Bio- 19, KY,USA, art student. Love the Silmarillion/LOTR/Tolkien

When we got to the cells, I looked at him and cleared my throat, pulling out my hand. He looked at me, confused with a nervous grin.

- Your knife.

I said.

- But I don't have anythin-

I pulled a big dagger out of his coat, and he laughed, embarrassed. I put it inside my pocket and pushed him inside his cell. He looked at me before I walked away. I must admit he is a handsome guy.

I was stopped from walking out of my room by another elf.

- Are you sure you took everything from him?

He asked, and I nodded.

- Our king wants you to take a watch on them for your earlier wrongdoing.

- It was one time!

I said angrily, and he walked away without any more words. I sat down with a loud groan. The dwarves were talking, but I ignored it.

After some time, my butt started hurting, and I decided to stand up, walk a bit, and look at our prisoners. When I walked closer, their talks got quieter. I walked up to a cell with a blond dwarf. He was sitting on his cell bed. He looked at me with confusion.

- So you like daggers and knifes?

I asked, and he looked surprised, but nodded. He stood up and walked up to the doors of the cell.

- You know that you and your companions are really in trouble?

I asked and he sighed.

- We know.. but my uncle, like always, had to express his opinion on elves...

He said the last part quieter, and I giggled. He smiled.

"Mahal.. his smile and his voice are mesmerising.."

I thought and pulled out my hand for him.

- I'm (Y/n).

I said, and he grabbed my hand, turning it and kissing my knuckles. I blushed at the action.

- And I'm Fíli.

He said confidently with a tint of flirt. He let go of my hand, and I tucked my hair behind my ear, slightly blushing.

- Aye! Fíli stop flirting with that elf! It's point-

I heard someone shout, it was a brown haired dwarf, but then they stopped when Tauriel walked into the room. I giggled and waved to her. She waved back and walked through the prison and stopped where the brown haired dwarf was.

- That is my younger brother, Kíli.

Fíli said, leaning on the cell's door.

- And it seems like someone caught his eye.

I said with a smile, and Fíli chucked. I turned around to look at him again. He looked at my weapons, which were hanging around my body. I wasn't the archer elf like most of my friends. I preferred daggers, knives, swords, or even spears.

- You're not an archer?

He asked, surprised, and I nodded, chuckling.

- Definitely not. As you can tell..

I said and turned around, showing him my collection of weapons. His eyes widened and sparkled.

- They all have a story..

I said with nostalgia. He looked at me, intrested.

- Tell me about them.

He said with passion, and I laughed. I slowly sat down before his cell, and so did he.

I told him about my adventures and from where I got my weapons. He looked at me, listening curiously and sometimes making jokes, at which I laughed. The time went fast and nice. Then, someone walked in.

- (Y/n)!! Your shift is over!

The elf soldier shouted, and I looked at the dwarf saddly.

- It was nice talking to you, Fíli.. Hope I will see you soon..

I said quietly, so the elf soldier doesn't hear it. Fíli smiled and nodded.

- I don't think I can go anywhere..

He said and pointed at the cell, chuckling. I smiled and stood up. I waved him goodbye and ran up to the elf.

••

When I heard the alarm that the dwarves were running away, I quickly ran behind Legolas and Tauriel. We were going down the river, following the group of dwarves that were swimming in the barrels.

The dwarves stopped on our border gate, and after a while, there were orcs coming from every direction, killing elves and trying to kill our lost prisoners.

I throwed a spear at the tree and jumped, swinging on it to get on the other side of the river. I was trying to kill as many enemies as I could, but it wasn't easy in this terrain. I cut theirs heads off and cut throats while doing flips and dodges. I sometimes felt someone's gaze on me as I fought.

I saw Kíli getting out to pull the lever, but he got shot on his leg. I frowned and killed another orcs. Tauriel got to his rescue and killed orcs coming his way.

When Kíli pulled the lever and fell inside his barrel, we followed them again. We killed a lot of orcs to keep us and dwarves safe.

"Why are they going so fast?!"

I thought, groaning and leaning my head backwards when no one attacked me. I looked around and took a shortcut, sprinting. The shortcut was higher than the hills around the river. There was only one orc that I killed immediately by throwing a knife to his head. I took it back and ran as quickly as I could again.

I saw Legolas standing at dwarves heads, and laughed. He always liked to show off. I took my spear and throwed it at an orc that nearly attacked Legolas. The dwarves were helping too, and I was so grateful for that.

After a bit, my shortcut ended, and I was waiting for them a bit further. I killed orcs that waited here for the dwarves. Then I saw the barrels, and Legolas stopped next to me. We looked at them as they swam away. I sighed deeply, and my friend put a hand on my shoulder. We saw Tauriel behind us, and she joined us.

••

I decided to follow the dwarves into the Laketown. I jumped on the roofs of the houses, seeking the house with the dwarves in it. I jumped off the roof when I saw the correct one. I knocked on the door.

- Who is that?

- I hope not anyone who can kill us...

I heard mumbled voices, but then the door opened. I saw a tall man with dark hair.

- How can I help you?

He asked.

- I'm here to help your guests.

- But I don't have any-

He didn't finish, and I saw a head popping out from the room inside.

- (Y/n)?

Fíli said, and I smiled. The man let me go inside, and I walked up to the blond dwarf. I handed him the knife I took from him earlier with a smile.

- I think I took it from you.

I said, and he grabbed his weapon, smiling warmly. Fíli opened his mouth to say something, but then I heard loud groans of pain. I quickly excused myself and walked up to Kíli who was lying on the table, pale as a ghost. I looked at him, scared and worried.

- Please tell me you can help him..

Said the old dwarf and I looked with a sad look, shaking my head.

- But I know who can.

I said and quickly ran outside and jumped on the roof. I grabbed a horn that Tauriel gave me. She told me to use it in case of emergency. It is only heard for elves, so no one track us. I blowed the air inside it and waited.

After 5 minutes, I saw Tauriel making her way to me. We jumped off the roof, and she looked at Kíli. She told us to find some herb, which we did find after a while.

While Kíli was kicking around, we held him, and Tauriel did an elves' magic on him, bringing him back to health. I sighed in relief. I felt a hand wrap around mine and looked at the owner of it. It was Fíli who had a really concerned look on his face while looking at his brother. I rubbed my thumb on his knuckles to comfort him a bit.

Then we heard a loud thund. I immediately ran outside and stood next to a dead orc body. I looked around and saw that Legolas was shooting at the most enemies. I pulled my knives out, but in the corner of my eye, I saw Fíli taking his dagger out too. I turned around and looked at him.

- Fíli.. Take care of your brother.. He needs you now..

I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. He looked deeply into my eyes.

- But you also need me..

He said, pushing through me and walking outside. He killed one orc and I smiled.

- Tauriel! Please take care of them.

I said in elvish. She looked at me and nodded. I ran outside to follow Fíli. We fought side by side. We knew what we were doing, like we knew each other for our whole lives.

When town was clear (or we thought so), we saw a dragon up in the sky, blowing fire. We started running away. I put my hand inside Fíli's and tried helping civilians run away and save their lifes.

When we got on the coast, we saw Bard trying to shoot the dragon, which he did. He killed him. The monster flew up into the sky and fell down with a huge impact.

We started cheering. The Smaug was dead. I looked at Fíli who looked so happy that I couldn't even describe it. He looked at our intertwined hands and then at my face. He wrapped his hand around my waist and pulled me closer. I blushed while looking down at him.

- I thought you said you weren't going anywhere..

I said with a pout, remembering their swim in the river. He chuckled and tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear.

- Well... I'm here now..

We leaned closer to each other, our noses touching and eyes closed. We were like this for a few seconds before I decided to press my lips to his. He seemed amazed at my action, but quickly kissed me back. He put his hand behind my head, pulling me closer. My arms wrapped around his shoulders.

We pulled away when we heard people shouting with enthusiasm. I looked into the direction of people's looks and saw Bard from the distance.

Legolas

He first sees what you’re capable of in the heat of battle. You’re surrounded — too many orcs, not enough time — and you don’t hesitate. Your blade glows faintly with runes, but it’s not your weapon they’re afraid of. It’s you. You move like you’re part of the wind — faster than they can track, quieter than they expect. You burn through them like wildfire, controlled and furious. When it’s done, the ground is slick, and you're still standing, breath heavy, eyes glowing faintly like starlight trapped in mortal skin.

And it’s then that Legolas starts to look at you differently. Not just as an ally or a fighter, but as something rare. Something the world won’t get twice.

The others are talking after the fight, tending wounds, rationing supplies. You’re off to the side, leaning on a rock just slightly — not enough to be obvious, just enough for someone who’s watching closely to notice. He is.

The next time, it’s raining. A cold drizzle that makes even Aragorn frown. You stumble. It’s small — just a slip in the mud — but you catch yourself on a tree and don’t move after. Just breathe. Shallow. Tired. You think no one sees, but Legolas is already there.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just steps close, hands at the ready like he might catch you again. You avoid his eyes, and that’s when he knows. Really knows.

“How long?” he asks, voice soft.

You’re quiet for a while. Then: “It started before we left Rivendell. Got worse after Moria.”

It’s not fair. That’s what he thinks first. That the world could hold someone like you — sharp and brave and ancient-feeling — and still let you die. Still decide you’re dying.

From that point on, he doesn’t leave your side. It’s not suffocating. It’s just present. He’ll hold your pack before you can argue. Share his water even when you insist you’re fine. His hand hovers at your back on long climbs. Sometimes, when you’re asleep, he’ll just watch you breathe.

He doesn’t treat you like glass. But he does look at you like you’re a comet — here for a moment, bright enough to change the sky.

One night, you say, “I don’t want to be remembered for dying.”

He replies, “You won’t be. You’ll be remembered for what you survived long before it.”

--------

Aragorn

He notices it early. Not the illness — the strength. The way you walk like you’ve survived something you don’t talk about. He’s known enough warriors to recognize one who fights even when no one’s watching.

The Fellowship is still new when it happens. An ambush. A bad one. You’re surrounded, cornered. Aragorn is focused on protecting the hobbits when he hears it — that sound of magic cracking through the air like lightning through ice. He turns. You’re standing in the middle of it.

You don’t cast spells. You unleash them. It’s different. Older. There’s a heat to it that makes even Gandalf glance over with something like respect. The orcs don’t get close. They can’t. Not when the dirt is shifting beneath them and the sky above them trembles at your voice.

When it’s over, you don’t look proud. You just look tired.

He pulls you aside that night. Not as a leader — as a man who’s seen people burn themselves out for a war that never loved them back. “That power,” he says, “comes from somewhere. What does it cost you?”

You don’t answer. You just smile, slow and sad. “Everything. But it was never going to last anyway.”

It’s later, after Moria, when he understands.

You cough. Hard. It doesn’t stop for a while, and when it does, there’s blood on your sleeve. You try to hide it. Fold it away like it means nothing.

But Aragorn’s hands are already reaching for you. Not panicked — steady. Warm. He presses a hand to your back, feels the tremble in your spine. Your eyes are glassy.

“I’ve seen many wounds,” he says. “That is not one I can heal.”

You nod. “I know.”

And that’s when the quiet pact forms between you — unspoken but firm. He won’t try to fix it. But he will make sure you don’t carry it alone.

He stands a little closer after that. Keeps track of your breathing when you sleep. Adjusts the pace of the Fellowship’s travel without making it obvious. Never tells the others. Just holds the truth in his chest like a sacred thing.

You never asked him to care. But he does. Deeply.

One night by the fire, when everyone else is asleep, you admit, “I don’t want pity.”

“Good,” he replies. “You’ll never get it from me. Just loyalty.”

And you believe him.

--------

Boromir

Boromir doesn’t trust magic. Not really. It’s not that he’s afraid of it — it’s just never done anything for his people. Power, in his world, is something you earn with sword and grit. But then there’s you.

He doesn’t know what to make of you at first. You don’t boast. Don’t lecture. You just move — confident, quiet, and sharp as a blade no one sees coming. You speak when it counts. You act when it matters.

And then one day you snap.

Not in anger — in command. The enemy is gaining, arrows thick in the air, Frodo nearly taken. You raise your hands and the wind stops. Literally. Dead in the sky. Time feels wrong for a second. Then the ground cracks beneath the riders chasing you.

They fall. Horses scream. Your eyes shine like the first embers of war.

When it’s over, you don’t even look at anyone. You just walk away, slow, like your bones hurt.

Boromir catches up later. “That was… incredible,” he says, trying to find words. He’s not good with reverence, but he tries anyway.

You just smile faintly and say, “It takes more than you think.”

It’s not long after that he sees you collapse.

It’s nothing dramatic. You just sink down one afternoon while setting up camp, hand on your side like you’re holding yourself together. He’s the one who notices when you don’t get back up.

“You alright?”

“I will be,” you lie.

He doesn’t push. Just kneels next to you, offers you his canteen. You take it with shaking fingers. Try not to meet his eyes. But he sees it now — the blood in the corner of your mouth, the way you press your wrist like it’s keeping time that’s running out.

“How long have you known?” he asks, voice quieter than usual.

“A while.”

He doesn’t tell the others. Doesn’t treat you like glass, either. But he does start walking beside you more. Offers to carry your pack even when you refuse. He sharpens your blade for you when your hands tremble. Doesn’t say a word about it.

You catch him watching you, sometimes. Like he’s memorizing something. The way you move. The shape of your silhouette against the firelight.

“You’re not afraid of death,” he says one night, half to himself.

“I just don’t want to go quietly.”

He nods, almost proud. “You won’t. Not you.”

-----------

Thranduil

He knew before anyone told him. Before you stepped into his halls again. Before your cloak was off. He looked at you — really looked — and saw it in the corners of your eyes. In the way your magic curled close to your body now, protective instead of radiant.

“You’re dying,” he said.

You didn’t flinch. “I’m still standing.”

His hands curled around the edge of his throne. No fury, just something cold and shaking in his jaw. You had always unsettled him. And yet, he always made time for you. Even when kings did not kneel, he listened when you spoke.

And when you fought — gods, when you fought — there was no one like you.

He once watched you walk into battle without a word. The creatures were crawling over the stone like ants, too many, too fast. He was preparing his army, calculating losses. But you stepped in alone.

You didn’t raise a weapon. You raised your voice. Soft. Steady. And the forest answered. His forest.

The trees bent. Roots cracked stone. Vines turned to spears, and the sky grew dark with your fury. It was not a scream. It was a command. Ancient. Absolute.

He didn’t speak for hours afterward. Not because he feared you — because he grieved. That something so powerful could wear a mortal face.

Now, you could barely hold a wine glass.

“You should rest,” he said, when he found you by the window, overlooking his realm. Your fingers were trembling again, though you kept them folded in your lap like royalty.

“If I rest, I’ll stop,” you replied.

He stood in silence beside you for a long time. There was so much between you — words unsaid, years shared, no name for what you were to each other.

Finally, you looked up at him. “Will you remember me kindly?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Instead, he dropped to one knee in front of you — the Elvenking — and kissed your hand like you were a queen, a relic, a farewell.

Thranduil

-Listen- Thranduil is hard to reach, he’s a tough nut to crack as one may say, and he is quite distrustful of strangers, but this is not a scenario where you’re a stranger to him, oh no. 

-While you have caught the interest of the elven king and as his knowledge is ever so deep on both elven customs and that of man, he can’t say he has ever indulged in the human customs quite so much. You sort of make him want to indulge in it all. 

-Thranduil is not the one to hastily discard his public image and reputation for the sake of a fleeting touch of fingers or a graze of your lips across his cheek in a farewell bidding, yet seeing you do so with your company with which you travel with makes him think.

-For a mind that has seen so many centuries and so many faces, you have made him feel as if the memories of friends of old and strangers came before his eyes only in preparation to see you. Quite weird, but it is what his mind makes him think. Were you sent to his path for a reason?

-And where do you get your boldness from, to try and touch him so easily? What makes you think that is proper? When have you become so brazen when just yesterday you seemed to struggle with speaking to him formally? 

-He does request your company alone from time to time, walks through the woods and dinnertime especially, and this opens way for more privacy and attempts at intimacy.

-Here, you’d find him more forgiving at accepting your advances

-He is still getting used to the feel which your hands leave behind after gripping his own hand or his arm, or the tug at his sleeve the poke of your fingers at his side - yet he wouldn’t trade it for anything else. It’s such a small change in his life, but it feels surreal to experience it all the same when he is so used to the generally the same routine and schedule, especially in his relations with others. 

-At the end of the journey of your outing, he’d return the gestures with one of his own, one a bit more subtle than yours, but he makes sure his kisses on your knuckles linger

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Legolas

-Humans are touchy, yes, Legolas has witnessed much of this displayed affection since he departed Mirkwood for his journeys, but what he felt when he saw all of it wasn’t shock or disgust like some of his peers felt when they saw these “crude and hasty customs” - rather he felt some longing instead, a yearning.

-He craves a close connection too, but he is hopeless in seeking it out in the world of mortals and he is a bit without a clue on how to develop such a closeness with someone. He wasn’t raised in a place where emotions are foreign, but as established before - human and elven customs do differ, and they both perceive emotions and displays of it differently. You can say Legolas fits a bit more into whatever human ways are of expressing emotions. Firm hand holds and tight hugs instead of brush of fingers and longing looks during long periods of courting. Man, Legolas just craves a strong friendship, let alone a relationship

-I think it would be safe to say Legolas is touch-starved in his own right, simply put

-So when you come along, and you both click as companions? He is quite happy to put it lightly. I don’t think there is an adequate term that can summarize his elven giddiness when he simply sees you being openly affectionate with your friends, he feels a sense of belonging since you are not a stranger he observed, but someone he has come to understand too. He knows your name, your story, what you do and don’t like

-Yet this doesn’t prepare him for when you show the same affection to him as well. Suddenly all lectures and elven courting rules and traditions come pouring in his head all within a blink of an eye and it is the first time you have seen him look so taken aback. 

-He doesn’t reject your advances however, he’s much more accepting of them than his father, and it is just you and your shared small company, sometimes not even them, that get to see this exchange. He is.. giddy, quite happy.

-It feels fulfilling sharing in the affections, although he is much more reserved than you by quite a lot - he tries though. He’d still absolutely love it if you accepted his proposal of courting, so he can court you properly and as you deserve. Please let him he is on the edge of his seat, he is about to fall off waiting

-Despite what he feels and how human his smiles and expressions have become since you began to pay him this attention, he is patient, he moves at a slower pace than you and he is your grounding rock when you become too hasty

-It is not a rare sight to see him draping his cloak around you, or - at your request - see him sitting next to you huddled under the same cloak or a blanket by the fire. Coziest he has ever been tbh…

-In some summary - your hands are held gently, your brows are kissed tenderly and you are well taken care of with him around

-(Please send me more Legolas thoughts or requests I love my bbg sm)

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Lindir

-Now this one is a little more dense. Denser than the Elven King? I hear you ask, and I say to you - possibly.

-Now, correct me if I am wrong, but he isn’t exactly too old, by elvish standards of course. He is relatively young by their norms, and has spent a lot of his time in Rivendell, serving Lord Elrond

-A very personal headcanon, take it or leave it, but he is even younger than Legolas.

-Anyhow, Lindir is quite dutiful in his work and doesn’t accept it comfortably when new energies are introduced to his environment. He can get quite skittish and tense when things aren’t going according to some mental plan he has set out in his mind, or even worse - if the events aren’t following a plan shared by him and the others. He is very keen on sticking to this familiarity of routine and stagnancy, in some way.

-So, note his surprise when you stick around and worm your way into his daily schedule.

-For a long while he swore to himself up and down how he will never get used to you, perhaps if you grew as old as he then he might, but your life was a flicker in comparison to his own

-He is even more surprised and confused when he sees himself looking for too long at you sharing hugs with your friends, bidding them goodbye and safe travels by kissing them hard on the forehead and trying to..wrestle them? What an odd thing to do to your friends..

-He is more baffled when you attempt to do the same to him. How could you?!

-He is an elf, an elf with standards!

-An elf with standards which you break through anyway since you’re so..infectious. Lindir had the funny thought, although it was a bit unsettling to him at the moment, that he was sick or fading/dying.

-In the days and months following, it took much effort to finally see the fruit of your labor. Lindir was finally, although still slowly, opening up to just spending more time with you instead of going by his strict routine that he played on repeat.

-He doesn’t sit three feet away from you anymore, but rather two and a half.. Not literally, of course, but the distance between you seems like it is miles with the way he sometimes acted in the beginning of these outings with you.

-The distance surely shrinks until he is actually next to you, his fingers brushing against your skin as he traces a small scar there which you claim you earned in your childhood. By elvish standards, humans are nowhere near perfection, but his thoughts have begun to change, and he no longer sees perfection in the standards he was raised with, but rather he sees it in you. Each little thing that separates you from another, and little by little he begins to sow you into his memory.

-He isn’t the best at remembering mortal souls, they all pass by quickly, but you linger and linger and he doesn’t want you to not linger. Linger with him by the fountain, will you? Let him ask you questions to distract himself from the fact your hand embraced his?

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Michael is acting weird.

Okay. To be fair, your brother is always weird, but this is different. He's mean. He sleeps all day and wakes up at sunset, then hops on his bike and drives off to God knows where.

At first, you thought he was avoiding Mom after the boardwalk incident. Pissed was not an accurate rage descriptor for how upset she had been when she learned what he did. At first, you defended Michael. You did tell him it would be okay. But when he started acting like an ass, you became less sympathetic.

The night after that, David's gang came to the house. They didn't come inside—but they did tear up the driveway. They revved their engines, jeering Michael's name, goading him to go outside. 

Mom had caught Mike on his way out and encouraged him to bring them in.

"They might like a nice, home cooked meal." she said, peering at them through the curtains.

"Maybe next time," was his reply.

There was no next time. 

Another notable incident occurred when Sam forgot to untie Nanook and bring him inside. 

You chased Michael to the front door, fuming. "What? You're too cool to let the dog in in front of your friends?"

"He's not my dog," said Michael.

"But Mom asked you to do this."

"I don't have to do everything she says. Neither do you, you're an adult."

"And you're being an asshole."

Michael stepped outside, and, of course, David's gang was waiting. 

Michael rolled his eyes, "Why can't you get the dog, four-eyes?"

"Because you're already outside!"

Michael narrowed his eyes like he gained the power to see through your bullshit and laughed cruelly: "You're scared of them."

And, for the first time that night, you spared a glance behind him toward the boys. They said nothing, but you're sure they heard every word, considering they watched your squabble unfold like a soap opera. 

For the record, you're not scared of them. 

You're annoyed. Disgusted. (A little scared of how they make you feel, but that's neither here nor there.) 

And you could tell Mike this, but instead you said, "Oh, fuck off." before storming into the lawn. 

Nanook, who had been barking at the boys, calmed when you approached; however, you were too distracted to give the dog more than a head-pat. You were conscious of your every movement as soon as you stepped outside—your walk, the sway of your hips, your posture, hell, even your clothes. You liked your clothes, but you almost resented how dowdy they were. Why hadn't you worn something more revealing? You usually hate having people leer at your body but with these guys ...

Michael said something to them, and they laughed. It could have been nothing, but you swore they were talking about you, so you rushed inside and didn't look back. 

After that, you did everything you could to avoid seeing them when they came around. 

You lie and say these weird feelings began after that dream, but you know that's not true. Those boys have been burrowing in your brain since the beginning. The sound of their bikes roaring up the driveway makes your heart skip a beat. 

Sometimes—and you're reluctant to admit this—but sometimes you place yourself where they can see you. The upstairs window, the garage, the doorway—places far enough that they can't call out to you but close enough for them to look. 

It's stupid. You don't understand why you do it. These guys are strange and probably dangerous. You shouldn't want anything to do with them.

But that doesn't stop you.

Weirdly, you like being watched. It's like being under a microscope, but you've put yourself on the slide and control the outcome. A shrink would tell you that you're acting out because of your parents' divorce. That's the savory answer, so you refuse to believe there's another reason. 

A bird keeps leaving you gifts on your windowsill.

You haven't seen the bird in action, but you know it has to be one. It leaves you items at night. Random things.

The first one you find is a shell. It's beautiful—one of those shells you can't find on the beach, only in tourist shops. It's as big as your palm and bone-white. You assume the bird had placed it there after deciding it was unfit for its nest, so you brought it inside.

Two fluffy yellow dandelions were placed in the same spot the next day. The day after that, a flat stone with a hole in the center. Then, a feather.

On and on the little gifts came. You're not sure what you did to befriend this bird, but you're grateful. In the midst of so much turmoil with Mike, David, and Mom, the gifts never fail to make you smile.

"Honey?"

"Yeah, Mom?"

She quietly thanks the customer for coming and passes the plastic bag across the counter. When they're gone, she turns to you again. 

"Why don't you grab a bite to eat?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Oh, please!" Mom shakes her head, giving you that knowing smile. "You've been with me all day. Go and get yourself something to eat. Better yet, stretch your legs."

You flash your 'new' (secondhand) paperback at her. "I already did."

She says your name in warning, but there's no bite to it. You know she's just looking out for you. With a sigh, you tuck the book into your bag and kiss her cheek goodbye.

If this was any other day, you wouldn't have bothered to come with your mom to work, but Max had called and asked if she could work a double because Maria was sick, meaning she would be here until dark. You know she's a big girl and grew up on the mean streets of Santa Carla without you, but today was also her and dad's wedding anniversary, and well...

Mom won't admit it, but you know she's struggling. It's the big reason she took the extra shift; it helps her not think about her failed marriage.

The door swings open, and you barely glimpse who is in your periphery before you swear. 

"Shit."

"What is it, honey?" She greets the new group with a big smile. "Hello! If you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask ..." She pauses. Squints her eyes, looking, really looking, at the group. "Have we met before?"

"We're frequent flyers," says an all-too familiar voice.

David.

"Oh, alright," Mom cheers.

"Bye," you mutter. You turn fast and nearly collide with Marko, but you dodge at the last second. "Excuse me."

You exit the store and thrust yourself into the night crowd. Of course, the one night they take off from terrorizing Michael, they come after you. 

Actually—you glance at the nearest clock—it's too early for them to be at Grandpa's house. (Yes, you have their schedule memorized. No, that's not weird.)

And, no, you don't have an inflated sense of self-importance because one glance over your shoulder told you the four of them left the video store as soon as they came in. You don't know if they're following you or if this is their childish idea of a prank, but you refuse to find out.

You duck into the nearest store before they see you—a music shop. The walls are lined with albums, cassettes, and CDs. Band posters cover what little space is left; somewhere in the corner, a rock song wafts from its boombox. 

You don't frequent music shops; you might if you're with Michael or Sammy, but most of your cassettes are inherited from Mom. Still, you wander toward the folk-rock section and figure you have a few moments to kill before you seek out food. 

But good things never last.

The door opens, and you don't have to look this time to know. 

"So, you're stalking me now?" you ask.

Paul snatches the tape from your hand. "Midnight Voyage? C'mon, girl, you gotta get with the times."

You grab it back. "I like the Mamas and the Papas."

"That song's as old as you."

You cross your arms. "I thought you, of all people, understood good music doesn't have an expiration date?"

Marko, Dwayne, and David snicker, and Paul has the decency to look sheepish. You rest your hip against the display and raise your chin.

"What do you guys want?"

"We're here to look at music," says David.

"Uh-huh. Videos, too?"

He challenges you with a sarcastic look. "It's Friday night."

"Whatever."

You snake around them and move to a different display, but they follow. 

"You have to like some rock," Paul tries again.

You fight a smile. He's ... almost charming. "I didn't say I didn't."

Marko joins in, "Who?"

You flip through the singles, not paying them any mind as they throw out different band names.

Aerosmith, Bon Jovi, Depeche Mode, Van Halen - tell me you like Van Halen, baby?

You find what you're looking for and flash it to the boys with a grin. "Iggy Pop, The Passenger."

Marko frowns, but it's more appreciative than judgemental.

Dwayne nods in agreement. "Not bad."

Your answer pacifies Paul, but he's not satisfied. "We need to find you some music that you can dance to, baby."

"I don't dance," you say. "Especially in front of other people."

"Are you always this serious?" David asks. 

For some reason, that hits you where it hurts. You glare at him, dropping the single back in its slot. "Do you always stick your nose into other people's business?"

David has the audacity to smirk. "It's just an observation, princess."

You scoff and try to shoulder past him, but David is fast. He catches your bicep. His grip is barely there, but it stops you in your tracks. You hold your breath, all too aware that you're sandwiched between him and Dwayne. 

"If you keep running off like this, you're gonna make us think you don't like us," David teases.

"I don't," you lie. 

He cocks his head. "You sure?"

You swear he can see through you, but you're unwilling to give in. Not yet.

You step closer, looking him dead in the eye. "I've never been more certain."

Jerking away, you make a b-line for the door. David can't let you have the last word, though. 

"Tell Michael we'll see him later," he calls out.

You shove the door open and shout back, "Bite me!"

You're in the kitchen helping Mom with dinner when Michael stomps down the stairs, sunglasses tucked in the neck of his t-shirt.

Mom rushes to meet him. (Even she's aware she only has a finite amount of time before she loses him again.)

"Michael, do you want to take the night off and have dinner with your family?" She reaches for him, but Michael keeps walking. "We haven't eaten together in a while. It would be nice."

He snorts. "Yeah, right."

Michael opens the door without another word, and the roaring of motorcycle engines fills the house.

Mom shrivels the tiniest bit. Had you not been watching her, you wouldn't have noticed, but you did, and it pisses you off.

You sit the bowl down a little too hard and chase after him.

"Michael." He ignores you. "Michael!" You latch onto his stupid leather jacket and yank him back."Look, I don't know what's gotten into you, but it doesn't give you the right to be an ass to Mom."

He smiles, "But I can to you, right?"

Michael tries to walk away, but you hold firm.

"Why are you acting like this?"

"Listen." Michael faces you head-on. "Unlike you, I've got friends waiting for me. So, why don't you run back inside, little sister? Hm?"

Tears burn the back of your eyes, but your anger burns brighter. You release him with a push.

"Well, at least I'm not pretending to be something I'm not."

Michael frowns. For a moment, you think your words hit their mark, and you see the faintest glimmer of the old Michael in his eyes. He opens his mouth to speak.

"Michael!"

"C'mon, Michael!"

"Mikey boy!"

You flinch as they rev their bikes. It works its charm because all traces of remorse are gone from Michael's face.

He looks at you coldly. "I gotta go."

"Michael, you're making a mistake," you say.

He rolls his eyes. "Don't wait up."

"Hey, baby!" Paul shouts. "Don't you wanna come party with us?!"

You flip them off, and they erupt into a chorus of laughter.

You toss the phone onto Michael's chest, startling him from his mid-day nap.

"... What the hell?"

"Mom's on the phone. She wants to talk to you."

Michael cracks his eyes open, wincing. "What time is it?"

"Two o'clock. You slept all day. Again." You don't even try to mask your rage. If he's going to be a jerk, you'll give it right back.

Michael motions for the sunglasses on his bedside table. "Hand me those, will you?"

You scoff but throw them at him, too. "You need sunglasses to talk on the phone? Are you high?"

"Fuck off," he mutters, and picks up the phone. "Hi, Mom..."

You faintly hear her voice drifting from the receiver. "Michael are you still in bed?"

"No. I'm up."

"Can you do me a favor this evening? Will you stay home with Sam tonight? I'm meeting Max for dinner."

"I watch him all the time, Mom," he says unsympathetically. "The only time I have for myself is the evening." He locks eyes with you from behind his sunglasses. "Can't you have her watch him? Or Grandpa? They stay home all the time, anyway."

"I want you to do this," Mom says. "You come home late, sleep all day—Sammy's always alone."

"No, he's not!"

"Michael, please! Your sister should not have to do everything all the time. Now, you always do whatever you want, and I don't stop you ... tonight, I want to do what I want for a change. Do you know how long it's been since someone has asked me out to dinner?"

Michael works his jaw and says nothing.

"Please, Michael?"

He presses his lips into a thin line. "Okay. Fine. I'll watch Sammy."

He hangs up with a groan, rubbing his eyes. You tsk, yanking the phone off his chest. 

"I guess it sucks to be you," you say.

"Get out of my room," Michael grumbles, drifting back to sleep. 

You leave, but you don't close the door. Sometimes, being petty is better than a middle finger.

Grandpa strolls into the kitchen wearing a khaki-colored jacket and a loud bowtie. He has a pep in his step and another one of his furry creations tucked under his arm. 

"Look at you, Gramps!" you coo. "Lookin' all spiffy. What's the occasion?"

"Can't an old fart like me dress up for fun?" He playfully adjusts his bowtie, and his eyes twinkle with mischief. "Anything in here that might pass for aftershave?"

Sammy hops out of his chair and plucks a bottle off the windowsill. "How about this Windex, Grandpa?"

"Ah!" The old man gratefully accepts the bottle, squirts some in his hands, and pats it on his cheeks. Sam exchanges a knowing look with you. "Thanks."

Unfortunately, Michael chooses this time to come in. (And he's still wearing those stupid sunglasses.) He appraises Grandpa, his mouth twisting cruelly. "Big date, Grandpa?"

Grandpa wiggles his eyebrows, smiling slyly. "Just dropping off some of my handiwork to the 'Widow' Johnson."

He holds up a taxidermy dog. Its beady marble eyes stare into your soul. You repress a shudder. Stuffed animals (the kind that used to be alive) aren't the way to your heart, but if this woman likes it, who are you to judge?

You pat him on the back. "Good for you, Grandpa."

Michael peers over the rim of his sunglasses. "Oh, yeah? What did you stuff for her? Mr. Johnson?"

Grandpa's smile falters, then fades away altogether. He grips the stuffed dog a little tighter. "I'll see you kids later."

As soon as he's out of sight, you smack the back of Michael's head.

"Hey!"

But Sammy's on your side. "That wasn't funny, Michael."

Grandpa honks his horn, and an off-key version of La Cucaracha plays as he peels out of the driveway. Sam resumes his task: dinner duty.

"I'm making you a sandwitch," your little brother grumbles.

"Don't bother."

Michael moves, and you catch sight of something shiny. There's a dangly chain piercing his earlobe, and you know for a fact that it wasn't there last night. You wrinkle your nose. "Lose the earring, Michael, it's not happening."

He crosses his arms. "Piss off."

Sam's eyebrows shoot all the way up. "Wow—you have a great personality, Mike! You should open your own charm school."

Michael starts to go in on Sammy, ready, aching, to deliver his retort when the house shakes. A harsh, howling wind rips through the windows. The curtains flap like frantic bird wings; the ground shakes. Outside, motorcycles roar up the driveway and circle the house. Headlights burn through the windows so bright that it's like sunrise. 

You grip the table to keep from falling over. Dishes and cutlery fall from their cabinets and smash into the floor, shattering into hundreds of pieces. 

"What the hell is going on?!" You can hardly hear your own voice over the noise.

From outside, you hear their voices, shouting, clamoring over one another, melding into a horrific symphony of Michael, Michael, Michael!

Steadily, the noise grows louder. You know it's impossible, but you swear the motorcycles are climbing the walls. 

Michael rushes to the front door, and Sam is hot on his heels.

"Don't open it!" Sam cries.

Michael! Michael! Michael!

Michael throws the front door open, and ... it stops. 

Everything stops.

All that remains is a faint breeze rustling through the trees and the dainty jingle of wind chimes. 

You grab Sam's hand to ground yourself, and he squeezes back, utterly petrified. 

No one is outside. 

You exchange a look with Sam. "That was real, right?"

He nods, but he doesn't look sure.

You trust your judgment, and Sammy's for that matter, but as you peer into the night, you can't help but doubt yourself.

Was it a shared hallucination? An earthquake? But what were those voices?

Grimly, you realize there's only one answer, and it wasn't a natural phenomenon. You know who's behind it. 

Michael shuts the door and locks it, resting his back against it like he alone could prevent them from coming in.

You clench your jaw and storm up to Michael, poking his chest. "Look—I don't know what kind of game you and your friends are trying to play, but it's not funny."

Michael dares to look offended. "I didn't do this."

"The hell you didn't!" Rage boils your blood, and you see red. "I have had it, Michael. This is the last straw."

You shove past him and throw open the door. The night is calm, but you are not. You've played the passive role for too long. No. Fucking. More. 

Those four morons could mess with you all they wanted, but not your family. Not their home. 

Your brothers call after you, but it's Sammy who asks, "Where are you going?!"

"Out!"

Your anger leads you to the boardwalk.

People laugh, their conversations overlapping until it's nothing but white noise buzzing in your ears. Overhead, Runaway by Bon Jovi crackles through the boardwalk's sound system, but the music is distorted as if filtered through a tunnel.

You find David and his gang easily, almost like you have a homing beacon guiding you straight to them. You don't overthink it. Really, you don't think about it at all. All you know is that you're past your limit for bullshit, and tonight, you'll make it stop one way or another.

Paul is the first one to notice you. He greets you with a cocky grin. "Hey, baby—"

You punch Paul in his stupid, pretty face. It wasn't hard—and the odds are, he's taken worse—but sheer surprise knocks him off his feet into Dwayne. 

You only realize what you did when the pain kicks in.

"Sunova—!" You bite back a scream, cradling your fist against your chest. You wish someone would have warned you: punching hurts.

"What is with you Emerson's and punching without provocation?" muses David.

You glare, filling it with as much hate as you can muster. David isn't affected in the least. In fact, he's amused. He grins like he's watching a newborn puppy learn to snarl. He pushes off the railing and invades your personal space.

"Let me see your hand." David reaches for it, but you step back.

"Don't touch me," you snap.

The boys laugh.

Marko throws his arm over your shoulder and nuzzles your hair. "Baby's got teeth, huh?"

You try to shrug him off, but he hangs on. "Stay away from Michael." They murmur his name like it's a private joke. It makes you angrier. "He's a good guy, and he doesn't deserve to be dragged down by a group of dirty degenerates like you."

David bends at the waist so he's eye-level with you. "Did big brother send you here?"

"No," you say, "I came myself."

"So you can go down on dirty degenerates like us?"

"To get you to fuck off," you sneer.

You shove David back for good measure, but he captures your wrist—your injured hand—without blinking an eye. 

Gingerly, he looks it over, paying close attention to your knuckles. His leather gloves are soft and worn. They must be thick, too, because you can't feel his body heat through them.

What the fuck. No, you're not thinking about that.

He grazes his thumb over the hills and valleys of your knuckles; he turns your hand over, coaxing you to spread your fingers. 

"It's not broken," David says. "You're lucky."

… Huh?

He manipulates your hand into a fist again. "Next time, don't tuck your thumb under your fingers, or you will break it. See?"

"Stop it," you stammer.

"Stop what?"

"Being—" Nice "—weird!"

David releases your hand, and you bring it back to your chest. 

"I think you better apologize to Paul," David continues. "You hurt him real bad, and, well, we don't want him to pout all night, right?"

You glance at Paul, who is indeed pouting theatrically. "Can you kiss it better?" He taps his cheek.

You sneer. "Look—just leave Michael and my family alone. That shit you pulled tonight was not cool, and Mike hasn't been acting like himself since you came along, so I know you're the cause. So, back off, okay?"

David smiles. "Okay."

You pause. Then blink. You wait for the punchline, another witty remark that David has locked and loaded, but it never comes.

"Wait, seriously?"

"Sure." David shrugs, "But you've gotta take his place."

"Excuse me?"

David doesn't repeat himself. He gives you a look similar to the one he gave you over a week ago. Daring you, begging you with those unfathomable blue eyes. Paul leans against your other shoulder.

"C'mon," Paul purs. "Join us."

Marko and Dwayne pile on, chanting with Paul, "Join us. Join us. Join us."

David only stares, his hypnotic gaze locked on yours as the chant grew louder. People are starting to stare. 

"You know you want to," David says. "Stop lying to yourself."

Marko giggles, "We promise we'll be good."

From behind, Dwayne mutters, "Extra good."

"Don't leave us hanging, baby," Paul whines.

This isn't what you came here to do. All you wanted was to get them to back off before someone—like Sam or Mom—got hurt. 

But that teeny-tiny part of you, the one you've been trying to smother since you arrived in Santa Carla, pipes up. You didn't have to come. You could have let Michael handle this. You could have ignored them instead of walking into the lion's den. You knew, deep down, that this would happen. You wanted it to.

Your rage evaporates with every passing second and is replaced with that familiar fuzzy feeling in your abdomen. They're so close. 

They pet you—your arms, your hands, your neck. David is content to watch like he knows they're steadily chipping away at your resolve. Dwayne's hands migrate to your hair, toying with the ends. Cool breath fans over your neck. Leather kisses your exposed skin.

You remember too late that you're not wearing your usual maxiskirts but instead a pair of cut-offs that reveal far more skin than you typically like to show. But ... you don't care. If anything, it makes that fuzzy feeling more intense. You want them to look.

"I..." Your breath catches. You don't know what to say, and even if you did, you don't think you can admit it out loud.

David sees this. He knows you. So, he offers his hand instead. Open. Ready. Accepting. You don't need words with him.

Your fingers twitch. It was only a matter of time before they wore you down and coaxed that yes from you.

Slowly, painfully slow, you place your hand in David's. He curls his fingers over yours, sealing the deal.

The boys erupt into cheers, and that hazy bubble of something bursts like fireworks, an explosion of euphoria. Your skin tingles, and you grin. Dwayne wraps his arms around your middle and spins you around, eliciting a surprised shriek from you. 

"C'mon, boys." David tosses his cigarette to the ground and stomps it out. "Let's go."