able to see his face anymore as he said it, for the ruthlessness in his tone frightened her a little.
The boy was raising himself onto his elbows, but before he could respond, more boys wearing Hendon House uniforms stepped forward from the crowd with the same hostility in their eyes as the one sprawled on the floor. They appeared older, maybe a year above Peter even.
One after the other, they lunged for Peter, throwing their fists and jabbing pointy elbows. They didn’t care to know the reason why they were fighting but did so enthusiastically regardless. The girl in the Saint Finbar’s uniform had moved out of the way and after frantically considering what she should do to remedy the situation -- whether it be to intervene or seek help, she ultimately decided to leave them to it. There were so many fists flying through the air and bodies being shoved into walls and, frankly, Peter held his own despite being outnumbered three to one. Standing there with folded arms, she began to wonder…where on Earth had he learned to fight like this? He was dodging their stiff swings and striking them in spots so tender that they’d double over upon being hit. It was the practice of someone who’d been fighting all their life.
Within the crowd, she found the familiar faces of the other Pevensie siblings, Susan, Edmund, and little Lucy, watching with amusion. They were not at all impressed by the sight, but clearly found it the least bit entertaining.
Two of the boys were splayed out on the floor. One of them was mustering the fortitude to stand, and the third boy had Peter locked in the crook of his arm. Peter thrust his elbow into his ribs, causing the boy to loosen his grip. This allowed him to slip out of the embrace and send a bloodied fist straight into his chest, knocking the kid to the floor. Just as he was knocked down, the others managed to stand back up and stumble over to continue fighting once again.
Thankfully, before the mindless beating could continue any further, bobbies broke through the dwindling crowd and blew their whistles, forcing the boys apart. They shooed them off and chastised the crowd for their sadism, not leaving the boys with anything more than a slap on the wrist each. The mongrel children hobbled away, clutching their sore jaws and ribs and cursing under their breath.
Peter strode back over to the girl, and even though a bead of sweat clung to the furrow of his brow and the skin of his knuckles was raw; he appeared puzzlingly radiant. It was almost as if he enjoyed the fighting to some extent. Despite this, he seemed worried as he looked her up and down like he could be incited to fight once more if she had a single hair out of place.
“Are you alright?” He asked.
“Are you?” She retorted incredulously.
“Yes, but it went on longer than I expected. I was worried we might miss the train,” he confessed after appearing content with her answer, and casually tugged his bag back on his shoulder. It took everything in her not to scoff at how easily he moved on from what had just taken place.
Edmund strolled over from the steps and looked between the two of them bemusedly.
“What was that all about?” He asked.
“It wasn’t anything special,” Peter assured him. “The bloke ran into me.”
Edmund shook his head as if he were the older Pevensie, then walked away whilst making an off-handed remark insinuating that Peter always felt the need to show off around certain people.
Susan and Lucy emerged before Peter could respond, and similarly, Susan also chastised him for his boyishness.
“I’m sure they deserved it. Peter never throws the first punch, after all,” said Lucy, having not been there to see the beginning of the fight.
The three younger siblings strolled ahead to where they could wait for the train, leaving her and Peter to walk behind them.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” She asked once again, looking down at his hands.
She had half a mind to take them and look closer, to rub her thumb over the reddened joints and tell him she knew how to fix it. There was a salve her mom used to make for these sorts of things. But she didn’t. That wasn’t something they did. Even though the punch had been thrown for her, she was certain he would’ve done it for anyone because that was the sort of person he was. On top of that, she knew Peter Pevensie didn’t harbor similar feelings for her as she did for him, so it was indisputable that an action so tender as that would be absurdly inappropriate.
The foundation for this belief was baseless, of course. Anyone with the least bit of sense could see Peter was really quite enamored with her.
“You don’t need to worry about me, I’m made of tougher stuff than that,” he said, hiding a smile. “But I’m sorry you had to be spoken to the way you were.”
“That’s alright, I’m made of tougher stuff than that,” she replied, mimicking his tone with a playful poke.
“Oh, are you?” Peter responded, a teasing glint in his eyes.
Once the two of them reached the others, the separate conversations merged into one. Everyone had seemingly forgotten about the altercation that just took place, or otherwise didn’t find it interesting enough to talk about and instead opted for more lighthearted discussion.
“It’s been too long since I’ve eaten anything that doesn’t come from a can or a box,” Edmund complained. “Hendon is too lazy to even cook a sausage. We’re lucky if we get something as middling as seared Spam.”
“Saint Finbar’s is much the same. It can be so miserable,” Lucy whined.
The girl at Peter's side rose at the remark. “Now that you mention it, my mother is supposed to be making pot roast tonight. She usually does it about once a month if all is well. I’m sure she’d be happy to have you all over."
“Oh, we really shouldn’t. Four mouths is quite a lot to feed,” Susan politely interjected.
“Does she make it with carrots and potatoes and brown sugar?” Lucy asked, most curiously.
“Yes, every time.”
“Please stop. I think my stomach might eat itself if you continue,” Edmund groaned.
Amid their spirited laughter, Susan flinched in her seat and swatted at Lucy.
“Knock it off!” She scolded her younger sister.
Lucy looked confused. “I didn’t do anything!”
Then, Edmund jerked back like he’d been pinched in the neck.
“Quit it, Peter,” he mumbled.
Peter opened his mouth to protest but closed it just as fast upon feeling the same sensation.
“Wait, this feels like—” Susan started.
“It can’t be,” Peter said.
She reached down to rub a tingly static feeling out of her leg. It felt like both her feet had fallen asleep, but even as she uncrossed her limbs, the sensation traveled up her bones, through her calves, to her knees, and most peculiarly up her thighs. She’d never known what it felt like to have her thighs fall asleep.
“What is it?” The girl asked, feeling left out of some practical joke, which was a common occurrence among the siblings as much as they tried to include her. Peter looked at her with widened eyes, like he wasn’t sure what to do. He then quickly reached for her hand but before she could react, she blinked and he was gone. In fact, everything was gone. The station, the approaching train, the other Pevensies. The world had simply escaped her.
She couldn’t move her legs at all, nor her arms or her head. It was as if she was completely without a body, and just a pair of eyes observing a blurring world that shifted colors when she blinked. She screwed her eyes shut but the colors penetrated through the thin skin of her eyelids. And even though she couldn’t see her body, the ticklish feeling of static encompassed every part of her, filling her with eruptive, exhaustive energy. She felt like she could laugh just as much as she could cry. It was frightening and it was beautiful; it felt like everything at once and then nothing at all.
The transition between worlds took less than a second and the instant she felt the ground once again, the fugue washed over her and disappeared into the earth. And though the sensation lingered, the memory of it was muddled like a boring dream.
A little ways from where she lay were the Pevensie children. They arrived seconds before and hadn’t yet taken notice of her. Instead, they were running about, their bare feet padding into wet sand, stopping to cup water and sling it at one another. None of them were too confused about where they were since it was a return they each long-awaited in their own ways.
“How I’ve missed the water here!” Susan exclaimed.
The usually composed girl was a sight to behold, with the hem of her skirt dampened by the sea foam and the breeze blowing loose her plaited hair. Lucy couldn’t keep herself from grinning, and Edmund giggled with the rest of them, noticing the way the air felt in his lungs when there wasn’t smog to dirty it. Peter had discarded his blazer in the sand and stood on the shore, where the water tickled at his feet. He looked out over the horizon of the quiet sea and saw the rising southern sun turning the sky around it a shade of orange he’d only ever seen here, and never back home. It was the same sun he once watched rise for fifteen years during his reign as High King.
He’d forgotten many things about his time spent in Narnia, as was customary when romping between worlds. But the sight of that sun was something he wouldn’t forget for the rest of his life. The last time he’d seen it, he’d been a man, and there he stood, a boy once again.
It was then that he remembered the girl left behind, the one he reached for. And even though he couldn’t remember her name or the details of her face, which was something he knew better than his own only an hour ago, for a reason beyond him, he wished she was there beside him right then. The sun suddenly appeared paler without her there.
The sounds of merriness, of the younger siblings splashing and crying out, had pleasantly faded into a sweet song accompanying his ruminations. But when his cheek felt the spray of the sea and he whipped around to see Lucy running away squealing, whatever wistfulness remained in him was picked up and carried away by the breeze. They were finally back, and that should be enough.
“I’ll get you, Lucy!” He shouted and took off after her.
He chased her down the seabank with a grin on his face and golden hair in his eyes, until her little feet carried her away from the water and towards the great cliffs that loomed over the shore. She was surprisingly fast and sand flew from under Peter’s feet as he fought to catch up, but just as he was about to reach the young girl and swing her over his shoulder, she lost her footing and tumbled into the sand. Lucy, a giggling mess, held up her hands in surrender and scrunched her eyes tightly. But when she opened them again, Peter was no longer looking at her. Rather, his gaze was fixated on something behind her and by the look in his eyes, she couldn’t tell if she should be afraid. He stood still, blinking rapidly as if to clear his vision. Lucy, ever so brave, turned to see what it was.
“Is that—” she started to say.
He didn’t wait for her to finish. Though breathless only a second ago, he tore through the sand with newfound vigor.
There she was, shrouded in violet shadow made by prodigious rock, enveloped by the soft beach and dampened sea breeze like a child asleep in her bed. Her hair and the lapels of her burgundy coat rose and sank with the wind. And as he ran, her name came back and he called out to her.
At once, she began to stir, raising her head to the sound. The boy fell to his knees beside her, unsure of what to do, or what to say, or how to feel. All he knew was his heart was thudding behind his ribs, and it wasn’t because he tired himself from running.
She stiffly raised herself onto one elbow, squinting up at him.
“Peter?” She said softly, but as her eyes took in the surroundings, the innocence of confusion rapidly morphed into fear.
She looked around wildly, and her voice wavered “Where am I?”
“You’re here,” Peter said, although much more for himself and less so to answer the question.
“I must’ve hit my head,” she mumbled, looking away from him. “Or worse…”
She pulled away from him and looked out at the impossibly blue sea and its sweeping horizon. The disorder of the underground felt so distant now, even though she’d just been there minutes ago. Or perhaps it was hours ago. She saw the silhouettes of the Pevensies watching her, not unkindly, from the far shore. A halo of warm sunlight surrounded their heads so from a distance they looked similar to angels.
“I’ve died, haven’t I? I’ve died and gone to Heaven…” she said with near-conviction.
“No,” Peter answered, frustrated as he wondered how many ways he could tell the truth. “This isn’t Heaven. You aren’t dead—”
“Then where am I?” She cried, hot tears welling in her eyes. “This isn’t real. None of this is real.”
The boy looked to his sisters and his brother for guidance, as he once did when they served on his council some time ago. But neither did they have answers for him. They’d been guided by a gentle hand through the wardrobe on their first journey to Narnia, but had they just suddenly appeared as she did, they would’ve been frightened as well. But most importantly, under the advisory of Professor Kirke, none of them, not once, had ever told anyone else about this world beyond theirs. Even if they’d been permitted to, finding the words to describe it would’ve been impossible.
He had to try nonetheless.
At once, he submerged his hand into the cool sand to let the grains rest in his palm. He then calmly took her hand and let it trickle through his boyish fingers into hers. Her apprehension persisted, but not more so than her confusion.
“Do you feel that?” He asked quietly. “Doesn’t it feel real?”
She pinched the fine grain between her fingers like she was inspecting it closely, then released it just as he did. She grabbed another fistful and watched it fall just the same. It was real enough. It felt just like the sand in Brighton when she’d gone on holiday with her parents some summers ago.
Not only did it feel genuine, but if she’d been embraced by a dream, and she was truly sleeping soundly in her bed back in London, it should make no sense she felt as awake as she did. Nor if she were no longer amongst the living, why she should feel so alive.
From the grains of sand, she met his expectant gaze.
“Yes,” she whispered. Though it was hardly a consolation that she wasn’t in the afterlife, and that he could be a conjured image of her dying mind. There weren’t many other ways to make sense of her situation.
She squinted her eyes and looked at him as if he were the same grain between her forefinger and thumb.
“Are you real?” She asked quietly.
The question appeared to humor him despite its earnestness. A smile flickered across his face before resolving into a more thoughtful look, like he was considering something. It only lasted a second before he reached for her hand once again.
This time he brought it to his cheek. And though she’d never touched his cheek before, the feeling of it was distinctly Peter and there was no way it could’ve belonged to another person. His skin felt soft and warm to the touch and it fit the shape of her fingers like it was always meant to find its place there. Without thought, her thumb smoothed over his cheekbone, and he, perhaps thoughtlessly as well, leaned into the touch. Their hair flickered across their eyes as the wind swelled and rested around them, but it was no disturbance. Her eyes met his and saw an air of hesitation behind the cerulean fog. He was hanging onto her every breath.
“You are,” she answered at last.
“I am,” he replied.
“But I don’t understand,” she said, so only he could hear. “We were just about to board the train, weren’t we?”
“Yes, we were,” he assured her. “Something happened that brought us here, but I don't fully understand what it was either. It’ll be okay, though. I know a little about this place.” He looked back on his siblings who by then had retreated to the water but were still curiously turning their heads to catch wind of the conversation. “We all do.”
At once, Peter pulled himself off the sand.
“Come on, I’ll tell you everything,” he said, extending his hand for her to take.
If up until this point she ever doubted his sincerity, she found trust settling over her all at once at the sight of his hand. The knuckles were still raw, with bits of tender skin sitting grievously over swollen joints. It was the same hand of the same boy who’d been so quick to rile at the slightest distasteful comment towards her, and perhaps he would’ve done the same for anyone, but at this moment she was no longer certain.
She gingerly accepted his help and the two of them began making their way to join the others. As they walked, with his hand still in hers, she rubbed the skin over his knuckles gently.
“I know something that can fix that, by the way,” she said, eyeing the injury.
He looked off to the side and smiled sheepishly, “That’s good to hear. I was just trying to be cool earlier, it actually hurts quite a bit.”
The two of them laughed together, and from the shore, Lucy, Edmund, and Susan could see that something strange, but not entirely unwelcome was happening. Though none of them would admit it, the secret of this world existed as a burden ever since they returned to London. There hadn’t been a single soul that could understand what they’d been through, and to no fault of a stranger’s own, but they’d never been able to grow close to another because of that. They each felt outcasted in their own lives, never feeling fully embedded in their world or amongst the people around them. This was the curse of knowing.
Whichever forces called them to return to Narnia, and whichever voice beckoned the girl to follow suit, had undoubtedly shaken their lives once again. They couldn't possibly know what awaited them here after all this time, but they were back. Finally back.
summary: while trying to escape the police station in the midst of the infamous raccoon city disaster, rookie police officer leon s. kennedy finds a young woman in need of his help.
content warning: descriptions of violence and gore
word count: 4.4k (estimated 21 minutes reading time)
a/n: this .... has been in my drafts ......... since april. you're finally free........
masterlist archive of our own
Revised for clarity 12/30/2023.
Leon’s gun had always been a mere extension of his arm, a tool to be honed and wielded with precision. The academy, with its spiral target walls and foam-filled mannequins, had served as his training ground, preparing him for the hopefully unnecessary evil of one day having to take a life. This unspoken burden came with the territory—an occupational hazard in the line of duty. But no amount of half-hearted demonstrations and target practices could’ve equipped him for a night like this.
Until tonight, he’d never seen a body fall lifeless due to his own hand. But if he had, he wouldn’t have expected it to stumble from its spot of decay, staggering towards him with a newfound vigor that defied everything he thought he knew about morality and his fragile existence.
Tonight has been a night of unholy firsts, and the air about him suggests it has only just begun.
The pungent metallic scent of arterial spray assaults his senses as he steps out of the shower room. His heart sinks in his chest as he takes in the sight of carnage in the westmost corridor of the police station. Uniformed men and women lie in crumpled heaps against the walls. Their bodies are mangled and torn, some so abhorrently disfigured that they’re scarcely recognizable as humans. The presence of the dead was something he was uncomfortably growing comfortable with, and yet to imagine the animosity it must’ve required to create this scene…
Well, it unsettled him, to say the least. He could’ve known them if things had gone differently.
He steps over their quiet corpses with his pistol in one hand and a flashlight raised in the other. He nudges one with the toe of his boot, aiming for their skull if they so much as twitch. But their bodies remain convincingly still, slain beyond any chance of revitalization. His grip tightens on his gun as he presses forward down the narrow corridor. If this is the result of those infected creatures he’s become acquainted with, they could be lurking ahead, waiting for him.
The rain outside stings as it pelts his cheek, dampening his uniform that’s already slick with sweat. He ignores it.
Ahead should be the S.T.A.R.S. office if the map he found is correct. Hopefully, he can find relevant information about Claire’s brother in there, something to help her find him if he should ever see her again. With a deep breath, he reaches out to turn the knob when a groan suddenly creeps from down the hall. But there’s something different about it.
It sounds alive, pained, and distinctly human.
“Is someone there?” He calls out, his voice echoing down the long hallway. The sound reverberates off the walls and fills the silence, and for a moment, there is nothing but his own breathing.
Then a low growl echoes back at him.
With an annoyed huff, he raises his gun and aims for the corner he anticipates the creature to hobble from behind. But before he can catch a glimpse of it, something moves in the darkness. It's too fast for him to comprehend, a blurring figure scurrying towards him like a feral animal. He watches in horror as it crawls along the ceiling, its movements disturbingly fluid.
As it draws closer, the moonlight catches on to the glistening texture of its skin. A grotesque tentacle-like tongue unfurls from its mouth, swinging through the air like a scythe.
“What… what the fuck?”
He fires two rounds into the fleshy matter of the creature’s head, but it makes no difference. Doesn’t even flinch. The rookie officer prepares to fire another round when the monster flings itself off the ceiling and lunges its body through the air directly toward him.
In a split-second decision, Leon throws himself into the office, his body slamming against the door before he scrambles to his feet and secures it behind him. Outside, the creature is relentless. Its wet, clobbering movements spasm through the walls. With his back pressed against the door, he braces himself as the monster rams into it with a sickening force that rattles the hinges.
It takes all his strength to keep it from buckling under the creature’s assault. The force of each blow makes his arms tremble, and he can feel his grip slipping. A bead of sweat trickles down his temple, and his heart thunders in his chest as he fights to hold the door in place.
But then, just as suddenly as it began, the onslaught ceased. Leon takes a deep breath, his heart still pounding, and listens for any sign of movement outside.
He waits a second, then slowly pulls himself away from the door.
With his chest heaving, a word comes to mind.
Licker.
He remembers the warning about these beasts scrawled on a note left by a likely deceased officer. His naive self didn’t expect to encounter one so soon.
He takes a moment to survey the room, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. The abandoned desks and personal items left behind tell him that S.T.A.R.S. personnel were just as underprepared for a viral outbreak as the rest of the city. The first thing that catches his eye is a trauma kit on the wall. He crosses the room and flips it open, finding it fully stocked. Dressings, hemostatic agents, antiseptic. A sense of relief washes over him. He reaches into his pocket to make room for the essentials, but to his dismay, finds them full of various necessities. There’s no space to carry anything in this damn uniform. With a sigh, the lid is closed and left as it was found.
“Hey!”
He nearly jumps out of his skin at the sudden noise.
“Please tell me you didn’t die,” a disembodied voice says. The end of their sentence tapers off with a shallow breath. With a sharp turn of his head, he tries to place the direction it's coming from. There’s no familiarity in their voice, which is no surprise considering he’d only become acquainted with a few officers during his orientation.
“Where are you?” He calls out, raising his flashlight in search of an answer, hoping for a door or some kind of opening.
“Linen closet. Down the hall.”
Their muffled words become clear as he approaches a far corner of the office, likely sharing a wall with the room they’re in. “Did it get you?” they ask, quieter this time.
Leon takes a deep breath to steady himself before responding. “Almost, but I’m alright,” he assures them. With a glance back to the door, he continues, “Listen, I know how to get past that thing now. Just… stay put. I’ll come to you.”
“Please be careful,” the stranger pleads. Something in their voice rings as desperation, lending to the pit forming in his stomach. It’s more than likely that whoever this is is a victim of the outbreak, clinging to their last shred of humanity before the virus consumes them. The thought of putting down another person, to see the life fade from their eyes—he’d like to avoid it if possible.
With the barrel of his pistol, he cracks open the door and peers into the corridor. It’s just as he left it, but there’s no sign of the monster anywhere. He holds back a sigh of relief as he opens the door further and steps into the hall. The ceiling, where his eyes are permanently trained, is empty. The revolting shape of the licker is nowhere to be found.
He pushes forward, boots ghosting across the floorboards and pistol drawn. His breathing is slow, his muscles tensed. He’s convinced the creature can hear the blood rushing through his veins. When he reaches the end of the corridor, he halts and peeks behind the turn of the hall where the linen closet should sit.
His heart drops.
It’s there.
Of course it’s there. Why should anything be easy for him?
Perched in the corner, its sinewy body is raised on its haunches and pressed wetly against the wall. Rows of jagged teeth have overgrown the confines of its decaying jaw, and long bone-like talons sprout from fleshy hands.
He can't afford to freeze up. One misstep is all it takes, and he’ll be gutted like the rest of them. He reaches for a hook on the holster hanging at his hips, fingers trembling as he fumbles for the cold, smooth canister he's grown familiar with. This might be his only chance.
With one finger, he hooks the pin and yanks it. The sound of it clattering against the tile echoes throughout the hallway just as a cloud of white explodes, engulfing the creature as it lunges toward him. It falls to the floor in an instant, writhing in agony as the grenade pierces the air with a sharp ringing noise.
No time to think. Leon sprints to the door, feeling the hot stench of decay brush past him as he avoids the stunned beast. The door flies open against his weight, and he forces it shut behind him.
He leans against the door, panting heavily as he tries to steady himself.
As he catches his breath, a voice whispers in the darkness.
“You made it.”
His eyes dart to the corner, where a young woman sits leaning against a washing machine. Her uniform is in bad shape, torn at her midsection and stained to the hem. It looks like blood is seeping through, smearing her fingers red as she tries to stanch the bleeding. The sight of the mess has him quickly closing the space between them.
She looks him up and down as he kneels beside her.
“You’re an officer?” She asks with knitted brows. “I’ve never seen you before.”
“Leon Kennedy. I just started today,” he answers quickly, the adrenaline causing a noticeable waver in his voice.
She laughs but winces and screws her eyes shut. “And I thought my first day sucked,” she says through her teeth.
“Did that thing do this to you?” He asks, his tone gentle yet urgent, getting straight to the nagging thought in his mind.
She shakes her head, looking down at the wound with a suppressed grimace. “I thought the hallway was clear. And then, out of nowhere, it just…” Her mind seems to wander at the thought. “It came through the window. There was glass flying everywhere. It scratched me pretty good.”
Leon tilts his head to the side, trying to get a good look at the wound. Her uniform makes it difficult to see the full extent of the injury. However, the amount of blood is enough to give him an idea of the severity.
“‘Scratched’ is an understatement,” he says, looking back at her.
A dazed sort of smile finds its way to her face. “I like to be optimistic.”
Despite the gravity of the situation, or maybe precisely because of it, his smile mirrors hers. She’s not infected. Thank God.
“So do I,” he says. “Let’s get you cleaned up, alright? Then we can think about getting out of here.”
She nods and attempts to sit up straighter.
“Can you, um,” he starts to say, gesturing to the hem of her uniform.
“Yeah, I can take it off. I’m not shy.”
A blush creeps up his neck as she nimbly moves to undo the buttons of her uniform. Leon averts his gaze, suddenly transfixed by the desolate corner of the linen room. His fingers pluck idly at the skin around his nails. But from the corner of his eye, he catches her struggle to shrug off the top. It gets caught on her shoulders and refuses to slide down.
“Here, let me,” he offers reluctantly.
The room falls silent, the only sound being the soft rustle of fabric as he coaxes the shirt down her arms. She draws a sharp breath as it grazes over tender bruises and scrapes, and a strange sense of intimacy seeps in, making him feel guilty for having to undress her. As the shirt falls to the ground, revealing her white undershirt, his eyes are drawn to the dark magenta stain blossoming across the fabric.
There, at the center of it all, is a shard of glass, roughly the size of the palm of his hand. Its edges are sharp and erratic, protruding from her lower stomach.
It’s critical, he realizes.
“Sorry if it’s not the prettiest thing to look at,” she says, eyes fixated on the ceiling.
He shakes his head. “It’s not that bad,” he lies, hoping it sounds convincing.
Apparently, it doesn’t, because she looks down for the first time and sees it.
“Jesus Christ!” She exclaims breathlessly. Her hands fly to hover above the shard, afraid to touch it. “You have to take it out,” she says with certainty, clearly unable to bring herself to do it.
His medical training at the academy left much to be desired, but even he was aware of the cardinal rule when it came to injuries such as these. Under the best of circumstances, the object should never be removed, lest the victim hemorrhage and bleed to death. However, he’d wager that they were far from the best of circumstances, and the alternative wasn’t enticing. Leon takes a deep breath, then places one hand on her shoulder and the other on the shard of glass. Their eyes lock, a silent agreement passing between them.
“Stay still,” he instructs, his voice wavering slightly. He hesitates for a moment before pulling it out in one swift motion. He can feel her muscles tense beneath his hand as she reacts to the jagged edges scraping against her insides. A torrent of hushed expletives tumbled from her lips, the pain etched deeply in her features.
“There,” he says softly, immediately deciding not to let her see the piece of glass once he realizes its morbid grandeur.
He can see the relief wash over her face, but it's short-lived as her condition quickly deteriorates. The sudden change startles him. Her eyes have started to glaze over, and her head falls limply to the side. Her words are barely audible, lost in labored breaths.
“Hey,” he says urgently, reaching to cup her cheek. She responds with a groan and closes her eyes. He taps her cheek more desperately. “Hey, stay with me!”
With his other hand, he brings two fingers to the tender spot between her jaw and her neck. Her pulse is rapid but faint. Below, the stain spreads further along the cloth of her undershirt. He quickly lifts the hem, his fingers trembling as they brush against the cold skin of her stomach. Blood gushes from the wound at a frightening rate, dripping onto the floor and pooling.
His heart races as he frantically searches for something to stem the bleeding. It ends up being the closest thing: her discarded uniform. The fabric immediately darkens as he applies pressure.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
The blood seeps through, coating his fingers.
"Come on, stay with me," he pleads.
The blood flow slows a little, but only after having wholly soaked through her uniform. He undoes his vest and shrugs out of his shirt, leaving him in just the long sleeve he wore beneath. He brings the shirt to her waist and ties it tightly to keep the fabric firmly in place. As he secures it, her hand finds his arm. He looks down at her, meeting her gaze. Her eyes are glassy, and her breathing shallow.
"Don't worry, I've got you," he says, trying to sound confident.
Her fingers tighten around his arm, and she mumbles something. He leans closer, straining to hear her words.
“Don’t let me die here,” she repeats, her voice barely audible. “Please.”
He feels a lump form in his throat. "I won't... I promise."
He leans back against the wall, his eyes never leaving the woman’s face. Breathing heavily, he runs a hand through his hair. Only then does he notice her blood staining his uniform, his hands, and the floor around him. He wipes his hands on his pants, but even in the dim, cold light of the linen room, it’s clear it isn’t going anywhere.
This isn’t going to be enough to stabilize her; even someone with as little medical knowledge as him can see that it would be a miracle if it did.
But despite that, amidst the chaos and the overwhelming odds, he still clung to the tenuous belief that he could save her life. He can do what he couldn’t for the others, who’d been only slightly out of his reach and beyond saving. Saving just one person would mean this all meant something, and that he, though just one person unsure of what he’s up against, could be the catalyst for a transformative ripple, a flicker of defiance in the face of the unknown evils inside this building.
It would mean everything.
He glances at the door, feeling his stomach drop with the knowledge of what he must do. The hemostatic agents, the antiseptic—those are her lifelines. If he doesn’t act now, she will die in this small corner of the police station, and she’ll have him to thank. Acknowledging this fact sets him in motion.
In a swift movement, he picks her up in his arms, careful not to exacerbate her injuries. She stirs uncomfortably for a moment, then settles against him. Blood drips from his shirt at her waist and trickles down his arm before pittering on the tile. It’s neverending.
“Don’t make any noise,” he whispers down at her. Her eyes are screwed shut, but she nods in understanding.
Here goes nothing. He nudges the door open.
Once again, he is greeted with a quiet stillness. The corpses are still lost in a dreamless sleep, and light rain rhythmically blows in through the empty window frames. It could be somewhat comforting if he were ignorant of the foreboding presence lurking in the nearby shadows. With each soft step, he gets further from the haven of the linen room. He passes the expired stun grenade and is approaching the turn of the hall once again when she shifts in his arms. She presses her forehead against his chest, brows furrowed in an effort to stifle her pain. He can’t imagine how it must feel.
He pulls her closer, hoping to offer a modicum of reassurance. We’re almost there.
It can be said with absolute certainty that he has never moved as slowly as he did turning that godforsaken corner. And for that, he’s been blessed with a clear pathway. Somehow, the creature has not made its presence known. A thought nags at him, daring him to consider that he may have underestimated its intelligence. That it will rear its grotesque head any minute, and its mouth will pull in a sadistic grin, enravished with the idea that he could’ve fooled it once again.
But this is not the case. There, in the imperceptible darkness, inches above his head, there is a shift. It’s slight enough that he almost misses it. He doesn’t need to look up to know what it is—to know that it’s there, to know that he’s directly below it.
Somehow, he missed it.
His muscles tense, but there’s nothing left to do but continue forward.
Just a few more steps.
He places one foot cautiously before the other, careful to avoid shattered glass. The air feels thick with apprehension; every breath a calculated risk.
Then there’s a tug on his pants.
A deep, gurgling groan erupts from one of the corpses by his feet, and it pulls itself toward him. On instinct, he brings his boot down to silence it, crushing its skull beneath his heel before it can sink its teeth in. The woman gasps instantly, startled by the sudden jerking movement. Fuck.
Run.
The walls blur, and time seems to slow as he sprints down the hallway. The woman’s cries intermingle with the sound of talons scraping against the floor, padding down the corridor with a ferocity he doesn’t need to see to know.
Before it can reach him, he forces the office door open and kicks it shut behind him. He ignores the sounds of it screeching and thrashing about and hurries over to one of the desks, swiping the clutter to the floor before setting her down on the cool wooden surface. He wastes no time in retrieving the trauma kit and rummaging through it, letting items fall haphazardly to the floor.
The seconds are slipping through his fingers.
“You’re gonna be okay,” he says between breaths.
She watches him through furrowed brows, blinking slowly as he quickly removes the blood-soaked uniform from her waist. She says nothing, whether due to sheer incapability or hopeless acceptance.
He doesn’t notice either way.
His hands move quickly. He’s too lost in his efforts to see her watching him. Before the darkness creeps in, her lips form a short, one-word apology that gets lost on its way out, unheard by even her. The whisper of remorse dissipates in the air and fades. Then the world follows suit.
An uncertain amount of time has passed when she begins to stir. The room is blurred beneath the heaviness of her eyelids, but its meager contents slowly reveal themselves: plain wooden desks, some chairs, and personal belongings that confirm she’s in the room she suspects. She’d only been in this office once before when working on an intense, high-profile assignment. Even then, her visit was brief. There’s no reason she should be in here.
She pushes through the clouded haze and props her elbow on the desk to raise herself. Immediately, she’s struck with a burning fire in her abdomen, crumpling her back onto the cold surface. It felt like an electrical fire. Spreading quickly with a force that raised the hair on her skin.
Looking down, she saw the crimson stain on her undershirt, and the memory of the attack came back to her with a visceral shudder. The horrifying creature, the unrelenting pain, and the man who saved her. His name eludes her, the residual memories feeling like a half-forgotten dream. His face, too. Until slowly, the memory begins to sharpen, and she can see his face with full clarity. The young officer had been handsome, with an angular jaw and straight nose that lent him a serious, almost stoic look. Yet there was an undeniable boyishness to him, from the tousled hair falling into his eyes to the way he moved with an easy grace that belied the sharpness of his features. Yes, the stranger had certainly been an easy sight for her weary eyes.
“You’re awake.”
She nearly jumped out of her skin when the memory began to speak. She realized just then that it wasn’t a memory at all and that he’d emerged from a corner of the room upon hearing her awaken.
“How are you feeling?” He asks when she doesn’t respond. He’s tense, but his nervous expression seems sincere, and a strange sense of trust begins to settle over her.
“Hurts,” she grumbles. Her throat ached too. Everything ached.
His mouth flattened into a thin line, and his brows furrowed in sympathy. “I know, I’m sorry,” he says.
She notices his hands tremble slightly as they reach out to touch her, brushing warily against the exposed skin at her hip. He doesn’t seem to mind the blood staining his fingers or the hair falling into his eyes as he checks the dressing. Once it’s clear it meets his standard of approval, he looks up, and his light eyes finding hers expectantly, searching for signs of discomfort.
Then it comes back to her.
“Leon,” she murmurs absently, testing how it sounds out loud.
A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. "That's me," he says softly.
She studies his face once again, taking in the way his features soften as he smiles, the gentle curve of his lips, and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners.
“How long have I been out?” she asks hoarsely.
He pulls the hem of her shirt back down, covering the tender skin once again. “Not long, a few hours maybe.”
She tries to sit up once again, but her body protests with a sharp pain at her side. He places a hand on her upper arm, steadying her.
“Take it easy,” he urges her in a whisper.
With a wave of her hand, she dismisses his concerns and her pain. She pulls herself off the desk and straightens her shirt. “I’m fine,” she assures him. “I feel like shit, but I’m fine.”
“You look better,” he says, observing her closely. “You have more color in your face.”
A faint smile graces her lips. “I think I have you to thank for that. If you hadn’t found me, I would’ve been done for,” she confesses. “I’d already made peace with it by the time you got there.”
He offers a modest shrug. “I’m not sure about that. You seem like you’re made of tougher stuff, deputy.”
His words prompt her to tilt her head, inspecting his face and searching for any remnants of recognition beyond their recent encounter. But apart from that, there's nothing.
“Oh. I ran your badge while you were out,” he admits, his gaze momentarily directed toward the floor.
“Is that so…” She crosses her arms with a touch of amusement in her voice. Her inner resolve slowly finds her once again. “So was all this done to impress your boss on the first day?”
He chuckles quietly, now somewhat sheepish in the presence of his superior, in a world where such distinctions no longer hold much meaning. Oddly enough, his laughter somehow finds its place seamlessly amidst the heavy air surrounding them.
Despite the lurking horrors outside the sanctuary of this room and the even grimmer uncertainties ahead, for a brief moment, none of it matters. She stands there as a testament to his actions, breathing proof that he made a difference. Placing himself in the epicenter of this diseased storm no longer feels like ill-fated martyrdom. Within these walls and in the face of the darkness that looms beyond, they are not simply spectators to a morbid narrative; they are, instead, influential participants. All hope isn't lost.
With a smug smile, he finally lifts his gaze to meet hers.
i'm completely and utterly obsessed with the late night visit short story, it's the best edward cullen writing on this website, please make more i beg you, i've just read it for the 29273 time
omgee. i’m so happy to hear you like it!!
if you or anyone else has requests, please feel free to send them to my inbox（╹◡╹）!! i love reading them and even though i’m not actively posting on here, i’m still writing and i love getting messages.
i've noticed that people don't leave the same kind of unhinged compliments under fanfics that visual artists usually receive (eg, "i want to eat your art"), so i've come up with a list that you need to start employing when your friends send you their WIPs and when your favorites update on ao3 but you're having a hard time commenting something that sounds intelligent and you still want to support them
"you're like if [famos author] (eg, Victor Hugo if the fic is angst) was into [fandom]"
"well THIS has been added to my pre-sleep daydream schedule"
"this fic invaded my mind and consumed my brain like a spore"
"I'M LOSING SLEEP OVER THIS ONE, FOLKS"
"yOu'Ve AlReAdY lEfT kUdOs HeRe"
"this fic has me scratching at my yellow wallpaper, it's so good"
"this fic has me checking under my floorboards for the heart of a kind man i murdered, it's so good"
"i'm making my parents read this"
"i know only one chapter is out so far, but i'm going to print this out, staple it together, and put it on my bookshelf next to the canon material"
"this fic gave me another mental illness"
(you can only do this one once) "i made an ao3 account specifically to bookmark this"
"i'm going to print this out so i can eat the words on the paper"
and a couple that are just nice (without the feral nature):
"i made a custom playlist to listen to while i read this fic"
"this fic reminds me of [song]"
"i really liked the part where [x], it really stuck with me"
"i really liked this line, [quote the line,] it was so well-written!"
artists: draw fanart of the fic!! it doesn't matter if you think your art skills are good and it doesnt matter if it's just a sketch!! let the author see it!!
make a moodboard!! for the fic!! let the author see it!!
gif credit to @robpattinsongifs (much higher resolution on their account)
summary: late-night visits from your definitely human boyfriend
pairings: edward cullen x fem!reader
word count: 1.6k (approximately 7 minutes reading time)
a/n: I’ve had this baby marinating in my drafts since January, when I was going through my bi-annual Twilight Renaissance. I was actually in the middle of writing a RE2R Leon Kennedy fic today and decided to put on a twilight playlist, and then I just knew I had to finish this one. It’s my first *published* non-RDR fic heehee (I have so much in my drafts, it’s insane). Anyways, enjoy (pardners)!
masterlist archive of our own
It’s that dreadful time of year again.
The sun is making its curtain call as students from the nearby elementary school trip over themselves running home. Little girls and boys have sticky remnants of lunch peeking from the corners of their mouths and the grass is still slick from morning showers. But dusk is impatient in February, and its eagerness is encouraged in a town hidden beneath perpetual overcast nine months out of the year.
The school children ran past her window minutes ago when the sky had been painted brilliant indigo. Now, when she looks up the only thing left to see is her own dark reflection and the warm orange glow from a candle on the sill. Its tall flame stutters, collapsing and rising with the damp breeze.
A page turns, disrupting the otherwise quiet room. The only other noise that can be heard is a soft pitter of water dripping onto the floorboards from a coat hanging off the closet door.
She reaches for a mug sitting on the corner of her nightstand and promptly sets it back down upon finding it empty. It returns to its spot atop crumpled receipts and library hold slips belonging to the growing stack of books accumulating dust at her bedside. These books tower over the permanent nightstand residents: lazily discarded beaded necklaces, a sample bottle of floral perfume from Christmas, two little ceramic bunnies purchased from an antique mall in Port Angeles last summer, car keys, and drugstore chapstick. It might be worth convincing her to let go of some of these post-object permanence discoveries, but that is a matter for another time.
In a desperate attempt to comprehend the words she’s reading, she rolls onto her back and extends her arms straight in the air so the book hovers a foot from her face—a change of perspective to freshen the mind.
It does not help.
No matter how much she shifts or squints, the antiquated prose remains stubbornly uninviting. She can’t fathom why anyone would willingly subject themselves to something so archaic and convoluted and furthermore, recommend it as one of their favorite novels.
With a huff, she adjusts the headphones at her ears, hoping the music will clear her mind. But despite her best efforts, the book slowly drifts closer to her chest and her eyelids grow heavier as the music lulls her into a dreamless sleep.
When she wakes to cold fingers grazing her jaw it’s impossible to tell whether she’d fallen asleep or if she just blinked. The weight of the headphones gently disappears as they’re pulled off and set down on the nightstand. She grumbles incoherently and stretches out her legs, not unlike a cat after a long, difficult day of lounging around. Her eyes begrudgingly flutter open and immediately find him only inches away. He’s watching her, peering down with a twinkle in his amber-colored eyes.
“Edward…” she whispers.
“Dracula,” he says, eyebrows raised as he makes the observation. “I thought you didn’t like Gothics.”
She reaches a finger into the book on her chest and folds the page over before tossing it carelessly into the sea of knitted and quilted blankets at the foot of the bed. With the haze of sleep still clouding her eyes, she smiles sheepishly up at him.
“I’m trying.”
He chuckles lightly and brings his hand to her hair again, brushing stray strands off her forehead and tucking them behind her ears before leaning down to place a chaste kiss above her eyes. Though his lips are soft, the icy touch of his skin sends a shiver down her spine. He’s always cold; a result of his anemia, he says. However, the downpour that's dampened his hair and clothes to his skin has chilled him even more so.
In an effort to sit up, she raises herself onto her elbows and catches a glimpse of the bright red digital numbers on her bedside clock.
“You’re late, you know,” she chides, watching him settle uncomfortably at the head of the bed. He sinks down among the pillows, their plushness contrasting humorously with the stiffness of his demeanor. He reaches behind his back and tugs free a stuffed rabbit lodged between him and the headboard, then sets it down softly beside himself.
“I had to make a quick stop. I hope you can forgive me,” he says in a hushed voice, so as not to make too much noise in the resting house. His eyes flit towards the nightstand and she follows them to see a new item sitting amongst the disorder. A tall styrofoam cup with steam rising thinly from the lid. Coffee.
The mug she just finished sits right beside it. She’d considered brewing more but that was before being rendered unconscious by Bram Stoker nearly an hour ago. Her heart swells at his thoughtfulness, but a more pressing question comes to mind before she can voice her gratitude.
“How did you even climb up here with that?” She asks, reaching for the cup with both hands.
“I’m very…agile.” There’s a look in his eyes that tells her there’s more to it, but she chooses to ignore it for now with a shake of her head.
The taste is immediately harsh, significantly more bitter than how she makes it herself. Any trace of a smile dissipates and is replaced with a pronounced look of disgust.
“Good God, Edward,” she exclaims. “Decaf? What did I ever do to you?”
He laughs and takes it from her hands, leaving her still reeling from the unexpected taste. “As much as I love staying up with you, you need sleep,” he says, a hint of sternness in his voice. “You didn’t get any last night and you don’t hide it well.”
He says the last part sweetly, tilting his head to the side and following her motions with his eyes, watching her pick up the stuffed rabbit by its cotton paw.
“Don’t hide it well?” She repeats, the indignation in her voice contrasting with the softness of the toy as she raises it high into the air and brings it down against his chest with a soft thud. “Well maybe I wouldn’t have to hide anything if you—weren’t—keeping—me—up—all—night!”
With every word, the rabbit hits his forearms poorly attempting to shield himself from the blows. Edward grins as she attacks him, the soft toy barely making a sound against his arms. He watches as her hair falls across her face in the midst of the unrelenting attack, the warm glow of the candle casting a soft halo around her.
But then, his amusement fades as he sees the exhaustion in her eyes.
He gently takes the rabbit from her and sets it aside before grabbing her arm mid-swing and pulling her into his chest. She sighs heavily and surrenders, relaxing against him. "I’m sorry," he whispers, his lips brushing against her hair. “I’ll let you rest tonight.”
Despite his tender words, a residual half-baked frustration lingers inside her. “How did you manage to stay awake in class?” she mumbles into his sweater, the words muffled. “I mean, you didn’t get any sleep either.”
He chuckles, as if privy to some inside joke.
“Well, someone had to take your notes for you,” he says, his fingers trailing through her hair in a soothing motion. “And besides, you looked so peaceful drooling away.”
She looks up at him, a hint of a drowsy smile playing at the corners of her lips. “I did not drool,” she insists.
He grins down at her, his eyes alight with fondness. “Of course not.”
She groans and buries her head into his chest, to which he responds by encircling his arms around her waist and pulling her closer.
“I’m never falling asleep in front of you again,” she grumbles.
His chest rumbles beneath her cheek as he laughs. “Alright, angel.”
He shifts his hand from the crown of her head to the curve of her back, tracing languid circles over the fabric of her t-shirt as the room fills with a comfortable silence. The rain outside grows heavier, tapping against the glass with a more insistent force. Her body is warm against his and he can feel the steady thumping of her heartbeat as if it's his own. A few minutes slip by, and he senses her breathing even out and deepen. Without disturbing her, he reaches for a nearby blanket and drapes it over her, then turns his gaze to the candle on the windowsill.
“Sweet dreams,” he whispers, as the dwindling flame fades out of focus.
This is his favorite part of the day.
Vague arrays of soft, muted hues and shapes swirl around in his vision, overtaking the warm surroundings of her bedroom. They morph into recognizable figures after some time, and he can hear them speaking when he focuses. For the most part, they sound as if he’s underwater and they’re conversing on the shore. But every now and then, a clear phrase emerges.
Suddenly, the floating shapes assimilate into a figure resembling him and he realizes what this dream is. It’s a recurring one he’s particularly fond of. He settles in and pulls her closer as the scene ebbs between reality and distortions of the unconscious mind.
He can’t remember how he used to pass the night hours before he met her. Books, records, films--looking back, they feel hollow compared to nights spent like this. Part of him hopes he’ll never know what it's like to want for this. But these dreams, and her thoughts in the waking hours, assure him he won’t ever have to find out.
good news first -- i just posted a draft i've been sitting on for the past two and a half months and i hope you all like it :)
it took me so long to publish it, i guess because the right words just weren't coming to me but also lots of things have been happening on my little corner of the earth. i've been sick the past few weeks and idk about yall but i get so much illness anxiety that i convince myself i'm some sort of medical enigma and it drives me fucking bonkers cause it's all i can think about.
on top of that, my love life has been a whirlwind but i'm doubtful anyone wants to hear about that. tldr;; getting your heart broken by someone who wanted you first is such a humbling experience but it can only go up from there !!
anywayz it's always nice to check in here and see that people are still enjoying and leaving comments on my writing. feels nice :-)
![[age gap] confessing to joel miller](https://64.media.tumblr.com/180d1fb75eb198b08fb9673d93462cc2/93399d55f0b02255-85/s640x960/2fe526750f1e20af53549a0a6843d7c163e21165.jpg)
