#(if we just forget about the matching bird tattoo i have with my ex)

[achillestiel]

I was having a Bad Day until I saw that the guy I had a huge crush on in early 2017 now has a man-bun and a really bad tattoo. I feel better about my life choices now.

[spiltscribbles]

ADFFASFDSFG DO THE SWITCHED LUGGAGE WITH WOLFSTAR

Notes: LEGITLY I DO NOT KNOW!!!! STOP GIVING ME THAT LOOK DAMN IT RJ!!!! Big BIG love goes to @kattlupin and @justtoarguewithyou for the Beta help<3 Please don’t hate me RJ!

.-

~Hour 0   

Remus focuses on the chill that’s beginning to frost the window of the quaint, Edinburgh coffee shop that’s tucked into a dark corner of the large block of the tube station, appreciating the glittering blankets of snow coating the ground and the melodic holiday tunes playing from above. The scent of cinnamon wafts through the air and his phone’s pressed between his ear and shoulder while one hand toys with the tassel hanging off the reindeer trinket lining the counter, and the other’s clasping onto his luggage.

“I can’t wait to show you! My mum’s bought Harry the cutest little Saint Nick babygrow, and Mrs. Potter’s sent me her recipe for the samosas James especially likes. And—”  

Remus laughs through his nose, pressing the phone closer before accepting the hot chocolate handed over to him by the barista who winks his way before going back to start up the next round of drinks.

“Lils, I’ve bought the ticket, and I’m about to board. No need to continue on trying to convince me. I’ll be in London for Christmas.”  

“Oh, Remus, I can’t wait!” Lily crows delightedly, and Remus can just pick up on the sound of a bowl clacking to the ground, inwardly praying that she doesn’t burn down her entire cottage before Remus’s even gotten the chance to see it. “I’ve missed you, it’s positively ridiculous how long we haven’t been able to visit! Criminal, really!”  

Remus drags his bottom lip between his teeth, flushing slightly at the dig considering that the absence from his closest friend from childhood  was almost entirely his doing. “Well you know, with Fabian’s research and all, we were constantly out of the country, over to the States one week, and then Asia the next.”  

This time, it’s effortless catching on the sound of harsh stirring accompanied by Lily’s unimpressed cluck at the sound of Remus’s ex’s name. “Well good riddance. He was never good enough for you Remus, a total self righteous prat.”  

“Is that right?” Remus smiles wryly, taking a sip of his coco before wrapping his scarf around his neck once more to brace for the cold. “I thought he was mighty fancy-able considering the degree and being fit and all.”  

“Dry as Petunia’s skin in the winter,” Lily sniffs airily, and Remus studiously does not mention the mountain of moisturizers that Lily stored away in an unused closet in the old flat they shared during six form when she thought Remus wasn’t looking. “Now I get to have my fun and set you up with a proper bloke, especially since you’ll be moving back to London after the semester officially closes. Ooo! We can start a double date night! There’s this cooking class they’re holding down the street for couples but I didn’t wanna join because James would only get all obnoxiously cocky when he ultimately does remarkably and I end up burning water.”

Remus laughs, remembering the occasion she’s referring to, which had led them to pressing together their measly savings to buy an electric kettle like good and proper adults, rescuing their pots from getting burnt to a crisp thanks to Lily’s forgetfulness. “Least if you come along with whichever bloke, I’ll know I definitely won’t be the worst one there.”  

Remus twists up his mouth, displeased. “Unwarranted slander.”  

“Your french toast chipped my pug’s tooth before he spat it out.”  

“Maybe Snuffles just has a bad gag reflex.”  

“His gag reflex is perfectly adequate,” she sniffs.  

“Well I’ve never spat out my own food.”

“Hmm, I bet you get all the boys in the yard whenever you talk about how skillfully you’ve trained your gagging.”  

“Stuff it, Evans.”  

“Potter now actually, Ta so much.”  

“Gone off and married yourself a posh Londoner and now you’re sounding like you’re meant to be on an episode of Downton Abbey, is that right?”  

“Innit brilliant?”  

“Bloody exhausting is more what I was thinking, love.”  

Lily’s answering laugh is light and tinkling and it’s the happiest Remus’s ever heard her all year, and it’s like a punch to the gut when he all at once realizes just how drastically he’s missed her.

“Don’t pout Re, I’ll still be able to tolerate your lowly,  Welsh vowels.”  

“Sod off.”  

“Mean.”

“You started it.”  

“Oof.”  

“Did you break the eggs the wrong way again?” Remus asks, single brow cocked as he finally retreats into the actual underground and ambles to the queue waiting to scan their tickets.   

“You can’t break eggs the wrong way Remus Lupin!” Remus stays silent. “Don’t give me that look!”  

“What look?” Remus asks owlishly.  

“Don’t think I can’t picture it right now, with the slanted mouth and your left eyebrow raised with pure condescension.”  

“I don’t like this picture of my character that you’re painting, Evans.”  

“I don’t like your insinuations of my egg cracking skills, Lupin.”  

“But I’m right, aren’t I? You did break it?”  

“Well yes, that’s the general idea of cracking an egg.”  

Remus scoffs. “The wrong way I mean.”  

The silence coming from Lily is positively fuming and Remus thinks that if they were in some sorta old-timey Disney cartoon she’d be steaming smoke from her ears right about now. “’S just a singular shell, it’ll melt right in the pan once I pop it into the oven.”  

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you’re trying to poison us. And right when I became single and ready to pull again.”  

“Oh speaking of pulling,” Lily squawks, and Remus absolutely despises that tone of voice—flashes of young, drunken escapades bubbling to the forefront of his mind, twinging when he thinks of the flower he’s got tattooed onto his arse to match the crescent moon on Lily’s own.

“No. Absolutely not.”  

“Oi, you haven’t even let me explain myself, you berk! I just wanna help.”  

“You’re an evil, evil Femme Fatale, and you shouldn’t even have this much power over me considering how rudding gay I am.” He screams that last part perhaps a bit too loudly, garnering amused glances from most of his fellow patrons, and a couple curious ones. Including a pair of disarmingly lovely gray eyes. And holy christ above does he hate Lily right now.  

“But Remus,” she says in a distinct sulk through the line. “It’s just that James’s brother also recently just got out a relationship with this bird from work, and it wasn’t nearly as long as you and Fabian, but I thought you two would just be so cute together. He totally fits that crush you had on Stubby Boardman all through A levels, and I just thought it’d help you so much with getting over that ginger-haired bastard.“  

“You are the only ginger-haired bastard in my life,” he tells her glumly, wincing when the ticket holder smirks at him as she scans him through, mouthing a ‘Good Luck’ with a smirk. 

Damn Remus’s very existence.  

Keep Reading

[tazzytypes]

Apocalypse: Sanctuary - Chapter 17

Authors note: Hey guys! Sorry, had to delete and repost this chapter because Tumblr is, once again, giving me difficulties. Just want to thank y'all so much for being patient with me as I finished up with classes. Hoping these next few months will give me more time to work on this fic. As always, your comments and likes always make my day and help me get through the worst of writer's block and I cannot thank you enough for that!

READ MORE on AO3 or see the Master post!

When the witches got back to the academy, the sun had barely risen above the horizon. Emily hadn’t realized how accustomed she had become to the usual hustle and bustle; the silence was nearly as stinging as the constant noise.

They were all dead on their feet. After hell, sleep had eluded Emily. The fact Madison had forced her to sleep on the ground didn’t help… neither did the darkness. It was suffocating, that place. Sometimes she was afraid the underground fortress would become her tomb. They had all tried to catch up on sleep during the plane ride home, but Misty snored so much it made the feat nearly impossible.

So, barely able to put one foot in front of the other, the witches made their way through the door. Zoe grumbled about canceling classes, Cordelia muttering an agreement.

“A break? Already?” Coco said. She stood next to Mallory by the stairs, looking more like butlers than students. The pair must have been the only ones awake, looking to one other and smiling at a silent inside joke. “I like this school.”

“I trust there were no disturbances while we were away?” Myrtle asked, handing off her bags to Kyle who proceeded to take them up the stairs.

If Mallory were a bird, Emily would have said she was preening, “No more than usual.”

Kyle paused by Emily for a moment, hand extended, but she waved him forward. Kyle smiled and nodded, proceeding past them and towards the stairs.

“Oh, lover-boy,” Madison sang as he began to take the first step, pulling Emily’s attention away from Mallory and their headmistress, “my bags?

The blond man hesitated, then doubled back. He rearranged the bags on his arm and picked up the ex-movie star’s numerous suitcases, all either Chanel or some other overpriced name brand.

“You have two arms,” Zoe snapped at the woman, her own bag in hand. Emily’s gaze flickered to the floor, green eyes darting between it, Cordelia, and the scene unfurling before her.

“It’s fine,” Kyle said quietly, giving a pointed look at Zoe, “It’s my job.”

The look seemed to soothe Zoe, her shoulders tense but her back no longer arched like she was about to swing at Madison. Madison opened her mouth, unable to resist not having the last word.

A body barreling into her side kept Emily from hearing exactly what was spoken. By the look on Zoe’s face, it was nothing good.

“Oh, I missed you!” Coco exclaimed, squeezing the girl in a hug. Emily did her best not to tense, but the reaction was second nature to the brunette. “How was California?”

“Dry,” Emily said, earning a chuckle from Coco.

“Obviously you didn’t go to the beach,” Coco said, “How did it go?”

The brunette’s eyes darted to the figure moving towards them, continuing to speak as Mallory approached. For some reason, Emily had expected her and Cordelia’s talk to last longer. She settled in to place beside Coco, listening with an attentive grin.

“We’re all in one piece,” Emily said, looking back to Coco, “so I’d say rather well.”

Mallory reached out and squeezed Emily’s arm, her ever-present grin widening ever slightly. “See? I knew you’d do great!”

“Who’s this, Firefly?”

Misty had always got possessive a little too quickly. It was her vice, clinging to things too tightly. Her mother used to call her a “little python…” the snake in the garden of Eden.

Emily faltered ever slightly. As someone who kept to herself, she was more used to being the one introduced, not the one introducing.

“Coco, Mallory,” She spoke, glancing between the two girls and her new acquaintance, “Misty Day.”

Mallory rushed forward to shake the woman’s hand as if she were meeting Stevie Nicks instead of a girl from the swamplands of Mississippi.

“I’ve heard so much about you from Miss Cordelia. You’re a legend here!”

Misty pulled her shawl in tighter and glanced between Mallory and Emily. Being the center of attention was an anxious position for her. The last time she was the center of attention, she went to hell. The first time had her burned at the stake. Her steps back from Mallory and into Emily’s side were more a flight instinct than an anxious tic.

“Aw, shucks,” the swamp witch said with a flickering smile and a chuckle, “Didn’t think I was here long enough to make an impression.”

“Resurgence is a remarkable power,” Mallory insisted, “If not for you, I would have thought myself a freak.”

“Well, ain’t that sweet.”

Myrtle was quick to rescue the woman from the over-exuberance of the younger witch, placing a steadying hand on Misty’s shoulder. Cordelia was not far behind. Emily could feel her brown eyes on her back like a botanist studying a new plant species.

“While I love pleasantries,” Myrtle said, “I am absolutely famished. Airplane foods always fall flat.”

“It’s because of our sense of smell,” Emily said, trying to ignore the weird looks she was getting, “The altitude affects our nasal passages, making it harder to smell and thus harder to taste. The two are inseparable.”

“So, it’s like how parents plug their kid's nose to get them to take their medicine,” Mallory said. Emily sent her a brief, but thankful smile for making the moment feel less awkward than it was.

“Exactly.”

“Either way,” Myrtle said with a wave of her hand, “I am craving a crème brûlée with a glass of chardonnay.”

Emily smirked a bit before she spoke, “Chardonnay sounds good.”

“Not yet, you,” Cordelia admonished through a chuckle, ruffling Emily’s hair a bit, “We may be lenient with a lot of things, but underage drinking will not be one of them.”

The brunette wanted to note she had done plenty of underage drinking the night before but refrained. Part of being able to bend the rules is pretending you didn’t break them.

“Oh, come on,” Madison said, standing at the back of their little group with her arms crossed in front of her chest, “Little miss indigestion just went to hell. Let her live a little.”

“Maybe a glass,” Cordelia relented, earning a few chuckles from the group. “One.”

Emily echoed the expressions of her fellow witches, but Cordelia’s humor did not amuse her. The headmistresses statement assured her of one thing, however. The brunette had secured a place in the inner circle of Robichaux. It was a feat she would have been proud of before, but now…

Now, the real world seemed so dull. Sensations failed to feel real-- like the world was covered in a fog. Her hands would hover, expecting something to come to her palm and playing off hesitation when it didn’t. Emily had always fancied her dreams to the waking world. The real world now felt more dull than usual. The young witch found herself missing hell, debating whether or not to chase that high.

“Full already?” Cordelia asked at the table they all gathered around. Emily had been picking at her food for the past ten minutes, gaze flickering to the many conversations around the table.

Emily was quick to brush it off, putting down her fork and taking a sip of her sweet tea, “I’ve always eaten like a bird.”

“Birds eat ten times their weight,” Myrtle noted with an amused smile. Cordelia had been so tense since Hawthorne. For once, Myrtle had to be the optimistic one… if only for the sake of maintaining an air of control.

“Good thing I wasn’t talking in ratios.”

Myrtle chuckled and went back to her food, but Cordelia continued to watch Emily carefully as she turned and offered Misty her desert.

“You alright, Firefly?”

“Just tired.”

“Bad dreams?”

“Something like that.”

Cordelia’s glance flickered to her mentor. The slight quirking of the redhead’s brow gave away her own concerns. The headmistress gaze returned to Emily, her posture straightening ever slightly.

“About your personal hell?” she asked.

Emily faltered slightly at her headmistress’s voice. While they were surrounded by people, most had the decency not to eavesdrop on the more intimate conversations — feigning ignorance even if they heard every word. It was one of those unspoken rules of society.

“No. I didn’t have a personal hell.”

Shit.

Her exhaustion and weird mindset had made her careless. Then again, Cordelia was supposed to help with things such as these, right? The whole point of being here was to learn. How could she learn if she never asked questions? Why did her gut churn like she had been caught with her hands painted red?

Green eyes slowly turned to the brown ones that had burned holes in her skin since she had arrived in Mississippi. Cordelia’s brows furrowed, lips twisting in the way they always did when she didn’t have the answers.

“Then where were you?”

“… I don’t know.”

The table was consumed with silence, no one able to pretend they weren’t listening in to the conversation at hand. Coco glanced around at the table, noting the unwavering stares. Glancing to Emily, she saw her eyes flick between them all, her plate, Cordelia, and back again.

“Probably the jet lag,” the heiress said, “shit makes you forget what your own name is.”

Emily smiled with the rest of them, sending a thankful glance to the woman who squeezed her hand and smiled. The table fell back into idle chatter.

“Hell of a spotlight,” Coco whispered into her glass, eyes flickering around to her fellow witches.

Emily mimicked her movements, “you’re telling me.”

The pair shared a glance and promptly fell into laughter.

“Next time you need to swing by L.A. Beaches are crowded, but the experience is worth it.”

“There’s a tattoo parlor there I wanted to check out,” Emily noted, “Purple Panther. One of my favorite artists works there.”

“We should go and get matching tattoos.”

“What did I miss?” Mallory asked, returning from a trip to the bathroom.

“We’re all going to get matching tattoos.” Coco declared.

“Of what?”

Emily smiled and leaned in, “we should get the triquetra from Charmed.”

“Oooh, yes!” Coco exclaimed, “I loved that show as a kid.”

Mallory’s face twisted in confusion, “Haven’t seen it.”

“We’re binge-watching it,” Coco declared, “tonight.”

“My room?” Emily asked, “I have a TV.”

“No offense, your room is a broom closet.”

“Feels like home,” Emily jested, a genuine smile curling on her lips, “certainly been in it for long enough.”

Coco snorted out a laugh, infecting Mallory and Emily into a fit of giggles. The brunette could feel Cordelia’s eyes on her, a hand going to smooth down the hairs on the back of her neck. She didn’t like it, the feeling of being watched.

“Oh!” Mallory said, “I have a tattoo idea — swords.”

“Swords?”

“For the Three Musketeers!”

Emily gasped as an idea hit her, pulling out her sketchbook and scrawling out an idea.

“What if…”

She finished the crude drawing — a sword with a triquetra behind it. Some of the lines of the triquetra looped around the blade where it was positioned at the end of its point. “… we did both?”

“Both?” Mallory asked.

“Both,” Emily repeated.

“Both is good,” Coco finished, the three falling into giggles once again.

.

.

.

Emily was unsurprised when Cordelia cornered her later in the day. Classes had been canceled for the day, older girls put in charge of amusing the younger ones. The brunette had dozed until 12 o’clock when the cheerful laughing and screeching from the lawn kept her from falling back asleep.

Book in hand, Emily had nearly made it to the greenhouse when Cordelia intercepted her. The blonde woman had been leaning against the door of the rotting shack. Emily wondered how long the headmistress had waited for her out in the sun.

“Walk with me,” was all she said as the brunette got within earshot, her tone filled with bad news. They strolled in silence for a good while. When the playful yelling and screaming was muffled by distance and the trees around the property, Cordelia finally spoke.

“I’ve been to hell myself. It changes a person… for better or worse.”

Emily’s eyes were trained on the ground, navigating over twisting roots and rocks that jutted from the dirt. She spared Cordelia a brief glance. “Which was it? Better or worse?”

“That’s the thing,” Cordelia said, head high and eyes steady on the path ahead of them, “you can never tell which. It’s something only others can see.”

“Is this an intervention or something?”

A smile tugged at the blonde’s lips, “Or something.”

Silence consumed them once more. It became clear that Emily could either talk or they would walk until she did.

“Hell was like a dream,” the brunette relented after a minute or so, “Dreams always feel so real until you wake up. Then, you mourn the reality you lost.”

“Even with nightmares?”

“All I ever have is nightmares.”

Cordelia spared the woman a look. Emily’s eyes were trained on the ground as she took a step over a fallen trunk. Dark circles ringed around her eyes, the purple somehow making the green even brighter. Cordelia realized she had never seen Emily without them. Were her dreams something more? Something that paraded around as sleep when it was really anything but?

Emily’s words were hardly louder than a whisper, “It isn’t the situation I mourn, but the power I have.”

The book in Emily’s hands suddenly felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. It was one of her many journals, each page dedicated to the carefully worded and detailed recollections of the visions her mind procured in sleep. The voice said her dreams were something more. Emily feared the implications. She was a stickler for a little thing called proof, however. Spirits can lie and trick just as well as humans could.

Cordelia regarded the girl beside her, “Powers such as what?”

“In hell, I could pull a weapon to me as if I reached out and grabbed it with my own hand. I could conjure flames and move them to my will.”

Her words were like a snarl on her lip, a frustration that plagued her every hour. Then, the snarl faltered and the grief set in. “Everything was so much clearer… simpler.”

The headmistress stopped and placed a hand upon the girl’s shoulder, squeezing it for good measure. Emily wished she hadn’t. It was easy to hold back tears and emotions when you didn’t have to look someone in the eye.

“You went to hell and brought back my dearest friend,” she pressed, hand trailing down Emily’s arm and taking her hand, cupping it in her own, “just because you cannot perform grand acts of magic does not mean you cannot fight.”

Emily looked at Cordelia, searching for something in those brown eyes. Everyone’s eyes were covered in a fog of optimism. It made real-life feel more like a dream than her dreams did. Their gazes never failed to make her shudder. Coco was the only one who did not succumb. Thus, the only one she somewhat trusted. Carefully, Emily pulled her hand away.

“Michael brought back Misty, not me.”

It was something she had said a thousand times since her return. The people here either didn’t listen or didn’t care. Which was worse?

“With your aid.”

For a moment, Emily contemplated telling Cordelia everything. She was so desperate for answers — so desperate to cut through the fog. She was reminded of The Odyssey, Odysseus’s travel to an island where everything seemed perfect. It was so tempting to give in, to be alright with not knowing.

What was Michael?

Why did the voices speak to him?

Why did she understand their words while Misty did not?

“I had a weird dream last night,” she found herself speaking, her silence lasting a little too long, “I know it means something, but I can’t quite place it.”

Cordelia seemed content in her words, a small smile telling Emily that she had chosen the right words… even if they were not the words she had intended to speak. There was trust to be built before Emily could talk to Cordelia about hell.

“Tell me about it,” her Supreme commanded, gently ushering Emily back the way they came.

“I was in a field,” Emily started, an air of distance taking over her voice. When Cordelia looked to her, she was miles away — eyes filled with fog. “You were there just… waiting. For me, I think, but I could be wrong.”

“What happened?” Cordelia asked, “in the dream?”

“You were standing next to a girl. She saw me first… said her name was Nan.”

Cordelia’s gasp was quiet, but still loud enough to draw Emily from the fog. A manicured hand came to her mouth before going to her stomach as if the woman had been punched. Emily was afraid Cordelia might pass out again.

“Nan,” Cordelia said, speaking around a frog in her throat.

The younger witch felt a surge of anxiety. She should have said nothing, kept her mouth shut. Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut? It had been an easy feat until she came to Robichaux.

“She was sweet,” Emily found herself saying, “told me not to worry.”

Cordelia leaned on a nearby tree. Emily wrung her hands, biting her lip and waiting for the woman to say something. Her heart leaped into her chest when she heard the woman sniffle back a tear.

“Did I say something wrong?” Emily asked, heart hammering. Cordelia didn’t answer. Should she get closer? Should she squeeze her arm as Cordelia had done to her many a times? Emily had never been good at consoling. “I’m sorry.”

The woman finally shook her head, the heels of her palm swiping away the few tears that had trailed down her cheeks. “No… no, you’ve brought me a great deal of peace.”

Curiosity always got the best of her.

“Nan…” Emily said, “You recognize her?”

“She used to be a student here… before her untimely death.”

“I’m sorry.”

Cordelia sighed and straightened her shirt, quickly taking back the decorum Emily had managed to peel back. At that moment, Emily realized something darkened in her Supreme. The fog left the brown eyes and hardened into something more tangible, her jaw clenched ever slightly, and the mother-like tone left her voice.

“I’d advise you not to approach her in your dreams again.”

Emily faltered for a moment, too caught up in the change to process the woman’s words.

“Why?”

“For your safety.”

“She hardly seemed dangerous.”

“It is not her I worry about.”

Her lips opened to ask more questions, but Cordelia quickly overtook the conversation. “Tell me about the rest of this dream.”

It was probably best if she didn’t argue. Emily went on describing, glancing at the woman now and again. Cordelia’s eyes lost their dark edge as the tale continued — flying, levitation, conjuring of fire and wind — until they once again held the optimistic fog Emily had become accustomed to.

“And when I wake up,” Emily concluded, “I felt like I was not myself. That my real self lies within these dreams.”

Cordelia simply nodded.

“Dreams are more powerful than we can imagine,” she said, “it is, in short, an insight into our true nature — witch or no witch.”

“Then what is my true nature?” Emily asked, jumping back as a boisterous toddler ran past her, two more hot on her heels. They had made it back to the garden.

Cordelia smiled at her, giving her shoulder one more squeeze before she trailed after the children.

“That is something only you can answer.”

.

.

.

Cordelia paced her room, thoughts writhing like a snake that had worked its way into a knot. Unable to move forward or back, she wondered how long she had until death. Do nothing and she would starve — giving into the circumstances like a beast baring its belly to the knife. Tug too harshly, however, and she would sever her own spine.

“I do hope you have good reason for waking me in the middle of the night,” Myrtle sighed as she entered the room. She carefully closed the door, the only sign of her entrance the dulled click of the lock behind her.

The Supreme ceased her pacing, taking to wringing her hands instead as she came to a stop before the redhead.

“I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.”

“You just put a petulant boy in power,” Myrtle scoffed, “What can be more wrong than that?”

“I did it for the best of the coven.”

Myrtle let out a sigh, unable to keep up her irritation. Tense shoulders and crossed arms relaxed and rested at her sides. “My dear, what good are you if you keep working yourself into a fit of hysterics?”

Cordelia either didn’t hear her or didn’t care to address the topic. Hurrying over to her desk, she pushed papers this way and that until she found what she was looking for.

“Were you able to look into the matter we discussed?”

It took all Myrtle’s power not to roll her eyes.

“Evocation rituals of that nature aren’t exactly common if they exist at all.”

“But they do exist?”

“None that I could find.”

“What if we modified a resurgence spell… combined it with dreams. That’s where her skill shows the most, after all. If we could get into that otherness—”

Cordelia had thrown the idea around with the woman multiple times before they visited Hawthorne. Seeing the aftermath of the Seven Wonders, particularly in the trial of Descensum, had made the Supreme all the more convinced of her path. If Cordelia shared any traits with Fiona, it was her stubbornness.

“I still don’t see how her power, any power, could be trapped inside her,” Myrtle insisted once more, “That family of hers didn’t have a lick of magic in her bones. Her mother has no magical talent whatsoever and don’t get me started on that father of hers.”

“Then why is she here at our school?”

Myrtle spared her a pointed look. Cordelia huffed and leaned on her desk, keeping her eyes locked with her mentor’s.

“Emily’s powers have to originate from somewhere,” she said, shaking her head and averting her gaze for but a moment, “Her grandmother died. Maybe she used the last of her power to protect Emily. Delphi had yet to be disbanded when she passed.”

“If that were the case, she wouldn’t be able to go to hell, dear. Maybe it’s as you said; her magic is tied to the other — dreams, visions, prophecy, the whole shebang.”

Cordelia shook her head, “That doesn’t feel right.”

Myrtle was now the one to pace. The carpet was sure to be filled with holes if the issue loomed over their heads any longer. If Cordelia could not let go of this vision, the coven would be doomed. How many more dead ends did Delia need to hit before she recognized the futility of—

“Why are you so adamant about this?” Myrtle found herself asking, more out of desperation than curiosity.

Cordelia gave her a pointed look and the woman scoffed. “Mallory—”

“Mallory didn’t go to hell.”

“And our dear Emily can’t make a butterfly out of petals. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket. One false step and they all shatter.”

“Then help me eliminate this option,” Cordelia said, voice pleading, “Let's perform a ritual and get our answers before too much time has passed.”

“Alright,” Myrtle relented, “let's pull out the books… and the booze.”

.

.

.

Emily sat on one of the tables in the greenhouse like she was waiting at a doctor’s appointment, picking absentmindedly at the thin layer of paint atop the table. The inner circle of Robichaux stood around her watching Cordelia and Myrtle as they gathered material and passed it out.

Misty sat at Emily’s side, holding her hand and offering reassuring smiles whenever the brunette turned to look at her. Part of e was afraid they were going to kill her… or something worse. Death certainly wasn’t the worst thing the lot of them had experienced.

“We believe there is something blocking out our dear Emily’s powers,” Myrtle explained, placing jars of… something around the table.

“Or she just doesn’t have any,” Madison sighed, obviously wanting to be anywhere else as she studied her nails — she just got a manicure. The others stared at her in annoyance. “What? We’re all thinking it.”

“She saw Nan,” Cordelia spoke. She had been silent the entire time and didn’t even greet Emily when she was escorted into the greenhouse by Myrtle. If her silence was out of concentration or concern, no one could tell.

Queenie’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head. Her arms fell to her sides and all she could do was look between Emily and her Supreme. “She what?”

“I didn’t know who she was,” Emily said, glancing to Misty who held a similar expression to Queenie, “Not until I talked to Cordelia.”

“Is she alright?” Zoe asked. She stood opposite to Misty, carefully watching Cordelia and Myrtle as they prepared. “Did she say anything?”

“Nothing of note.”

“But she did say something,” Queenie said, a silent command in her voice.

“Only that I shouldn’t worry.”

Zoe’s brow furrowed, “worry about what?”

“… I don’t know.”

“If we are able to unlock your powers,” Myrtle said, ignoring the scathing look Cordelia sent her. The redhead still held her doubts. “Perhaps we can find out.”

Her words seemed to motivate the other girls. One by one they fell into place around the table, taking a string as Cordelia handed it to them. Misty and Madison stood at Emily’s left, Queenie and Zoe at her right. Myrtle stood in front of her, a large tomb of a book in her hands as she watched Cordelia work.

“Lay down, my dear,” she told Emily, who hesitantly did as she was told, “We will be delving deep into your subconscious and I’d rather you didn’t wake with a concussion.”

Cordelia came to a stop at Emily’s head. The brunette looked up through her lashes and watched as the woman lit a stick of incense, quickly blowing it out and placing it in a cup of sand. Emily really hoped they wouldn’t have a fire accident. If her hair were to be cut even shorter, she’d look like an egg wearing a toupee.

“Concentrate on the power you had in hell,” She whispered, so low that only Emily could hear her, “Visualize it and keep the sensation in the forefront of your mind.”

Emily felt if she were in some weird baptism, one you’d see on a TLC show about those weird Mormon cults. Shaking her head, she reminded herself to focus. She thought of hell, of that classroom — the fire, the words, the void. Emily felt her eyes become heavy before they closed. She saw Michael, blue eyes only showing a brief moment of alarm as fire raged around him.

Cordelia looked to Myrtle. The redhead began to chant. One by one, the other girls echoed her words. Emily was only slightly aware of their actions, their voices sounding miles away. Finally, Cordelia echoed the words. Her hands cupped over Emily’s face, covering her eyes and centering the spell between her brows, the third eye.

Once again, Emily fell into a slumber. Cordelia prayed that, when she awoke, her questions would be answered.

[soyforramen]

Daffodils and Hyacinths

Or that Beronica Flower Shop/Tattoo Shop AU no one asked for.  (Cross posted on Ao3)

The second to last thing Veronica expected when she moved to the sleepy town of Riverdale was for the shop owner across the street to show up with homemade cookies.  It was such a quaint and nostalgic image that she had to suppress a laugh least she offend the women.  Instead she thanked her and wrote the whole incident off.  Even if they were neighbors of a sort that didn’t mean they’d ever mean anything to each other.  In New York Veronica hadn’t been able to name a single one of her neighbors.  Why should this town be any different?

-

It only took a few glasses of wine after the local town meeting, and Veronica found herself leading Betty through the flower shop.  Her neighbor’s quirky arrival last week with a basket of cookies, initially seen as a power play to prove to the town how kind and benevolent Betty was, had turned into a tense sort of friendship.  Veronica was cool every time Betty had made a point of waving good afternoon.  And the few times they’d run into each other at the only grocer in town, Betty had made a genuine effort in asking how Veronica was adjusting to life in the small town.

Veronica, a consummate city girl, did her best to rebuff Betty’s attempts at friendship - an indifference borne largely to bearing the Lodge name for so long - but it didn’t take much for her resolve to break down.  Betty, it turned out, was one of the rarest people in the world - someone who didn’t try to act like someone they weren’t.

And thus an odd friendship was struck up, one that was set in stone tonight as they both stood against the ridiculous zoning ordinances balefully aimed at the lower income neighborhoods in this ticky-tacky town.

Both bemoaned the tragedy of white gentrification afterwards between shots of tequila and three bottles of wine.  Unwilling for the night to end, Veronica asked Betty to join her at the flower shop.  A simple, innocent question that nonetheless brought a pretty rose blush to her cheeks that climbed downward through the night.  

They raced through the shadows of the shop, hands clasped together like narcissus and chinodoxa blooms in spring.  Giggling at the strange shapes the grow lights cast along the walls, Veronica lead her to the office door.

“I keep a bottle of rum in my desk,” she said breathlessly.  As she stepped through the door, her fingers automatically reached towards the leaves of her own personal plants.  “My grandmother’s secret recipe.”

“So much color,” Betty murmured.  She slipped off her jacket and set it on a chair as the hothouse humidity took its toll.  “I never realized orchids came in so many different colors.”

“One for each of my exes,” Veronica said as she pulled out the bottle of rum.  She gazed lovingly at each and set two shot glasses on the desk.  “They love the grow lamps.”

She held out a shot glass and felt a tremor when Betty’s fingers grazed hers.  Veronica watched as Betty threw back the shot, the muscles in her long throat working against the sharp flavor.  

“What is that?”

“Cardamom,” Veronica said as she sat on the corner of her desk.  She sipped at her own rum and let the flavor roll around her tongue.  

“Why flowers?” Betty asked as she reached for the rum bottle.

The question made Veronica pause.  It was a question she’d never been asked; a question she’d never thought to ask herself.  After all, flowers were one of the few ways her mother showed genuine affection.  Perhaps it was even how she showed love.  Almost before she could walk, Veronica knew that flowers meant different things.  Lilies for purity; blood red poppies for refusal.  Lavender for admiration; buttercups for childish ingratitude.  Veronica had been around flowers and plants her entire life, reading their meanings was as easy as breathing.  The thought that she could ever live without them was anathema.

The language of flowers was the one gift from her mother that really had any meaning in the long run.  It was a practice that Veronica had lost herself in many times, one that no one seemed to understand.  

But to tell Betty all of that, to open up to that kind of vulnerability?  As much as she might like her, as much as she might trust her, Veronica was not ready for that sort of confession.

“Why tattoo’s?” came her response.

Betty chewed on her lip and stared with unfocused eyes at the long-out-of-season Bird of Paradise - Veronica’s daily reminder that she was in this tiny town because she valued her freedom above all else.   At first, Veronica wondered if she’d committed a faux pas; perhaps she wasn’t the only one who had trust issues.  But after a while, she came to realize that Betty was also weighing how honest, how vulnerable she wanted to be.

“I like the pain,” Betty finally admitted.

She gazed at Veronica, already defensive against any sort of judgment or condemnation.  When Betty didn’t find it, she continued, her voice relieved.

“I was always the good kid.  My sister was wild, and when she ran away the whole family fell apart.  Dad moved away, Mom joined a cult.  My brother went to live halfway across the country.  In less than a year I lost my whole family, and I was just so angry.  Both my parents hated tattoos; they said they were trashy and vulgar.  So…”

Betty tugged at the neck of her sweater, and Veronica eyed the soft skin.  In soft, looping script along Betty’s collarbone read, “my life is my own.”

“My senior year of high school I lived with the one person who meant the world to me.  But he’d gotten into Yale and I hadn’t, so we got matching tattoo’s.”   Her fingers caressed the space over her heart, and Veronica longed to know what lay under all those layers.  It was one more puzzle piece to the enigma that was Betty Cooper.  But just as Veronica had her secrets to keep, so, too, did Betty.

“After that, it just became an addiction.  The steady pain of the needle, the infusion of ink.”  Betty rolled up her sleeve and set her arm on Veronica’s lap.  Veronica traced the delicate lines along the snow globe that depicted the sleepy town.  From the town square to Pop’s Diner, it seemed the only thing missing was Betty’s own tattoo parlor.

“My grandfather helped build Riverdale, and when he passed my mother gave away everything to the cult.  So I got this instead of his snow globe collection,” Betty said, sadness etched in her eyes.  She laughed despite it.  “You can only imagine how my mother took it when I showed up to his funeral in a sleeveless dress.”

Veronica’s lips quirked into a smile, her fingers dancing across Betty’s skin.  Carefully, Veronica raised Betty’s tattooed arm to her lips and pressed her lips against the skin of her wrist.  The faint aroma of rosewater greeted her.  When she glanced up, Betty drew a sharp breath, but that rose pink flush at the base of her neck was back.  Encouraged, Veronica leaned forward to press a kiss along Betty’s collarbone, then another at the base of her neck.  

Betty pulled away, only to meet Veronica’s lips with her own.

-

Riding a wave of romanticism - one that had started with a hothouse tryst a few weeks ago and seemingly had no end in sight - Veronica picked up dinner from the only decent restaurant in town.  She knew Betty’s schedule was tight, but fifteen minutes together was enough to make her day.  Besides, Veronica had become accustomed to idling in the tattoo shop while Betty worked, the soothing pastels and new art calm enough to make Veronica forget about the barrage of legal notices in her mail box.  And if that wasn’t enough, Betty always kept a  stash of rotating pulp mysteries beneath the register.

But when she walked into the shop, Veronica’s stomach dropped.  A pink-haired woman sat far too close to Betty to be anything but a customer.  She leaned forward to whisper something, and Betty let out a peal of laughter.  Veronica set the food down and watched, irritation rising climbing like ivy in her throat.

When the woman finally left, Veronica made her way over to Betty’s station as casually as she could manage.  She knew she was being unreasonable; after all, Betty was allowed to have friends Veronica didn’t know about.  It wasn’t as if they were dating.

“Who was that?” Veronica asked, her eyes locked on a photo of the old Riverdale rail station.

“An old friend,” Betty said.  She wiped down the station, seemingly unaware of Veronica’s frustration.  “I think you’d like Toni, you two are a lot alike.”

That turn of phrase sparked a fuse and Veronica couldn’t help but grip the pearls at her throat.  Despite the innocent, entirely plausible explanation - and Veronica’s bone deep conviction that Betty wasn’t that kind of person - the afterimage sat at the forefront of her mind.  The pair were too casual, too close emotionally, for Veronica’s demons not to flare up.

“What’s up?” Betty prompted.  “I thought we were going to meet at the Wyrm later tonight.”

Veronica shrugged, still playing at nonchalance, and walked towards the waiting area.  She picked up a magazine and flipped through the pages to keep her hands still. On every page, Toni’s smiling face, inches from Betty’s, stared back at her.  They’d been dating a few weeks, and yet Veronica had never felt that sort of closeness with Betty.

It was the realization that Veronica wanted that sort of connection was frightening.  She was a Lodge, after all, and love was never an option.  Not unless it came with strings and attachments, political and social gains otherwise closed off to her family.  As a Lodge, hers was a morbid, skeptical view of love.  And how could it not be, after all the role models she’d had in her life?

And yet, what she had with Betty felt more solid, more real.  It was a mutually beneficial relationship where Betty expected nothing more than a little of Veronica’s time.

“I closed up early,” Veronica finally said.  She dropped the magazine on the table and forced as much carelessness into her voice as she could manage.  “I thought we might eat in tonight.  I didn’t realize you had company.”

Betty grimaced - apparently Veronica’s attempt at nonchalance had fallen flatter than a late May rain garden.  A pang of guilt went through Veronica; yet she couldn’t help but twist the knife.  It was the only other hobby her mother had shared with her.

“V, you know I’m booked solid -“

Veronica waved her off and pulled on her jacket.  “It’s fine.  I’ve got things to take care of.  Enjoy dinner.”

She stormed out of the door, ignoring Betty’s call.  Something broke against the wall and Veronica forced herself to keep moving.  

Whatever this was had taken root deep within her very cells, but a few days in New York would be more than enough to uproot it.

-

It had taken a week before Betty showed up in the flower shop.  The look on her face told Veronica not to try and pretend they weren’t anything more than neighbors.  Despite Veronica’s refusal to take any texts, calls, or dms from Betty, it seemed the stubborn blonde worked on an entirely different plane.

“What’s going on?” Betty asked, ignoring the customer Veronica was helping.

Veronica finished setting the baby’s breath among the white roses - a strange, uninspiring choice for a get well bouquet - before acknowledging her, a move that only served to irritate Betty further.

Thankfully, Betty waited until they were alone to round on her.

“Why have you been ignoring me?”

Veronica lifted a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug.  A coy move, meant to signify her own feigned indifference.  Betty crossed her arms and fixed her with a stare.

With a sigh, Veronica said, “I don’t know.”

“Seriously?”

“Look, this isn’t easy for me,” Veronica snapped.  She picked at the left over cuttings. Idly she arranged and rearranged them into strange shapes that seemed to reflect her own indecision.  “I’ve never had… I’ve never …”

Somehow, despite all her own musings on the subject, the words about why Betty affected her so much wouldn’t come.  

“Who was she?”

Betty quirked an eyebrow.  “Who?”

“That woman with the pink hair.”

“Is that what this is about?” Betty sighed and walked towards a nearby plant stand that held a range of hyacinths.  Her hand grazed over the yellow petals as she regarded Veronica.  “Toni and I grew up together.  Now she’s engaged to my cousin.”

The air went out of the room and Veronica sagged against the table.  She felt as foolish, as silly as she knew she was being.

“Oh.”

“Veronica,” Betty began, her hands still grasping the flowers, “if we’re going to make this work -“

The world shifted, and suddenly all Veronica could see and hear was Betty.  It couldn’t possibly be this simple.  It never was.  Betty was after something, and now that Veronica had misstepped it would finally come to light.

“-you have to talk to me about these things.  I don’t want to lose you over something as stupid as jealously.”

“That’s it?”

Betty gave her a sharp, bewildered look that sent waves of guilt through Veronica.  Veronica dropped her eyes to the cuttings in front of her.  It was strange, truly, how much she wanted Betty to understand.  They both came with familial baggage; the only question was whether that baggage would match in the long run.

“I’m sorry,” Veronica said with a wince.  “It’s just… everyone’s always had these … expectations of me.  There was always something they wanted.  Comes with my father’s legacy I suppose,” she scoffed.

When she looked up, she was startled to find Betty standing in front of her.  With a gentle smile, Betty took up Veronica’s hands in hers.  

“The only thing I want from you is a little of your time,” Betty said.  With a sly grin, she added, “And maybe that yellow flower over there.”

Veronica huffed out a laugh.  “The hyacinth?”  

Betty nodded.

“No, not that one,” Veronica said.  She slipped her hands from Betty’s and walked to the far aisle.  It was easy to know what she was looking for, even though she knew the meaning would be lost.  

When she set the plant in front of Betty, Veronica’s heart fluttered at her smile.  

“It’s gorgeous,” Betty murmured.  Her fingers toyed with the long yellow leaves.  “A daffodil, right?”

Veronica nodded.

“What does it mean?” Betty asked.

“New beginnings.”  Veronica bit her lip, oddly shy.  “And forgiveness.”

Betty grinned and leaned over the counter to press a kiss to Veronica’s forehead.  “You won’t always be able to buy me off with flowers.  And you promise to talk these things through with me in the future.”

“I promise, so long as you give me a chance.”

-

Late one evening, as the neon lights cast a blue and red glow across Betty’s bare skin, Veronica lay her head on Betty’s chest, her breath heavy and her skin still flush with sweat.  The sound of her heartbeat lulled Veronica into a meditative state as a contented drowsiness began to take hold.

“I’ve got issues,” Veronica breathed.  Her confession, honest and vulnerable, slipped out of her without a second thought.

Betty’s chuckle was laced with sleep.  She wrapped an arm around Veronica’s shoulder, her long fingers tracing patterns along the skin.  “We all have issues V.”

Veronica raised up on her elbows.  Betty’s hair fanned out around her, a pink halo in the neon light, with her eyes half closed in satiety.  

“Give me yours, then,” Veronica said with a sudden protectiveness.

“Only if you give me yours,” came the swift reply.  

Veronica held up her pink, and Betty grasped it with her own.  Sealed with a kiss, Veronica settled back against Betty for the long haul.

[alitheamateur]

Party of Three

TOMMY CONLON ONESHOT

Characters: Tommy Conlon/OFC

Warnings: NSFW. Explicit Sexual Content. Language. Brief mentions of childbirth. Fluffy fluffy fluffy.

Party of Three

*Quite lengthy. I just got carried away with Tommy Conlon. It happens to the best of us*

(GIF NOT MINE)

The strobing of a weak streetlight bulb flickered as the haze of dawn drew pink and orange waves of the sunrise in the Pittsburgh skyline. While most 31-year-old, sensible men were still tucked into their Egyptian cotton sheets, nuzzled into the crook of their college-sweetheart turned lawyer wife, Tommy was jogging alone before daylight half withdrawn from the 8 days without Oxy. The sweat sagging neck of his hoodie smelled of exercise and rock-bottom, and his stomach churned from the lack of practical nourishment his breakfast of whiskey and dry-toast lacked. His night-shifts down at the new factory mended his bank account enough, so he had finally relocated from the mildewed, night-mare stained childhood bedroom at his pop’s place. The paint was chipped, the carpet was slimy and stonewashed, and the bathroom sink seemed to be eternally clogged, but his name was on the lease. It belonged to him, and it was his own to tarnish, and morph into a lifetime den of twisted memories. 

He rounded the final corner of his 3-mile journey, approaching the two-stepped stoop of his gray townhouse and the chugging engine of a garbage truck roared up the street beside him. He turned, nodding an empty ‘good-morning’ to the driver exhaling his nicotine morning breath out the window, when a yelping body apparently below his peripheral line of sight collided with his stalky glide.

“What the fu-“

His dry-worked hands skidded across the crumpling sidewalk to keep his teeth from implanting into the concrete, and smashing whatever lightening quick object had made its way under his running feet.

“Cole! Oh my God, are you alright, sweetie?!”

Tommy felt a squirming, snubbing mass finagle free, to run towards the safety of the panicked, flailing arms of the fitful brunette galloping down the driveway. A small boy with a shaggy bowl haircut, decked in the white-cotton threads of a karate suit, wiped the streaking tears down his flushed cheeks, and wrapped his lanky arms around the waist of what appeared to be his older sister. Aunt, maybe?

“I’m so sorry. He’s a little excited. He ran ahead of me out the front door before I could wrangle him up. Are you hurt?” The striking hazel eyes of a petite face framed in chocolate, wavy mane knelt to assess the child for bruises or blood.

“I’m uh… Yeah, I’m fine. Don’t worry ‘bout it. Is he… is he okay?” Tommy stuttered, searching his face for injury.

“No blood, no foul. Right, sweetie?”

“I’m not hurt, mommy. Boys who know karate are tough, ‘member?” He peered up at his young mother, puffing his chest to allude imaginary muscles there.

“That’s right, how could I forget?!” She conked a fist to her noggin at the little man beside her. “I’m Whitleigh, by the way. And this is Cole. We live next door now. Just moved in a few days ago.” The lady outstretched a shaking hand, and Tommy noted the lack of a ring on her left hand.

“Oh yeah? I saw some movin’ trucks out front. I’m Tommy. Tommy Conlon.” His clammy palm met her feminine skin, and he might’ve even weakly smiled at the sensation of her touch. “So, karate, huh? You prolly a real scrapper, ain’t ya’?”

“You’re um, you’re a fighter or something, aren’t you? I’ve seen you in the paper before, I think.”

Tommy dropped his head diffidently at her inquisitiveness, peeling back his hood to palm the back of his blotched neck.

“Really? You fight people? Like, like a real-life wrestler?!” Cole yipped, eyes widening at Tommy like he was some superstar in the flesh.

“Uhhh, somethin’ like that, I guess. But, I couldn’t take you, that’s for sure.” Tommy weak fisted the boys bicep, and he chuckled with a snaggle-toothed smile.

“Well, we better get goin’. Cole has a big meet this morning down at the Y, and we’re already running late. See you around?” She suggestively hurried the boy up the drive towards her black sedan parked near the front porch, combing the blonde hair from his eyes.

“Right, yeah. Um, I’m sure I’ll be seein’ you guys.” Tommy cleared the lump in his throat. He hadn’t exchanged a conversation of this length with another human being in months, and his mouth felt tired from the foreign amount of chit-chat.

“Mommy, can Mr. Tommy come watch me today? My friends would think I was the best if a tv fighter came to my match!”

Whitleigh’s mouth fell open into a slack smile as she clicked the boy into his back-seat booster. Her eyes caught the rising sun, and Tommy felt an unfamiliar stir somewhere near his heart. Like, maybe there was actually a beating organ inside his scathed, tattooed chest.

“Not today, buddy. I’m sure he’s got lots to do. Maybe another time though, alright?”

Tommy coughed, and scratched his five o’clock shadowed jawbone. “You can show me those skills some other time, Cole. Good luck today, though.”    

The adolescent lad nodded with hopefulness, and she latched the rear-door while coyly smiling at Tommy from a distance.

Tommy turned his back, stomping up his porch and beginning to peel loose the ratty confines of his sleeveless sweatshirt. This newfound, sudden appearance of tangible emotion had him questioning his insane decision of recent painkiller sobriety.

……

Whitleigh and Cole settled nicely on the block, and next door to Tommy, the man they both had inherited a specific soft spot for. The impressionable, aspiring karate kid carefully noted his fighting role models routine, and would wake up every morning before the birds even began stirring, to watch Tommy stretch, and yawn as he jogged down the sidewalk, only keeping track of him when his shadow would fall into the glare of a streetlight. Then, he’d settle back beneath the rumpled covers of his plaid patterned sheets, and wait for his mother to rouse him for school.

Whitleigh’s sprouting intrigue for the brawny man next door however, was certainly one of a more adult rated nature. She found herself tip-toeing passed the living room window more often than necessary to check for stirring in the house next door. Was he home? Was he home alone again? She waited specifically unnervingly for another excruciatingly hot evening hoping the sticky summer sun would have him washing his motorcycle shirtless on the curb again, covered in sweat and cool drippings from the water hose. He was like living, breathing, X-rated erotica for her to enjoy at her leisure. Not only had he been candy for her eye, but his extreme observance, and need to protect she and Cole moved her greatly. If the motion light she nailed over the backdoor detected any movement, and clicked on, she’d find Tommy peeping through his own curtains as she did the same, investigating the surroundings. And when the mailman seemed to be lingering on her porch one morning while she drank her coffee in the swing, Tommy ran him off quite harshly, informing her the guy was a no good, ex-con.

One Saturday evening, she was scurrying, and tripping over her own two feet trying to wag in grocery bags with the help of her as always very active 6 year-old. The thin strap of her black, flowing tank top was sliding over tip of her shoulder, and she blew a lock of her untamable hair from her eyes, giggling as Cole’s hiccups from gulping his slushy too fast on the car ride home echoed from behind her.

The trunk of her car slammed to a close, and she heard the rustling plastic of more bags being unloaded.

“Tommy! Hey, Tommy look! My tongue, is it blue?!” Cole’s toothless lisp screeched at the man walking up the steps with an impressive amount of cargo lined on each arm.

“Yeah, buddy. It is. Whatchu been into, ya’ lil smurf.”

“He insisted on a slushy at the grocery. And he did so well at practice this morning I just couldn’t say no.” Whitleigh smiled, pinching her tongue to aid in concentration as she maneuvered for the front door key.

“I got a medal, too. Most ‘intuned’ in the class!”

“Most-improved, baby. You’re most-improved.”

Tommy, and the child’s mom chuckled to themselves, careful not to discourage Cole and his little blunder. She kicked the door open easily, Tommy catching it with his own foot to prop it open for Cole and the measly two bags he carried.

“Hey uh, how would you feel about maybe takin’ a run with me in the morning, Cole. It’s gonna be a hot one, and I could sure use somebody to go with me. You down? If your mom says it’s okay, o’ course.” He tousled a noogie over the boys head, and looked side-eyed to Whitleigh as she lunged upward to store the unloaded contents in the cabinet.

The waistline of her light-washed, denim capris clung perfectly fitted to her displayed backside, and Tommy caught a glance of her tanned lower back. Her figure wasn’t toned, and gym-fit like the twenty-something, single women around town. But the way her womanly hips curved, and her thick thighs from the exercise of chasing the likes of a hyperactive kindergartener moved, very much had Tommy’s approval.

“Oh, Tommy… I don’t think you really want him tagging along. Won’t he slow you down? And you’d have to keep a really close eye on him. It’s barely daylight when you leave.”

She turned away, mouthing curses to herself for giving away that she had seen him leave the house a few times before dawn when she heard the pattering racket of his front door closing. Cole wasn’t the only person on dutiful neighborhood watch. She may, or may not have been checking to see if it was indeed a female making her break for it after a night of tantric rolling in the sheets with her unannounced crush.

“He’ll be fine, Whit. I’m not incapable of taking care of a kid, y’ know…” He rolled his eyes, trying and failing to appear insulted.

“MOMMA, MOMMA! Please, please, can I go wif’ Tommy? Please!”

The mother hen sighed, and reluctantly nodded the granting consent and Cole began hipping and hopping circles around the kitchen counter, throwing in a few of his martial arts kicks, and grunts to boot. His erratic spinning of circles weighed heavy on his balance, and Tommy caught his wheezing, giggly body before he toppled face-first onto the floor.

“Alright, kid. You better get to bed early for ya’ mom tonight. I’ll be here for you bright and early tomorrow morning.”

Whitleigh’s heart, among other things were warmed watching the way this mysteriously gentle, yet rough around the edges man had already taken such a liking to her young son. Friends for a single-mother were rare to come by, and she intended somehow to relay her gratitude to Tommy for his blind kindness to the both of them.

 She sat her alarm for 4 a.m., allowing herself 30 minutes extra to peel Cole from underneath his plethora of stuffed friends in his bed, but was taken aback when she found him sitting cross-legged in the floor of his bedroom when she opened his door.

“Cole! What do you think you’re doing?! We don’t play with scissors, do you hear me?” She yanked the ragged blade of her kitchen shears out of his grips, and scolded his disobedient act.

She assessed him thoroughly, searching for any nicks or cuts on his arms or legs, then groaned out when she realized what he had done. A still tagged sweatshirt she had bought him back at Christmas was missing a sleeve, and the other hung on jaggedly by a thread.

“Honey, what did you do, huh?” She sighed, and searched Cole’s explanatory eyes.

“I wanted mine to be like Tommy’s, mommy.”

Cole had abstractly chopped the leaves of his hooded shirt to mock Tommy and his DIY running attire. She wanted to be angry, and she would be internally. But, she couldn’t help but laugh at his clever thinking.

She wet his toothbrush and watched him brush, then double knotted his tennis shoes before stepping out the front door to wait for Tommy. The silken robe tied around her waist covered her braless chest, and the men’s boxer briefs she unconventionally used as pajama bottoms.

Next door, Tommy was readying his post-run protein shake, setting aside some ingredients for a kid-friendly edition, thinking Cole would want his own when they returned. He couldn’t make sense of what he felt for the boy, or the fact that he was feeling anything period. Maybe, he saw flashes of himself in Cole’s fatherless lie? Did he want the kid to have some male in his life that encouraged him, and taught him the way a man should behave, and treat people? Sure, maybe Tommy wasn’t the most equipped man for the job, but he knew not to beat women, or lay hands on children. Which was more than his own father ever bothered to teach him.

He poked a finger through his kitchen blinds, the window that looked directly across the driveway into Whitleigh’s bedroom, and saw some lamp light peeking out behind her darkened curtain, alluding she was awake and readying Cole. He wondered aimlessly if he should extend the invite for her to join he and Cole, but remembered how she often teases him for his ‘meathead’ lifestyle. Tommy knew she appreciated his workout habits more than she let on though. Her sideways good morning glances at him while he did his routine 100 jumps of the rope before his 8 a.m. spar told him so. However well his stupid abs, or bulgy biceps usually helped him reel in the brainless groupies down at the bar he frequented, he knew Whitleigh needed more. His grunts, and sulks wouldn’t be enough to impress her.

He shook himself out of the spiraling abyss of questioning, and almost grabbed a shot glass to smother the thoughts. But, he’d need to be sharp, and responsible with Cole if he wanted to remain in good standing with the beautiful family next door.

He left his side door unlocked behind him, as he walked the minimal steps from his house to the residence next door. Cole was bouncing up and down the steps, spitting impersonations of an airplane, or a tractor maybe, chasing an imaginary object around the yard. His mom sat arms crossed on the stoop, her half-exposed thighs fidgeting with the morning chill. Tommy admired her without the touches of makeup, and with the lingering dark circles of a less than restful night.

“Tommy, hey look! Look at me!” Cole galloped into Tommy’s arms, grinning ear to ear, and pounding his chest.

“I caught the little troublemaker in his room with scissors before I got up morning. He took the liberty of nixing the sleeves from that brand-new sweatshirt. Wanted to look like Tommy, didn’t you, bub?” Whitleigh sarcastically smirked, standing at Tommy’s arrival.

He looked at Cole in his arms, giggling uncontrollably at the boy’s miniature hoodie cut to resemble the one he was also wearing. He became instantly afraid, dazed with pressure even. He hadn’t realized the intense way that Cole had indeed been noting him, and observing his every move. A duty to tow the line, and keep on his toes for the sponge of a child settled hard on his heart.

“You look badass, buddy!”

“Tommy!!” Whitleigh scolded with lightening speed.

“I.. Uh, I mean… You look awesome, bro. Real uh.. real cool. Yeah, that’s what I meant.” Tommy coughed and clambered to bury his little expletive mistake.

“Watch him. Please…” She cocked her head, pleading to him with a crinkled nose. “You listen to Tommy, Cole. And stay right by his side, got it?”

“Yeah, momma. I be good, won’t I Tommy?” Cole yanked on Tommy’s long arm, pulling with all his might to hurry him down the road.

“We’ll be fine. No worries, okay? Be back in a couple hours or so. I’ve got my cell if we need ya’.”

She peered down the empty, slow streets of Saturday until the pair turned the corner out of her sight. Tommy glanced back a couple of times, with Cole following suit to wave at her smiling on the porch. She trusted her son was in good hands, and it was safe to squeeze in a least another hour cat nap before breakfast.

 Her cellphone vibrated and buzzed off the side of her end table next to the couch, awaking her with an incoming call. The lazy slumber passing immediately at the disturbance, as she feared the worst expecting trouble with Cole. Tommy’s named lit up across the touchscreen, and she said ‘hello’ before the call had even connected.

“Incoming. Just wanted to make sure you were awake.” Tommy meekly whispered.

She abruptly stood from her couch, peering out the glass storm door, to see the man shoving his phone down into the slick pocket of his shorts, and Cole’s legs dangling around Tommy’s waist.

Jumping barefoot outside, Tommy lifted a hand to calm her, and slow her down before she woke the snoozing child.

“Shhhh.. Hey hey hey, he’s fine, Whit. He’s fine. He got sleepy about 2 miles in, and said his legs were tired,” he smiled sweetly. “So I just carried him back. He fell asleep about 10 minutes ago, I think. At least that’s when he stopped talking about Power Rangers, so I think that’s when anyways.”

Whitleigh reached forth, opening her arms for Tommy to pass the petite, sleeping mass to her so she could settle him inside. But he shook his head under his hood, and continued towards her house.

“I got ‘em. Just lead the way.”

He walked quietly on her heels down the hallway, barely lit with the yellow glow of the sun’s onset towards Cole’s bedroom. Posters of MMA circuit fighters, and a few baseball stars pinned to white walls, and a nightlight near his bed in the shape of a boxing glove. He imagined it would’ve been a room much like his own had he not had to share the small, attic space with his older brother who cared more about women and cars rather than fighting. On Cole’s nightstand, stained with the wet circle of last night’s glass of water, was a portrait of he and Tommy dressed in matching karate garb, drawn in faded marker.

“Best friends, huh?” Tommy nodded towards the misspelled words on the work of art, catching Whitleigh’s eye as she nestled him under the comforter, kissing his reddened cheek.

“He made it last night,” she answered. “I couldn’t get him into bed until he finished. He was planning to give it to you after the little jog this morning.”

“The kid has good taste in friends. What can I say?”

“I guess so. The verdict is still out.” She winded a hand through the tangled ends of her hair, leaving a tiny crack in the door as they scurried out so she could peep in on him later.

“Well, share that pot of coffee I smell, and I’ll see if I can convince ya’.”

He watched her dainty, painted toes stick to the cool floor as she swayed slowly into the kitchen, and he wafted his shirt to let some cool air onto his perspiring chest. He let his brain simmer on the possibilities of what was hidden prettily under the pink robe that skimmed just above a thin scar on her knee.

“Cream and sugar?” She peeped as the pour of coffee flowed into the bottom of a ceramic mug.

“Nah, black is good.”

Whitleigh served two cups, and tucked her leg underneath her as she sat in the wooden chair across the table from him. She fiddled with the silver chain hanging from her neck, only more attracting Tommy to the fluttering gape of her robe as she moved in her seat.

“Was he good for you? Didn’t give you any trouble or anything?”

“He’s a real good kid, Whitleigh. Honest. You done a real good job wit’ him.”

His lips squished on the rim of the cup as he slurped the bitter brew, and she felt her center ignite.

“Thanks, Tommy. It doesn’t hurt that I’ve got somebody like you around to be an example to him either…”

Her lashes cast a fluttering, unmeasurably lengthy shadow over the rim of her lower lid onto her cheek, and Tommy had to situate his visibly growing attraction to her. The strength and steady head she displayed in raising her son alone, the way she held her composure day in, & day out with work and managing a household. What wasn’t to like? The heavy swell of her bosom, and the way her smile seemed to be effortlessly seductive no matter the occasion didn’t hurt matters.

“Trust me… My shit isn’t together even half of what yours is. But, I like the kid, so I’ll help any way you need me. I kinda like hangin’ around you two.”

Tommy didn’t want her to mistake his comments as a come on, but the other half of his shifty brain hoped she would, and maybe he’d get some clarity on how she felt towards him. He couldn’t handle the subtle exchanges, and cheeky stealing looks. Tommy wasn’t the type who played well at cat & mouse, unless he was standing in the cage toying with his next victim.

Neither had really noticed how many wordless seconds had ticked by until the rhythmic drip of the kitchen faucet splashed towards the drain, shaking them to reality. Tommy gulped, scratching his forearm nervously and looked around the room pointlessly, while Whitleigh raised to tend to the leak. She shook the handle, jiggled the spout, and Tommy heard her murmur a ‘piece of shit’ under her breath. He scooted the chair from under him, and rounded the table sitting his empty glass there, to take her side.

“I can fix that, if you want. Not a problem at all.”

He meant to stand to next to her and estimate the appliance issue, but instead he settled his feet behind hers on the kitchen mat, and extended around under her arm. He saw the hairs on Whitleigh’s arm raise, and his exhales ensued goosebumps where her shoulder met her neck. Her fruity scent tickled his nostrils, and a chill rolled up his spine as the sweet aroma nearly instigated a sneeze. She slowly set free the tension his closeness brought to her bones, and she whimpered as he pushed the loose crotch of his pants into the center of her cheeks.

“…..it’s….it’s fine. Just a little shake of the handle usually…usually takes care of it.” She choked, and heaved a struggling breath. Her head fell weightless to his shoulder, and she white knuckle gripped the counters edge to squeeze out some of the pent-up need.

One of his broad, promiscuous hands pulled on the ribbon of her robe, while the other probed up the back of her thigh, tickling the curve of her round ass with calloused, worked fingers. Whitleigh’s nipples poked from the confines of her t-shirt and Tommy envisioned the pink bulbs wet between his teeth.

“Let me tend to some other things around here that need seein’ to then, hm?” He suckled on her earlobe, the gold bulbs of her earrings clanging gently against his teeth.

Her shutter sent the bathrobe cascading from her arms to topple gracefully around their feet. Once Tommy’s hands got a feeling of her soft skin against his, his hunger became irrepressible. He tugged at her legs, rushing her to climb his body. Their lips crashed into each other, their desire screaming at the introduction. Tommy reached his hands into her hair, massaging into her scalp, and his tongue took note and moved seductively against hers. Her mewls of his name, and the breath tossed from her mouth into his enticed Tommy to furthermore explore her every crevice.

“Quiet, Tommy. We have to be quiet. Cole…”

He nodded, lowering her back to the white, chipped tabletop. Her toes curled as her licked up her leg, leaving imprints of his crooked bite on the fleshly meat of her inner thighs. He pulled away to push up the hem of her shirt, and her eyes peeled shut with reluctancy.

“Woah, woah. Hey, whatsa matter, Whitleigh. Talk to me, babe.” He froze, careful not to further intrude if he had done so.

“Nothing. It’s.. I’m fine. Really. Keep going.” She answered surely, but the reluctancy still hid in her underlying tremble of her voice.

He chewed his lips, and carefully continued to peel back her remaining attire. He pulled loose the fabric, and she raised herself to assist him in the undressing. Her hands coyly slid to cover a scar drawn into the lower of her belly, and Tommy’s eyes followed whatever shame she felt there was to hide. He kissed tenderly on her fingers, and eased back her hands to lay behind her head.

“This what you’re so worried about?” He curiously sketched over the marking.

“I’m sure most women you get with don’t have ugly battle scars from childbirth, Tommy…”

He blinked repeatedly, exaggerating his look of taken aback confusion, and almost offence. His palms leaned flat on the table, carrying his weight as he dangled above her.

“First off, you ain’t just somebody I wanna ‘get with’, Whit. Second, don’t ever be ashamed. This,” he pointed. “This scar gave you that badass little boy in there sleepin’. The one that you’re doin’ a damn good job of raisin’, too. Don’t ever feel like you gotta hide that wit’ me. Okay?”

Whitleigh blushed, and her fitful heartbeats bringing a swell of reassurance over her body. To hear that Tommy hadn’t intended on her being just the bed buddy next door eased her worries. She saw potential in Tommy, and whatever this could turn into with him, as well.

She nodded her head, smiling and sighing a loud release of the worrisome pressure she’d been choking on moments ago. Once the exquisite man gathered she had relaxed once more, he began petting over the soft, feminine curves of her body’s edges. His licked his pouting mouth, and journeyed upward to the round handful of her breasts, leaving his hands to work down below. He moaned, stroking the wet patch that stained the warm center of her panties and Whitleigh nearly jolted from the table when his tongue devoured the sensitive line of her ribcage.

Tommy hooked his fingers into the band of her shorts, cheekily popping the elastic before tugging them down her tanned legs.

“I like these, by the way. They look much sexier on you than me..”

He dropped his own shorts, the clunk of his phone in the pocket hitting the floor,  revealing a nearly matching pair of his own boxer briefs. Only his, screaming at the seams trying to trap the large member he was stroking beneath them.

Without so much as a hint of warning, Tommy clutched the backside of her bended knees, and drew her forth toward him. Her feet now weightlessly suspended over the tables edge. Glittering rays of sunlight illuminated through the curtains, catching the speckles of green hiding in the eyes she stared hungrily into. The demanding, heated cosmic pull his body exuded excited Whitleigh more than any desire she had ever known for a man. She withheld a giggle, knowing breakfast every morning seated at this now tarnished kitchen table would never be the same.

Anxious for a quick taste of her pink folds, Tommy kneeled face-to-face with his warm breakfast. Fuck that gritty, bland protein shake he had in the blender at his own house, he thought. Whitleigh was more his flavor. Her hips bucked seductively when the vicious laps of his tongue separated her lips to prime her with another layer of wetness. Delight and orgasm poked her nauseous belly like a prodding finger. She grimaced, but welcomed every nibble of his lips over her blossoming bulb.

“Upstairs, Tommy… let’s go upstairs.” The volume of her needful pants echoed off the hollow ceilings, and she feared their elicit noises would stumble upon the ears of her hopefully sleeping son just down the hall. It took all her mighty efforts to piece together a sentence amongst Tommy’s feasting murmurs smashed between her thighs. The hum, and suckling sounds of him devouring her sopping mound hypnotized her wholly. His touch would be burned there at the most private corner of her body forever.

“I can’t make it that far, Whitleigh baby. I gotta have you. Now. Here, bite down on this to keep quiet.” Tommy tossed her the tee he had discarded, and chuckled. Relishing in the fact that he had her body running on amped speed. She nearly lost all control when he caught a stray trickle of her juices escaping from the side of his mouth with the tip of his thumb, and sucked it dry.

He clung to his thick erection, and lead himself to her steaming entrance, teasing her with slow in and outs. He felt her deep, and so satisfyingly warm squeezes twitch around him, already milking forth his first release with a female in months. He hadn’t really had time for a hookup lately, and thinking about the filth that he typically attracted only made want to down capsize a bottle of narcotics.  

The angsty thoughts that had always swam in his mind suddenly fled when he admired Whitleigh’s blissfully reddened cheeks, and rosy, swollen lips gaped open with the sound of his name. She was reeling him in, damning his demons back to the hell they came from, and shocking his soul back to life, and she had no idea.

He gripped her forcefully by the hips to secure a steady rhythm so her breasts would continue that perfectly timed, spellbinding bounce. He didn’t want to split her painfully in two, but the faster he lunged inside her, the more he could feel the rough flickerings of a hard onslaught approaching.

“More. More.” She read his mind with expert timing. “More!”

The legs of her antique table scuffed and creaked against the floor below them, and Whitleigh wondered whether the weathered wood was a match for Tommy Conlon. She knew Cole would be stirring soon, but she needed to feel this way, in this moment with Tommy, for hours before it would ever be enough. He brushed, and touched her lips with his fingers, grazing her cheeks thoughtfully. His face nuzzled the tips of her nipples, and his lashes tickled them to an even higher peak while his two-day old scruff chapped her sensitive skin. Whitleigh wanted to feel the sweat of his hard-work fall from his perspiring brow and leave his scent on her like a dirty secret.

She hinted sparks flying inside her belly, instigating the release ready to reach the surface. Every raw, barely noticeable taste of delicious pain that came with his every lunge kidnapped her further towards the explosion of orgasm. A pulsating vein in Tommy’s neck protruded from his straining, broad neck and she sensed he was holding back his own ending for her sake.

“Tommy, I’m close. Really… really close.” She whispered, nearly biting her own tongue between gnashed teeth.

He closed his eyes, his back now standing straight to give her a hearty, heavenly view of his tattooed pecks, and insultingly large shoulders. His harsh sucks of air, and vice-grip squeezes on the bone of her hips gave her the push she needed to climb the summit. Using the shirt she still held onto, Whitleigh quickly shoved the cotton between her jaws to absorb her curdling screams. Her eyes watered beneath sealed lids, tears dripping from the corners, and Tommy covered his own mouth muffling what was the most beautiful portrayal of climax she had ever had the pleasure of witnessing.

“Now, I already won Cole over, we know. So, what’s that verdict you were talking about earlier, huh?” Tommy suggested.

Hoping not to offend him with her abrupt dismissal, and nixing of post-cuddle, she stole a fast kiss from him as she hopped from the table to dress. He rubbed over her bare backside once more before she stepped into her bottoms, then shooed her down the hall, understanding the importance of her motherly duties. He speedily decked himself in his own shed clothes, and placed the kitchen back to it’s original tidy state before the observant young boy came for his breakfast.

Whitleigh came leisurely down the hall moments later, holding the hand of a slightly disorientated blonde boy who smiled ear-to-ear once realizing his new best friend Tommy was seated at his kitchen table. He climbed into the empty chair next to Tommy where his booster seat waited, eager to chat all about the things they had seen while on their morning stroll. Whitleigh stirred the batter of chocolate chip pancakes near the stove, stealing smiley glances at Tommy when Cole was caught up in one of his stories.

 As Tommy watched the wild-eyed kid stutter and sling his busy hands throughout the air, pretending his fork was a spaceship. All the while also falling in love with the big-hearted, slightly bashful, head-spinningly beautiful woman across the room. He had never known true family in his entire life. But silently observing the lazy comfort he felt of that Saturday morning with Cole, and Whitleigh, he decided it was worth the wait.

  TAGS: @eap1935 @torialeysha

[shackleschains]

What happened? - Chapter Four (1,384 words)

Paris woke up the next morning as the sun was rising. The Warm yellow rays filled her room. It wasn't the sun that woke her up, but the beautiful violin being played in the distance. The song was sorrowful but sweet. She lazily got out of bed and quietly went to her closet to get dressed. With her eyes adjusting to the light, she put on a long summer dress. It fell to her feet and hung around her. It was a baggy blue spaghetti strap dress.

She hurried out her room and down the long hallway. Birds chirped at her through the windows. The windows were medium sized and arched. Each window had beautiful flowers growing into it and was missing glass. This made them nothing more than open holes in the wall in Paris' opinion. At the end of the hallway there was a small open set of stairs that lead down to the landing in between the left and right staircases. Three tall arched windows blessed the dark landing with warm lights. These windows had thin glass pains in them.

Standing in the middle of the landing was Charles, violin in hand. He was wearing only his pajama bottoms. This was the first time Paris got a good look a his arms as she watched him play. They were both covered in full tattoo sleeves. It was hard to deduce what they were about but she didn’t want to interupt him.

When it came to music, Charles' specialty was strings. He could play almost any string instrument. The guitar and violin were two of his favorite to play. He was gifted with the bow and it sounded like the violin was singing for him. It was the most beautiful noise Paris had ever heard the violin make. As she took another step down the stairs, Charles softened the music before stopping entirely.

"I didn't wake you did I?" He asked her suddenly without turning around. It took her a moment before she realized he was talking to her.

"No. I- I've been up." She replied as she took another step forward. He turned around to face her as he pointed his bow at her face. At the same time, he dropped his other hand wich held the instrument. His eyes were filled with sarcasm as he replied jokingly serious,

"You're full of it Vain."

"How do you know?" She asked, folding her arms instinctively.

"Like I wouldn't have checked up on you after last night." He replied, softly, again looking away from her. He twisted something on the violin before bringing it back to his chin. He played a new song. This one was happy sounding and more upbeat. Paris sat on the bottom of the stairs and listened intensely. She let the beautiful music fill head and heart. They were on the third floor up but out the clear clean windows she saw birds swarming to listen as well.

××××××××××××

That evening, it would also be just Charles and Paris for dinner. Charles was sure that Teddy had made previous arrangements so he was forced to spent time with Paris. Damn that sister of his. Charles decided to give the cooking staff the night off.

He wanted to talk to her about the previous night. He also wanted to surprise her by cooking her favorite meal for her. He knew she grew up in a very rich family and loved the simpler thing. Like instead of a seven course lobster, she would rather a nice plate of his mother's food combinations. He knew that both of their favorites was something his mother called "Mush". It was buttered rice with grits. The added cheese, salt and pepper were optional.

Before he had began cooking, he slipped a letter under Paris' door telling her to dress nicely and meet him in the dinning room at 6:50. This gave him thirty minutes to prepare the food and twenty to make sure that the room is set and to double check his outfit. After he was done cooking, he set the table and poured the food into two bowls across the table from each other.

When he checked his watch again, it was 6:48. He checked himself in the mirror one last time. His hair was combed to perfection, his eyes shined in the light, his beard intensified the sexiness of his face, and his clothes were clean and tidy. He looked so proper that he barley recognized himself.

When he turned around he found himself gaping at the sight before him. Paris. She looked stunning... She was wearing an almost see-through magenta dress with black heels and a matching black clutch.

The fuck is in her clutch? We're literally 250feet away from her bedroom. Oh, that might explain it... His thoughts were cut off by Paris' cough. He was suddenly snapped back to her stunning body. He tried hard not to look for long before he extended his arm for her to take. She did and he walked her to her seat. He pulled it out for her before she sat down and he pushed her chair in.

"So what did you want to talk about?" Paris asked him as he sat down across from her.

"I wanted to talk about last night's unfortunately wonderful events." Charles said calmly. "But before that, may I say how beautiful you look tonight?" He said, nodding at her.

"Thank you." She replied, feeling like he was about to tell her something bad.

"Now, I wanted to talk about last night." Charles said, as if nothing happened.

"Alright..." she said, almost silently. Charles eyes snapped from Paris to the table and back to her. She could see that he wasn't mad, just eager to tell her something. He grabbed her hands in his gently.

"Last night, I remembered exactly why I fell in love with you. Not that I could ever forget, but I've... begun questioning everything. When I first saw you the other day, I tried to ignore my love for you. The truth is, my mother's words have never left my head... and neither have you. This is clearly the universe pushing us back to gether," at this point his eyes had welled with tears. Paris couldn't breath from all of the stuff he was putting on her.

"I don't know what to do. I love you. I also love Kiara. Do I love you more than her? I couldn't be certain. But I can’t just leave my fiance of years because my ex brought up old feelings, no matter how happy that would make me."

Charles eyes had returned to their normal blue by now instead of the light green they had turned to while he was talking. He had made his point.

"Charles, I..." Paris started, but he interrupted her.

"No. Let me talk. Please." He said, holding her hands in his once again.

"I have to know. Do you love me, or am I just another distraction? Do you still feel as I do? Or am I stuck in a delusion?" He asked, staring into her eyes.

"Charles... I..." she looked down, unsure of how to respond. She didn't want him to hurt more but she never stopped loving him. She always dreamed, hoped - no, prayed that she would meet him again. But she couldn't jeopardize his happiness. She knew he had to choose to stay with his fiance.

"Answers please." He requested, his voice quivering. She stood up slowly and walked over to him. She kissed him slowly on the cheek. She leaned in and whispered in his ear.

"I've always loved you, Charles Audric. Since we were children, fresh out of pull ups and I knew you were the one. I love you so much that I know you deserve to be happy. You deserve to be with red." She said, pushing him back.

She walked back to her seat and exhaled deeply. Her hands trembled as she took a drink from her glass.

"You've got me. And I love you. And I always will." She said as her voice trembled as she stared blankly at the table. He wiped his eyes quickly and nodded before kissing her hand. They spent the rest of dinner in painful silence.