#'My fingers don't have the dexterity they once did...'

[blazingblorbos]

And there it is, the scene that ruined my life

Straight from the YT video on the official channel: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DXcQSUZuOKk

[amarynthian-chronicles]

Equivalent Value

Sebastian Solace x Reader

(warning: suggestive themes)

"Come on, Seb, don't be like that. Please?"

"No."

"Pretty please?"

He reached to place a clawed finger under your chin, tilting his head and grinning, narrowing his eyes.

"You are lovely when you beg. My answer remains negative."

"You are a jerk."

"A merchant's honour is very important, little light. As much as I enjoy your charming pleas, I cannot go against my own rules. You need to offer me something of equivalent or approximate value. And your sweet "pretty please" is not going to cut it."

He was taunting you, relishing the power that your despair offered. Perhaps your own pain was a soothing balm to calm his own wretchedness. It was more tolerable to listen to the shrieks of others than one's own, after all.

Still, you refused his answer. You frowned, crossing your arms over your chest.

"It is becoming insanely difficult to scavenge things and I am just trying to survive at this point. If you want to keep your favourite toy in a functional state, that will require some concessions on your end. Can you please make an exception this time? I am desperate here."

Sebastian could not deny the logic of your statement. You had never allowed yourself to be placed in such a position, and perhaps your claims of not having any research files to bargain with were truthful.

Magnificent. He could make you dance to his music.

He leaned closer, his lips brushing against yours, cruel words dripping like poisonous honey from them.

"How desperate are you, my wayward light?"

Mind games with monsters were a dangerous thing and you would normally do your best to win. However, this time you did not have any advantage and you simply wished to get the needed supplies. You sighed.

"What do you want?"

"The most precious thing you could offer to a starving man in this very moment."

You did not stop him when his strong arms snaked around your waist, engulfing and capturing you. You were his prize, the most valuable type of treasure he could acquire. His ally, his accomplice, sharing his secrets.

You were well aware that he wanted you, your mind, body, and soul. Whether you wished to admit it or not, you yourself were the most powerful card you had against him.

"I hereby offer myself. It is all I have. Will this suffice?"

To your surprise, he gently reached for your hand, kissing it in a gentlemanly manner.

"The payment is more than acceptable."

You blinked in confusion at the sudden change of demeanour. Yes, the feral desire was still there, but his actions were now coupled with a certain tenderness that bordered on worship.

Sebastian took his sweet time, placing many gentle kisses along your hand, then upon each finger. His teeth grazed slowly along your wrist. Your cheeks were burning.

"Oh, my."

"My blessing, my little light, sweet salvation. For years, I had remained here, condemned, left to rot in this oceanic prison. And yet, an angel has been sent to me, tormenting me, mocking me with their warmth, their hope. I shall feast, I shall drink that nectar."

"You send such mixed signals, you know?"

"To keep you guessing, of course."

"Bastard."

His lips claimed yours, eager, showing his claim. Your softness drove him mad, his long tongue reaching to explore the warm and welcoming cavern of your mouth. You made little muffled squeaks, surprised at the sudden surge of passion. Even more so at the length of his rather dexterous tongue that was exploring with pure abandon.

Sebastian decided to savour the moment, gliding his claws along your sides, grinning as he felt you shudder under his touch. Such softness. He had been deprived of the pleasures of simple touch and affection for so long.

Deciding that he should grant you the mercy of allowing you to breathe once more, he released you from the kiss. He nuzzled the soft silken skin under your neck, allowing your warmth to comfort him. Your pulse, your beating heart, a symphony only for him to enjoy.

Sebastian had to gather some control over himself, resisting the need to claim you in that very moment. No, he wished to slowly unwrap his present and enjoy each part of the payment that had been offered. Still, his three hands could not help themselves, fondling and scratching, teasing you all over. You were still gasping for breath, holding onto him.

"Seb..."

"I am busy, darling."

"Don't tear the fabric, I don't have a whole closet of clothing, you know."

"Worry not, I shan't disrobe you just yet. Your payment will be in several installments. This is merely the first one. As for the garments, I can procure you whatever you wish."

"Good thing you didn't print a receipt, while you are at it."

Strong hands kept massaging and squeezing your sides and hips, earning your sweet hums and moans as a reward. You relaxed in his hold, leaning your head on his chest, closing your eyes.

"A little to the right, upwards. My back has been killing me for days, this is wonderful. You should be a masseuse, Seb. Three arms work magic."

He laughed gently at your nonsense, resting his chin on your soft head.

"Of course, my dear light."

[rosie-read-that]

bad blood / scott miller x reader

summary: set after twisters. when scott initiates a lawsuit against javi and his new business partners, they choose to take you on as their attorney—no matter that you and scott were once high school sweethearts, that you still have his ring in your closet, or that things between you ended catastrophically six years past. this is business. no need to go down memory lane… right?

content warnings: f!reader, alcohol use, language, offscreen parental death, one open door scene (unprotected piv), couple angst, riggs is his own walking red flag, questionable legal ethics

word count: 21.6k (sorry, guys 😬)

author’s note: here it is! i tried to rein in the length, but clearly i failed ✌🏼 shoutout to @hederasgarden and @sailor-aviator for giving scott his fandom-approved surname. on a final note, i am not a lawyer, i took one (1) business law class in college, so don’t take my word on any of this and definitely don’t do stuff with your ex while he’s the opposing party in a case you’re working (but if it’s david corenswet, i meannnn… should anyone be blamed?)

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

Well-meaning, and with typical Arkansan practicality, Tyler Owens leaned back in his chair and said, “Javi, you need to chill out, man.”

Immediately, you knew it was the wrong thing to say.

“What makes you think I’m not? It's not like my entire livelihood is on the line or anything, so why would I not be chilled out?—Dammit!”

“Actually, lose the tie,” you suggested, having watched him fumble for the last five minutes. You were sure it was nerves that did it, not a lack of dexterity.

Javi sighed and let the two ends hang pathetically around his neck. “I thought I was supposed to wear one…”

“I think that’s only for court,” Kate put in, “like with an actual judge and stuff.”

“Maybe in the 1970s,” remarked Tyler under his breath. Javi glared. “Bro, it’s gonna be fine.”

“We should be out there, tracking tornadoes!” There was a mounted television in the little waiting area, playing a 24-hour news channel on mute. Javi gestured at the weather report. It was March, and Tornado Alley was looking active, “robust,” as the weatherman put it… not that your clients would know firsthand, seeing as they were stuck in a high-rise in the city instead of out in the fields of Sapulpa County. Kate and Tyler were watching the radar images with twin expressions of restless longing. Javi yanked the tie from his neck. “That son of a bitch knew exactly what he was doing, tying us up in meetings at this time of year.”

“Yeah, he did,” you replied. “I know it’s inconvenient as shit, but believe me, I’m going to do everything I can to get you back out on the field. There’s no reason for all three of you to be here. I mean, it’s the modern age: some of this could be a Zoom meeting.”

 “You think we’re gonna Zoom in the middle of a storm?” Tyler quipped. Kate turned to him with a chastising look.

She was clearly just about as done as her other two partners, but a lot more level-headed about the fact that they were being sued for everything they had. Which you appreciated. Suits between friends and former business associates had a tendency to turn into mud-slinging wars, and there was nothing you hated more than a client stuck in denial. Kate was the opposite. She was cool-headed, calm. A happy medium between Tyler’s annoyed outrage (“who does this guy think he is!”) and Javi’s frustrated melancholy (“guys, I’m sorry, this is all my fault”).

Right now, Javi was sinking well into the latter.

“Just remember we’re here for you, Javi.” Kate rubbed a soothing hand across his back. “All the way. We know this is personal.”

“Yeah, which means it’s gonna get ugly. I hate the thought of our company going under because I had shitty taste in business partners, you know?”

“Well, you don't anymore. That’s character growth,” Tyler pointed out. “Now, I’m no legal expert, but as far as I can see, he’s got no legs to stand on—”

You held up a finger. “Uh, that’s not entirely true…”

“—and he’s going to come out of this looking like a complete and total tool. Which he is! If he wants to spend all this time and boatloads of his uncle’s money on a belligerent witch hunt, then so be it.”

“You mean our time, our money,” said Javi.

Kate looked at you. “If this ends up going to court, is it likely he’ll win?”

You sighed. “Okay, listen.” You sat on the coffee table. There was no avoiding the sight of three pairs of eyes with varying degrees of hopefulness trained on you, hanging onto your every word. Javi you had known before, but after a brief acquaintance, you’d decided that you liked Kate and Tyler too, had even spent an hour or two watching Tornado Wrangler videos on YouTube, and, while storm chasing seemed, well, kind of unhinged, their enthusiasm was contagious. They were passionate, not in a purely thrill-seeking or overly scientific way. They actually cared. And you wanted them to win. “The whole point,” you explained, “is that we’re trying to avoid this going to trial. If you’re looking to cut down on the cost to your bottom line—not to mention how this could drag on for literal years—it’s best to reach a settlement before this ever sees the inside of a courtroom. Either way, things are going to get a little worse before they get better. But the point is a clean break, right? When all this is over, StormPAR will never have any sort of claim over you. You’ll be free to chase storms, build your doo-dads—”

That got you a trio of chuckles. Good, let them think you were a meteorological idiot; all the better to make them feel like a united front.

“—and it’ll be like Scott and Riggs never happened.”

“Sounds good to me,” Tyler said, that steely determination from his old rodeo days coming through.

Kate gave a nod. “No matter what, we’ll be okay”

Javi put his hand on your knee. “Thank you… for everything. I know this has gotta suck for you too.”

“Who, me?” you asked, feigning ignorance. “I’m fine.”

“Mm-hm…”

“Do I not look fine?”

“You look great,” Kate said honestly.

“Miller’s gonna shit his pants.”

“Tyler!”

“Hey, we’re up,” your assistant announced, her fingers not pausing for a second as she typed on her phone. Abby may have the social skills of a polar bear, but her organizational skills were top-notch and you relied on her predatory instincts. Plus, you were sure that her geometrically perfect French bob had magical powers.

Signaling for the others to follow, you made your way down a hallway bordered by walls banded in frosted glass, the sound of typing and muffled phone calls familiar and yet not. This was enemy territory. Having you meet here instead of at the offices of Conway & Fine was a calculated move.

Before entering the conference room, you took Tyler by the elbow. “Please just… try to behave yourself.”

Me? He pointed at his face.

“Yes, you! Don’t provoke him—as a matter of fact, don’t even look at him—don't piss him off unless you want to make this a hell of a lot worse for everyone. Capisce?”

“I’ll be the picture of civility.”

You shot him a skeptical look.

“I’ll be a gentleman!”

You glared. “Tyler Owens, I’m holding you to that.” Adjusting your power suit, you put on your best Professional Face. “Alright guys, it’s showtime.”

Through the glass, your eyes landed on Scott. The temptation to bolt left you breathless, though you couldn’t say whether you wanted to run towards or far, far away. You wouldn’t. You were all too aware of the people standing behind you, counting on you, while Scott himself had been a stranger to you for the last few years.

You owed him nothing; this was simply business, you reminded yourself.

Simply business.

He turned his head and spotted you, and kept his eyes on you as you opened the door.

TEN YEARS AGO PARK HAVEN, PENNSYLVANIA

You’d been working on the same calculus assignment for the last three-quarters of an hour, the sound of rain lashing against your window doing nothing for your frazzled nerves.  While math was by no means your obvious strong suit, you would have finished by now if you hadn’t spent most of it staring at the wall beneath your windowsill, bouncing your leg, tapping your pencil compulsively against the edge of your AP textbook and imagining all the ways in which your life could go horribly, unfixably wrong. An outcome that now seemed likely.

“You still have time, sweetheart,” your mom tried to say at dinner that night. She smiled at you and patted your hand. “It’s only March.”

“Exactly—it’s March!” you’d wanted to say, but bit your tongue. There wasn't any point; your mom would always believe you were capable of walking on the moon, which was lovely, you guessed. Or it would be, if all your classmates weren't overachievers and if a lot of them hadn't already received acceptance letters and stuck pennants to the inside of their lockers for all the rejects to see.

It was hopeless… you should’ve gotten an answer by now.

Tossing the book and papers away, you buried your face in your hands and tried to hold it together. The sleeves of your sweatshirt emanated a woodsy, clean smell, kind of like rain in a forest, and you breathed in deep to let it ground you.

Slowly, the intensity of the storm outside faded to background noise, no longer angry, insistent—it was only rain after all, only weather. You sniffed, feeling silly, and snuggled into the navy-blue sweatshirt, wrapping your arms around your knees. The gold lettering read NICHOLS ACADEMY ATHLETICS. On you, it was practically a dress, and you’d been living in it all week, ignoring Mom’s teases about how “you’re going to have to wash it at some point!” while your dad watched you pass by, saying nothing, only flipping the page of whatever biography he was reading, not wanting to comment or so much as reference your boyfriend of two years, who played center field on Nichols’s prize baseball team and from whom you’d stolen the sweatshirt after a date at the park.

Try as you might, your dad had never warmed up to Scott, but you thought it had more to do with an objection to Scott’s father rather than to Scott himself. The whole family’s trouble, he said once, prompting a fight that ended with you slamming your bedroom door and not speaking to him for two days, until your mom laid down the law and said she wouldn't have that sort of tension around the house.

He didn’t get it. Scott wasn't like his father—if anything, you saw the way his jaw tensed whenever he heard rumors (whispered, unless intended to get a rise out of him by a school rival) about the private club scenes, the drinking, the reckless gambling, the other women. Of course your straitlaced dad assumed the apple wouldn't fall too far from the tree, but you knew Scott. You trusted him. And, fine, so you were seventeen, but you knew you wanted to spend the rest of your life with him—it happened, didn't it?

Granted, this was why that damned letter was so important. It was the perfect plan… so long as Scott got into MIT, which seemed like a given, and you into Harvard, the culmination of four years of meticulous planning and candle-burning work. But what if it didn’t happen? Could your relationship survive the time and long distance? As much as you hoped so, you didn’t want to find out.

Out of nowhere came sharp rap at your window. Startled, you looked up to see a familiar face peering through the rain-lashed glass, and automatically you sprang to your feet. “Scott! What the hell were you thinking!” you hissed, mindful of your parents, probably in bed at this hour. He paused halfway through the window, pretending offense.

“Wow, okay, here I thought I was making a big romantic gesture…”

“You’re soaking wet! You could’ve fallen and broken your neck!”

As you lowered and latched the window behind him, trying to be as quiet as possible, he defended, “I’m a tree connoisseur. If anything, I’m a that-tree connoisseur and she’s never let me down before. Literally. Sturdy branches on her.”

He had a point there. The tree directly outside your bedroom window had played makeshift ladder to him over the last couple of years—not that your parents were any the wiser. If your dad knew, he’d go straight to the nearest hardware store and buy the ax himself. (What he would do with that ax, having never done a day’s manual labor in his life besides recreational fishing, was beyond you.)

You shook your head, watching Scott drip all over the hardwood. God, he was stunning.

And there was a chance you might lose him forever in a few months.

You felt the sting in your throat and behind your eyes. “I’ll go get you a towel,” you said, averting your face and turning towards the ensuite so you could get a few seconds to yourself. He caught you by the wrist and spun you into his body.

“Wait a minute, kiss me first,” he demanded, a cocky grin on his face. You managed to see a flash of it before his lips met yours. You closed your eyes in spite of everything, melting into the kiss, into Scott, because it was as easy as breathing and just as pointless trying to resist.

His cheeks were cold, his mouth warm. Coaxing. The pressure of his hands on your waist like an anchor in the storm. He was perfect for you. How could you belong with anyone else? It was impossible.

His tongue brushed your bottom lip, and it was a move so practiced, so instinctive, so perfectly well-known, that it made the fear swell in your chest again. You held onto the front of his rain-drenched hoodie, breaking the kiss. Your breathing was ragged. You felt you could burst.

“You’re insane,” you tried to cover, burying your head in his chest. “My dad will kill you if he catches you.”

He took a step back and tilted your face up, gently, by the chin. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you replied.

“Tell me.”

Instead of answering, you made your way to the bathroom and got a towel out of the linen closet. You could feel Scott’s questioning gaze, but he waited, rubbing the towel across his head, brows knitted together as you hesitated, still trying to hedge. “I just—we have that exam next week and I’ve fallen behind on calc and I think I’m going to have to start over on my AP Civ end-of-the-year project, and my mom—”

“Your mom’s great,” Scott interjected.

“Why, d’you want her?”

He pursed his lips. As soon as you said it, you knew that it had sounded kind of bitchy.

“Fine, okay. She’s great, she’s just… trying to help.”

“Is this about Drexler getting her Harvard letter? Because it’s only—”

“It's only March. Yeah. That’s what Mom said. But I’m cutting it close, right? Some people got their letters in December, Scott—December!” You looked down at your feet. “I’m not going to get in.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Well, it sure feels like it!”

“C’mere.”

“No.” You shook your head.

“Come here,” he insisted, tossing the damp towel onto your bed and holding your arms loosely, his hands stroking up and down. No matter how much you held onto the scent-memory of him on his Nichols sweatshirt, nothing compares to the real thing. He made everything better; and if not, he made everything feel like it could get better, because he was Scott Miller, and the world bent to his charm or else. “You’re going to get in,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “They’d be crazy not to have you.” And the thing was, despite being utterly convinced only two minutes before that the worst was inevitable, you wanted to believe him, wanted to convince yourself that everything would settle into place as it should.

Scott dipped his head to brush his lips against yours, a deliberate barely-there sweep that made your eyes flutter closed and your arms lace around the wide breadth of his shoulders. Scott’s hands traveled down your back, pressing into your hips until you were flush against the length of his body. You felt him smile as he let you deepen the kiss, and the little rumble of his almost-laugh pinged all the way down to your toes, warming you from the inside the way only Scott could.

As his mouth moved down to your jaw and then the side of your neck, you slid your hands down his chest and then stopped, feeling something other than the hidden planes of his stomach through the fabric of his dark hoodie. You pulled away. Scott’s face had frozen into a look of mild panic and his hands wrapped around your wrists, holding them loosely, which only made the alarm bells ring louder in your head. That was not the sort of face he would make if he was hoarding old receipts.

“Scott?” you asked. He looked away, exhaled, and let your wrists drop with a resigned expression. You reached into his pocket, pulling out a sheet of white letter paper folded into quarters, carefully and with Scott-like precision. “What…” you began, glancing at him briefly and opening the sheet.

At the top, in cardinal red: Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

You might have gasped. At the very least, one of your hands flew up to your mouth. “Oh my God… Scott…”

“We don’t have to talk about it now.”

“Scott! This is from MIT! You got in?”

“It's really not a big deal.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, his shoulders curved slightly inward.

Not a big deal? “Scott, shut up! You got in!” you exclaimed, aghast.

“You’re not upset?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” You set the letter down to the side, knowing he’d want to keep it—that so much as folding it and putting it in his pocket so he could make the ten-minute run to your house in the middle of a downpour must have been a minor sacrifice on your account. Because he wanted to tell you. Because he wanted you to be the first person other than his mom to hear the good news. “We’ve talked about this. This is your dream school, babe.”

“Yeah, well, it feels kinda shitty celebrating now.”

“Stop.” You reached up and gave him a peck on the lips, stroking his cheeks, resting your forehead against his. “I'm so freaking proud of you. You’re going to be the best, most kick-ass engineer.”

You looked into his eyes so that he’d know it was true, and for a moment you could tell he was letting himself feel the achievement—his shoulders relaxed, he caressed your hands gratefully, but there was something about his smile that signaled not all being well.

“I heard Mom talking on the phone with my uncle today,” he confessed.

“Your uncle Riggs? Down in New Orleans?”

“Yeah. She doesn't want me to know, but I heard her talking about college and…”

You placed your hands on his chest. “Is it that bad?”

He didn't like talking about it but you knew his father had made a few bad investments lately, and from your own dad, who had confided it to your mom in secret one night—not that he saw you lurking outside the kitchen, drawn by the mention of the name “Miller”—you were aware that he had made a truly catastrophic impulsive bet with some Swedish businessmen he’d been trying to impress. Add to that the drawn look on Mrs. Miller’s face whenever you saw her, and the overly sympathetic way your mom referred to “poor Pamela,” and you had enough evidence to assume that Scott’s father had royally fucked up this time. 

“They’ve been talking about selling the house,” he said with a dark look. “I think my parents are going to split up… for good this time.”

“Oh, Scott…”

“So who knows? I might not be able to go to MIT anyway—even with this.”

“Are you okay?” you asked, aware that nothing got his back up more than pity. But you had to ask.

He shrugged. “It is what it is.”

This was a side of him you’d never learned how to handle, not even after two years of dating. For all that he was an expert at making you feel like the world was yours for the taking, when it came to his own struggles, he was a tightly closed book. Instead of admitting when he was hurt or disappointed, he resorted to indifference and the kind of dark humor that could put you in a bad mood if you weren't careful.

Right now, all you wanted was for him to know that you were there for him. Nothing you could say or do would make Ray Miller grow practical common sense or an ounce of familial consideration—you weren't even sure that he knew your name, despite being Scott’s long-term girlfriend; he was hardly ever home, and never present even on the occasions when he was. But you could state the obvious, just in case he’d doubted it for a second.

“Hey, I love you,” you said to him.

“I love you, too,” he replied. “Now, no more shop talk—why do you think I risked my neck climbing up here?” And just like that, the matter was closed, the dark look disappeared, replaced by the telltale lowering of his dark lashes as he dropped another kiss at the side of your neck, his arms tightening around you, turning you so that the backs of your knees hit the edge of your bed.

“And here I thought your intentions were pure,” you replied, trying to downplay the butterflies in your stomach.

“Darling, there’s no such thing… especially when it comes to you.”

“What an idealist,” you rejoined, then fell quiet when he kissed you again. Without missing a beat, he lowered you onto the bed, hands gliding beneath your sweatshirt with apparent purpose. “Scott,” you protested, “my parents are across the hall.”

“So we’ll be quiet. Or we’ll get caught. What's the worst that could happen?”

“Um, you flying headfirst out that window?”

He pretended to think about it, then, by the warm glow of your bedside lamp, you saw his mouth quirk into a smirk before he dove towards your lips, eyes twinkling. “I don’t know about you, but that sounds like a price I’m willing to pay.”

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

“The damages your client is seeking are absolutely unreasonable. I would even say they border on the ridiculous—and, quite frankly, even frivolous!”

“Frivolous! Your client founded his new company with StormPAR assets—”

“His assets!”

“—accumulated during his tenure as a business partner to my client. Assets which came out of the pocket of Mr. Riggs as well, might I remind you!”

“We were equal partners!” Javi exclaimed, no longer able to keep his temper in check. You supposed the moment you snapped at Mr. Rankin, Javi figured the gloves were off.

Maybe instead of worrying about Tyler, you should've worried about yourself.

Rankin stabbed a finger at the files stacked in front of him. “Exactly, and Mr. Miller deserves to be compensated for the financial losses incurred from your breach of contract.”

Javi balked. “What, I can’t decide to leave my own company?”

“You can do whatever the hell you want, just not with my money,” Scott said in a dangerous monotone. For the last half-hour you’d been trying not to look at him, focusing instead on his middle-aged bespectacled lawyer, but to say you weren't losing your shit would be disproven by the Montblanc you’ve been fidgeting with since the meeting began. When he wasn’t glaring daggers at his former business partner, you could feel the power of his gaze, daring you to meet his eyes again.

“Oh, you mean your uncle’s money?”

“Javi.” You touched his hand in warning.

“You weren't turning your nose up at my uncle’s money when you were trying to found StormPAR.” Scott gibed. In your periphery, you saw Kate rubbing her left temple.

“Me? I thought we were partners, partner.”

“Like you give a shit! You jumped ship, Javi—you jumped ship, set up shop with the opposition, then hired my ex-girlfriend so you could get away with robbing us blind!”

You gritted your teeth. “Mr. Rankin, control your client.”

“‘Control your client’?” Scott spat out, leaning forward and turning the dial up to ten. “What the hell is wrong with you? What are you even doing here?”

“My job, Mr. Miller.” This time you did risk staring him in the face, ignoring the play of light on his cheekbones, the shape of his lips, the triangle of exposed skin at his throat that you used to know so well. “I work for StormLab. You might find my presence objectionable, but that’s neither here nor there as long as my clients choose to keep me on retainer. If you don't like it, you’re free to leave and we can negotiate with Mr. Rankin directly.”

He said nothing. Scott was never at a loss for words unless he was well and truly pissed, the force of his intelligence diverted into barely suppressed anger. You could've heard a pin drop in that conference room. His hands were on top of the table, tense, almost shaking, and the rise and fall of his chest was visible even to you. Against your will, your brain threw up images of those same hands holding yours, threaded through your hair, brushing gently against the small of your back; those same arms drawing you close; the same mouth smiling.

You cleared your throat, shuffled a few papers around, and once again addressed the general room and Mr. Rankin. “Now, if you turn to page 16, you’ll see that Mr. Rivera is willing to formally sell his share of StormPAR for less than he’s entitled—if both Mr. Miller and Mr. Riggs agree to desist in interference with StormLab, which, need I remind you, was founded two-thirds of the way with assets entirely independent from the former. If this action’s purpose isn’t frivolous, then Mr. Owens and Ms. Carter should be removed from this suit.”

“Like hell,” Scott interrupted, prompting Javi to fire back with:

“What, you think we’re not good for it? I’ll have you know—”

“You expect me to believe you started your little company on the merits of an NWS salary and a fucking YouTube channel?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Tyler lean forward, ready to pounce. Rankin muttered, “Language,” and pushed his eyeglasses up his nose. You knew he was a personal friend of Scott’s uncle—you could also tell that he would rather be out on the golf course than in the middle of this friend-divorce and embarrassing squabble, one where his input seemed superfluous and his counsel went unheeded even by his client.

Scott went on, full of accusation. “You used StormPAR money, didn’t you?”

“If you want to request any financial disclosures…” you began.

“We’re talking.”

Bitch. “No, you’re berating,” you shot back.

Javi put his hand on your wrist. “It’s fine. Yeah—I guess if you want to look at it that way, if I was making a living off StormPAR and taking Riggs’s money, then yeah, technically my share of StormLab exists because of what we had.”

“Javi.”

“No. Fair’s fair and all that. I don’t want any part of it anymore. Hell, you can have it. But come on, man, don’t pretend you’re doing any of this because you’re broke. Even if I gave you half of whatever StormPAR’s worth, it wouldn’t make a difference. You’re mad that I left. I get it. Let’s settle this, you and me. Leave Kate and Tyler out of it.”

“You stole our data!”

Now, that couldn't stand. “He made the executive decision to share data with Mr. Owens’s team.” Sure, it was a technicality but it was a true technicality.

“Bullshit!”

You sighed. “Are we getting anywhere here, Rankin?”

The lawyer glanced down at his watch and shook his head almost mournfully. “It’s not looking likely.”

“Wonderful.” You stood up, gathering your things and motioning for Kate, Tyler, and Javi to do the same. “Well, we’re all very busy people and clearly meeting in-person is counterproductive. Shall we agree to make this a video call next time? My clients have places to be.”

“I’ll bet they do,” Scott mocked, staring not only at Javi but at his new partners for probably the first time all afternoon. “How’re your investors doing, by the way, knowing you’re getting sued for infringement, breach of contract and fiduciary duty…”

You wanted to strangle him. In a voice that matched him venom for venom, you turned to your assistant and said, “Did you get that on record, Abby? Please, keep going,” you urged Scott, “you might just win us a dismissal.”

After a moment of charged silence, you told your clients: “We’re done here.”

“You’ll be hearing from me,” said the reluctant Mr. Rankin.

You snatched the chrome door handle from Tyler. “Boy, am I looking forward to it.”

Outside, you didn’t stop until you’d turned the corner into another section of the office, not wanting to be within eyeshot of Scott when you gritted your teeth and let the mask of cool indifference fall.

“Well, that went…” Tyler trailed off, leaning against the metal doorframe of Copy Room 3. The smell of toner and ozone was strangely comforting, bringing you back to your professional self now that Scott and his stupid, handsome-as-ever face were out of view. That, and you were noticing that Tyler Owens in a corporate-adjacent setting didn’t sit well with you; you couldn’t decide whether it was the outdoor tan or the in-your-face belt-buckle that gave it away. Regardless, he seemed too big for the confines of a downtown law office.

“It went like a garbage fire,” you confirmed, “which means about as well as I expected.”

Kate crossed her arms. “So we’re going to court, then.”

“I’m going to keep pushing for him to drop StormLab from the suit.”

“That just leaves me,” Javi remarked, downcast, but still willing to take one for the team.

“I mean, Javi, dear, you did abandon the partnership without ironing out all the kinks first.”

“How was I supposed to know I needed to hire a lawyer?”

“Um, literally everyone knows you’re supposed to hire a lawyer,” said Tyler, “especially if you’re dealing with someone like Textbook Type A over there.”

Javi ran a hand down his face, then shook his head. “What can I say? I-I thought he was my friend.”

“I know.” You clapped your hand on Javi’s shoulder. I understand. “But sometimes all that does is make it worse.”

After a bit more commiserating you parted ways with the three, hanging back with Abby to touch base on a few points and clear up the rest of your schedule, which included a deposition in an hour-and-a-half and witness prep at 4:30. Understandably, you were in the mood for none of this and wanted nothing more than to retire to your apartment with a glass of red and a bowl of popcorn as big as your head à la Olivia Pope, but alas… you were trying to make junior partner.

No rest for the wicked and all that.

You released Abby for a late lunch and made your way to the bank of elevators after a brief pit stop at the restroom, side-eyeing the fancy automatic taps and the whiff of something hotel-like emanating from the vents. You’d have to tell the office manager at Conway & Fine to up your game.

Fishing your phone out of your bag, you pushed the elevator button and began scrolling through a frightful amount of emails—there were intraoffice communications and check-in requests from clients, a few items of junk not caught by the email filter, the latest newsletters from PennAlumni and the Oklahoma Bar Association, as well as an invitation to an old mentor’s golden anniversary celebration. You were in the middle of responding to this when Scott sidled up next to you, giving no indication other than the familiar scent of his cologne and the tap of shined leather shoes against the polished tile. Of all the bad luck…

“So what is this, some kind of a decade-old revenge plot?” he finally asked, disconcerting you with the fact that he was standing so close to you that you couldn't glance at his expression without craning your neck. “Maybe I should’ve expected it from you, but Javi? I didn't know he had it in him.”

“Go away, Scott. This is business.”

“Really, is that what you want to call it? He could've hired anyone.”

“Well, he chose to hire a friend.”

“Right…” A laugh. Dry, cynical. “And what's your excuse?”

You stared at the light above the door, willing it to flash green and put you out of your misery. “Believe it or not, my taking this case has nothing to do with you. Forgive me if I thought you could be a fucking adult about it—clearly I was wrong.”

Ding!

You walked into the elevator without looking back. As parting words went, you thought they passed muster. Except, instead of being a regular person and taking the next car, Scott followed you in, ignoring the outrage written plain on your face.

You looked at him as if to say, “Do you mind?” It was obvious that he didn't. Whatever composure he’d lost in the conference room had been regained now that it was just you, and him, and the shared knowledge that you would have avoided being alone with him if you could.

He stood next to you, towering. As the floor number inched downward from 22, you were all too aware of his presence: the Scott smell of him, the warmth of his body, and the brush of his dark linen jacket against your arm. You wished you handed discarded your own in the restroom; you needed armor, and while Scott had donned his as soon as he was able, he had caught you unawares, expecting him to play fair even when all the evidence of the last two hours had told you that “fair” was no longer in his vocabulary.

As if to illustrate the point, you felt him lean in, his voice the closest it had been in over six years. “You always did love making a show of taking the moral high ground. How’s the view, sweetheart? You must love getting the chance to look down on me for change.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Not bothering to contain your disgust, you stepped away from him, clutching your bag in a white-knuckle grip. For a moment you felt struck by lightning. There was a time when you knew the planes of his face better than your own—the slope of his nose, the variations of blue in his eyes; you knew the shade of his hair in every light; how to tell a false smile from the true. But this Scott… the one with the shuttered expression, the see-if-I-care set to his shoulders, “how’re your investors doing, by the way”… It wasn’t like those things came out of left field—Scott had always been capable of a certain amount of pride, petulance, vindictiveness, even. But it was like the best parts of him had been filed away, or else hidden so deep that you couldn't find nary a sight of them when you looked into his face. “What happened to you?”

You saw his jaw clench. “If you want to know, then you shouldn’t have left.”

8…

7…

6…

You took a breath. “That whole last year—you pushed me away and you know it.”

Instead of answering your honesty in kind, Scott hitched up his sleeve so he could glance at the time on his fancy Swiss watch, a present from Good Old Uncle Riggs on the event of his graduation from MIT. “Yeah, well, you made it easy.”

4…

3…

2…

The doors opened onto a vast lobby. Incredulous, you kept waiting for him to take his words back, to apologize, to so much as glance at you, damn it. When you saw there wasn't any point, you swallowed the knot in your throat, stepping out of the elevator car and feeling twenty-one all over again.

This time, he didn't follow you. He leaned against the back handrail, not reacting even when you mustered every remaining ounce of dignity to say, “Go fuck yourself, Scott.” Then you turned on your heel and walked away.

TEN YEARS AGO PARK HAVEN, PENNSYLVANIA

Once more on your bedroom floor. Scott sat at your back, his arms wrapped around you and his head bent over yours. “Hey, listen to me… we’ll make it work. I’ll call you every day.”

“With a full slate of classes? That doesn't make any sense.”

“I don’t care if it doesn't. Hey,”—he kissed your temple—“it’s you and me. That doesn’t need to change”

“You say that now…”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I do.” You sighed. “It’s the hot nerds I don’t trust.”

You felt him laugh. “You’re a hot nerd.”

“Stop it.” But you smiled anyway, probably for the first time since you’d opened the rejection letter from Harvard. Concerned, your mom had called Scott while you were holed up in your room, ugly-crying into the bedspread, and it was enough to make you regret having been so bitchy about her the week before. She really had been trying to help… not that it mattered now that Harvard had given you the hard pass.

It wasn’t like you had no other options—you’d have been crazy not to line up a contingency plan or two. But Harvard had been your dream since you could remember caring about college. It was your castle in the sky, the thing that kept you going through four years of grueling hard work, a neverending grind of AP and Honors classes, student clubs and extracurriculars. And still it wasn’t enough.

“We regret to inform you…”

Well, not as much as you regretted it.

As if reading your mind, Scott wrapped his arms a little tighter, his tone light when he said, “UPenn’s nothing to scoff at, you know. You’re upset because you got into an Ivy League?”

“An Ivy League in Philadelphia,” you protested.

You didn’t add “and not the one I wanted” because you knew, objectively, that he and your parents and Ms. Andersson, your favorite teacher, were all right. You were incredibly lucky to have gotten into the University of Pennsylvania—the campus was beautiful, it was close to home, and, like Harvard, it boasted its own fair share of Supreme Court Justices and legal luminaries. It wasn’t like your future was in complete and utter shambles. You would still have everything you wanted… except Scott.

You felt him shrug behind you. “So what? It’s just a five-and-a-half-hour drive—or an hour-and-a-half by plane if we’re desperate.” You shifted so you could shoot him a funny look. “I might have googled it,” he admitted, “right after you told me you got in.”

“Of course you did…” The fact that he had started making plans without waiting on Harvard made you feel better; it meant he had every intention of making it work and maybe you were the downer, seeing the situation as near-hopeless when, really, there had to be couples who didn't let physical distance stop them from being together.

Glass half-full. All you needed was a little faith, a little more optimism.

“At least we’ve got the whole summer,” you said, trying to implement this new, sunnier outlook.

You felt Scott stiffen.

“What?” You turned around properly, anchoring your hand on the side of his neck. You had a minor panic when he wouldn't look at you, and at the guilt written on his brow. “Tell me,” you said.

“Uncle Riggs wants me to spend the summer down in NOLA—something about getting to know me better. I think he must’ve worked it out with Mom. She’s finally put the house up for sale, doesn't want me around when strangers start traipsing through and asking about whether or not she’ll throw in the vintage furniture for an extra few grand.”

At last, after years of painful back and forth, the Miller divorce was imminent. True to Scott’s prediction, “poor Pamela” had hired an attorney and filed paperwork on the very week he climbed through your window. So far his dad had been uncharacteristically passive, perhaps figuring he had put his family through enough, or else fearful of the very same Marshall Riggs who had been summoned from the rafters to come through for his sister after a period of long estrangement.

It was Riggs who had retained Pamela’s ace divorce attorney, Riggs who agreed to pay most of Scott’s tuition. Spending a few months with him seemed like the least he could do. You were disappointed. But you understood.

“When do you leave?”

“Two weeks after graduation.”

“So we have a month,” you said. “That’s thirty days.”

“More like twenty-six… and three quarters.” He smiled the same wistful sort of half-smile that was on your face, and you kissed him, savoring the familiar taste of mint on his mouth from the gum he chewed out of habit.

“Then let’s not waste a second,” you answered back.

He placed a kiss on your forehead. “I love you.”

When he said it, it sounded like a promise that everything would be all right, and in spite of your worries you chose to believe him.

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

For the last ten minutes you’d had trouble hearing Kate’s voice clearly over the phone, but you figured it was to be expected since she was calling from the middle of nowhere (at least to your urban- and suburban-bred estimation), and really, after almost three months of similar experiences, you’d grown tired of plugging your ear and saying, “Kate? Kate? You’re breaking up!”

On the upside, your cognitive skills had to be getting a real workout from filling in the weather-induced gaps in your conversations. Case in point:

“—bad luck with the last two, but I—feeling—building in the east—”

“Yeah, her Spidey Senses are tingling!” you heard Javi yell in the background.

Kate laughed. “Go away!”

“Ask her if she caught the livestream!” Tyler said, no doubt from the driver’s seat.

It sounded like she had you on speakerphone, so you spoke to him directly. “Ty, need I remind you that I have an actual job.”

“Ouch! Did you hear that?—thinks we don’t have real jobs!”

“I did not—”

The clarity improved, and you could hear the sound of car doors slamming and voices cracking jokes in the background, which usually meant they’d returned to Kate’s mother’s farm in Sapulpa, where StormLab kept a satellite office in Cathy Carter’s barn. It was makeshift, but what you saw of it during one of Tyler’s Facetime calls had a rustic charm completely at odds with the glass-and-chrome offices where Herb Rankin worked.

Actually, now that you gave it a moment’s thought, not even Herb Rankin fit into his office.

“Listen to her, the Big City Bigshot slumming it with the rednecks,” Tyler went on, earning a few spirited hoots and howls from the other Wranglers.

“Kate is from New York!” you objected. You waved an arm in the middle of your dim-lit apartment as if anyone could see you, vaguely aware that you were holding a pair of chopsticks and had probably sent a strand of shredded cabbage flying behind your couch.

This assertion was too much for Javi to bear. “Excuse me! Kate is OK to the bone, New York’s just where she keeps her apartment.”

Kate laughed as she said something you couldn’t catch, then Tyler’s voice came, audibly close to the phone. “Hey, that reminds me, where’re you from, again?”

“Pennsylvania.”

“That is not a Philly accent.”

You were about to say that not everyone in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania sounds like Rocky Balboa when Javi replied, “That’s ’cause she’s from the fancy part of Pennsylvania—but we don't hold that against her.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Tyler asked, “Wait, you’re not billing us for all this shit-talking, are you?”

You let out a snort, picked up your phone, and held it close to your mouth. “You know, maybe I should, Arkansas.”

At first you couldn’t work out what the hell was going on when Tyler broke out in “It's the spirit of the mountains… and the spirit of the Delta… it's the spirit of the Caaapitol doooooome,” but by the time the other Wranglers pitched in, with all the gusto of a drunk karaoke night despite being stone-cold sober, you understood that you had been treated to a rare and hopefully never-to-be-repeated rendition of one of the state songs of Arkansas. A short while later you hung up, cheeks sore and still laughing to yourself. The silence in your apartment was deafening by comparison.

Sometimes, you called them just because you lacked company. There wasn’t much to report on the Rankin front—as much as you had tried to negotiate on Javi’s behalf for a less hostile resolution, Scott insisted on keeping Kate and Tyler in the suit and seemed determined to take their tiff before a judge if his terms weren’t met.

Even Rankin seemed fed up.

Maybe it was a bad idea, maybe it was the two glasses of wine you’d had with dinner or the post-ballad high. Maybe you wanted to be the one to make StormLab’s problem go away. Whatever the reason, after you put the dirty dishes in the sink, you found yourself calling the one person you swore you’d never speak to ever again.

For good measure, as the dial tone rang you poured yourself another glass. When he answered, you nearly choked.

“Can we talk?” you managed to ask, swallowing down a mouthful of Syrah. There was a long silence on the other end. You didn't know if he had your number saved, if he knew who had called him, or whether he’d recognized the sound of your voice. You remembered that the last thing you had said to him was “go fuck yourself,” and added it to the mental list of why maybe you shouldn't have called him after all.

Tyler’s impulsiveness seemed to be as contagious as a rash.

Scott answered: “Not without my lawyer present.”

Okay, fair. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. He sounded clipped, like he’d rather be lowered into a tank of leeches than be on the phone with you. You were reconsidering the wisdom of your actions when he asked, “What do you want?”

Your eyes darted around the living room. Thinking on your feet wasn't new to you, it couldn't be, in your profession. But a part of you knew you’d taken a stupid gamble in pressing the call button, and now that the die was cast, you had to make it count.

You opted for the aggressive approach.

“Rankin says you're being uncooperative.”

You could feel the animus on the other end. “No, he didn't.”

“It was implied. No one wants to keep drawing this out, Scott. So, come off it. What is it that you’re actually looking to get out of all this?”

If he opted to tell you to go fuck yourself, you figured it would be fair play. This really was business, and not having to look him in the eyes made it easier to feel the rush of adrenaline that came with making a risky move in the name of work. You knew that technically, and in the strictest interpretation of the word, reaching out to another lawyer’s client crossed the line into inappropriate, but you were also a couple years beyond green. If you could cut out the middleman and get Scott to come to the table in a serious way, it would all be worth it. And Rankin could go back to playing 9 holes without losing face in front of his old school mate Riggs.

You waited for Scott’s response with bated breath.

“I want StormLab run into the ground.”

The answer came as no surprise but his tone did. Dark, intense, almost as bad as one of the nights he snuck into your room after a fight with his dad. It was the one and only time you’d ever heard him say he hated his father—his lack of control, his thoughtlessness, his inability to keep his word. Afterward he’d pretended he never said it, or rather, he was careful to never bring it up again, but you knew he had meant it.

And he meant it now. He wanted to take StormLab down. He’d succeed over your dead body. Javi and the others were counting on you.

You moved the phone to your other ear. “Right, well… that's not gonna happen, so any other alternatives?” You could feel he was about to end the call, so you tacked on, “Wait, just… hear me out, okay? Forget about Tyler and Kate—this isn’t about them, really, this is about StormPAR. Compromise on this one thing and you have a better chance of being compensated for what went down last year. You and Javi can just… move on with your lives. On paper it's about money, right? Riggs’s investment? So let’s settle this as soon as possible.”

“You and me?”

“And Rankin,” you added, your conscience getting the better of you.

There was a pause before Scott repeated, “You and me.”

“I don’t…”

“That’s my final offer.”

Alarm bells of a different sort rang in your head. On the phone was one thing, but in person, alone? Could you really sit across from Scott and keep your cool?

You had to. More than that, you wanted to prove to yourself that you’d grown up since you were twenty-one, that you were assured and confident and could handle messy things like sitting across from your ex. There were many things you regretted from that time; the one you regretted most was a reluctance to stand up for yourself. What was Tyler always saying? You don’t face your fears, you ride them. Frankly, you still weren't sure what the hell he meant by that, but it sounded a lot like “put your money where your mouth is.” At some point you had to choose to take action.

“Okay, fine,” you said. “When and where?”

“You busy tonight?”

You scoffed, casting a glance at your open laptop and the piles of paperwork lying on top of the coffee table. “I’m busy every night.”

“Perch. In an hour. Don’t be late.”

THREE YEARS AGO PARK HAVEN, PENNSYLVANIA

As a rule you’d been avoiding your hometown for the last three years, ever since your breakup with Scott. It was easier to stay in Oklahoma, where the possibility of running into someone who knew the Millers or would ask “are the two of you still together?” was slim. After your father died, you started to regret being such a coward. So much lost time… although your mom kept telling you that your dad understood the need to have your own life and never held it against you.

You held it against you, and all the more when your mom decided to downsize and move in with a friend.

After requesting two weeks off you got on a plane to Philadelphia and drove south to Park Haven to help her pack. You stayed up late, wore holiday pajamas, filled your hand with paper cuts, and inhaled about four pounds of dust in the attic. It was nice to spend time with your mom. All the old grievances seemed minor in comparison with the massive changes that lay ahead. Always one for sentimentality, sorting through boxes full of clothes, keepsakes, and old mementos put your mom in an especially chatty mood, and you soaked everything in, not having realized before how little you knew about your dad. He was so reserved in life, so buttoned-up, with clear expectations of himself and others that you were surprised to learn about his stint in an amateur dramatics troupe, the year he tried his hand at playing the alto sax, his fear of geese.

“Geese?” you asked your mom.

“Yes, geese. Those fuckers are vicious!” Having never heard your mom swear before, you froze while elbow-deep in a box of photographs dating back to the 70s. All she did was shrug and finish the rest of her margarita while lightbulbs flashed on her navy blue Rudolph sweater. “What do you want me to say? Parents have secrets, too.”

“Well, I think this parent went a little hard on the tequila,” you said.

Your mom plucked a faded Polaroid from the box. “You know… he didn’t look it, but your dad was actually a lot of fun. We both were. Then… life gets in the way, you start caring about PTA meetings and getting the HOA off your back…”

“Fuck the HOA.”

“Right on! Can’t say I’ll miss any of those jerks.” She sighed, and with a little shake of her head, put the Polaroid back in the box. “Sometimes I worry—” She stopped herself and glanced at you nervously.

“What?”

“Sometimes I worry that you think about us, about your dad and me, and that you don’t see us as having ever been in love. Especially after you and Scott—”

“Mom,” you warned.

“I know, I know, me and my big mouth.” She held up her hands, chuckling to herself. Normally you’d seize the opportunity to change the subject, but you were thinking a lot about how you could’ve been a better daughter, all the times you shut the door in their face because you didn’t want to feel scolded or uncomfortable, because you weren’t interested in what they had to say.

Your mom was trying to respect your privacy. The least you could do was not leave her with the impression that you thought she had a “big mouth.”

You reached across the box and touched her arm. “That’s not what I meant.”

“All I mean is… I know you’re not dating.”

“How do you know that?”

She grinned. “Mothers have their ways. I just don’t want you giving up, is all. If Dad and I weren’t the model marriage—”

“What are you talking about?” you asked. “Half of my friends have divorced parents. And even if you were divorced, the whole ‘nuclear family or you’re a failure to society’ thing is so five-decades-ago.”

“Well, good! Because I was happy—I want you to know that. Maybe it wasn’t the sort of romance people write songs about—God knows your dad had his faults. He wasn't perfect. No one is. But when you love someone… it’s less about keeping score and more about what you build. Together.”

She looked off to the far wall, where their wedding portrait sat propped in its frame, ready to be wrapped in old newspapers and put away. You turned around and looked at it, too—at your mom’s curly updo and poofy skirts, the sleeves that looked like pool inflatables, at least to your modern eyes, at your dad before his hair went gray, the sheepish smile on his face like he couldn’t believe he’d gotten away with the steal of the century.

You’d gotten so used to its presence in the living room that you couldn’t remember the last time you gave it more than a passing glance.

Lit by an alternating flash of blue and purple lights, your mom’s face was cast in an otherworldly glow. Then the spell was broken, and she was your mom again in an ugly Christmas sweater, smiling fondly at an old memory to which you weren’t privy. “For some reason, we brought out the best in each other. That mattered to us more than anything we ever did wrong.” And that was that, a twenty-nine year marriage summed up in a few sentences.

You said, “I guess that does sound romantic… in a super-practical, boring, construction-analogy sort of way.”

She laughed and threw a wadded-up newspaper at your head.

“Dad never liked Scott,” you said after a while, rolling the ball between your hands.

“What makes you say that?”

You threw her a pointed look. Her expression said, Oh, alright.

“He wasn’t disapproving, exactly. He was worried about you. Who wouldn’t be? Your first boyfriend, your first love… I don’t think he was quite ready to see his teenage daughter all head over heels over some guy on the baseball team. And the Millers, well… they had their issues, as a family. Maybe your dad didn’t want you becoming collateral damage. But, oh sweetie,”—it was her turn to touch your arm, Rudolph’s nose squished against the cardboard—“it was never about Scott. When you told us you were engaged, we were so pleased for you! And then a few months later… just like that…”

You swallowed the knot in your throat. How much time would have to pass before you could think of Scott without a tidal wave of sadness hitting you square in the chest? Collateral damage, that was one way of putting it. “I guess Dad was right, after all.”

“He never said ‘I told you so,’” your mom pointed out, “and he never would’ve wanted to.”

You squeezed her hand. “Yeah, I know.”

A phone call from your mother’s friend Rose prompted a break in packing. She went into the kitchen to discuss sideboard dimensions, and you went upstairs, where you were slowly going through your childhood bedroom and putting things in boxes marked Keep and Donate, or else in bags to be discarded when trash day rolled around.

You were almost finished, the walls empty of medals and photos, the corkboard of mementos lying in the recycling bin outside. Already it felt like a bedroom that had belonged to someone else, and while you were sad to know that, after the house was sold, you would never step foot in it again, the process of taking things down one at a time had given you a sort of detachment. There were items, like the snowglobe your friend Tash gave you when she got home from a skiing trip in the Alps in the seventh grade, that you had once thought you could never do without. But now Tash lived in LA with her wife and kids, and you hadn’t spoken much since high school except for a few text messages now and then.

You’d decided to keep the globe but you knew it would live in a box in your closet, a relic rather than an everyday part of your life in Oklahoma.

Speaking of closets, you tackled the wardrobe next, marveling at how many items would be considered “trendy” now that the fashion cycle had taken a turn—or God forbid, “vintage.” There were stuffed animals shoved into the top shelf, your old 50 State quarter collection, debate club certificates, a landscape picture from your senior year mock trial, and a shoebox falling apart at the seams.

You took it to the stripped bed with shaking hands, knowing you’d been dreading this most of all but that it had to be done, so why not now.

After you broke your engagement off with Scott, you’d gone home to lick your wounds. This was before you found a job, before you decided to move to Oklahoma on the literal toss of a coin, knowing only that you couldn't stay in Pennsylvania and that you needed a fresh start. Left with no other options, home had been your best bet, even though the weeks spent living with your parents and avoiding their worried questions had seemed at the time like cruel and unusual punishment. When you moved out you had left something behind, hidden beneath seashells and baubles and silly notes you had passed during class, movie stubs, train tickets, an inexplicable piece of gum, the collar that had once belonged to Clover, your old childhood dog.

You lifted a school ribbon and found it: a blue velvet box with a golden clasp. Your heart pounded in your ears. You took a deep breath, let it out again before lifting the lid… and there it was, glinting in the light of late afternoon.

“Honey, Rose wants to know if you’d like to join us for dinner at her place!”

Box, ring, and all tumbled onto the hardwood. Though you were alone, your mother calling to you from the bottom of the stairs, you felt incredibly guilty. “I’ll be right down!” you yelled back. You got on your hands and knees and slipped the ring back in its cradle.

It felt dangerous somehow, like a live grenade. But you couldn't get rid of it. When you went back home at the end of the month you packed it at the bottom of your suitcase and it’d been living with you ever since, moved from closet to closet, unseen but never quite forgotten.

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

The jewel twinkled in your hand, an oval diamond surrounded by small clusters and set in a ring of yellow gold. It was one of a kind. Scott told you he found it at an antique jeweler’s who dated it to the summer of 1880; it was a genuine Victorian piece, and for nearly four months it had been your most prized possession.

The same foolhardy impulse that made you call Scott and agree to meet him made you dig it out of your closet, right after you spent twenty minutes agonizing over what to wear and the state of your hair. This isn’t a date, you kept reminding yourself. If anything, it might be a trap. He was, after all, Marshall Riggs's nephew.

Letting your lesser sense win out, you slipped the ring on your finger and watched it catch the light. It truly was a beautiful ring. And it was sentimental, as though its selection revealed a hidden truth about Scott.

Its weight on your hand, present and comfortable, calmed your racing thoughts and the nerves roiling in your belly. You kept it on as you dressed and got ready, then chalked it up to a desire for punctuality when you rushed to the elevator, through the lobby, and into your waiting Uber still wearing it. The driver’s presence snapped you out of your momentary lapse in sanity. They were chatty, and the more you talked about work and the weather and what you liked doing in the city, the sillier it felt to be wearing your ex-fiancé’s engagement ring. Before getting out, you stuck it in the pocket of your linen duster… which was also, admittedly, kind of a stupid thing to do.

(You blamed Tyler for all of it.)

Located at the top of a fifty-floor high-rise, Perch was a bar and restaurant with full views of the city and a James Beard Award-winning chef. The atmosphere was relaxed and unfussy, the lighting unobtrusive, and the cocktails reasonably priced. At the door, the vest-clad host directed you through the assemblage of diners and beyond a decorative glass partition to the tables reserved for business meetings, minor celebrities, and men who didn’t want to be seen with their mistresses. Scott was there in rolled-up shirtsleeves. You watched from a distance as he rubbed his stubbled cheek and his pointer finger came to rest at the seam of his lips.

You would not stare at his mouth or let your eyes linger anywhere on his person. This was business, goddammit.

But hell if he didn’t look good. You hated that after all this time you still found him maddeningly attractive.

“Seriously?” he asked, casting a pointed look at the portfolio in your arms.

“Well, this isn’t a social call.”

“By all means.” He gestured at the seat in front of him, mockingly formal. You glanced at the coupe waiting on your side of the table, a cheerful yellow with a perfect white foam on top and a twist of lemon peel. “I took the liberty of ordering your usual.”

You sat down and set the portfolio to one side, adopting an air of casual indifference. “Actually, it’s not my usual anymore.”

“Really?”

“But thanks anyway. So, from previous conversations with Javi—”

“What is this mythical new usual?”

“Are you kidding?” you balked, narrowing your eyes.

“No, I’m just curious.” He propped his chin in his hand. Maybe lying had been a petty move on your part but you’d be damned if he forced you to backtrack and you came out of this looking a fool.

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, but at some point you’re gonna have to learn to live with uncertainty. Anyway—”

“You don’t have a new usual.” Scott smirked. “It’s still a gin sour and you’re just being difficult.”

“Difficult… Wow, okay! We”—wagging your finger in the space between you—“are not together anymore, so these mind games you’re trying to play are highly inappropriate and also kind of a dick move—”

“A dick move!” he repeated.

“Yeah, a dick move! Which I know is, like, your whole personality now—”

“Is it?” he laughed.

“—but I’m trying to settle this like an actual grown-up and all you’ve done for three months is make that very difficult for everyone involved!”

He rolled his eyes. “This is such a fucking boring conversation.”

Incensed, you had the fleeting thought to throw your drink in his face, but people only did that in soap operas. “You were the one who wanted to do this in person!” you fired back, shrill and drawing the attention of a server who promptly beelined to a different table and pretended not to hear. Which only made you wonder what sort of clientele frequented her section.

“And you were the one who called me,” Scott pointed out, “not the other way around.”

His being right made you even angrier. You had thought you were prepared, that magically you’d be able to have a civil conversation that settled the matter in a way that left you with your pride intact and StormLab the clear winner on the side of good. Clearly, you’d miscalculated. “You know what… fuck this.” After downing half your cocktail in a single gulp, you gathered the portfolio in your arms and made to stand before deciding that, actually, you wanted to get a few things off your chest first so that abandoning your PJs would be worth it. “I am so over this whole… fucking… stupid… mess. I’ve had actual divorces that were easier to mediate, Scott. Whole marriages—and not short ones either! Just take the fucking shares! Please… take the shares and go back to Riggs and leave us all the hell alone. We’re tired, okay? This is just… so unbelievably tiring. And fuck you, by the way—yes, it’s still a gin sour.” You finished yours, figuring that if Scott was paying, you might as well.

And now I’m ready to leave, you thought.

But Scott had other ideas.

“You spoken to your mom lately?”

“What?” You gaped at him, wondering if you were losing your mind. Was he? Was there a dimensional shift happening that you weren’t aware of?

“Pardon the observation,” Scott went on, “but you don’t seem… well.”

“Are you being for real right now?”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

And how else could you mean it? was on the tip of your tongue. But the look on his face made you stop. No bullshit, no smug provocation. He was serious. Somehow, that was more unsettling than when he was fucking with you. It brought back too many memories.

“I was sorry to hear about your dad.”

He looked you straight in the eyes when he said it. You wanted to burrow into a hole in the ground—into him, if you were being honest. It didn’t matter how many years had gone by. A part of you was still twenty-seven and glancing at the door wondering if maybe, just maybe…

“Oh, I’m gonna need another one of these,” you whispered to yourself, stunned back into a seated position. The server came around and eyed your empty glass, asking meekly if you would like anything else. “I might as well,” you answered, sounding patently glum. All the while Scott kept a neutral expression, even waited until you had another drink—and a glass of water—in front of you, giving the server a soundless thanks before she scurried away.

Probably off to the kitchen to tell her coworkers about the crazy lady at B25.

“I thought about showing up to the funeral, actually,” added Scott when you had regained most of your composure. “But I didn’t know if I’d be welcome. Mom, being a firm believer in Emily Post, thought it’d be better if we skipped it. She sent flowers, though.”

“She what?”

“She sent flowers. Your mom never said?”

You shook your head. She must’ve been trying not to upset you. But you had been upset anyway, thinking about how Scott should’ve been there, how you had always expected him to show up and make things better.

All this time you had used his absence as yet another example of how little you must’ve mattered in the end. Which made no sense, because you were the one to break things off—and yet, that entire winter’s morning, you had bargained with yourself that if he showed up through those chapel double doors you would forget everything and beg him to take you back. It was too late for that. But knowing that he’d thought about going loosened a painful knot in your chest that you weren’t aware you even had.

You cleared your throat. “How’s your mom, by the way?”

“She’s doing all right. She’s part of a sewing circle, believe it or not.”

“Please tell me that isn’t a euphemism.”

“God, I hope not.”

You smiled involuntarily, picturing Pam Miller in her sweater sets and pearls. “I’m glad she’s doing okay. Your dad…?”

He picked up his drink, a Macallan on the rocks. It was his uncle’s drink, too. “I haven't heard from him in years. Guess neither of us ever saw the point.”

“Scott—”

“How’d you and Javi become an ‘us’ anyway? He never said.”

Fair enough. It made sense that he wouldn’t want to talk about his dad, let alone with you. But talking about Javi? When an hour ago he had admitted to wanting to bankrupt Javi’s company?

“I’ll be on my best behavior for the next”—he looked down at his watch—“fifteen minutes. Promise.”

“I don’t know, I think it’s better if we table all the personal talk,” you hedged.

“Better for whom?”

“Better for my clients. And better for me, too. We’re not friends.”

“We’ve never been friends,” Scott pointed out.

“Exactly. So why lie and pretend like we are?”

“Call it a term of this negotiation.”

“Scott…” Already this night was going nothing like how you’d planned. Your defenses had all the strength of a thin paper bag; he was in front of you, all dark-haired, blue-eyed, 6’4” reality and you weren’t unaffected. You wanted to keep talking to him, make the moment last… and all the more because you knew it had to end at some point. Scott would never be yours—not again. You’d made your peace with that a long time ago. But he has a right to know. Maybe if you could convince him that there was no grand conspiracy against him, he would be more amenable to Javi’s offer.

This is business, you reminded yourself. Redirect, bring it all back to StormLab.

“Fine,” you decided, settling in to tell the story of how you and Javi first met. “It happened maybe a year after I moved to Oklahoma City… I was out with a new friend and she took me to this bar after dinner to meet a bunch of people, one of whom was Javi. We get to talking, he tells me all about this new company he’s starting with a friend of his, says it’s a lucky coincidence or maybe fate having a twisted sense of humor because—”o

You broke off. You hadn’t considered how to broach this particular detail in the story. Obviously, Javi had no idea at the time how messy your backstory with Scott was. He had only thought to poke fun at his friend and seemed delighted to have solved a long-standing mystery for himself.

“So you’re the girl!”

“Come again?”

“The girl, you know. He has a picture of you in one of his old notebooks from college. What a small world!”

“What?” Scott prompted. You felt your face heating up and took a sip of water to hide it. You couldn't well omit the rest having already begun, but the knowledge that Scott had kept a photograph of you, whether by accident or otherwise, made you flustered then and it flustered you now.

You settled for: “He said he recognized me, and that he thought we might have a friend in common. Obviously, he meant you. He was dating one of Christa’s friends at the time—”

“Rachel.”

“Yeah. So he’d show up, be around… You know how Javi can be.”

“Like a persistent terrier.”

“Sounds like your kind of business partner.”

Scott looked away.

Not wanting to push things further in that direction just yet, you explained, “I work a lot, so it’s hard for me to make friends. Javi seems to make them wherever he goes. It’s nice having people like that in your life, to open you up, remind you there’s more to all this than billable hours and senior partner tracks. But we never talked about you. Not until this whole thing happened.”

“What thing did he say happened?”

Tread carefully now. Scott was watching you intently—if you said the wrong thing it might start a new argument between you and make his relationship with Javi a hell of a lot worse. In polished business-speak, you recited: “Just that you had a fundamental disagreement about the direction of the company.”

Your reward was a skeptical laugh.

“Also, that he might have left you on the side of the road during a tornado… which he feels bad about, by the way.”

“Not bad enough.”

“Scott, you can’t really want to ruin him, can you? I mean, this is Javi we’re talking about.”

“That’s not part of this discussion.”

“Okay?” you shot back. “I don’t remember agreeing to that condition.”

“You’re still at this table.”

“And that can easily be fixed!”

“All right, calm down.” Maybe it was you in danger of starting another fight. Scott, holding up his hands in a show of good faith, said, “I thought we were playing nice here, being civilized, acting like adults… What else have you been up to?”

“You want to know about my life?”

“Like I said, I’m curious. And seeing as this is a momentary parley, I plan on making the most of it.”

Again, you took in his face in search for any signs of subterfuge and found none, only the barest hint of levity in his eyes at your willingness to argue. It reminded you of the old days, when Scott would delight in teasing you for the sole purpose of seeing what your reaction would be. “Fine. But it’s going to be quid pro quo,” you demanded. “Call it a term of this negotiation.”

His mouth curved into a smile. Then he held out his hand across the table and waited for you to take it before saying, “Term accepted, counselor.”

In the end, playing nice with Scott turned out to be a lot easier once you’d established a few ground rules, mainly the stipulation that either of you could say “pass” if you weren’t willing to answer a question.

You went through the whole gamut of discussing your first jobs after college, gossiped about the old Park Haven crowd, the who-married-who and the who-got-divorced of it all. It turned out that, like you, Scott hadn’t returned to Pennsylvania much in the last few years. StormPAR kept him traveling through the Great Plains for most of the spring and summer, and during the rest of the year he lived in New Orleans, where Riggs and his mother lived. You got the sense that his life revolved around work, and that StormPAR, while not the be all and end all of his professional fate, had been an important part of it until Javi called it quits. You figured this explained, in part, why he took the loss so personally, and though you kept your thoughts to yourself you lamented that his one attempt to branch out for himself and away from his uncle—if you could call taking a major investment from Riggs “branching out”—had gone badly.

Either way, by the end of the evening you felt you’d been a little hasty in believing the old Scott had left the building for good. You exited Perch in higher spirits, glad to see that the night was clear and that the air felt good on your cheeks. When he asked if you were getting a car, you shared your desire for a long walk and he responded with mild horror until you explained that you didn’t live far. “Maybe twenty minutes? Thirty at most.”

“I’ll walk you home,” he insisted. You didn't argue because you were secretly pleased. The only thing you had to guard against was the urge to take his arm as you used to do. You felt giddy with it, which you were sure had to be the alcohol, but it was also the fact that Scott was here, in the flesh, that you were cracking jokes and sometimes even pulling smiles from his otherwise deadpan expression. You’d forgotten how that could make you feel like you’d won the jackpot.

“I’m sorry, I know you’re going to take this the wrong way,” you prefaced while walking backwards on the sidewalk, “but I have a really hard time imagining you as a storm chaser.”

“Excuse me!”

“I mean…” You stopped and full-body gestured. “I mean, look at you!”

“What?”

“Even your slacks are pressed!”

“Objection, why are you studying my slacks like a degenerate?”

“Don’t make it weird,” you replied, and fell into step beside him, if only to keep him from seeing that you were embarrassed by the implication that you might’ve been checking him out. “All I meant to say was—”

“That I don’t look like a rugged adrenaline junkie? Maybe ‘Rodeo Clown’ is more your thing these days.”

“Don’t—Tyler’s actually quite decent, you know.”

“But you knew exactly who I was talking about.” Scott snapped his fingers as if to say, Gotcha! as you ruefully shook your head. Something about Tyler Owens tended to evoke a Neanderthal-like competitiveness in certain men—Scott, being competitive by nature, fell for it all too easily.

“This is me.” You pointed at your building. It was a relatively new construction with climbing greenery and pop-out balconies where you’d lived for a year-and-a-half after a not inconsiderable raise, and the reason why you worked sixty hours a week.

“Can I come up?” Scott asked.

You whipped your head so hard that your temples throbbed. “That’s…” A no good, awful, terrible, ill-conceived, perilous idea?

Scott seemed to find your distress highly entertaining. “Jesus, would you relax?” he said. “I’m not asking to tuck you in—unless, if there’s someone—”

“There isn’t,” you hurried to say.

“Oh? How come?”

The knowledge that the man with whom you were formerly engaged was inquiring as to the current state of your love life with all the breeziness of do you have the time? was enough to make you believe in karmic punishment. “Like I said, I’m busy,” you managed to eke out, which only made him lift his shoulders as if to say, Then, what’s the big deal?

Scott Miller was good at that, getting his way.

“Fine,” you caved. “But only for ten minutes! Fifteen, tops!”

“Scout’s honor.”

In the elevator car you stuck your hands in your pockets, searching for your keys only to find the cold hard metal of your engagement ring. You looked guiltily at the oblivious Scott, who was staring at the floor display with a contented expression and was none the wiser about your having worn it earlier in the night like some kind of weirdo. Should you give it back? At the time he’d wanted nothing to do with it, but was keeping it the proper thing? Was it good for you to even have it?

At last you found your keys at the bottom of your purse. You opened the door, trying to remember how well you’d tidied after dinner as he walked in, inspecting everything. You watched as his gaze traveled over the open-plan kitchen and living area—the work files, magazines, and old mail stacked on various side tables; the midcentury beechwood couch you got for a steal at a secondhand warehouse when you first moved; the shelves, filled with books and framed photographs and trinkets you’d brought from home; and the view from your window, which wasn’t nearly as spectacular as the one from Perch, but it faced west, and if you were home during golden hour you could see the other buildings lit orange and gold.

“Yeah, this is exactly how I pictured it,” Scott mentioned at last.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, it’s just… you,” he answered. Your stomach turned to knots. He made you feel seen like nobody else could, not least of which because you’d let him back when you were younger and less guarded. Your heart kicked wildly in your chest, urging you to go to him, go to him, explain everything, get him back, because he was the one. Then Scott looked away, pointing at a sad fern that sat on a pedestal next to your mounted TV. “You still can’t keep a plant alive worth shit.”

“Rude,” you fired back, grasping at levity in order to shove the other thoughts away.

Scott drifted back to your bookshelves, seeing a few paperbacks he must’ve recognized from your old room at Park Haven. “And yet you keep trying. Do you actually use any of these?” he inquired, motioning towards the half-dozen board games you kept piled on an open top shelf. There was Clue and Monopoly, Candy Land, Sorry!, Scrabble and Life.

“Sometimes,” you replied, “when I have friends over. Which hasn’t happened much this year, if I’m being honest.”

“Let’s play.”

You laughed. You didn’t believe him. He pulled one of the boxes out and took it to the coffee table and all you could do was stare, incredulous, as he took his jacket off and rolled up his sleeves, actually sitting on the floor and looking expectantly at you to join him.

“You want to play Life with me?” you challenged. “Doesn’t that seem a little…”

“And you call me uptight.” He waved you over, determined not to take no for an answer. “Come on, hotshot, live a little.”

Despite your better judgment, and after a moment’s panicked hesitation, you lowered yourself next to him. He still smelled the same, like rain and sandalwood and pine. You wanted to curl into his side and feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your ear, like you’d done on the nights he spent hidden away with you in your room. You had never gotten to live together; all you had were countable memories of waking up next to him and thinking, One day… one day we’ll have this every day.

As he set up the board, all you could do was stare at his hands.

SIX YEARS AGO NEW ORLEANS

Marshall Riggs greeted with you a double-kiss at the door, one on each side of your cheeks. Then he held you at arm’s length so he could look you up and down. “Would you take a look at that,” he said to Scott, “pretty as a picture! I suppose this is the part where I welcome you to the family?”

It was midsummer in Louisiana, on the hotter side of balmy and with the cicadas out in force. Shortly before you graduated Scott traveled to Philadelphia and asked you to marry him. Saying yes had been a no-brainer. You were in love, had put up with four years of distance and near-breakups, and now here was the culmination of all your compromise, communication, and hard work. For a second there you’d thought it would end badly; you were both in highly-intensive undergrad programs, there was only so much you could hash out over phone and video calls, and you were young. The question of “do we really want to make a life-changing decision at twenty-one?” had crossed your mind. But upon further reflection you realized that the answer was yes—had always been yes. And Scott seemed to agree.

In the absence of his father, “meeting the family” entailed paying court to his Uncle Riggs, a man you had spoken to a few times, at holiday parties and summer outings hosted by Pam, now settled in New Orleans and much happier than you’d known her before. But all those other times, you’d met Riggs as Scott’s girlfriend. Now you were his fiancée, with a fancy law degree and a diamond ring and everything, and while you would’ve preferred keeping your distance you knew this was important to Scott—that Riggs was important to him.

So you put on a smile and indulged the old man. Do it for Scott, you said to yourself. You’ve come this far. No point faltering while you were at the winning stretch.

You bowed your head. “Thank you for having us, Mr. Riggs.”

“Please, just Riggs,” he laughed. “Or Marshall—but only my ex-wives call me that.”

You soon found he had a way of twinkling his eyes that made you feel like you were sharing a joke. As he pointed out the features of his home—the old tapestries, the mural commissioned by Candice, his second ex-wife, the wall he knocked down because he wanted to “open up the space”, and his plans to expand the front garden, which, as it was, made the house look like it was in the middle of a tropical rainforest—he regaled you with stories about the people he knew, going off on tangents and bringing it back to the topic at hand. He was genteel and witty, and though he carried himself with Southern indifference there was no doubt he had power: he cocked his head, and a woman in an apron appeared with a tray of mint juleps; Scott held onto his every word; and when you were led into a dining room that might’ve fit forty or fifty at least, it was taken as a matter of course.

He pulled out your chair and sat you at his right hand because it was “the place of honor,” and Scott smiled encouragingly. You were doing so well.

You only wished that you could feel it.

“So, you want to be a big-deal attorney,” Riggs announced, digging into a perfect roast chicken. “What kind? Criminal?”

“Oh, no,” you replied. “Civil all the way. I’ve got a few offers but I want to shop around, make sure I’m making the right first move.”

“The right first move!” He pointed his knife at you. “I like that. By any chance, are you a chessplayer, sweetheart?”

“Can’t say that I am. My family are more into board games, really. Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick?” you explained.

He got a kick out of that. But he was partial to chess. “Opening moves—if you look at the big picture, they don't seem all that important. But well, in that case, why the hell’re there so many of ’em? Napoleon Opening, Greco Defense, Bled Variation, Balogh Defense… Sometimes how a thing starts dictates how the rest of it’ll unfold, from midgame all the way down to the end. If you're gonna do something, might as well do it right the first time or so I always say. Don’t I, boy?” He turned to Scott for confirmation.

“Yes, sir.”

“Yessir…” Riggs chuckled, spearing a roasted sprout. The ends of his bolo tie shifted on his neck. A turquoise the size of an acorn sat between his collar, and he was dressed to the nines—for your benefit, the guest of honor’s.

Nevertheless, there was something of the austere in his eyes. You couldn’t shake it when he put down his fork and sat back, looking from you to Scott, nodding like a king about to give his blessing to a pair of kneeling courtiers. “Pretty as a picture…” he repeated. “Look at you both—young, on the cusp, and none too hard on the eyes, if I do say so myself. A real golden couple on our hands! To opening moves”—he raised his glass—“may we always know when to make the right one.”

You raised your glass to be polite.

Scott leaned across the table. “Before you ask, yes, he is always like this.”

His uncle laughed, clapped him on the shoulder, and called for “champagne! To my nephew and his beautiful bride!”

As the night wore on, you convinced yourself that any discomfort was all in your head. You worked your way through three dinner courses, all impeccably cooked, and by the time the doberge was served you decided that you had judged the man too harshly. Sure, he was old-fashioned, but he was also jovial, polite, and he clearly doted on Scott.

“How nice it is to spend some quality time,” he remarked when Scott left the table, saying Pamela was on the phone. She wanted to know what plans you had for the rest of the week, whether you were still on for the garden fête on the 25th, and what dates you were considering for your engagement party, whether that would be here or in Pennsylvania, but I really do think you’d better do it here.

“I’ll just be a few minutes,” he said to Riggs, leaving you alone with his uncle. Now he had focused all of his attention on you, the full glare of his eye-twinkle and magnetic allure. He wasn’t a handsome man; it wasn’t about his looks—which were well past their prime—but about the knowledge that he could get almost everything he wanted simply by wanting it.

“It’s a shame we never did this sooner,” he went on. “Why do you think that is?” You shifted guiltily. The truth was, Riggs had always made you a bit uneasy. He had a reputation as a difficult man—ruthless, exacting, guileful, hard to please, and he liked doing business in the gray, always legal but never quite on the up-and-up.

Over the last four years, you may have avoided him on the grounds of self-righteous principle, but you couldn't admit to that if you were trying to leave a good impression.

You hedged, “I’m afraid law school doesn't leave much time to spare.”

“Very true… Not that I would know—it was always too much book learning for me, I’m a man of action,” Riggs explained, sipping his whiskey and looking happy as a clam. He had polished off two slices of cake earlier, but only because we’re celebrating. “Now, my nephew… he’s a bit o’ both, isn’t he? Either way, he’s got too much of his mother in ’im.”

You frowned, wanting to say a word in defense of Pamela. Riggs waved you off. “Don’t mind me, I’m just a silly old man with too many opinions. It tends to rub people up the wrong way—don't think I haven't noticed!” Another laugh, another narrowing of the eyes that could have been humor but which you felt like a lightning strike down your back.

He knows and you’re making something out of nothing struggled for dominance within your head, and still he kept on talking, forcing you to pay attention and leave the question unresolved.

He pointed in the direction where Scott had gone. “That nephew of mine—I don’t have any children of my own, did you know that? It never happened for me. Four wives and nothing to show for it—imagine that! But that boy… good thing his father never knew what to do with ’im—smart as a whip he is, and like a dog with a bone once he’s got an idea in his head. That part I’d say he got from me,” he said with a chuckle, wagging his finger in the air. He gave your hand a few avuncular pats and then kept it there, meaty and warm.

“I can see that you love ’im… I can see that you really love ’im. What bright, young, sensible girl wouldn't? You should see him ’round the office! He breaks hearts left, right, and center wherever he goes—a real catch, my secretary always says, and she’s been with me since Scott was yea-high. He’s got his mother’s looks, which I’ll say not to sound too self-serving, heh!” A slight tug on your wrist. You kept your objections to yourself, saying, He’s just a strange old man. As your discomfort grew, stretched to its very limits, he removed his hand and was back to being an innocuous grandfatherly man again. He seemed a little sad, wistful, even. Almost frail.

“I don’t know what I would do without him,” said Riggs, staring at his empty plate. “I really don't. Oh, here! before I forget—I have something for you.” He reached into the inner pocket of his cream suit jacket, extracting a long envelope which he slid across the table with a paternal expression, his gaze warm. You began to object, and, “Go on, now!” he insisted. “I don't hold with false modesty! Nothin’ but a waste o’ time in my book. Open it! Call it a graduation present to help you get started. Scott said your old man was taking some time off from his job, feeling under the weather.”

You opened the flap to find a check with more zeros on it than you could’ve reasonably imagined, payable to your name and typewritten in official font.

“Mr. Riggs, this is…” Your hands shook, you felt too hot in the enclosed dining room. Where was Scott? What was taking him so long? You slid the check in the envelope and tried to push it back to Riggs’s side of the table. “There is no way I can accept this,” you said. “It’s too much money, and while I appreciate the gesture—”

“Nonsense! It’s my pleasure and I won’t hear no can’ts or won’ts about it! I want you to know how well Scott’s been doing here since he finished school. He’s flourishing, all my business associates love him. I can’t possibly make do without him now.”

“I don’t understand,” you said, a pit growing in your stomach.

Once more Riggs pinned you with that twinkle in his eye. “I think you do, a smart girl like you. A man should sow his wild oats while he's young. I had a pretty young wife when I was his age. Marjorie, her name was. My first. It's true what they say—you never forget your first… By God, she was beautiful! and we had all these plans… so many plans! Dreams, really. But mine were always just a little too big for her, you understand, and at first that didn't matter much—we were in love. But then… the kids never came, and Marjorie had too much time on her hands—at the very least, she had more time on her hands than I did, that’s for sure! That gets to a woman sometimes.

“I know you won't have that problem, big city lawyer and all,” he said to you, as if in you he had the fullest confidence and he was speaking about other, less distinguished women. “But really, even if Marjorie’d been an ambassador to the United Nations she’d still have had a compunction about something or other… Ambition’s a hard pill for most folks to swallow.

“Now, you seem like a nice girl… really, I like you plenty! But let’s talk facts here for a minute. You are not the girl for Scott—not when he’s trying to become the man that he’s trying to become. The boy’s got the instincts of a killer. Really! All I’ve gotta do is stand back and look at him! But you, my dear, you’re nothin’ like him. You’ll never be. For most of my life, I thought the perfect woman would be someone to ‘balance me out,’ as they say. It’s taken me almost fifty years to find out that ain’t nothin’ but bullshit made up by Hallmark or whoever to sell us some cards. There ain't no use fighting one’s true nature. You and Scott are doomed to fail—if not now then in five years, if not in five then in another ten! You’ve seen the cracks, haven't you? He’s not the boy you met in Park Haven. He’s becoming his own man. He doesn’t need you anymore.”

You were almost too stunned to speak. Between the casual misogyny, the callous worldview, and the envelope that lay between you on the table like a coiled snake, you felt like you had left reality—there was no way this conversation could be taking place with Scott just in the other room.

“Let me get this straight,” you began, willing your voice not to shake, “you’re offering me money to break up with Scott because you think I’m not good enough for him?”

“No, no, no!” Riggs drew in close to you and took both of your hands, his face earnest and pained. “You’re getting this all wrong. I’m not some mustache-twirling villain trying to thwart the course of true love! You’re a wonderful girl, I’m sure Scott’s been very happy with you. But everything has its season. The time for moons and Junes and Ferris wheels is over. You can leave him to me now.”

“With all due respect, you’re out of your mind!” You slid your chair back, making an angry scrape along the tile. Riggs closed his grip around your hands.

“Sittdown before you wreck the boy’s life.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Did Scott ever tell you about his old man? How he squandered the family fortunes and left him and Pamela all but bankrupt? Now, me, I’d have done the decent thing—put a pistol to my head for all my sins—but the man has his pride, though I don’t know where-all he gets it from. You see Pam now, up in her French colonial sunning her face and drinking cocktails like the belle of the ball?” He pointed to his chest. “I did that. Scott’s shiny new diploma from M-I-T? Right again! Now, I don't believe in somethin’ for nothing. Everything in this here world has its cost, sweetheart. Everything. I have invested in that boy—not just money, but my blood, sweat, and tears! I won’t abide a loss. I won’t abide it.”

“Scott isn’t an investment,” you shot back. “He isn't yours to own.”

“And yet it would seem he’s worth more to me than he is to you. If he marries you, he and Pam won’t see another cent from me even if I have to drive past them through the gutter. I’m telling you I would throw my own sister out on the street for him—my own flesh! Can you say the same? Could Scott? Would he choose you over his poor, silly mother? Now, I highly doubt that.”

The crazy thing was, he seemed genuinely aggrieved by this predicament of his own making. In his face you could see him imagining the scene—him in his black town car, driving past Pam. And yet he remained immovable. Either you gave up Scott or he would make good on his threat.

It was callous, immoral. I have invested in that boy.

The sound of Scott’s shoes came up the hallway. Riggs folded the check into your hands and said, “Don't make a scene. Think about it.”

“What did I miss?” Scott stopped to kiss the top of your head before resuming his seat. You felt nauseous, your hands clammy around the paper you hid in your lap. To you, Scott seemed like he belonged in another world, another time—a Before-Time.

As you tried not to cry, Riggs smiled at him broadly and said, “Oh, nothing much. But I have a little present for you.”

He pulled a box from the bottom of his seat, crimson leather and beautifully stitched. Scott lifted the lid. Inside was a silver Patek Philippe, the watch he would wear when you saw him six years later, sitting across from you at a conference table with a strange coldness in his eyes. He showed it to you, beaming with pride, and while you couldn't remember what canned response you gave, you did recall that he pulled Riggs into a hug, and said, “Uncle, you really shouldn’t have…”

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

For nearly an hour you and Scott sat on the floor of your living room, playing at marriage and midlife crises and how many babies you would have, which on any other occasion would have made you hysterically laugh or, as Javi said on the night you met, remark upon the universe’s odd sense of humor.

But you were strangely levelheaded. If anything, you felt slightly out-of-body and yet entirely in your body, if that made sense.

You were aware of every piece put on the board. You watched the spinner turn in a rainbow of colors, the clack of the spokes sounding faster and faster before it slowed and then drew to a stop. You felt the couch cushions at your back. Scott’s shoulder brushed against yours sometimes, when he reached for one of the tiny bright pegs that went on top of the tiny bright cars. It felt like you were inside of a dream, and because dreams didn’t matter and had no consequences unless you let them, you started to ease into surrealism.

You played the game, and gradually your body began to relax. This was familiar to you—Scott taking it way too seriously, you poking fun at the furrow between his brows, the way you alternated between cold-hard strategy and chaotically negligent gameplay just to see a reaction flicker across his face. He stretched his legs out beneath the table, threw an arm across the seat-edge of the couch; sometimes, you would recline further back and your neck would touch his arm. You did it a few times, feeling embarrassed at first. But when you saw he didn’t mind, you let your head fall back, waiting as he picked a card.

Something was building beneath your skin. You felt restless, and a little reckless. Despite the law you laid down at the restaurant, you couldn’t stop your gaze from lingering. It lingered everywhere: on the hollow of his throat, the shape of his nose, the play of light across his cheeks, his mouth, the spaces where his white shirt gapped between the buttons and you could see his bare chest underneath. Oh, you’re in trouble… you said to yourself, and yet it didn’t matter. You didn’t care. This was a liminal space, a void where you could be honest and unafraid of the truth.

Even when Scott caught you looking, all he did was look back. He let the tips of his fingers touch yours when sliding a card from your hands, knocked his knee against yours. There was a time—or maybe you imagined it—when you felt his hand stroke your shoulder and you almost did something out-of-line. Because there was a line, blurred, but it existed; you kept within the bounds because you knew it was the sole condition to prolonging this state, so you bought owner’s insurance and traded in stocks, changed careers, had twins, repaid a loan (with interest) and made your slow and steady way to retirement at Countryside Acres.

At the end of the game, after all the remaining play money had been counted, it was Scott who said, “Looks like I win,” and all you said was, “Why am I not surprised?”

Then you glanced at the clock. “It’s late.”

“And we haven’t killed each other. How’s that for a détente?” Scott began putting all the parts away, pulling the pegs out of the cars first, sticking each one inside its appropriate little plastic bag. You would’ve thrown them straight in the box and not had a care in the world about it, but you liked that he did.

It was a Scott thing—patient, methodical, kind of annoying, and mostly well-intentioned. You sat back and watched him do it.

“Wow… they teach words like that at MIT?”

“They tried it out with our class—apparently, word was going ’round that STEM nerds lack empathy.”

You smiled. “Now where would they go and get an idea like that?” His eyes flicked down to yours. Having finished, he went back to reclining against the couch, one arm draped over his bent knee.

His gaze on your skin felt like a physical touch, and when it stopped at your lips, a shock of heat went through your body, from the crown of your head down to your toes. You watched him swallow. The urge to kiss him was vicious, urgent and unrelenting, and when you saw his mouth part, his tongue emerging to wet his lips, you thought, Now now now, but then Scott stood so fast he almost upset the table.

“I should go,” he managed to say, his voice ragged. He sought sightlessly for his discarded jacket, found it lying over the top of the couch, and he couldn’t escape fast enough. Frustration rolled off him in waves.

“Scott!” You scrambled to your feet. You might have touched the very edge of his sleeve, but he held up his hand to stop you coming any closer.

“This was a mistake.”

You went stock still. The spell was broken—this was no longer the dreamworld where nothing mattered, this was the Real World. The one where everything had been broken, not least of which because of you, and it was all a mistake. Calling him had been a mistake, meeting him had been a mistake, thinking that you could control anything you felt about him had been a mistake.

And now there was this: Scott raking his hands through his hair, turning in the middle of the room, almost a decade’s worth of anger and disappointment and confusion and, why not, maybe a little hatred thrown into the mix.

“You never trusted me!” he threw in your face. “And I mean never—even when we were in high school, especially not in college—”

“Why are you talking about college?” you demanded, your voice rising to meet his.

“Every time I called, it was like you were expecting me to tell you it was over. Every girl I so much as spoke to when you came to visit—”

“I was eighteen! What the fuck do you want me to say? That I was insecure and kind of an idiot? Yeah, no shit! I thought we’d moved past that!”

“No, we didn’t move past it because it never changed! Maybe it stopped being about other women, but then it was about work, about the time I spent shadowing at my uncle’s company. Do you have any idea how exhausting it was to keep having to convince you that I was all in? And what, somehow we went from that to ‘you’ve changed, Scott, I don’t think I like who you are anymore, Scott’—?”

“What the fuck? I never said that!”

“The night we had dinner at my uncle’s—the night you left! And again in the elevator—”

“Can we not do this?” you plead. “I thought we weren’t going to do this. We agreed!”

“Well, maybe I'm changing the terms.”

“Then this ends right here.”

There was silence. You knew it was coming, and yet it still hurt like a freight train hitting you square in the chest when he looked you in the eyes and said: “What else is new?”

You flinched. You felt your whole body recoil, your eyes sting. Your fault. The one who couldn’t stand up for herself, couldn't commit, who ran at the first sign of trouble. You and Scott are doomed to fail. Riggs had laid down his vision for the future and you had believed him, had chosen to believe him more than you had ever believed in Scott, or in yourself.

You’re not the girl for him. You’re nothing like him.

Hadn’t you always told yourself the same in the darkest recess of your mind? Hadn’t you, in truth, been just a little bit relieved when you packed your things and moved back to Park Haven, play-acting ended, no more trying, no more waiting for the other shoe to drop?

“I’m sorry.” Scott took an immediate step towards you. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did,” you shot back with more vitriol than you intended.

“Don’t do that—don’t pretend to know how I fucking feel.”

“You forget, Scott. I know you.”

“I thought the whole point was that you didn't! That I was so… unrecognizable!”

“Well, you are!” you exclaimed, shouting again. “Suing Javi? Trying to take down his company? Being Riggs’s, what, fucking loyal dog—”

“Oh, spare me the hysterics…”

“Did you say it?” you cut in. “Did you really say you didn’t care about that town full of people?”

Scott froze. You watched his jaw clench, and you knew in that moment that he'd been counting on Javi’s discretion on that score.

If your intention had been to preserve any goodwill between them, that was all going up in flames now. Hell, after tonight, you and Scott might be incapable of being in the same room together, let alone working towards a peaceful resolution to a civil suit.

“You weren’t there,” he ground out. “There were other things going on.”

“Did you say it, Scott?” It was obvious that he had. The shame kept him from saying another word when you finally stepped around the coffee table. “But God forbid I say a word against Marshall Riggs, the undoubted patron saint of Tornado Alley. I'm sure his real estate empire only exists so he can share his considerable wealth with the downtrodden and needy!”

“What do you want me to fucking say? Do you want me to apologize for who my family is? I'm sorry if you find my uncle objectionable, but he is the only reason I ever made something of myself—you ever consider that? I’d be nothing without him—nothing! You think my father could have lifted a finger? Riggs is the only reason Mom and I made it through that summer. I owe him everything! So he makes business decisions you don't agree with—”

You scoffed.

“—but Javi knew exactly where all that money came from. He wasn't duped, I didn’t trick him… he made a choice. He made a choice! And then, what, Kate Carter comes along and he grows a fucking conscience? Give me a break…”

“And where the hell is yours! You think I give a shit what Marshall Riggs does? I care about you, you fucking idiot! Are you really going to stand there and tell me you’re happy? That it… that it feels good to know you’re suing your best friend, that you seemingly have no other friends, that you’ve hitched yourself to your uncle and the most you can say is you’re doing it out of obligation? You used to want more for yourself, Scott!”

He laughed at that. Rubbing his hand across his mouth, he regarded you with a derisive humor.

“Tell me, how’s the trust fund going? Your dad—he was always a pretty shrewd investor, right? and your mom’s family… they’ve got those boutique hotels along the eastern seaboard, the ones that get their pictures in the magazines and all over social media? It’s pretty easy to talk about wanting more for yourself when your father didn’t sink your family prospects on a deck of cards. I do what I have to do. Not that you’d ever understand.”

Money—had it been this big of an issue the whole time? Had you ignored it all the years of your relationship? Money… and jealousy of your father, Scott’s resentment towards his. You felt so blind, so stupid. The “cracks” Riggs had referenced had been there all along, and instead of talking about them you had stuck your head in the sand, worried that if you said the wrong thing all your insecurities would be proven right. That Scott would leave.

Scott… Did you ever stop to consider the damage that leaving him alone with Riggs might cause?

“You only think you can’t make it without him,” you dared to say. “But he doesn’t care about you.”

“What, not like you do?”

“No,” you affirmed. “Not like I do.”

Scott frowned at you. He appeared almost childlike, vulnerable. A boy calling “no fair!”, probably with Riggs’s voice in the background saying, Life isn't fair. “You don't get to do that. You don’t get to do that after all this time… you—you fucking left!”

“He offered me money. Did he ever tell you that? How he tried to buy me off to leave you? You talk about my trust fund, and it’s true—I grew up lucky, but we never had Marshall Riggs Money. There’s rich and then there’s capital-R Rich, the kind you only get when you’ve turned being a ruthless son-of-a-bitch into an art form.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Yes, you do. I can see it in your eyes—you know I’m telling the truth. I never liked him. What's more, he could tell I didn't like him, and he couldn't have that… no, not Riggs. He’d gotten used to you being his right-hand man and he wasn’t about to lose you. So he waited until you left the table—”

“I’m not going to listen to this.”

“—he waited until you left the table,” you repeated, almost toe to toe. You forced yourself to continue, even in the face of Scott’s patent distress. You couldn't live like this, not anymore. Keeping secrets, taking the biggest share of the blame. “‘If he marries you, he and his mother won’t see another cent from me even if I have to drive past them through the gutter,’” you recited. “Those were his words. I’m not lying to you—I wouldn't, not about this.

“He was never going to let us be together. Obviously, I didn’t take the money, but he was dead serious about his threat. And I was angry. I thought if only you’d stood up to your uncle before, if you weren’t blind to what he really was, I would never have been put in that position. So I took it out on you. I blamed you. And I said things…”

You faltered, remembering the night you returned to the hotel. You couldn’t stay, not with Riggs’s check in your pocket and the memory of his hand gripping your wrist. But Scott didn’t understand. He didn't know what had made you so upset, why you were throwing your clothes into your suitcase and talking about flights and returning his ring and about how it was time you stopped pretending. And, yes, you took to heart what Riggs had implied about other women. You weren’t picky. You weren’t careful. You just had to leave.

You were ashamed of it now. The knowledge of how you’d acted lodged in your throat like a stone you couldn’t swallow down. Scott remembered it, too. His eyes flickered this way and that, recalling, wondering how much of it was true.

“I said things to you that I wish I’d never… that I still think about, and I still regret, because I love—” Your voice broke. You placed your hands over his chest, then cradled his face, willing him to believe you, willing yourself to be brave. “I still love you, Scott. I love you. I should’ve told you the truth, but I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“No… you left,” he said weakly, bracing his hands around your wrists.

“I know I did… I know, but he can’t have you.” You kissed his mouth, once, twice, as many times as he allowed, and all the while you said the things you should’ve said that night in New Orleans. “I won’t let him have you… not this time… not again.”

Scott turned his head and the heat of his tongue met yours.

One second he was all coiled tension and the next he was all over you, walking you back towards the couch, kissing a trail down your neck, one hand tangled in your hair while the other was already up your skirt matching his strokes to the curl of his tongue. He laid you down on the couch, settling between your thighs, and even clothed the weight of him felt familiar—the pass of his hand up and down your leg, the way he liked to tease you by wandering just close enough to where you wanted before pulling away, distracting you with a searing kiss or a shallow roll of his hips.

In the past, there were times when he would draw it out for hours, taking you to the brink and back until you were sure you wanted to curse him.

At a friend’s New York wedding, he made you come three times before he entered you, and you weren’t too proud—now, with the real Scott on top of you, all over you, soon to be in you if there was any justice in the world—to admit that you had replayed that night in your head sometimes when you were lonely. When a bad day at work or an ill-advised night of drinking too much ended with you trying to chase sleep on the heels of an orgasm that was never as satisfying as the ones you got with Scott.

Even when you managed to make yourself come—really come, that full-bodied electricity-followed-by-deep-silence feeling—you had been all too aware of his absence. What was the point, you had wondered, if you couldn’t curl up next to him or listen to the steady flow of his breathing or hear him sigh into your neck when he wrapped his arms around you and went to sleep? What was the point if, upon waking, you wouldn't have Scott and his early-morning voice, the clarity of his eyes, the smell of the coffee he made in his stupidly expensive espresso machines? (God, you missed that coffee.)

It was Scott… it was only ever Scott.

The couch was a perilous place to be doing any of this. You weren't sure that he fit in it, for one, and for another, you were mildly worried about the potential costs of fixing a broken midcentury piece of furniture. Oh, well, you thought, life’s too short. Not bothering to undress, you pushed aside articles of clothing, hands bumping into each other, scraps of fabric pushed aside, belt buckle rattling as it landed on the floor, until finally he surged into you, gripping the side of the couch and burying a curse against your neck as you stretched around him.

He slid a hand below your hips and fixed the angle. The sex was hurried, messy and it had nothing of grace; it was imperfect and rather cramped, really, but all that mattered was how he felt. He felt like home. As you came, he entwined his fingers around yours, and then he finished, trembling, prolonging a wave of pleasure that took your breath away.

Don’t go, you want to say into his heaving chest.

Somehow, he turned you on your side so you could stretch along the couch. He wrapped his arms around you, stroking feather-light touched along your arm as his breathing slowed. You felt tired, hollowed out, but not in a bad way. In a quiet-before-the-storm way, when you can smell water in the air and the breeze picks up, and the world sits on the cusp of being new.

“I miss you,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I miss you too.”

After that, there was a silence so long it made you think he’d dozed off, but then he spoke again, painfully honest and a little scared. “I don't think I can do what you need me to do. I’m not… that’s not who I am anymore.”

“I think you are,” you said back. “I think he’s who you’ve always been.”

THREE WEEKS LATER

You were enjoying a rare weekend off from work. Figuring you could do with some real time off the clock, you’d let the office know you’d be holding all work calls and emails until Monday. Abby’s eyes had nearly popped out of her skull in a rare show of feeling, but after the emotional turmoil of the last few months, you knew you needed to walk around the city, have a massage, touch some grass, maybe eat a pint of ice cream in front of a frothy period drama—a true-blue staycation.

The morning after you and Scott slept together, you’d agreed that it was in everyone’s best interest to let things be. He needed time to think about a few things, and regardless of your shared history, you were still Javi’s lawyer. You distracted yourself by doubling down on other cases. It helped that dealing with Mrs. Richardson-Burkhardt and the four Barone siblings was as eventful as watching an HBO television series—between the scathing one-liners and last-minute twists, there was little bandwidth left over to think about Scott.

And yet you always managed.

For better or for worse, Scott had always been good at making you hope for things. Even when you wanted to err on the side of caution, expect the worst and thus avoid disappointment, just the fact that he loved you made you feel like anything was possible, like you could make things happen.

“We brought out the best in each other. That mattered to us more than anything your father and I ever did wrong.”

At a department store downtown, you watched across the way as a young couple studied a tray of rings at the jewelry counter, diamonds sparkling in the light. The woman grabbed her partner’s arm and pointed at one of the selections as if to say, “That one!”, and for a moment they were in perfect sync. The salesman offered up the band with elaborate flourish, the groom-to-be took his bride’s hand, slipped the ring on her finger, and they admired it together, the play of white gold on her black skin.

The woman beamed. So did he.

“Looks like we have ourselves a winner,” the pleased salesman declared.

After lunch and an overpriced iced coffee, you arrived home with a gift for the Travises’ golden anniversary party, a pair of gold-accented crystal champagne glasses you hoped would survive the flight. It would be nice to see your mom again, to reunite with your old college friends, and revisit old haunts.

The thought of going home no longer filled you with dread—for which, even if nothing came out of your night with Scott, if he decided that upending his life was too much for him to handle right now, you would always be grateful. For years, your idea of a worst nightmare was running into him and having the truth spoken aloud, plainly, and for both of you to hear. Nothing will ever be as bad as this, you told yourself.

But it was a half-lie. Not seeing him again would be worse.

Already, you felt his absence like a hollow in your chest.

On the kitchen counter, you saw that your phone began to ring. “Javi, how’s the weather looking?” you asked, putting him on speaker as you poured yourself some water.

 “She’s a fickle mistress, I’ll tell you that! Hey, I just wanted to let you know… Scott called this morning. He says he’s dropping the suit.”

“Oh?”

“You don’t sound too surprised. Any of that you're doing?”

“No,” you replied, picking up your phone, “that’s all Scott. I haven’t spoken to him in weeks, actually.”

“Well, he sounded different. Still Scott, but a shorter stick up his ass, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I know a part of how everything went down was my fault—business is business, as my Ma always says. I sold him my share of StormPAR, which means I also have to pay back some of the money we took from Riggs. That’ll hurt like a—well, you know… I’m not the guy’s biggest fan these days. But if I don’t have to hear the name Marshall Riggs ever again, I’ll count myself lucky and say it’s a price well-paid.”

“And Scott?” you ventured to say.

“Honestly, I think he’s done with the whole thing. Sounds like he’s closing up shop, which makes sense. He’s a damn good engineer but kind of hopeless as a chaser.”

You laughed. “Yeah, I guess I can see that. Are you okay?”

“Me, or me and Scott?”

“Both.”

To Javi’s credit, he took a few moments to actually think about it. “Yeah, I’m good. You know me… I never stay down for long. Man with a thousand plans. Me and Scott? Man, I don’t know about that one… I did leave him by the side of the road. Ruined one of his immaculately pressed shirts.”

You snorted. “God forbid.”

“Yeah, God forbid. Listen, if it were up to me, I’d just let bygones be bygones. Life’s too short, you know. Shit happens… I don’t want to be a guy who burns bridges over money.”

“Yeah, I get that.”

“What I mean to say,” Javi spoke over a sudden burst of wind, “is that if Scott ever wants to give me a call, I’ll answer. You can even tell him I said that.”

“Me?” You set your glass down with a clatter, heat rising to your face.

“Yeah, you! I’m not an idiot, hotshot, that history’s not gone ancient yet.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm… Anyway, the wind’s picking up. Kate’s off reading her dandelions.”

“You know, I kinda wish I could see her doing that…”

“Watch out, we might make a chaser of you yet!” Javi crowed.

You shook your head, said, “I wouldn't hold my breath,” but you were smiling. The sun streamed through your open windows and anything was possible.

Once Javi ended the call, you stared at your phone, wondering… And then you decided to be reckless one more time. Call it a calculated risk, you thought instead. You held the phone up to your ear and listened to it ring. The dial tone sounded a few times, and then it stopped.

He’d answered.

“Scott, it’s me,” you said, trying to relax the thrumming in your heart.

There was a pause and then you heard his voice: “Did Javi tell you?”

“Yeah, we just got off the phone.”

“Open your door.”

You made a face, glancing at the screen and holding it against your ear again. “What?”

“Open your door, UPenn!”

You dashed to the entryway, patting your hair, blotting your face, wondering if your shirt was wrinkled. When you pulled the door open, you saw Scott in full view, in the middle of the day. Not wearing white. The blue of his shirt brought out his eyes, which looked tired but less burdened, too.

He seemed lighter, if not happy then trying to get there.

“Thought I’d skip out on being a sore loser this time.” He gave a half-shrug.

“I don’t know, Miller… from here it doesn't seem like you're losing.”

He smiled at the floor, almost shy. And when he looked into your face you saw the boy you fell in love with at Nichols Academy, the one who took baseball too seriously, who loved Hemingway and your mom’s apple crisp, the one who sang bad Sinatra and got into fights and thought James Watt was something of a god. It was like the worst of the last few years had gone away, leaving only space for something new to grow, to be built—together.

“All I want is you,” promised Scott, taking you into his arms.

You stuck your hand in your pocket, extracted the ring you’d kept there for almost a month like a talisman, like a good-luck charm, and held it up to Scott. He stared at it, and then at you, with something like shock.

Something like awe and wonder.

“Don’t you know? You've always had me.”

And in that hallway, Scott Miller, a man who’d never cop to having a romantic bone in his body, spun you around and kissed you and wouldn’t have cared if your neighbor at Apartment 424 had noticed or if one of his investors appeared. Maybe there was something to Tyler’s corny catchphrase, after all: If you feel it, chase it—no matter the odds, no matter the obstacles in your path, because feeling it was purpose and inspiration and direction when you lost your way.

It took you a while, but you understood it now.

[happy74827]

Burning Bridges

[Dexter Morgan x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Upon an incident that was out of your control, Dexter comes to the realization that it wasn't just a coincidence.

WC: 1951

Category: Slight Angst, Hurt/Comfort

I forgot how much I missed this show (him), so I decided to write another. It's been so long since I last wrote for him that I actually see the difference in my writing. It's wack.

『••✎••』

Dexter was many things… a brother, a son, a pro bowler, a serial killer… but what he lacked was being a good friend.

He didn't understand friendship or its value. It was something that he simply couldn't grasp. Sure, he was able to fake it well enough in order to make sure that people liked him and didn't find him too creepy or strange, but there was never any real emotional connection. In his mind, everyone was either someone he needed or someone he didn't need, and he would treat them accordingly. The only exceptions to this rule were his sister, Debra, and you.

The two of you had met back in college, having been assigned to be each other's partners for a group project. It was a poetry class and a course that Dexter hadn't really wanted to take, but a general education requirement and the promise of an easy A convinced him to at least show-up and suffer through it. Well, for a guy who had to fake every single aspect of his personality in order to fit in with society, it turned out that poetry didn’t come quite as easily as he thought it would.

He had always found the art form to be rather silly, with all the emphasis on metaphors and flowery language. There was no purpose or goal other than to be creative and artsy, and it bored him to no end. The first time you had sat down with him to discuss the project, you could tell how much he didn't want to be there, and the look of complete disinterest on his face as he tried to figure out what your poem meant was the most hilarious thing that you had seen in a while. You couldn't help but laugh, the sound of which made him sit up and give you a quizzical look.

"What?" He asked, tilting his head slightly, confused.

"Nothing," you replied, still giggling. "It's just that I can tell that you don't like poetry."

"Why would you think that?"

"Because you haven't said a word; you're just sitting there, staring off into space and twirling your pencil between your fingers," you told him, and he glanced down at the utensil as if he didn't realize that he was doing that.

"Oh. Sorry, I guess," he apologized, his tone making it clear that he was actually a little annoyed at having been called out on his inattentiveness.

"That's okay. I like poetry, so I'll be happy to do most of the work," you offered, smiling sweetly, and his eyebrows raised.

And that you did. In fact, you loved it so much that you majored in English and planned on getting your Masters, while Dexter got his degree in criminology. It was a nice trade-off because while he struggled in poetry, getting down into the debts of his feelings that were nonexistent, you struggled with chemistry, unable to wrap your head around the subject no matter how hard you tried.

So, the two of you had a mutually beneficial agreement. You did all the work for the poetry class, and in exchange, he tutored you in chemistry and made sure that you got a decent grade. Once the class was over and done with, the two of you stayed friends, though you had very little in common. Dexter had no interest in books, and you had no interest in criminology. He was a loner, and you had plenty of friends. You were a romantic, and he was completely unromantic. He didn't even have a girlfriend, and you had been in three different relationships over the course of the two years that you had known him.

Still, the two of you got along well enough. You were one of the only people that Dexter could actually stand for more than five minutes, and he was the same to you. So you went out to the bar sometimes, hung out with his sister, and did your best to keep him company while also doing your best to try to set him up on dates, hoping that one of these days, he'd actually find someone. It eventually did work out when you found him Rita, but as of right now, she had broken up with him, and he was back to being a lonely bachelor which it didn't bother him much until now.

You were in the hospital, your head wrapped and bandaged like a mummy. You were apparently attacked outside the grocery store, and if it wasn’t for the small instructions he had given you for self-defense, you most likely wouldn’t have survived.

At first, Dexter didn’t think of it as anything important in terms of his line of work. He believed it to be a coincidence, a random crime in the night. But it turned into something more the night he decided to visit with some cake.

“How’s the head?” He asked as he came inside, seeing you propped up reading. Of course, you were reading.

You shrugged. “Like I’m wearing a sweater hat, but it doesn't hurt, so there's that." You paused, setting down your book and glancing at him. "I’m still salty about my groceries. Almost two hundred dollars I spent on that stuff. Gone. Wasted. Poof."

Dexter had to chuckle a bit. "Hey, I can't do much about the food, but I brought you something," he said, revealing the white box.

"Is it chocolate? If it is, I love you," you joked.

"No, it's just vanilla. But, here."

He opened the lid and showed you, and you immediately lit up.

"Awww, Dexter! You are the best friend ever," you gushed, giving him a warm smile.

He smiled back. "It's the least I could do."

He was cutting it up for you when he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. You didn’t seem to notice, but out in the hall, a shadow passed by the window. His body went on alert, eyes flickering towards the door. He couldn’t see much, but he could make out an elderly man with gray hair and a beard.

Dexter's face remained unchanged, though his body language betrayed him as he sat the cake knife down. He knew that look. That look in a man's eyes when he was looking at prey. This was a predator.

"Hey, uh, what was that description again? Of the man who attacked you," Dexter asked, his tone a bit distracted.

"You mean Santa Claus on drugs? That pretty much sums it up. Why?" You looked up, confused.

"I don't know. It's probably nothing."

But it was something. The man had apparently come back to finish the job, and Dexter's jaw clenched at the thought. He was already planning his death in his mind. It wouldn’t be pretty. He gave you a piece of cake, swearing that he’d be back soon before going after the man. He stopped at the lobby momentarily, informing Angel to keep an eye on you, which, of course, the cop complied with.

Angel was a good cop. He was loyal, smart, and a damn good shot. But there was one thing that made him a great cop. He cared about his city and the people in it. He would protect the innocent no matter the cost, especially when it came down to those he was closest to. He was the kind of guy who would risk his life without a second thought if it meant saving others.

This is why Dexter liked Angel and why he was the only one that he trusted with this job.

Finding the man was extremely easy on his part. Dexter already knew what the guy’s plan was, so he stuck around outside the parking lot, watching the shadows. After a few minutes, the man appeared, heading towards the entrance once again.

He never got that far.

A hand was clamped over his mouth while the other dragged him away from the double doors and towards the side of the building. Dexter didn’t pull out his knife, though, only resorting to his arms as he applied pressure against his throat. The man fought, trying to break free, but he didn't get the chance. Dexter didn’t kill him, no, not yet, but his arm was still strong, and he had no plans to let go.

“Listen closely. If you so much as look the wrong way, I will rip your heart out and shove it down your throat. Understand? Nod if you do," he threatened, his voice calm and even. The man nodded, terrified, his eyes wide.

"Good," Dexter replied, “Why are you here?"

The man was quiet, but he was breathing heavily, and his eyes were watering.

"Talk. That girl, why are you after her?"

"I’m not—”

"You attacked her, and now you came back to finish the job, did you not? Who sent you?"

The man was sweating; his face was flushed and red. Dexter was pressing too hard, and his victim was starting to lose air. He didn’t care.

"Who?" He repeated.

The man choked, unable to speak.

"Last chance. Who sent you? And don't lie to me."

The man didn’t answer, and Dexter tightened his hold. That finally did it. The man began to squirm violently, trying to break free, but it was too late. His face started to turn purple, and Dexter had to adjust his grip and pull him closer.

“It wasn’t personal! I had to! I didn't have a choice! It was just a job!" He gasped out, struggling for air. “I got paid to do it. I was just doing what I was told! Please, please, don't kill me."

"Who was it?"

"I—I don’t know. It was some lady. I met her at a bar. She didn’t give her name, but he wasn’t American. She gave me ten thousand dollars and told me that the job was to attack this chick in the parking lot and make it look like an attempted robbery. Said it had to be done in a couple of days. Listen, man, I didn't want to do it. But the money—"

"What did she look like?" Dexter cut in.

"Dark hair. Young. I don't know! I don't know, I swear. She wore sunglasses the whole time. Please, don’t kill me. Please."

Suddenly, it hit him like a ton of bricks. The Dark Passenger was roaring, the realization washing over him like cold water.

Lila.

Everything made sense now. The way she had suddenly showed up out of nowhere, the incident outside the bowling alley, her sudden interest in you. It all made sense. She was behind it. She had done it.

Dexter wanted to snap the man's neck. He wanted to rip his throat out. He wanted to take his knife and stab him over and over again, to punish him for what he had done to you, but he refrained. He had the answers he needed, and the cameras around were still running.

He dropped him and watched him collapse, gasping for air. He didn't move, too scared and in shock to do so. Dexter didn’t say a word; his anger was silent, but it was boiling beneath his skin.

He was going to kill her. He was going to hunt her down and end her, and there was no place on Earth where she could hide.

“You ever, and I mean ever, come near her again; I will tear out your spine and make you choke on it. Understand?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I understand."

Dexter didn’t say anything else; he simply walked off, his hands stuffed into his pockets. He had a lot to think about.

[paddedlittleparadise]

When Words Have Two Meanings (Ream Teaser)

Little Andy's about to go to a birthday party for his fellow Little! But unfortunately, he's having a hard time convincing his Mommy not to interpret the party's theme in a very embarrassing way…

–––

"Nno- Mommy, no! It- it's not that kind of par-mmmmphhh!"

Into Andy's mouth the giant spoon went once more, forcing yet another wad of oily, gritty mush deep into his half-choking throat. He gulped, straining in his high chair, his hands waving helplessly as he muscled the icky goo down. He knew this taste all too well: the taste of laxative-laced oatmeal. But before he could even recover, his wife Lila – affectionately known to him these last four years as Mommy – gave a knowing chuckle and drove the spoon into the half-empty bowl for a fresh load.  

"Oh, sweetie, hush! Don't tell me you really know better than Mommy now? You said your Little friend's birthday party is a wet and messy party, right?" Lila's green eyes twinkled, and deep between his messy lips went the loaded spoon again. "Now I can't speak for Charlotte's Mommy, of course. But any adult with half a grain of sense will know that, when it comes to two big babies like you, "wet" and "messy" can mean one thing and one thing only…"

She giggled over his gurgling protests, merrily oblivious to his discomfort. "You're my little stinker, after all. Aren't you? My sweet little super-soaking pampers packer. And if that's what Charlotte's Mommy wants this party to be about… well, we need to make sure you're primed and ready!"

Of course Andy tried to reason. But reasoning with Mommy wasn't exactly his strong suit at any time – and least of all now in this hapless position, locked in his chair, wearing his night-soaked diaper, and being forcibly spoon-fed his gooey breakfast. So he let out a sticky sigh… and down the hatch it all went.

After that? Down too went the contents of his one-liter bottle. Because, after all, Mommy cheerfully informed him that if he didn't drain it all quickly, she simply wouldn't have time to change him. And, well… rocking up to his Mommy's friend's house in a swollen – and probably by that time leaking – night diaper wasn't exactly on his list of favorite things ever.

"Hmm… you really think it's a party for messy play? Like finger painting?" Mommy was smirking now, glancing brightly backward from his closet full of onesies, shortalls, and diaper covers and giving her now freshly double-diapered husband a wink. "In that case, maybe I should just leave you like that: in nothing but your diaper. Surely it's better not to get your pretty clothes dirty…"

"No, no, it- it's okay," Andy hastened, his stuffed and already gurgling belly giving a little flip-flop of fear. "Please, I- I wanna wear something! I- I can stay clean-" Oh, he did! How embarrassing to show up with this waddly, stuffer-filled monstrosity of a double diaper on display for everyone to see?!

At that, Mommy let out a triumphant laugh. "Such a silly little thing," she reproved, tugging one of his newest onesies over his head and beginning to guide his arms through the sleeves. "Well, never mind that. At least this one will be appropriate no matter what! Oh… but of course my baby can't read!" She giggled anew, her fingers dexterously snapping the taut fabric shut around his bulging crotch. "See these words on the front? They say, "Mommy's Little Messmaker! And isn't that exactly what you are, sweetie?"

Well, Andy would have let out a disconsolate bleat of dissent. But Mommy was already stuffing his pacifier into his mouth and bending down, her lovely cleavage full on display within her sundress, and planting a warm kiss on his forehead. "Well, aren't you adorable! Now let's get going. It's an hour to your Little friend's house, at least – and we can't keep sweet little Charlotte waiting on her birthday!"

–––

Want to read the mortifying end to this little story – along with many, many other one-off, multi-part, and commissioned stories? We'd be delighted to see you over on our Ream (i.e., the Patreon that's NOT run by bigoted assholes). Lots of steamy, femdommy, diaper-y, BDSM-y, sissy-y goodness awaits! 😁

[daceydeath]

[8:50pm]

Pairing: Han x reader Word Count: 0.7k Genre: Smut Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, Swearing, Sexting (mentions), Oral Sex (F receiving), Unprotected Sex (just don't), Praise (use of good girl), lingerie

"Baby girl....." you heard him drawl as he walked through the front door making you bite your lower lip in anticipation. "You know what happens when you tease baby".

You stepped out of the kitchen into the hall to see him hanging up his coat and putting away his shoes his black shirt and blue jeans looking so attractive to you in that moment.

"Did you not like the photo?" you pouted hoping he would find you cute and not treat you too harshly.

"I loved the photo baby" His eyes lit up excitedly when he noticed you still just in your robe "but I think poor Changbin and Lee Know were traumatized" he chuckled darkly making a beeline for you.

"I thought you would need something to make you smile, you have had a stressful week" you explained just before his lips crashed into yours backing you against the kitchen counter and pinning you there.

"That is why you are the greatest girlfriend in the world" he smiled against your skin as his kissed down your neck to the edge of the robe which his dexterous fingers were already untying.

"Can I unwrap my present and fuck you now?" he nipped at the top of your breasts as he slid the fabric from your shoulders letting it fall haphazardly to the floor while you nodded slowly biting your lower lip in anticipation.

"Ji!" you gasped his teeth and lips now leaving marks on your skin while his fingers toyed with the lace of the bodysuit you had bought especially for him.

"That's my name baby girl, and you better yell it" he smirked his fingers sliding between your legs to tease your slit.

"Ah, Jisung, please" you moaned loudly as he continued kissing he way down your body until he was kneeling in front of you his eyes turning heated as he roughly pulled your left leg over his shoulder so he could flick his tongue over the flimsy fabric covering you.

"Such a polite baby girl" he growled against your folds his fingers hooking the fabric out of his way as he delved his tongue into you swirling it against your clit rapidly causing your head to fall back while your hands shot out behind you on to the counter to keep yourself stable and upright. You could feel him whine against your folds as your legs shook slightly his talented tongue making you see stars.

"Taste as good as you look baby girl" he groaned standing once more and unzipping his jeans "now be a good girl and turn around" he purred seductively his hooded eyes impossible to resist.

You turned around teasingly knowing the effect you were having on him only to gasp as he yanked your hips against his causing you to press your hands against the cool granite. The hand on your hip grasping tightly as he guided his length into your velvet walls, his loud moan making you even wetter as his other hand landed hard beside yours.

"Fuck baby girl your tight little cunt is going to kill me one day" he almost whined while he slowly fucked himself deeper into your core pushing you gently to bend you over completely until you were stood on your tip toes his other hand splayed across your shoulders.

"Ji, Ji, fuck" you panted already feeling his cock rubbing against your favourite spot.

"God your perfect" he moaned again as your walls clenched around him, your high washing over you faster than you expected, making you whine loudly as he continued to thrust roughly into you "going to fill this pretty pussy up baby".

"Please Ji" you sighed, still slightly dazed from how hard he had made you cum.

"Fuck, such a good girl" he groaned emptying himself inside you before ungracefully flopping down over you and grinning "You should send me pictures every day".

"Maybe I will" you teased feeling him kiss the back of your neck.

A/N: Thank you for reading and sorry I'm a little rusty xx

Taglist (open): @christopher-bangnaldoskzz, @armystay89, @damnyouficc, @roamingpolar, @tara-skyhold, @bakedlilgoonie, @krishastumblernow, @mrsseals16, @fawnpeaks, @leeknowinggg, @uno7, @tanzen-ist-gold

[dontmixpaintinyourcoffee]

My take on the Bad Kid scars! AKA my excuse to make like a 4 page Google doc worth of headcanons.

I've thought about this kind of a lot while considering how I draw the Bad Kids because I love when characters carry evidence of their history with them (not just scars, stuff like the tin flower emblem or Figs Ayda-feather-earring also exist in this category, and I have separate notes for those too)

Since magic is a big part of healing in this world I have some stipulations for what actually causes scarring in my own headcanons-

(Rest is under the cut. This bitch is looong and it's technically unfinished. Heads up for descriptions of injuries and spoilers for the first 2 seasons of Fantasy High.)

So here's the rules:

1. It's a big story moment. Random slashes or scratches or whatever don't show up because they're not relevant to the characters history and they're small enough that I think magical means would completely cover them.

2. The attack downs them. This just makes it easier to track, any attack that knocks a character out has the potential to leave a lasting mark.

3. Based on some comments from Brennan, it seems like low level healing magic (ex. Cure Wounds, Healing Word) is essentially time-based. It basically fast-forwards the healing process months in advance. That's gonna affect how scars work. Unless otherwise stated, that's how I'm gonna approach the magical healing process.

Figeuroth Faeth

• Tuna Surprise Eldritch Blast- Doreen (S1E2)

Small burn scar on the left side of her check/around her lips from when she caught the Eldritch Blast with her face. The Phoenix Egg spell mostly took care of it, so it's quite faint, but it still can get tight and itchy. Fig has a special moisturizer for it that she keeps next to her horn cream.

• Torn ear- Figueroth Faeth (S2E12)

Honestly this is mostly because I find it funny. This is from that moment when Fig rips out her earring to give to Ayda in exchange for the feather. It's very common in D&D designs for characters with long ears to have rips or notches in them to show that they're active or battle-worn. I really like this idea of a kind of Jason Grace style scar where you look at her and you wonder "Woah, I wonder what battle caused that" because she's this legendary adventurer but the truth is that she did it to herself because she's a sweet-hearted dumbass who was tripping over herself trying to give her crush a gift. It got healed up soon enough, there's just a divet at the bottom of her ear now.

Riz Gukgak

• Hand Cuts- Crystal Interior (S1E14)

Riz was tearing through his hands trying to get out of that thing, I can't imagine that it didn't leave a lasting impact. Both sides of his hands and a little up his forearms are covered in slashes. They've healed kind of unevenly since he does a lot of work with his hands that require some amount of dexterity and precision (mostly writing, typing, drawing up maps, ect.) The forearm scars are pretty much settled, but the ones on his palms and fingers are still irritable and sometimes painful enough that he has to stop working. It does not help at all that this kid refuses to sleep or stretch or experience rest, so he probably gets a lot of stiffness and cramping too (at least, more than he would if he actually got sleep ever). Since they got re-agitated in Sophomore Year his friends have gotten very good at noticing when he's ignoring the pain and force him to take a damn break every once in a while. He has a tell for it and none of them will tell him what it is. He appreciates that they care about him, but god is the mystery infuriating. He actively refuses to acknowledge the irony of that.

• Lightning to the Chest- Aelwyn Abernant (S1E12)

In the sister fight Aelwyn knocks Riz out with a fucking lightning bolt. This is what sets Adaine completely over the edge. He gets healed up pretty fast, so it's not a life threatening scenario, but it's still a fucking lightning bolt. He's got a circular burn scar in the center of his chest. Much like Figs, it doesn't bother him much, but it still requires some attention and maintenance for at least a couple weeks. Honestly he straight up forgets it's there sometimes. Adaine probably thinks about it more than he does.

Fabian Seacaster

• Enucleation- Dayne Blade (S1E16)

So the main thing here is the eye, but it also covers a good chunk of the left side of his face. Essentially this big slashing weapon caught him right at the top of where his ear connects to the rest of his head and dragged forward far and deep enough to take out his left eye. Also notable is that he doesn't get any medical attention beyond minor heals for a hot minute. And when he gets hit he spends a couple minutes running around a burning house filled with ash and smoke and blood. The moment of Bill giving Fabian his eye patch is incredibly tender. It's also NASTY, dude. That thing is for sure covered in blood and ash and he puts it right over an OPEN WOUND. I love that scene to death, and there is absolutely no way that that thing isn't getting crazy infected without immediate/magical medical attention. I imagine Kristen and Riz took a good chunk of that frozen time to treat it as much as they could. I picture the slash healing into a pretty thick hypertrophic scar that goes from his ear over his eye to the edge of his nose. He definitely had to actually go to a hospital after prom to get proper treatment. His skin could be mostly stitched back together magically, so the main focus from actual medical professionals was putting in an orbital implant and getting him a conformer to maintain the structural integrity of the eye socket. He probably has a bunch of cool decorative prosthetic eyes for big events because he's a fancy little rich boy, but I don't think he actually uses them a lot (for a couple reasons, the main one is the eye patch. Why bother putting it in when he's gonna cover it up immediately anyway?) He just uses the conformer like 99% of the time. The eye patch mostly has sentimental value, but it also does have that charisma stat boost effect, so he has it on when he's adventuring or at school, but takes it off at home. His big issue is adjusting to his new depth perception. He spends months and months re-learning the sword with Hallariel, which is immensely frustrating. He knows how to do it, but he has to completely readjust how he thinks about approaching it, which I think would really get under his skin. Especially since it's such a big part of his identity at this point. It takes him a good while to get back to his previous skill level, but damn if he doesn't do it.

Kristen Applebees

• Gored Through the Chest- The Great Unicorn (S2E17)

100% my least grounded in any form of reality headcanon. She fully resurrected herself. The scar left from the horn of the unicorn is a little more like a slightly raised tattoo than an actual scar. It's more of a magical imprint of the divine act of resurrection than anything left behind by the wound itself. As her bones and skin and muscles literally stitched themselves back together they sort of knitted into a single point, which grew a patch of discolored skin. The skin is thick, and purplish, and shaped like some kind of rune that doesn't actually exist in any surviving magical language. A permanent mark of the impossible magic she enacted. There's an identical mark that's a little bigger on her back, where the horn entered through. A less obvious element of that scar is how it affected her heart. The thing was ripped apart, and basically the only thing that could fix that was god magic. Luckily, she got that! I imagine that her heart now has this weird rippling effect over the muscle, almost like aurora borealis. It doesn't actually affect a ton because, again, god magic, but man does it fuck with medical equipment sometimes. I also think that if you were to cast Detect Magic on her, without any of her gear or spell effects, you would still read that Raise Dead effect just radiating off of her.

• Pinky Finger- Removal and Resurrection

I think that her right pinky finger didn't entirely recover from having a full bone taken out, and now the last knuckle has some mobility issues. It's just really stiff and doesn't really bend on its own. She's also lost a lot of sensation in that finger specifically. It shouldn't get any more intense than that without extenuating circumstances, but given that god magic is a little unpredictable she and her doctor are keeping an eye on it. She does a lot of stretches and exercises to keep her hands loose and moving. Ounce of prevention and all that. It's also a part of her gym bloke routine in Junior Year.

Gorgug Thistlespring

• Slice Through the Hand- Forest of Blades (S1E3)

All the way around his hand there's this line, as though his hand was cut clean through and then perfectly realigned and glued back together. By Sophomore Year the scar has almost completely flattened, it's just a discolored line all the way around the surface of his hand.

• Crushed Heart- Nerd Ghosts (S1E14)

The effects of this one are two-fold; first, the streak of gray hair, second, a lasting effect on his heart. The prolonged strain on the actual organ of his heart from this encounter left him with increased risk for cardiovascular problems that he didn't have before. He doesn't really notice it (mostly because when it's noticeable he's so high on adrenaline that he's not really noticing anything) but his heart is definitely weaker than it should be. It's not life threatening, but it's for sure something that Digby and Wilma have stressed the importance of monitoring because they are good responsible parents. The actual visible impact from the ghost attack is the streak of gray hair he has, which is permanent. It just grows gray there now. He thinks it looks pretty cool.

Adaine Abernant/ O'Shaughnessy

• Teeth Marks- Jawbone O'Shaughnessy (S1E6)

Basically just a dog bite on her right forearm. Normally healing magic would be able to patch that up without any scarring, but the werewolf pathogen adds a complication to it. Still, pretty average looking scar. She feels a little weird about it, cause on the one hand getting it sucked, but on the other hand now every time she sees it she thinks about her amazing new dad, so there's a weird sentimental element. She and Jawbone have for sure had a long discussion about the validness of any of her feelings about it and how it's ok to acknowledge the harm done to her, even by well-intentioned parties. He probably feels a lot worse about it than she does. The reveal of which probably initiated another very long discussion.

• Gored Through the Chest- The Great Unicorn

This time it's just a normal scar, no crazy magical runes involved. I'm not entirely sure how a fully healed version of this injury would actually... Work? The part that's visible would be the broken skin, so probably a combination of a fine-line scar and a depressed scar, (sharp edges + impaling motion) but I'm not entirely sure how to properly translate that visually, or if it's at all realistic. Further research pending. Anyways she and Kristen have matching injury scars! The besties ever

[leaderpinhead]

Leona - The Lion's Den

Prompt: Breath (TwstOber) & Nap (Blotober) I found this in my files unedited, so I don't think I ever actually uploaded it. If I did...I guess you guys just get another round of LeonaxYuu anyway. You're welcome :P

“And here we have the rare, but lazy, Prince of the Savanna.” 

The audible click of a camera shutter made Leona’s ear twitch. He kept his breathing even in a feigned image of sleep. He heard the plastic siding of his tent rustle, and a slight breeze funneled through his previously insulated shelter. Another shutter click made his ear twitch again. 

“This species is known to average around twenty-three hours of sleep per day.” Leona had enough practice with Cheka interrupting his naps to keep his expression under control. Only one corner of his lip twitched upwards. “Researchers have yet to discover this fascinating lack of self-preservation, but theories have circulated the community. The popular one being an inflated ego paired with piles of thaumarks.” 

Another shutter click made Leona’s tail flick. His eyes may have remained closed, but his spatial awareness flared the moment the prefect crept into his tent. The tent crinkled under her precise movements. He wondered how much film her ghost camera held as she snapped another picture. 

“Despite this lazy species contributing little to nothing to the community, documentation of him is wildly popular to the population of female preteen and older. Multiple marriage proposals have been thrown at this lazy good-for-nothing with only minimum success. What is the gatekeeper to this wild beast’s heart? This documentarian is sad to say that the ladies may forever stay heartbroken as the answer to that question has yet to be found.” 

A loud crinkle of the tent floor behind his shoulders signaled the time to strike. He twisted his torso with a speed and dexterity Yuu clearly hadn’t anticipated from her expression of startled dismay. It was easy for him to wrap one arm around her waist and haul her over his hip to land with a startled squeak against the back of the tent. He anchored her legs with his own to limit her method of attack in that area. His other arm snaked around her shoulders, and his fingers tangled with her hair when he cupped the back of her head and shoved her face against his collarbone. 

Yuu’s attempts to squirm away from him were met with a husky chuckle. “Your research is lacking, princess.” 

Yuu huffed into the collar of his outdoor jacket. “I think I've done a very good job.” 

“Lazy is a poor descriptor.” Leona curled around her the more she attempted to squirm from his grasp. He smirked at the pained grunt he received as he effectively maneuvered her into the position of a living body pillow. “Intellectual is a better word. Intelligent, handsome, powerful—.” 

“Lazy, average, egotistical,” she snapped back. Her arm wiggled free from his hold and attempted to reach for the camera that went flying from her grasp when he had snared her. “Lemme up! I have an important job of documenting to do.” 

Leona hummed and loosened his grip as if to let her go free. Her squeak of indignation was all the more amusing when he tightened his grip just shy of her reaching her ghost camera. “And you call me egotistical?” 

“It’s not egotistical if you’re doing a job assigned to you!” 

“But important?” He chuckled again when she clawed at his shirt with her blunted nails. “Last I checked, this camp was set up for the sports team. Not little herbivores running around with a camera.” 

“Just wait until I get free! I’m going to bust out some moves you never dreamed an herbivore could do!” 

His humming laugh shifted into a large yawn. Yuu protested when he rolled more on top of her. “I thought as a documentarian you’d be interested in documenting what was previously a mystery.” 

“And what exactly is that?” 

“The gatekeeper to a wild beast’s heart.” 

Yuu paused in her struggling. Leona smirked at the silence, and his eyes drifted shut once more. Sadly, the silence didn’t last. “Suppose I was interested. For record keeping sake. And totally not to give the girls at Mourning Dove Institute new material on Magicam to leave me alone for a week.” 

Leona’s smirk widened. “So that's why you were sneaking in to take pictures? I almost feel violated.” 

“I am a self-proclaimed documentarian! All of my research is done for the greater good.” 

“I said almost. So you want to know the way to my heart, kitten?” 

“This is getting awkward now.” 

Leona swallowed a chuckle. He leaned down over her head to whisper into her ear. “The key to my heart—” 

“Could you not make this more awkward?” 

“—is a good body pillow.” 

Leona reveled in the moment Yuu realized she had truly become his prey. Her hand shot out to the tent’s wall as she frantically beat against it. “Ruggie! Save me!” 

Ruggie snorted from outside the tent. “You’re kidding me, right? I told you to leave him alone.” 

“Epel!” 

“Sorry, princess. I sent him off to gather more wood. He’ll be gone for a good hour now. Shyeheeheehee.”  

Leona matched the hyena’s snickers with a dark chuckle of his own. “You should know better by now than to sneak into a lion’s den.” 

“You just wait until you fall asleep. We’ll see who regrets what then.” 

Leona emitted a hum of disbelief and nuzzled his face into the top of Yuu’s head. They had barely made camp but she already smelled like the woods: the airy scent of the pine trees with an undertone of smoke from the campfires. He balanced his chin on the top of her head and settled in for a nice, long nap. 

...which never actually came thanks to his victim’s constant squirming and huffing, so he unceremoniously threw her out of the tent. Without her camera as his single act of petty revenge. 

[moodymisty]

'We float for Macragge.' That is the cutest quote ever omg. Thank you for blessing me with this, I'd never seen the meme before. The blueberries are so charming sometimes 🥺 -anon that likes excerpts

It's one of the less popular iconic WH40k memes, but I see people reference it sometimes. Here's some more funnies because I like forcing people to read this stuff.

There's also the fucking hilarious scene of an astartes with new terminator armor falling through a floor, and his buddy has to call a crew with a crane to get him out, which is fucking hysterical. (master of sanctity)

‘Some kind of sub-level here,’ reported Daellon. ‘Descending.’ ‘Wait!’ yelled Telemenus, but his warning came too late. The audio pick-ups brought the sound of splintering woods and crumbling ferrocrete followed by an almighty crash. Daellon cursed without pause over the vox. ‘Report,’ barked Arbalan. ‘Brother Daellon misjudged the load bearing of some internal stairs, brother-sergeant,’ said Telemenus, trying not to laugh. For once he was glad somebody else was attracting the negative scrutiny. There was a chuckle from Cadmael and a sigh from Arbalan. ‘Daellon, can you climb out?’ asked the sergeant. ‘Negative, a three metre drop at least. The floor will not hold my weight to pull myself up.’ ‘No threats detected,’ Telemenus added, his auspex sensors encompassing the long row of huts. ‘Understood,’ said Arbalan. He sounded impatient. ‘Daellon, remain in place, I will signal for an armoury extraction team. Telemenus, rejoin the squad.'

There's also a book I don't remember where a group of baseline humans are descending from tight steps with an astartes, and are VERY concerned at the creaking of the stairs from his weight. Chunky boi

Also here's Guilliman making a joke in Armour of Fate about him being stuck in this massive bulky armor and Sicarius just, doesn't get it. This moment was another reason why I always recommend Dark Imperium to people, it just kind of gets Guilliman and how different he is from his legion now.

Sheaves of blueprints were scattered across the desk in front of him. He spotted something of interest written on one and reached for it, gritting his teeth against the purring of the suit. He always reached with his right hand. The integration points for the Hand of Dominion on his left made picking anything up nigh on impossible, even with the over gauntlet and its underslung bolter removed. Day-to-day tasks such as this were a struggle. His armoured fingers pushed at slick plastek. Ceramite skidded across the papers, knocking them to the ground in wafting flutters. ‘Oh, for the love of…’ he grumbled as he bent awkwardly to pick them up. The Armour of Fate was bulky. As its waist joint prevented him from flexing his spine and reaching the floor, he had to kneel. He reached for the scattered flimsies. Fingertips failed to grasp the sheets, sending them fleeing in small armadas over the polished floor. He growled in frustration, abandoned his task and stood, drawing a curious look from Sicarius. ‘I have the manual dexterity of a Legio Cybernetica battle automaton!’ Guilliman said. ‘Created by the Lord of All Mankind, master of the greatest armies in the Imperium, and I cannot pick up a plastek flimsy.’ He glared at the offending articles. ‘My greatest enemy.’ There was a thoughtful quiet. ‘You are joking, my lord?’ said Sicarius. Guilliman looked at Sicarius. He had to turn all the way around to do so. The pauldrons, ornamental wings and large halo mounted on his back made it impossible for him to see over his shoulder. At least he had stopped knocking into things. There was that. ‘By the Throne, why am I expected to be serious at all times? Yes, Captain Sicarius, I am making light of my predicament. During the worst of the Great Crusade, I was known to make the occasional jest. Even after Terra fell. I did not spend my entire previous life writing deep thoughts into little notebooks, but sometimes dared to enjoy myself. I suppose that was not recorded in the hagiographies.’ ‘Humour is not something you are renowned for, my lord.’ ‘My time in this new age has revealed that to me amply.’

I have way too many random book moments stuck in my head. And not enough space for actual useful information.

[lokisgoodgirl]

Hi, boo! I have a request to make since I've been feeling icky the past few mornings due to allergies.

Loki is introduced to chocolate for the first time by reader. Bonus points for Gryffindor if there's smut involved 😉😉

I'm talking...chocolate fondue type smut..if you catch my drift 😜

Welllll since it's you, and since you have crummy allergies making you feel bad, and since I love you...buckle up baby 🍫I hope you feel better very soon! x

You asked for this.

Make me Melt

Warnings: Smuttish. w/c 500

Masterlist here

The rustle of unfamiliar foil made Loki cast a glance over his shoulder.

He did a double take.

"Another Midgardian health food, is it?" he drawled, continuing to chop carrots with methodical grace.

He could have cut that sarcasm, too.

You rolled your eyes. His playful barb recalled the time you spent trying to convince him doughnuts were peak nutrition when he caught you with a box of twelve in bed.

Smiling at the memory, you paused to enjoy the sight of his triceps flex against his t-shirt with every careful thud of the knife.

"No," you chimed, leaning on the counter and breaking off a piece of the huge bar of chocolate. Loki looked over his shoulder again, eyebrows raised. "Really?" he crooned. "Well, what's life without a little naughtiness mmm?"

The god set the blade down, spinning to face you with a carrot stick poised between his fingers. He brought it to his lips. The subsequent crunch made your pussy clench.

He chewed.

He swallowed.

"May I?" he asked, tilting his head with a smirk. You looked at the chunk of chocolate in your fingers. It had begun to melt. You could blame the primal heat steaming off Loki for that.

"I don't think you'd like it," you quipped, smiling sweetly as his eyes narrowed in warning.

You popped the square in your mouth.

In two strides, Loki had you caged against the counter-top.

He stared down at you, random strands of curl brushing against your cheeks. "We'll see about that," he breathed playfully, nudging his nose against your forehead. Like a magnet, your chin rose. His tongue grazed against your lips, impatient for entry.

You felt yourself melt into him like the chocolate warming in your mouth. A warrior woman turned putty in his ridiculously dexterous hands. Loki's tongue swept and tangled with your own. Deep, silken waves that made you lose yourself.

He was tasting it. Swallowing, before delving deeper. Wetter. More-

Loki moaned down your throat, before hoisting you onto the counter. He spread your legs, releasing a ragged gasp before mounting your mouth with his own once more. You could feel his cock pressed against your inner thigh, hard and furiously ready to do his basest will. And yours.

There was a slurp as he withdrew. You sat there, panting with your eyes closed.

"I like it," he purred, slurring quietly against your parted lips.

You heard foil rustle beside you, glancing down in a haze to see Loki's fingers rubbing seductively through the chocolate 's break-lines. You squirmed on the counter, grasping needily at his shirt.

He pressed his cock against your heat, proud brow twitching as you released a frustrated mewl of his name.

"I want more-" Loki growled. He looked down through half-lidded eyes, a wicked glint making them shine as the foiled rustled again.

"-so let's see what we can do with the rest of this, shall we?"

A/N - I might continue this with the full shebang if we think it could work - what could he have in mind?!?!The imagination boggles ;)

Not doing the whole list cos its just a lil happy sunday snack!:)

@simplyholl @wheredafandomat @glitchquake @goddessofwonderland @glitchquake @skymoonandstardust @ladyofthestayingpower @gigglingtiggerv2 @marygoddessofmischief @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @presidentlokis-hornyhelmet @sebstanwhore @holdmytesseract @muddyorbsblr @lokikissesmyforehead @mochie85 @justjoanne242 @kikster606 @gruftiela @acidcasualties @smolvenger @litaloni @lokischambermaid @mischief2sarawr @alexakeyloveloki @thedistractedagglomeration @maple-seed

[ur-fav-h-anon]

I Get Off

Finally, the Donaka fic. it's only been a month to the day that I haunted Julia's blog with this. My excuse is that I got distracted by watching CSI.

TW's: Implied consent (I don't know what else to call it. Its not noncon, and not really dubcon.), voyeurism, power imbalance, fingering (but no penetration. I prommy it makes sense), Donaka cares in his own way.

You’re not exactly sure what it was that tipped him over the edge. The best guess you could make in your thinking impaired state is that it was an accumulation of many, many small things, some of which may not even be your fault. But, however it happened, whatever caused it, it was of little importance to you right now. 

You hadn't processed what was happening until he had forced you into an unused bedroom of his house. It was only once you saw the camera set up, pointing at the bed that you understood at least partly what was about to happen. Normally his cameras were hidden, out of view and unnoticeable. He wanted you to see this one, he wanted you to know that whatever he did to you in here, people were watching. He had then ordered you on the bed and made you sit on the end so he could adjust the camera. Once he was sure the camera was set up to his liking he ordered you to strip as he turned around to open a familiar silver briefcase. 

Had he started streaming? There was really no way to know. All you knew was that you needed to strip for him. So you do. Maybe if you had known what was going on you would have made a show out of it, taking your time stripping off your light camisole and loose skirt. By the time you're down to just your panties and bra he's turned around again, now  donning the mask and heavy gloves that you know so so well. His dark eyes are unreadable from where they show through the eyeholes, you think he could be amused but really you don't know. Instead of thinking about it you focus on stripping off your underwear, but he interrupts you with a hand.

He manhandles you down on the bed, splaying you out just so. what you don't notice, too busy with the feeling of his hands on your body, is how he adjusts your head in a roundabout manner, until it's nestled comfortably against him. What you don't know is that from where he rests it your face is completely out of frame, the view of the camera starting at your collarbones.

Your bra is already off on the floor but your panties are still on, something he remedies with dexterity that you often forget he's capable of. You know he does just about everything in life the same way he practises martial arts, heavy and sure. So it's easy to forget that he's capable of more than that at times. 

Once you're bare he adjusts your legs again, making sure that you're at a good angle for his touch more than for the view of the camera. He rests a hand down on your core, just cupping it gently as he settles you, his other hand on your lower stomach to hold you where he wants. As soon as he's satisfied, the hand over your core starts to explore, just moving in gentle strokes, top to bottom, to make sure you're wet and ready for the pleasure almost pain he's going to inflict on you. He can feel you, not with the thick leather of the glove in the way, but he knows your body, he knows when you're ready. And when you are, he starts his torture of you

One of his fingers finds your clit and starts to circle, drawing whines and moans out of you with ease. What you don't know as he draws sound after sound out of you is that he's the only one that can hear them. There's no sound on the stream. He may show you off, but you belong to him, only he has the privilege of hearing the noises you make and seeing the way your face twists in pleasure.  

He stares down at you from behind the mask, dark eyes watching you as he works you up to the peak then denying you. He does it again and again, swirling thick gloved fingers in tight circles over your clit. He knows you well enough to tell just by the noises that pour out of your mouth how close you are to that sweet peak. 

You are his, his bird in hand. He knows exactly with how much pressure to hold you. He knows exactly how many times he can deny you before you become squirmy and hard to handle. And its when you reach that point that he switches tactics. Painful denial becomes intense pleasure. 

You know the exact moment he chooses to switch, even through hazed, glassy eyes you can see the moment the look in his dark stare switches from dangerous amusement to ravenous hunger. 

He works you up again, but this time, he doesn't slow down on you. No. This time he speeds up, almost brutally forcing you up and over the highest peak of pleasure. And he doesn't slow down then either. He maintains the tight, fast, heavy circles as you writhe and shutter and scream for him. He forces orgasm after orgasm out of you, giving you what feels like as many as he denied you. You have no idea what either of those numbers are, they are lost, first to the frustration of denial, then to the overwhelming pure ecstasy he inflicts.

It doesn't take long for you for the pleasure to consume you completely and just like he knows how much denial you can take, he knows exactly how far to ecstasy he can send you. It wouldn't do to break you, at least that's what he tells himself as he removes his hand from your core. He peels off the leather glove, dropping it on the bed beside you to avoid smearing your wetness on your skin, something he knows you hate. You're too far gone to react as his bare hand gently caresses your body and adjusts you into a position to cover your modesty. 

And just like that, the show is over.

He removes the remaining glove and mask and strips off his suit jacket. He doesn't bother to redress you in your own clothes, instead manipulating your pliable body into the jacket that dwarfs you. He's only gentle like this in moments you won't remember, times when you're not in your body to witness the almost tenderness with which he picks you up and takes you to the small room you've claimed as your own. He cleans you up and settles you in the nest of blankets you call a bed. You're safe there, all tucked up and observed at every angle by his looming eyes.

Later, when he's settled back in his office, watching you sleep contently, he looks over the almost obscene amount of money his showing of you generated and plots exactly how he's going to spend it on you.

[raz-writes-the-thing]

How about a Crowley x reader story (or it can be headcanons, whichever you prefer ♥️♥️) where the reader is a very emotional person, who cries and gets frustrated quite often, and Crowley is the person who’s there to comfort them. He’s basically their partner, confidante and protector all wrapped up in one.

Untitled Crowley x GN!Reader

Fluff/Comfort

Requests are: OPEN

Crowley knew humans were vulnerable. All those emotions God had inflicted them with. He had them too, of course, but he had never met a human with such volatile emotions as you. And there was the added bonus that Crowley had had six thousand years to understand them.

Or perhaps he had, but he hadn't felt for a human with such explosive emotions such as yourself in all his six thousand years of life on Earth.

So, when you knocked on his apartment door, frustrated as all Hell and ready to collapse into a puddle of tears, well- Crowley hadn't been ready for it per se, but he also wasn't necessarily unused to seeing you overwhelmed at the end of the day and needing some support.

"Oh," he grunts in surprise as you wrap your arms around him as soon as he opens the door. "Oh, dear, right- you alright, love?"

You sigh out a breath of relief as you feel his arms come up to wrap around you. He tuts comfortingly and rubs the top of your spine. You don't have to see his face to know that he's got his bottom lip stuck out in the way he always does when you're upset.

Crowley let you stand there for another few moments before pulling away to press a quick kiss to your forehead.

"Come on, then, darling. Out of the doorway."

He closes the door behind you, ushering you into the extremely minimalistic flat. You supposed you had better change that soon- though with the amount of time you both spent at the Bookshop, it probably didn't matter so much.

"Right- now, tell me then?"

You huff out a laugh at his straightforwardness. Crowley wasn't usually one to beat around the bush. Not with this, anyway. Other things, sure. But when it came to you unwinding or venting? Crowley knew you just needed to get right into the thick of it so you could move on to the next thing on the agenda.

He listened as you told him about your day. About all the frustrating and upsetting things that had happened to you. He nodded along and poured himself a glass of whiskey, setting himself down on his chair and gesturing for you to sit on the table in front of him, tips of your shoes brushing the rug underneath.

One dexterous hand reached out to pull your leg over the arm of his chair. "Mm- yes, well that does sound rather odd," he replied to you, setting his whiskey down so he could tug your shoe off- quickly followed by your sock. The feel of his fingers massaging into your tired feet had you interrupting your own story to let out a satisfied groan.

This, of course, made Crowley grin like nothing else, and after a moment, he pulled your other leg up to do the same. You continued, feeling mildly overwhelmed with the recount of a particularly upsetting thing a barista had said about you behind your back. Tears welled for a moment, and you sniffled quietly.

Crowley stopped his massage at once, shuffling forward in his seat to brush your cheek with his thumb. "Oh, come now, love. You know- well as I do, that isn't true." And if Crowley made a point to put that particular barista's information in the Books of the Damned down below, then that was just his own business, wasn’t it? You did, of course, notice the flash of anger in those snake's eyes. "They were probably just jealous of you."

You sniffed out a laugh and wiped the snot from your nose.

"Yeah, maybe," you replied, rolling your eyes. But you couldn't deny the little smile that pulled at your lips.

"Oh, there you are," he chuckled. "Knew that wouldn't take long. Too enamoured by my demonic charms, aren't you?" 

“You’d like to think so, wouldn’t you?” You replied, smile widening into a grin. Crowley downed the rest of his whiskey.

“Oh, I think I know so.” Crowley leaned forward even closer- close enough to feel his soft breath on your cheek. “In fact, I didn’t even have to Tempt you.” 

And, well, that there was the truth of it, wasn’t it? You had sought Crowley out on your own. Once he’d caught your attention, there was no going back. 

“Don’t play coy, love. We both know it’s true,” Crowley said softly, flitting his eyes down to your lips. It was barely another second before his lips were on yours, kissing you with such fervour that it took your breath away. 

He pulled away, nipping at your lip teasingly. 

“Right, then. Let’s get some food into you, Pet,” he said, giving your foot a comforting squeeze. “Aziraphale made scones. Never did get out of the habit of baking after lockdown.” 

You chuckled and hopped up from the table, following your Demon- and feeling much, much better than you had when you arrived.

[cambion-companion]

aemond falling in love with a musically gifted woman and every time they’re getting ready to sleep he asks her to sing to him 🥺 this thought JUST popped up in my head. like imagine he hears her before he sees her. like she’s singing for some event or something but aemond gets there too late and only sees the back of her head. it could be a whole thing where he’s trying to find her because her voice intrigued him that much.

Beneath the Mistletoe

This fic took ME on a ride

I have been waiting to do this one for too long and I made it Yule-themed as well...reader introduces Aemond to some winter traditions hehe

Aemond x fem!reader | Aemond reluctant to take part in festivities | harpist!reader | cheeky banter | mistletoe kiss

You fingers plucked the strings of your harp, constructed of the finest walnut wood, filling the dining hall with lovely music as you accompanied the other musicians. Your keen eyes swept the dance floor, taking note of all the noble lords and ladies swirling about, strung to the music you were creating.

All were dancing and making merry, save one obvious exception.

Aemond Targaryen. The silver-haired enigma. The young man who had all the ladies gossiping and giggling as they whispered behind hands, surreptitiously glancing at the rigid form of the prince.

As if he felt your gaze upon him, while he sat at the long table, his eye flicked to meet yours. Neither of you broke eye contact, you watched as he studied you and the instrument you played. A pleasant shiver prickled the back of your neck, he seemed interested in you. A small smile tugged at his lovely lips, curved and plush as they were. You longed to run your fingers along the shape of them.

Your fingers stumbled, you lost the beat of the music and faltered.

"Come on now, Y/N." The fiddler beside you chided. "Keep up! Don't let pretty princes distract you."

You mumbled a curse at him, steadying your fingers upon the harp strings once again and reentering the melody. You shot a quick glance back at the table, Aemond was grinning slyly at you now.

Your face burned, and you had to look away before you messed up the song again.

⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆

She was quite a lovely sight, seated before the wooden harp, fingers so dexterous as she conjured music as though it was magic.

Aemond was loathe to admit it, but he was entranced at the sight. The harp perched between your legs, a rather intimate instrument he mused.

With long fingers grasping his pewter goblet, Aemond raised his cup to his lips, pretending to drink the wine therein, still observing you over the rim.

"See something interesting, brother?" Aegon prodded his shoulder, rousing Aemond unpleasantly from his contemplation of your form.

"Is there no one else for you to bother?" He cast an annoyed look at the elder prince, appraising his unkempt state. "Did mother not instruct you to wash before the Yuletide feast?"

"I'm presentable enough." Aegon defended, tucking a greasy strand of silver hair behind his ear.

"You look like an urchin."

"You have the look of a man who sees a woman he likes." Aegon wiggled his eyebrows at Aemond, his cheeks ruddy from all the wine he'd consumed. "Go talk to her."

"She's busy at the moment." Aemond actually took a sip of wine this time, almost choking as Aegon clapped him hard upon the back.

"I'll be right back, don't go anywhere."

"What are you-?" Aemond's eye narrowed as he watched Aegon cross the dance floor, almost getting clotheslined by a waltzing couple as he did. "Oh no." He murmured, rising to stand, bemusement and bewilderment furrowing his brow.

⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆

"Excuse me. Harp lady. Stop playing a moment." You looked around, your hands stilling upon the vibrating strings. The last person you expected to be speaking to you was Aegon Targaryen, the eldest son of Viserys and Alicent. Yet here he was, his cheeks red from the influence of wine as he grinned down at where you sat. "My brother would like a word."

"I'm sorry my prince." You bowed your head. "I have been commissioned to play for the royal feast."

Aegon was having none of it. You made a disgruntled noise as he took you by your elbow, guiding you ungently to your feet. You steadied your instrument as it teetered, jostled by the abruptness of your movements as Aegon practically steered you away.

You looked guiltily over your shoulder at your fellow musicians, giving them a little wave of apology as you were dragged toward the long dining table.

Aemond stood as Aegon approached, his hand still gripping your arm.

"Let her go, Aegon." Aemond's voice was terse but still held a quality that made your skin tingle pleasantly.

"Talk about a first-class delivery." Aegon chortled, smacking you between your shoulder blades, making you stumble slightly forward.

You noted how Aemond raised his hands as if prepared to catch you should you need assistance. Luckily for you, Aegon wasn't that rough.

"I'm not a Yuletide package." You grumbled, straightening your skirts and giving Aegon a displeased glare before curtsying to Aemond.

"Indeed not!" Aegon agreed, crossing to pour himself another generous glass of wine. "Aemond here is the one with the package for you."

"That is quite enough." Aemond hissed, his jaw clenching as his lilac eye cut from you to his brother. "My lady." He gave you a curt bow and held out his arm for you to take. "Allow me to escort you elsewhere, the better to escape my inebriated brother."

"You can thank me later, Aemond!" Aegon called after the two of you as Aemond guided you away.

You had to remind yourself how to breath properly, the feel of Aemond's leather jerkin smooth beneath your fingertips as you entwined your arm with his. He smelled lovely, a combination of smoke, leather and spiced wine.

"I do apologize." Aemond intoned, inclining his head toward you as he spoke softly. "I do not even know your name."

"Y/N." You answered, your voice almost catching in your tightened throat.

"Y/N." He repeated, your name sounding sinfully good on his lips. "My brother gets certain...ideas in his head and will not be dissuaded once his course is set."

"What idea inspired him to lead me to you?" You asked, a mischievous spark lighting in your chest. "My prince." You remembered your manners at the last second.

"Please, call me Aemond." The two of you stepped together out onto a moonlit terrace, complete with rosebushes and archways covered in vines.

The night air was brisk, you subconsciously pulled Aemond's warm body closer to your own. You noted how he had not answered your question. "Aemond, then. I noticed you didn't seem a fan of the festivities."

"I enjoy feasts well enough."

"But not dancing?"

"No, not dancing."

You stood at the railing now, under a mossy archway, overlooking the red roofs of King's Landing, now bathed in silver light under the night sky. The waves of the sea far away sparkled merrily, catching your eyes momentarily before you turned to face the silver prince.

"What do you like, then?"

Aemond clasped his hands behind his back, his profile sharply illuminated by the moonlight. His eye flicked to your face, he was very close to you, closer than you had ever imagined you would be to a prince let alone a Targaryen.

"I enjoy reading. Swordplay..." He hesitated, turning away from the urban vista to give you his full attention.

You arched an eyebrow, a small smile playing along your lips. "And?"

"Hmm." He tilted his head at you, shining silken hair falling over his shoulder. "I enjoyed watching you play your harp." His eye widened slightly, as he straightened, catching himself leaning closer to your enticing smile. "That is to say, I enjoyed the music you were making."

"I'm surprised you heard it." You leaned an arm on the balcony railing afraid your knees were about to give out. "Harps are notoriously hard to hear in a setting such as a feast."

"I heard you." Aemond was still studying your face, seeming to like the little changes in expression he saw as your lips quirked up, your eyes crinkling at the corners, the scrunch of your nose. "You are quite skilled. Perhaps you would play for me sometime?"

"So long as Aegon isn't there."

Aemond chuckled at that. You wanted him to laugh again, it was a sound that sent shockwaves straight to your center.

"You're biting your lip, Y/N." Aemond's eye had found your mouth, lingering upon your lips as you wet them with your tongue.

"I just noticed something." You pointed to the space above your heads, a strand of foliage hung from the apex of the archway, white berries nestled amongst sprigs of green.

"What is that?" Aemond asked, looking up to where you pointed.

"You don't know what mistletoe is?" You looked aghast, pressing a dramatic hand to your heart. "It's a Yuletide tradition."

"I believe we've established I don't give much credence to festive traditions, Y/N." He seemed to like saying your name, waiting for you to explain what it was.

"When two people stand under a bundle of mistletoe they have to..." You trailed off, your boldness turning to sudden shyness as you realized what you were about to say and who you were speaking to.

"They...what?" Aemond prompted, looking again at the plant, sudden wariness upon his features.

"Kiss."

Aemond looked at you in surprise. "I'm sorry?" He chuckled. "That's a tradition? You're having me on."

"I promise you I'm not!" You blushed furiously.

Aemond seemed to be enjoying making you squirm. "You're making this up."

"I am not!"

"A clever scheme."

"I will bet you money that it's true." You felt lightheaded from the embarrassment. "Ask anyone inside."

"Kiss me then."

"I am not lying-what?" You must have misheard, you had to fight not to gawk up at the prince as he looked imperiously down at you.

"Since you're so adamant this mistroe forces two people to kiss..."

"Mistletoe." You corrected quickly.

"Then make good on your claim." He leaned into your space; you felt his breath upon your face. "Or else I suppose we will be stuck here for eternity, held captive by this plant."

"Aemond, we don't have to..." Your words caught in your suddenly dry mouth as Aemond hooked a slender finger beneath your chin, pulling you gently forward.

"I want to." He breathed, waiting for you to close the final distance separating you.

Your eyes roved across his angular features, his lilac eye turned silver in the moonlight, the leather eyepatch covering his other eye, a vertical scar running up his forehead and down his cheek. Your gaze fell to his lips, the very lips you had been daydreaming about not an hour earlier.

Your eyelashes fluttered, a sudden rushing sound filling your heated ears as you leaned forward, Aemond's finger on your chin moving trace your cheek as his lips parted.

As if guided by an invisible force your lips brushed against his, a wanton moan escaping your mouth that he captured as he pressed harder against you, pulling you by your waist flush against him.

⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆

You tasted like starlight and mulled wine. Your body warm against his. Aemond could feel the soft well of your bosom flush to his chest, the enticing scent of you filling his lungs as he breathed you in.

Thank the gods for mistlewhatever, his mind was too full of you within his arms for him to think clearly. Aemond drank down your sighs of pleasure as he greedily moved his lips with yours, only pulling away slightly when the both of you needed to catch your breath.

"Did we satisfy the tradition?" He asked, his eye crinkling as he smiled at your eager expression.

Your hair was a little mussed from the intensity of your embrace, Aemond smoothed an unruly tress and tucked it behind your ear.

"I'm tempted to say 'no'." You quipped, finding your voice at last.

"I would like for you to play your harp for me later this evening, before I retire." Aemond kept his hands upon your waist, loathe to let you go. "Perhaps we can revisit this," he reached up, plucking the sprig of mistletoe from where it hung. "later." He pocketed the plant, relishing the way your cheeks flushed pink as your lovely intelligent eyes followed his movements.

"Where should I find you, my prin-Aemond?"

Aemond let his hands fall away from you at last, only to clasp your hand formally and press a warm kiss to your knuckles. He lingered there, enjoying the feel of your soft skin on his lips. He had to suppress the urge to flick his tongue out to taste you.

"The sitting room adjacent to the library. I will find you there after the festivities adjourn."

His gaze lingered on your upturned face, softly taking in your lovely expression.

"You're not going to ask me to dance?" You gave a mock pout, drawing his attention back to your enticing lips.

"Oh no, my lady." Aemond chuckled dryly. "Enchanting as you are, I do not indulge in dancing."

"Maybe I can change your mind one of these days."

He gave a pause, feeling the bundle of mistletoe inside his jacket. "I wouldn't rule that out as a possibility." He extended his arm to you. "May I escort you back to the feast?"

You shook your head. "Thank you, no. I need a moment...that is, I would like to enjoy the view a little longer."

Aemond watched as you turned back to the scenic vista of the sprawling city below. He allowed himself a moment of weakness, his eye trailing down along your body, taking in the way your skirt shifted in the light breeze, accentuating the curve of your hips and your full...he needed to depart.

With a final shallow bow Aemond turned briskly upon his booted heel and strode back toward the Yuletide festivities, silently wishing he could get away with remaining at your side for the rest of the evening and perhaps even longer. He had been gone from your presence for mere seconds and already craved you.

Aemond would never admit it out loud, but Aegon had been correct.

Aemond desired you.

And what he desired, he claimed.

[tinyarmedtrex]

For @thoughtthedormouse who asked for Narlie and Expresso Martini! Have some pining Nick my dear!

"Today I think I want-" Nick paused dramatically before saying, "An expresso martini."

Charlie raised an eyebrow at him. "That's a good one. I haven't made one in years."

Nick smiled, thinking that maybe he'd finally bested the skilled bartender but then the man smirked at him. "Too bad for you they were my roommate's favorite drink for years. I don't think I'll ever forget the recipe."

"Shit." Nick shook his head, watching as Charlie turned to grab the ingredients. Nick wasn't too proud to admit that he was staring. He couldn't help it. There was something about the combination of his suspenders and white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows that just fucking worked. He watched as dexterous fingers poured ingredients into the mixer then firmly slapped the lid on with his palm. Nick wished that palm was slapping something else.

Then Charlie raised the mixer and shook, looking at Nick as he did. He swore the man shook it for longer than necessary, likely knowing how good he looked doing it.

Nick had been coming here for a few months now. On that fateful day he'd had a terrible day at work and needed a place for a drink. One of his coworkers had recommended a fancy new bar and Nick had stopped in. The flashy decor and tiny portions weren't for him but the curly haired bartender certainly was.

Since then, he'd been coming in several times a week. He came early enough that it was never busy, meaning he was able to sit at the bar and talk to the gorgeous man for hours- or until he got busy with the dinner rush. When that happened Nick would stay and enjoy watching as Charlie made drinks, the ease with which he poured and how he seemed to know every cocktail recipe known to man.

That was how this had started. Nick had wondered out loud if Charlie actually knew every drink. Charlie had barked a laugh and then shrugged, saying maybe he did. After that, he started ordering a different cocktail every time, wondering if that day would be the day he finally stumped Charlie.

"One day I'll find one you don't know." He said as Charlie poured the liquor into a martini glass then topped it with three espresso beans. Their fingers briefly touched as Charlie slid it towards him, sending an electric zing through Nick.

"I hope not, then you won't have an excuse to come in." Charlie replied with a wink. Nick's mouth went dry. He didn't recover until Charlie turned around, putting away the bottles. 

"I would still come. Where else can I get an expresso martini?" He said, raising the glass and taking a sip. 

Charlie stopped to watch. "How is it?"

"Like you don't know, it's delicious."

Charlie grinned at him then reached out, swiping a thumb across Nick's upper lip. "You had some froth there." Nick was sure they were both as red as the cherries in Charlie's jar.

"Thanks," he said breathlessly. This was how it went. Flirting, touching, but neither one making the next move. He wanted more but he was terrified to mess up what they had. When this started, Nick had decided that he would ask Charlie out once he stumped the man. There was no rhythm or reason to it, but it felt like a good plan.

Assuming Charlie didn't actually know every cocktail recipe.

Another customer came in and Charlie was soon busy pouring glasses of wine and whiskey. Nick finished his drink and left cash on the bar, knowing better than to try and wait for Charlie to have a break. 

Besides, he would be back soon. He already had an idea for his next cocktail.

[queen--kenobi]

Kinktober Day #5: Praise Kink

Tyland Lannister x OFC (Elayna Reyne)

Kinktober 2024 masterlist

Warnings: Praise kink, dirty talk, kinda sub!Tyland? Elayna being a Menace, body worship

Tyland feels Elayna's eyes on him. She's been staring at him for a while, although he's unsure why. All he's doing is writing, focusing on a letter. His quill scratches against the parchment.

“Are you aware of how handsome you are?”

The scratching stops. Tyland lifts his head. Elayna sits on one of the settees, embroidery set to the side. Her eyes follow the line of his jaw.

“Don't say things you do not mean.”

“But I do mean it.” To her credit, Elayna takes his words in stride. She frowns but doesn't falter with her response. “You are handsome. I am lucky to have you as my husband.”

Tyland feels his face heat up. He clears his throat in an attempt to hide his sudden, flustered state. He wants to pick up his quill, but his fingers seem to have a mind of their own.

“I appreciate it.”

The settee creaks as she stands up. Elayna makes her way over to him, her gown swishing softly over the stone floor. 

“You are far better to me than I deserve.”

“I could say the same of you.”

“I mean it, Tyland.” She stands next to him, the heat from her body almost calling to him. “You're a good man. You make me want to be better."

He blinks. For a second, he has no idea what to say. Tyland has gotten the odd compliment, mostly in regards to his mind. Once or twice he's been called handsome, but the women who did so were more often than not after his family name and fortune, not him. Someone genuinely complimenting him, especially someone as gorgeous as Elayna, feels strange.

Tyland shifts. He begins to look away, but Elayna quickly captures his chin. She turns his face until he's looking at her fully.

“You're handsome.” She repeats. Elayna breathes so much emotion into her voice he isn't sure what to say. “You're handsome and clever.”

Tyland tries to open his mouth and say something, but Elayna places her hand on his cheek.

“I love your eyes.” Elayna murmurs. Tyland’s heart leaps into his throat. “I can tell so much by looking at them. Most don't think to look but I do.”

Tyland clears his throat in an attempt to compose himself. Elayna's words on the surface are wholly innocent praise yet they evoke a reaction from him. No blood wants to stay in his head. 

“Elayna. What are you getting at?”

“Nothing. Do I need a reason to tell you how I feel?”

Elayna presses the pad of her thumb to his lips. He parts them. Tyland wonders if this is what bewitchment is, what sort of spell she has him under to have every one of his actions come from pure instinct. He can't look away from her if he wanted.

She must know what she does to him. Her slow smirk tells him as much. Hesitantly, Tyland runs his tongue over the tip of her thumb. Elayna breathly sighs, the soft sound shooting through his veins and making his head spin. 

“I love your lips. I love the way you smile. I love your cocky smirk when you get your way.” Elayna comes even closer to him. He inhales sharply when she leans in and kisses the side of his neck. One of his hands finds her hips, though he doesn't know if it's to steady her or ground himself. “Especially when you've made me see stars.”

Fuck. His fingers dig into the fabric of her dress. 

“Love what a mess you can reduce me to with just your lips.”

Elayna nips his earlobe. His preening turns into a gasp, a shiver of pleasure zinging through him.

“If you continue like this, we may want to move towards the bed.” He swallows. The thought of laying her out on the bed consumes him. 

“In time.” Elayna withdraws. She reaches down and takes one of his hands. Hers are more dainty and elegant than his. She's taken to the Tyroshi fashion of painting her nails. All Tyland can think about is how her fingers would look wrapped around his cock. 

“I love your hands.” She brings his hand up to his mouth and kisses his knuckles first. “Never would have figured you to be so dexterous. I find myself thinking about them more often than I should.”

When she turns his hand and looks him dead in the eye before taking one finger into her mouth, Tyland breaks. He pulls her closer with his free hand. She squeals with delight. 

“I'm not done!” 

Her protests fall on deaf ears. Tyland presses her even closer until she has no choice but to fall into his lap. Elayna's eyes widen when she feels him press against her, but she recovers quickly. She shifts. Tyland’s eyes roll back into his head. Each movement rubs some part of her against him. He guides her where he wants until she sits astride him, face to face.

“Tyland, I wasn't done.” 

Tyland kisses Elayna before she begins pouting in earnest. His hands find her thighs over the material of her dress, squeezing the soft flesh. Elayna gasps. She rolls her hips experimentally. Tyland groans. 

“Need you.” 

Those are the only words his brain manages. He breathes them against her lips. Elayna nods. A small smile graces her lips.

“You have me.”

[jpitha]

Because You need it.

My entry for this weeks @flashfictionfridayofficial

I was sure this was the end.

We were on a cargo ship, doing a run to a starbase run by a local cartel - the captain knew it was a risky job, but we needed the money - when pirates had warped in, right next to us! Their guns shredded our defenses, but the captain made a run for it anyway. They fired a grapple and caught us before we could even think that we had gotten away.

When they boarded, they killed the captain and the command deck officers immediately. They stole all our cargo and captured us. "For ransom" their translator modules said with a mechanical laugh.

We were all lead aboard the pirate ship in chains.

Everyone was resigned to their fate, but when we took in at the next starbase, I thought there might be an opening. They had opened the door to give us our barely edible "food" and I saw the hall beyond. I ducked under out captor and ran as fast as I could.

Hearing their shouts, I didn't waste energy with a glance back.

I just ran.

I was on a strange starbase, with no idea where I was, let alone even a way to call anyone for help. Not paying attention to where I was going, I ran full into this being.

They were tall and dense and wore an armored pressure suit, polished to a glossy back. They must be from a world that doesn't have the same methane helium atmosphere we do, so they were trapped in their suit. Bipedal. Even though their suit I could see that they had surprisingly delicate fingers, made for high dexterity work.

They bent down, and as they did, their black helmet cleared, revealing a bilaterally symmetrical face with two eyes and long red fur on the top of their head, piled behind the helmet. As they bent down their translator module clicked.

"please speak so that the appropriate language family can be found and translated."

"Um" I said. "Help me? I don't know where I am, and people are after me. My ship was captured and we were all taken prisoner."

After a moment for the translator to work, the being's face went wide and they leaned back. I held up my arms, still shackled to reinforce my predicament.

Their translator was smooth and very natural sounding. I was surprised at how good it was. "Of course we'll help you. Let's go rescue your friends."

"What?" I said and before I could blink 5 more of the black suited individuals appeared, all carrying massive rifles. I lead them back the way I came and they appeared at the umbilical to the pirate's ship.

In a clear, melodious voice the black suited leader called out: "Surrender and you will survive. Resist and perish."

At that, the pirates fired a slug thrower at the figure. It caromed off their armor and they didn't even flinch! Once again, the leader bent down and spoke to me.

"Wait here a moment please."

"All 6 of them darkened their helmets and walked purposefully in. I stayed back, listening to the sounds of battle. Their rifles made a tremendous noise when they fired them, and soon the shouts and taunts from the pirates became screams and whimpers.

After not long at all, they came back out with all of my surviving crew behind them.

"There you go. They won't be bothering anyone anymore. Do you have a way to go home?"

I ruffled my frill no.

The leader bent down and made some gestures on the pad attached to their arm.

"Well, with the crew dead, and the ship captured as a legal spoil of battle - nice of them to fire first - I declare this ship to legally be yours now."

I stood dumbstruck. I opened my mouth and said "T-thank you."

"You're welcome. We're happy we could help." And as they stood back up to leave I shouted. "Wait! Who are you?"

They turned and cleared their helmet again. In their clear, musical voice the translator said "My Name is Miriam Elemii and these are-" she gestured "Miriam's Marauders. We're a Human mercenary group."

"Human?"

"Yup! Glad to meet you. Now, keep in touch, we'd love to hear how you're getting on, and if you ever need some help-" she handed him a card "Give us a call."