#(jasmine is another plant for this list come to think of it)

[empressofthelibrary]

Thinking about how honeysuckle, blackberries, and mint are all stubborn-as-fuck plants that Can And Will take over your entire backyard if you give them half a chance, but are also very different from each other

[five-rivers]

Cracked Clay Cup Chapter 2

For @greatbigolhampuckjustforme

“How is this organized, anyway?” asked Daniel.  “It isn't alphabetical.”

Clockwork shuddered.  “The debate about which alphabet to use would be interminable.  No.  The list is arranged from eldest to youngest, with groups being averaged.”

“So, the oldest person is on top and the youngest person is on the bottom.”

“That is correct.”

Daniel hummed and wiped up the last of his syrup up off his plate with the last piece of his pancake.  “This Jasmine person is the youngest person who wants me.  Ick, that sounded wrong somehow.”

“She is the youngest person,” said Clockwork.  He was doing something strange with the plates in the sink.  

“Is she, like, really into plants or flowers or something?”

“Are you really into Daniels?”

“I mean.  I don’t know.  My memory’s been erased and all.  For all I know, my name isn’t even Daniel.  It could be William.  Or David.”  Still, he got the point.  He shook his head.  “Ghosts just picking random names.  What is the world coming to?”

“You could always choose to go by another name,” said Clockwork, mildly.  “You are not trapped in it.”

“I know,” said Daniel.  “I’ll keep it for now, though.  Is, um, is the…”

“Her section of the file is colored teal.”

“Thanks,” said Daniel.  He flipped through.  “These aren’t in the same order, you know.”

“I know,” said Clockwork.  He sounded very put upon.  

“You’re not the one who does the organizing, huh?”

“If only I were.”

Daniel looked over the teal pages.  There wasn’t a lot of information on them.  The name, Jasmine, her height, hair color, eye color, a few lines about interests.  

“Not a lot here.”

“You are meant to form your own opinions,” said Clockwork.  

“Enjoys pushing forward the boundaries of knowledge?” he read from the page.  “Interested in modern psychology and brain surgery?”  He looked up at Clockwork.  “This sounds like mad scientist material.”

“You can always skip her, if you feel uncomfortable.”

“No, if I’m going to do this, I’m going to be fair.  So, uh, let’s go.  Let’s do this.”

“In your pajamas?” 

“Well, it’s not like I have anything else, do I?”

“In fact, you do.  There is a closet in your room upstairs.”

“With clothes that are mine?”

“With clothes in a variety of styles in your size.  They are all new, acquired for this process, although you can keep them afterward.”

“So, no way to figure out my style except for experimentation.  Cool.  Great.  Another mystery to solve.”

“Think of it as an interesting puzzle.  An amusing way to pass the time, whilst you are experiencing the various persons who wish to gain custody of you.”

“Uh huh,” said Daniel, pushing his chair out.  “I’m going to go get changed.  Do I need to pack a bag, too, or what?”

“What, in this case.  Any clothing and toiletries you need will be sent to you.”

Daniel nodded and climbed back up the stairs to ‘his’ room.  There was a closet there that he hadn’t noticed before, across from the bathroom.  He opened the door and started to shift through the different outfits.  

That one was too complicated… ugh, weird texture… too much body exposure… ooh, gothic… but also complicated… nice skirt… robe… kilt?  He prodded at the maybe-kilt a little.  He wasn’t sure that it was a kilt.  Well, whatever.  Jeans.  T-shirt.  Hm.  Tempting, if only for its simplicity.  But maybe he wanted something that vibed with his tail a bit better.  Ooh, Egyptian.  

Eventually, he hit on a combination of loose pants, long shirt, and fringed wrap.  Yeah.  That would look good.  Comfortable.  He took off his pajamas and fluffed his tail.  That did feel good.  He put on the pants, then the shirt, and then discovered he did not have great skills with wraps.  So.  He probably didn’t wear them on a daily basis.  Still, with the help of the bathroom mirror, he managed to get it into a more or less presentable arrangement.  He thought he looked good, anyway, and that was all that mattered.  After all, if they already were getting into fights over custody of him, he didn’t exactly have to dress to impress.  

He went back down the stairs, to where Clockwork was waiting, staff in hand.  “Okay, I’m ready.  How do I look?”

“Dressed,” said Clockwork.  

“Helpful,” said Daniel.  

“I am to please.”

“So… How do we get there?”

“Through this,” said Clockwork.  He held up the staff, and a portal spun off the clock at its top.  Then, he held out a small pocketwatch.  “When you want to return, merely click the button on top.”

“Okay,” said Daniel, taking it and looping it's chain around his neck.  “And… I just go through?  No other tricks?”

“No other tricks.  It is the journey of a single step.”

“Right,” said Daniel.  He took a deep breath and stepped forward.  

The transition between places really was smooth.  One minute, he was in Clockwork's purple kitchen, the next, he was in what looked like a completely normal entryway.  

There was a girl there.  She looked human, and was about half a foot taller than he was.  Her hair was red and her cardigan was the same teal as her paper in the file.  Her eyes, too, were blue.  She… really didn’t look like a ghost at all.  She didn’t particularly look like him, either, except for her skin color.  Unless maybe some of her facial features were similar?  Nose shape, perhaps?  He didn’t really remember what he looked like well enough to say.

But, definitely, what stood out the most about her was the fact that she was a girl.  A teenager.  Not a woman, not really.  She couldn’t be more than a few years older than he was.

“Danny,” she said, jumping out of the chair and starting to smile at him. “Hi, I’m–”  She stopped.  

The girl stared.  Daniel stared back.  

“Danny, what are you wearing?” she asked.  

“Clothing,” he said.  He didn’t think this kind of outfit had any particular name.  At least, if it did, he didn’t know it.

“Oh.”

“And… you’re…”

“Oh!  I’m Jazz!  You… really don’t remember me?”

Daniel shook his head, slowly.  

“Well… They did tell me that would happen…”

“I knew you before?”

“Yes!  Yes.  I… was your mother.  Am your mother!”

“Uh,” said Daniel.  “You’re, like, seventeen.  Eighteen, maximum.”

“Time travel was involved.”

“Time travel.”

“Time travel.  You know how things are in the ghost zone.  You get a natural portal, and then, boom!  You’re fifteen years in the past, or the future!”  She laughed, nervously.  “But I’m here, now!  This version of me.  Who is definitely your mother.”

Daniel realized, then, that just because the memory wipe meant that he couldn’t know what his prior connections were, that didn’t mean that other people couldn’t try to capitalize on them.  Or lie about them.  Or lie about them badly.  

“Time travel,” said Daniel, again.  

“I mean, you’re staying with Clockwork, right?”

“Uh, yeah, so?”

“So, he’s sort of a major player in the time travel scene, right?”

“He is?”  It’d explain the clock theme, at least.  

“He is.”

“Oh.  Cool.”  He still didn’t believe her time travel story, though.  “So, like.  If you were time traveling, who raised me?”

“Your, uh, grandparents.  But they can’t really, uh, do it, anymore.  For reasons.  And I’m back!  In the proper time!   So I want to take care of you now.  And this will start our bonding bonanza!  We can start with a tour of the house!”

What.  She did not just say that.  

“Are they the ones who’re disputing your custody?  Because it is a dispute, right?  That’s what this thing is all about.”

“I mean, um, there are seven groups, right?  Counting me?  So, no, it’s not because of them.”

“Right,” said Daniel.  That didn’t rule them out, though.  Maybe they were the ones at the top of the list.

“So, obviously, this is the entryway… At least, you know, when there’s a door.”

Daniel looked behind him.  There was, indeed, no door.  “What?”

“Something about the rules to these things.  We’re not supposed to leave for the duration.”

“What about food?”

“It’s brought in, the same way you were.  So, over here is the kitchen.”

The kitchen was a long, galley affair, with tile countertops and cute floral backsplashes.  It was much more normal than Clockwork’s, at least in terms of colors.  There was a fridge, a microwave, a toaster, and a dishwasher.  

“Do you know who the other six groups are?”

“I mean… I have a guess about some of them, but I don’t really know.  I’d thought Clockwork would be one of them for sure, but…”

“What, really?”  That, at least, didn’t seem like a lie.  “But he’s the neutral party?”

“Yes,” said Jazz.  “But I thought that the two of you were close.  But maybe it was more along the lines of being, I don’t know, work friends.”

“Huh,” said Daniel.  “I… Okay.”

“Yes.  Okay.  So, the fridge is completely safe, no biological or ectobiological samples stored in it.  Just food.  Normal, edible food.  We’ll do the dishes together, of course.  Cups are in here, dishes, pots and pans–”

“Your profile said you were interested in brain surgery,” said Daniel.  

“Oh, yes, that’s one of the things I’m thinking about studying in college!  Once I get into college.  Which will be soon.”

“So, you don’t have, like, a mad science lab in here where you do brain surgery or something like that?”

The girl stared at him.  “Are… you sure you don’t remember anything?”

This was not a promising question.  “Yeah, why?”

“Because you’re assuming that I have a mad science lab in here.  I’m  a high school senior.”

“Which means it’s weird that you’re here with a house at all.”

She made a face.  “It’s… I had some help getting it.  The house, I mean.  But there’s no mad science lab.  There will never be a mad science lab.  Unless you want a mad science lab.  I could probably make some calls.”

“I don’t want a mad science lab.  Why would I want a mad science lab?”

“I don’t know, to tinker in?  You used to do some, um, tinkering.  Mechanical engineering stuff.”

“That’s more of a garage thing, though, isn’t it?”

“I… don’t know.  You only ever did it in the lab.”

“So, we used to have a mad science lab.”

“That’s– I mean–  No.”

Definitely a lie.  They totally had a lab.  Or, at least, Jazz used to have a lab.  What was going on that they had a lab?  Something sinister, doubtlessly.  

“Did you dissect brains in this lab?”

“No!  Like I said, I’m only a student.  A student that is interested in a lot of things, but right now, my thesis is about Ghost Envy.”

“You’re a high school student with a thesis?”

“I’m a high achiever.  Have to make up for all that time lost time traveling.  You’d think you’d gain time!  But.  Yeah.”  She smiled tightly and nodded.  “Living room next!  We have a, er, one of those consoles.  For video games.  I got it from a friend.”

Daniel let Jazz drag him around the house.  It was kind of nice, except for how nervous she got whenever he probed about his past or her supposed time travel.  He didn’t really feel threatened by her, per se, but the lying… it definitely gave him a bit of, how should he put this, anxiety.  

“And here’s your bedroom, Danny!”

The bedroom was actually really cool.  Unlike the rest of the rooms, it had a very clear, very obvious theme beyond just house people can live in.  The theme was space.  The walls and ceiling were painted with constellations.  There were model rockets on shelves.  The desk had an astrolabe and a small model solar system on it, alongside astronomy books.  There were also some novels, composition notebooks and sketchbooks, alongside a variety of markers, but those were tiny points about the overwhelming amount of space.  Even the decorative throw cushions on the bed had galaxy patterns on them!

Danny… he really liked it.  He guessed he had to admit that, at least, Jazz had known him before, and had known him reasonably well.  Even if she wasn’t his mother.  

She’d also turned around to play with a deadbolt on the door.  

“It locks from the inside, because, well, I figured you’d be a bit nervous, staying with someone you know nothing about, and a lock might make you feel safer.”

She wasn’t wrong about that.  “Hey, speaking of safety, you’re still, like, alive?  Human?”

“Yes?” said Jazz.

“Isn’t it a bit weird, trying to get custody of a ghost?”

“Oh, um, I suppose it’s a bit unusual, but you’re my b– My son.  Definitely my son.  So, it’s worth it.  It doesn’t matter to me if you’re a ghost or a human or– Wait, Clockwork told you, right?”

“Told me… what?”

“That you’re not, you know, a normal ghost.”

“I… he might have said something about that.  About being an unusual kind of ghost.”

“So he didn’t tell you that you’re only half ghost?”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It’s a thing.  You can change back and forth between a human - more human - form, and a ghost form.  Like this.”  She gestured at him.  

Danny stared at her.  “That’s not a thing.”

“It is!  Oh, jeez, I can’t believe Clockwork left it to me to explain.”  She crossed her arms and turned away.  “I don’t know how to explain this.”

“Wait, does that mean my dad is a ghost in this story?  Are you saying that you, as a human, and a ghost–”

“No.  You died.  That sounds terrible.  I mean, you, um.  You sort of died.”

“How did I die that I managed to die only halfway?”

Jazz opened and closed her mouth several times.  “I didn’t witness it–”

“But you know.”

“It was– Do you really want to know?  I mean, regardless, I’m still your– your mom.  And I want to be.  And that kind of thing is really traumatic.”

“What was it?”

She looked like she didn’t want to answer.  Danny poured all his effort into a forceful, expectant stare.  

“It… was a lab accident.”

Silence.  

“Like, um.  A ghost lab.”

More silence.

“Okay,” said Danny.  He bit his lower lip.  “Right.”

“I’ll just leave now,” said Jazz.  “Make yourself at home.  Because it is!”  She stepped out.  

“Yep,” said Danny.  He closed the door and slid home the deadbolt.  Then he put his hand around the pocketwatch, lightly touching the button on top.  “Okay.  I’ll be okay.  I can always leave if she tries to examine my brain, and… I should give her a fair chance.  Right.”

[lys1]

Congratulations! You waited so patiently <3 This is another Asra x fem!reader for you. NSFW. 5218 words. 

Playing With Potions

—————

The late spring morning air was warming up to be a balmy 75 degrees. You had your skirt pulled down and up, tucked in the back of the waistband, forming makeshift shorts. The shop was somewhat quiet, yet the din from the streets made its nimble way through the open windows.

You descend the ladder to the box of ingredients you were unpacking. They had come in the previous evening and Asra had promptly asked you to “organize them later”. Of course you said yes, the two of you shared this shop after all, and the work that came with it.

Asra himself was bustling behind the counter, sweeping the wooden floors free of the dust and fallen ingredients. He stops momentarily to pick up his cup of tea and take a long sip. The jasmine tea's steam billows into his face as he sighs with content pleasure.

The floorboards creak as you step down and Asra looks over at you, gaze soft. "How's the supplies look, dear?" He asks curiously, returning the cup to it’s coaster.

"Ah," you muse, counting the small containers in your hands. "Looks like we will be all set on lizard toes for a while, I think our supply captain read 1000 instead of 100." You can't help but chuckle, it couldn't be helped, at least you wouldn’t have to order more for a while.

Asra's eyes open a little wider, "oh my." He laughs, "I suppose we won’t". He sets his broom to rest against the counter and bare feet pad over to you, his deep-purple eyes examining the products.

You feel his hand settle on your waist subconsciously; a side effect of being close to one another. You breathe in lightly, smelling the sweet scent of coconut and honied biscuits wash over you. Asra's breakfast choice was apparent.

"Mm," you say, turning so the two of you were face to face. "You smell delicious."

Asra smiles, box in his hand now a little less important. "Care for a taste?" He teases, eyes falling to your parted lips. He sets his lizard toes aside and joins his other hand at your waist. You look up at him through your eyelashes and nod.

He is a mere millimeter from sealing the gap between you when the bell of the shop jingles merrily.

"Ah jeez," you huff good in good nature. "I forgot we have jobs and responsibilities."

Asra laughs at your obvious disappointment and steals a small peck. "Unfortunately, we have to eat somehow." He then turns away and walks back to the counter to greet the customer.

The man is short and has a little round face. He looks extraordinarily nervous, and this catches your attention. Yours and Asra's shop is well known in the city and the townsfolk trust their magicians. You hadn't seen anyone come in here looking so nervous, and maybe even a little embarrassed.

"What can I do for you, sir?" Asra asks charmingly, resuming his position behind the counter. Briefly you let yourself admire how nice he looks, comfortable in his shop and expertise, before turning back to the box you were supposed to be dealing with. Not, however, letting your ears miss the conversation.

"I," the man starts, already fumbling with his words. "I, well look. I need help." He finishes plainly, nervously clutching his shirt between his pudgy hands.

Asra smiles kindly, "many do." He says, tilting his head and examining his new client. "Are you here for a card reading? Need to get some answers?"

The man groans as though he is already exhausted with the conversation. "No, I already know what I need. I have the answers. I've heard about this place. The ways you can help people. I live an hour out of the market and I made this trip just to see you."

"We're flattered, for sure." Asra says calmly, you can hear slight annoyance in his tone from all the ambiguity. The visitor is none the wiser though. "To help you though," Asra continues. "I'll need to know what you need."

"Alright I need a potion," the man finally reveals. "One that will help me... with performance." His cheeks are redder than a bell pepper in the sun.

Asra raises a white eyebrow, "performance? Are you an actor?"

"No!" The man's voice came out in a strangled whisper, obviously trying to keep it down. You roll your eyes, chancing a glance over your shoulder. The shop floor wasn't that big, of course you were going to hear everything.

"No," he said again, this time a little more composed. "What I mean is... my sex life performance." The truth comes out. Your visitor wipes his forehead with a dirty rag from his pocket. "My wife and I well.. we've hit a slump," he explains. "And I've heard of potions that can help with that kind of thing. Stuff that will completely change the game." His eyes are shining now, imaging life post-performance potion.

Asra looks uncertain at best. "I see," he starts, shooting you a glance. "That.. does exists. But it takes awhile to make. And the price isn't cheap either."

You shove the last of the crow feathers into their designated drawer while listening. You have never heard of such a potion, but you were also still learning. Asra sounds a little unsure though.

"Price isn't an issue," the man sounds desperate. "I'll pay anything."

Asra sighs, he feels bad for the man wringing his hands before him, practically crying for a cure. "Alright," he finally concedes. "I'll make it, but you'll have to come back in the morning. This kind of thing takes all evening to brew."

Your customer nods vigorously, "I can wait." He says. "Tomorrow morning, yes! I'll be here!" His excitement apparent, he bows a few times while backing out of the door, tripping over his own feet.

The door closes with a sharp bang and the bell rings furiously. Asra blows air out of his mouth so that itf ruffles the curls between his eyes.

"Well," he says after a moment. "A sex performance enhancing potion was not what I was expecting to make today." He rubs his temples, eyes closed and looking thoughtful.

You grin at him from the shelf as you pick up the empty shipping box and rest it on your hip. "That's quite the name, I've never heard of a potion like that."

Asra laughs and opens his beautiful eyes to look at you. "Yes, you'll have to forgive me for not teaching you that kind of magic, it's not the.. safest." He ends uncertainly. "I don't even know how this guy found out about it. It's not talked about much amongst us magicians.. and it's certainly not a common one."

Immediately more questions than your mouth can keep up with flood your brain. "So how did you find out about it? And why isn't it safe?" You ask the two more important ones, eyes following Asra as he finds a piece of paper and quill to use.

He dips his quill in the register's ink well and starts scratching down what you presumed to be ingredients. "I've been studying magic for years, my love." He says simply, "and before you ask, no I haven't used it on myself." He looks up at you, mischief dancing in his pretty eyes. "I'd like to think my sex game is up to par." He adds innocently, licking his lips seductively when your ears tinge pink.

You brush imaginary dirt off your shirt sleeves and huff. "I suppose it's pretty good." You mumble. It almost feels like a lie to just describe it as "pretty good" but Asra doesn't need you to stroke his ego right now. You do that enough falling to pieces beneath him every night.

Asra is well aware of your attempt to keep him humble and laughs lightly. "And to answer your other question," he says, turning back to his ingredient list, "messing with ones body like this can be dangerous. You have to be very precise."

You nod as he explains, it makes sense.

Potions are always brewed in pots over a magic fire so you put yourself to work, removing a medium sized iron pot from a hook on the wall and carrying it to a fire stand. Asra is busy himself, opening various drawers and adding seemingly random ingredients to a basket he has looped over his arm. Iris petals, newt eyeball, and some shimmering gold flakes. You smile watching him, your gorgeous magician; smart and able.

In no time at all Asra has a bubbling pot of sweet smelling liquid stirring before him. You stand beside him, observing curiously.

"Why are you wearing gloves?" You ask, taking note of the large leather gloves that clad all the way up your lover's forearm.

Asra continues to stir and looks over at you, happy to hear your eagerness to learn. "I can't risk even a drop of this touching my skin. It's so strong, and will immediately absorb into anyone's skin, leaving them..." He shakes his head and trails off, amused. "That's why it has to brew so long, to burn off some of the potency."

Your mouth opens in amazement, taken aback by the idea. This is the real deal you decide, stepping back a couple inches in precaution. After watching the potion bubble for a couple more minutes you stretch and grab the watering can sitting by the floor of the door.

"I'm going to water the plants," you inform Asra, waving your hand briefly until the can is full of cool, crisp water. Gods knows there are at least three dozen inside and outside of the shop.

Asra is humming in confirmation that he heard you as you open the shop door to the plants hanging outside. You don't get very far before you're blindsided by a streak of purple darting through your legs.

Escape!

"Faust?!" You yelp, dancing around the squirming snake as she winds her way under and into the open shop. A loud, booming bark makes you jump again. This time a large hound dog is rounding the tight corner from the side street and barreling full speed towards you.

All hell breaks loose. The water can is up in the air, crashing wildly into the side of the building. You are thrown back onto the dusty floor and a mass of fur and teeth race past you, paying no mind to your yelling.

Help!

Faust is racing around the floor, narrowly avoiding the jaws of the angry dog she seemed to have aggravated. There's a large crash from inside and you cringe, hearing bottles break and wood crunch. You look back, scared at what you might find.

The shop is a disaster, papers strewn, vials broken, and potion pot toppled. Asra is groaning on the floor, obviously doing no better than the rest. You glance at him worriedly, taking quick notice of the potion he had been making spilled everywhere, even on him.

You snap your fingers and the dog's growl, who was cornering Faust by the bookshelf, turns into a whimper as you lift him up with your magic. "I'm sorry pooch," you sigh, "but we can't have you eating our friend." With a wave of your wrist the hound is out the door and down the street in an instant. The hinges creak and bell rings as the door is once again closed to outside.

Thank you!

Faust wriggles happily, red eyes glowing in relief. You guess she got up to some trouble with the local fauna. She slithers up the stairs quickly, leaving you to look around at the ruined shop.

"Ah, fuck," Asra's words cut through your thoughts like a knife. He's laying flat on the floor, chest heaving as though he just ran a marathon. Sweat glistens on his tan skin, covering him from head to toe.

You step over the broken bottles and kneel at his side. "My love?" You ask, unsure of what to do. It was obvious what had happened, it didn't take an expert. The potion that was supposed to be for your customer was now soaked into Asra's glowing skin.

Asra opens his eyes and you swallow hard. You know that look, and it nearly makes you start trembling where you sit. Lust is prevalent, clouding Asra's eyes until they're a dark amethyst color.

"You-" you start to speak but are cut off by Asra sitting up abruptly. His face is close to yours and his breath washes over your lips, hot and wanton. He looks positively desperate, just the sight of you sitting before him doing wonders.

"Please," Asra's voice comes out low and husky, he watches your chest rise and fall quickly as a result. "Can I please have you, right now."

You could almost call him asking like that soft and innocent, if it wasn't for the raw, hungry look he was giving you. His eyes were traveling everywhere across your body, leaving an invisible line that you could almost feel burning into your skin. Your lips parted and you let out a soft gasp, the power that kind of look had over you was astonishing. You shifted your legs under you subtly, feeling the result of the hot atmosphere low in your stomach.

"Tsk, tsk," you had to tease for a moment. "Closing the shop at midday for some fucking?" You reach up and cup Asra's cheek, feigning uncertainty. His skin on your fingertips burns white hot and you have to hide your amazement.

Asra's eyes narrow, he knew you too well. With a quick flick of his wrist you hear the deadbolt on the door slide into place. It's only a second later and both of his hands have found a place on either side of your hips.

"Why do you torment me?" he asks, pulling you close so your legs straddle him. "Can't you see I'm getting enough of that from this damn mistake of a potion?" His words are almost shaky, as though he can barely speak anymore. He presses his hips up to meet yours, and a soft sigh escapes his lips as he finally gets a little friction.

You dig your nails into his shoulders and gasp, the feeling of Asra so obviously in need is enough to make anyone go wild.

You can't resist grinding down lightly and Asra's eyes practically roll back at the sensation. "How can I say no to such a pretty face," you whisper, completely in love with his reaction.

That was enough for Asra and without added words he gathers you up in his strong arms and lifts you both. Your head falls back pleasurably when his lips find your neck. It only takes a few quick steps on his part to bring the two of you into the plush back room.

The purple cushions lining the cozy futon sink in gently as your back hits the mattress. The room has a slight pleasing haze as sandalwood incense burns at the table. The smell washes over your senses and a new wave of sensuality comes over the room.

Asra's hands hold you firmly as his lips continue to press lovingly into your skin. He hovers over you, one leg pressed between your legs, causing your hips to involuntarily move along his thigh.

"I need you out of these clothes," Asra groans, lips being stopped at your chest where your shirt has suddenly become a hindrance. He's already tugging at the hem, untucking the loose fabric from your waistband. You raise yourself to your elbows and help him pull the shirt over your head. At once it is thrown over Asra's shoulder and his eyes are set on your bare skin, drinking in the sight of his lover.

You smile at his admiration and lay back again, stretching your arms above your head and arching your back. You feel his hands on your stomach, traveling up to rest on your breasts. Your skin prickles with desire, flesh lighting on fire from his ministrations.

"How did I get so lucky," he breathes out, looking down at you with a look filled with love and passion. He rests the tips of his fingers on your nipples and swirls them lightly, leaving you to twist in torturous pleasure beneath his touch. "Everything about you is beautiful." Asra continues to flatter, lowering his head so his curls tickle your stomach. He licks a long line from the dip of your hip up to the valley between your breasts.

After a few moments of tasting your supple skin he moves his hands to the top of your skirt and tugs. You lift your hips in compliance and the fabric slides down your legs easily. Asra licks his lips as your body is finally fully presented to him.

"I could feast on you," he announces, voice lowered with need. "And I wouldn't go hungry in a lifetime." These words he whispers into your inner thigh, they tickle your skin softly.

You watch with bated breath as the man before you adores his lover. It's hard to keep your moans controlled as you feel his sinfully good tongue lick you in a way that can only be described as ecstasy.

Asra shifts into a more comfortable position, lying on his stomach and he brings your legs to lay comfortably over his shoulders. You shudder as you feel his hot breath flutter over your dripping slit. He doesn't waste anymore time and lowers his face to enjoy you.

Your thighs squeeze his head lightly as your body arches in response. Asra is devouring you as though you were a feast and it was the only meal he is to have in a lifetime. He grips your legs tightly to keep you from moving and covers your slit with his mouth, sucking for a moment on the tight nub at the top. He groans happily into your skin before moving down to lick your hole.

"Oh please, yes," you run your trembling hand through his hair and raise your hips up to meet his greedy mouth. He laps short, quick strokes first, stimulating you into madness.

After a moment he slows his tongue down to swirl languidly, looking up at you. You make eye contact and groan at the erotic scene of him eating you out. "That mouth of yours is too skilled for its own good," you whisper, fingers digging into his scalp, trying desperately to savor every swipe of his tongue.

Asra smiles against your folds. "I live to make you feel good, my dear." He says, pausing a moment. "You intoxicate me. Your smell, your taste. I couldn't get enough even if I had all the time in the world." He presses his lips on each one of your thighs with hot, open mouth kisses.

You blush at his words, feeling amazing under his praise. "Come here," you command softly, pulling on Asra's hair lightly to guide him back up your body. He kisses every inch of skin he passes before finally reaching your lips.

"Mm," he hums, taking your face in his hands. "But these lips, are like the finest honey in Vesuvia." He lifts your head so your mouths meet. It's a hot and feverish kiss, full of staggering amounts of love.

You press your body into his and relish in the feeling of kissing Asra. Your mouths are opened to one another and your tongues meet in fiery unison. While you enjoy the kiss you allow your hands to roam. Your fingers find his shirt buttons and you start to undo them as best you can, only a little distracted. It takes just a minute and you sigh happily into his mouth when you finally remove the annoying clothing.

You part a moment to admire the divinity of his body; prostrated before you. He was calling himself the lucky one, but you could probably make a pretty good argument for it being the other way around. He looked absolutely glorious in the hazy glow of the room.

As you reach for the waistband of his pants and rest your fingers playfully on the skin above it Asra breaks out in goosebumps at the fluttering feel of your touch.

"Ah," he breaths out, raising himself to his knees and closing his eyes. Clearly, he's enjoying the attention finally being on him.

"You are the one with the potion affecting them." You say, drawing a line from one hip to another. "It'd almost be criminal to ignore you for any longer." Your eyes fall to the bulge straining under Asra's pants, just begging to be free. A smile plays across your lips as his breaths quickens significantly.

"I.. wouldn't complain." He finally manages to say in a strained tone.

You smile, maybe a little too satisfied, and hook your fingers under the band. "I know." You chuckle, pulling. The trousers catch a moment on Asra's hardened length before slipping down to his knees. You take time to admire the sight before you, licking your lips. Asra is panting slightly, looking down at you lustfully as your eyes graze over him.

He grabs your head on either side and looks into your eyes. "Please," is all he can croak out.

You swallow thickly and you feel yourself dampen even more at his begging words. “I’d like nothing more" you say; need dripping heavily from your words. You lean forward and kiss the tip of his leaking slit lightly. Asra's body shivers with pleasure when your soft lips meet his aching shaft.

You take a breath before closing your mouth around his tip. Your cheeks hollow and you suck in deeply, enjoying the small sounds of pleasure emitting from Asra's lips. He groans even deeper as you finally swallow down his whole length, tip sliding down the back of your throat.

"Ah fuck, baby," he stutters through gritted teeth, fingers threading through your hair. He thrusts into your mouth without hesitation, reveling in the way you feel around him. The pace is fast and vicious, leaving no time for extra room for breathing.

You choke back your gasps and feel the involuntary tears prick at the corners or your eyes. Your hands fall to your sides as you let Asra use your mouth how he pleased. Licentious noises ring around the room as he sinks his member into your mouth relentlessly, moaning at each stroke and the salacious feelings that come over him.

His grip tightens in your hair as he pounds into your face. You open your mouth as widely as you can and take him in, ignoring the slight pain of labored breathing. The feeling of being used so mercilessly is intoxicating, and you close your eyes, enjoying the pleasure that overtakes you.

With a loud pop he pulls out of your drooling mouth, leaving you to be the one groaning in disappointment.

"I'm sorry love," he huffs dazedly, need heavy on his features. "But if I don't stop this now I'm cumming in your mouth."

"That doesn't sound so bad," you complain, sticking your tongue out so Asra can view how much you want it. His eyes darken considerably and he looks ready to break.

He takes a breath in sharply, steadying himself before holding your face gently in his hand. "As much as I want you fuck your face, that pussy of yours I know is dripping for me and I have to comply." He chuckles, running his thumb along your lip.

You whimper at his words, practically climaxing at the suggestion. You meet his eyes in a needy manner and nod. "Oh, Asra," you start, already seeing excitement flit across his face at the mention of his name. "I want you more than I can even describe to you."

To this Asra inhales sharply, thumb still hooked in your mouth. "Tell me how you want me," he says, barely able to contain his own desire.

"I want you to fuck me from behind," you begin, knowing exactly how to please his ears. "I'm going to cry and moan, and beg you for relief but you will know better." His eyes widen in ecstasy but you continue anyway. "I want you to give everything you can to me, without holding back."

Asra seems to snap right in front of you. His features immediately seem to plead for consolation. "You'll get what you ask for." He growls, fingers tightening in your mouth. You lick his thumb seductively and the action throws him over the edge.

Asra's hands fly to your waist and hold you firmly, you're flipped over; ass to the heavens greeting him. He swallows at the sight and digs both palms into the flesh, enjoying the feeling immensely. "So needy and ready for me," he groans, finger finding your entrance and slipping in easily. You gulp at the warmth of having fingers enter you. Asra is unrelenting and curls them cruelly against your walls.

"Just fuck me already!" You cry, unable to hide your desires anymore. You hear Asra laugh behind you, yet despite this you know he is dying to sink himself into you.

"Alright, alright." He concedes, taking your hips in his hands. "If you insist."

You feel his tip slide against your slit and shudder, craving the feeling of him inside you. It doesn't take more than a moment before you feel him start to enter you. You lay your head down, turning your face so you can watch Asra take you from behind.

His lips are parted in a silent moan as he relishes in the feeling of your walls around him. You sigh softly as he fully sheaths himself in you, a small tremor passing over your body from the pleasure. One moment, two moments pass as you both bask in the feeling of being connected.

"Give me your hands," he commands, slowly sliding in and out of you, giving no care to his agonizingly slow pace. Soft gasps are falling from your lips as you try to register his request.

Carefully, you cross your arms behind your back. It's no use to keep the blush at bay as you take in the dirty scene. Your face is pressed to the pillows, unable to move much as Asra takes your wrists and pins them to your back. Your ass is raised in the air to meet his rhythmic thrusting.

Asra grips one of your thighs with a free hand and quickens the pace a little. Your eyes shut tightly as your body responds. You can feel his tip hit deep inside of you with each snap of his hips. It's unrelenting and you have to catch yourself from begging for more.

You feel the fingers around your wrist tighten a bit as Asra's breathing speeds up behind you. You know that he's set on giving you as much painfully slow torture as he can manage himself, but you also know that potion is working against him. There's nothing he wants more than to let go and pound you into the mattress.

"Baby," you choke out, words bouncing along with your bodies. "I know you want to fuck me so good right now." Your voice is deep with seduction. "Please just fill me up like I know you want to." You finish your plea, watching his face with satisfaction. His eyes are darkened with desire. He takes just a few more strokes before slowly to a stop inside you.

"You asked for it," he warns. He only takes a moment to let go of your wrists and flips your body so you're facing him. He cages you in on either side and licks his lips as he stares into your eyes. His hungry mouth meets yours in a kiss full of fire. You can melt into it for only a second before you feel him grab your hips and pull you flush against him; Your cries drowned by his lips as he sets an erratic pace, skin meeting with loud slaps.

"Fucking hell," he groans, still kissing you between words. "You feel like heaven on earth. You're so hot, and I can feel your insides squeezing me." He explains, hot breath falling over your face. Your cheeks burn at his descriptions.

You loop your arms around his neck and press your chest into his. Your skin meets, shining with sweat and burning from love. Asra presses back, savoring the feeling of your nipples brushing against his.

You start to feel that familiar blossom of unreleased pleasure pool in your lower stomach. Asra's shaft is hitting you just right, sending jolts of satisfaction right to your core.

"Oh-" you stop and whine pleasantly when he shifts angles. "Fuck. Please yes, don't stop!" Your arms drop and nails dip into his biceps and you grit your teeth from the hot delight searing through your body.

"I couldn't even If i wanted to," Asra answers, words strained as his grasp on himself starts to crumble. His breath is leaving his lips in short pants now and you can almost see the resolve to hold on slip away before your eyes.

He falls into you, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist and thrusts into you with all of the strength he can muster. You bury your face in his neck and take hold of his hair. You can feel Asra's body shuddering to not let go.

You bring your lips to his ear and bite his lobe. "Won't you come for me sweetheart? Please empty yourself in me." You whisper.

Asra takes in a sharp breath and you hear him choke at your words. They were enough to push him over the edge and he rams into you with a low, strangled cry.

Your head falls back and your mouth opens in a silent scream as Asra lets himself go in you. Your legs shake violently of their own accord as you feel your orgasm wash over you, leaving your body in euphoric fire.

Asra's lips immediately find yours as you ride out your orgasms together. You kiss him passionately, all of your senses in overdrive. His kisses are soft, and sweet, a clear declaration of his love. Happiness rushes in like a flood as you enjoy the afterglow. After a minute Asra removes himself from you and joins you in laying down, sides still heaving from the activities.

"My dear, how I love you." He says with a smile, running his fingers in slow, soft circles on your stomach.

You turn on your side and look into his eyes. He looked content, and his cheeks were dimpled from his growing grin.

"I love you too," you return, hand falling into his. His skin was still warm. The two of you lay there for a while, out of breath and simply enjoying the presence of one another.

Eventually, Asra sits up and looks down at you with humor in his eyes. "Well, I think I can tell our buyer that we did an extensive review of his product and it does, in fact, work."

Your face breaks into a smile and you laugh at Asra's words. "Oh goodie, I'm sure he'll be thrilled to hear all about it."

[whaleofatjme1920]

Take two of asking for some gay panic with the ladies, any ladies, all the ladies! Scenario preferably~

Afternoons in the Proxy Commons and Spirit Halloween

[Jane the Killer, Nina the Killer, Clockwork, Kate the Chaser X F!Reader]

[Warnings: none]

[AN: I really want to go to a Spirit Halloween, sigh]

It’s not often that you’re able to spend time in Slender manor. In fact, the place isn’t even really your domain to begin with. You come here every now and then to help with festivities the Slender Man deems necessary for “morale”. This upcoming festivity? Halloween.

Your pseudo boss, the Slender Man, told you to head to the store and get some decorations which was ludacris in itself. He’s an almighty, powerful being and he needs you to go to Spirit Halloween when he hosts a manor full of murderers from all over the country daily?

The answer is apparently yes.

“You may take the ladies with you,” The Slender Man waves off. “They are not doing anything this afternoon.”

You drop your shoulders, knowing that it’s useless to even consider going against his word. “And we’re going to pay for this with what?”

The Slender Man makes noise of amusement before one of his long tendrils opens up a drawer to his left, opening it and producing a - a credit card? He hums quietly and lowers it down to you, depositing the plastic into your hands.

“A debit card? Really?”

“Is that a problem?”

“Where did you even get this?”

“None of your concern.” The Slender Man’s tendril finds its way to your back before turning you towards his office door, pushing you towards it. “The ladies are in the proxy commons.”

You glance over your shoulder at him before nodding, a slight grin on your lips at his general annoyance of you before pushing the big doors open. You mentally begin to think over the way to the proxy commons, the mansion bending its hallways to your destination. The halls here always smell of jasmine.

When you reopen your eyes after zoning out for a moment or two, you realize that you’re standing in front of the arch of the proxy commons. It’s actually relatively empty save for a table full of ladies you’ve only ever met a handful of times. You take in a small breath, almost hyping yourself and your confidence up before stepping in. Soft rays of sunlight pass over your skin as you walk into the well lit room and listen to the gentle hum of passing conversation.

There, sitting at a round table are four of the most influential women in your society. Jane the Killer, beauty in black. Clockwork, timeless in every sense. Kate the Chaser, a subtle treasure. Nina the Killer, devotion like none other.

They’re smiling and laughing, enjoying the afternoon with each other when Nina finally pipes up and notices you. Her eyes widen for a moment before her lips curl up into a beaming smile. “Oh, you’re finally here!” She exclaimed, hopping out of her seat. “He told us to expect you.”

Nina’s hands are cold as she wraps her arms around you, but you welcome her touch all the same. “He did?”

Kate nods, a small hum coming from her throat as she sips at her tea. “Mhm. Already got a car waiting in Rosswood’s parking lot.”

“Ready to go when you are,” Natalie pipes in as she drinks the rest of her beverage.

“Might as well uh, leave now,” you say as you catch Jane’s warm smile, voice faltering for just a moment.

The ladies nod and begin to get up, Nina linking her arm with yours before she begins to drag you towards the mansion’s entrance.

-

-

-

“He couldn’t just use his infinite power and use his own halloween decorations?” Natalie says as she shoves her hands in her pockets, looking up at the reasonably crowded Spirit Halloween.

Kate shrugs and locks the car before plopping the keys into her hoodie’s pocket. “He likes to keep us on our toes, I guess,” she chuckles, nodding for the group to follow her.

Jane matches pace with you and Nina (who has refused to unlink arms with you the entire time she’s been in your presence), before resting her head on your shoulder. “I wanna check out the costumes,” she says, nuzzling into you.

You smile and nuzzle her back, softly melting into her touch as you do so. “Me too.”

“I want to see the decorations,” Nina beams. “I’m thinking we go full Halloween party this year, screw the upper class!” She exclaims, now dragging you and Jane at full speed.

The notion brings a laugh from Natalie as she opens the front door, letting everyone else inside before her. “Don’t get too carried away,” she says. “We’re here to Reader can to a job,” she grins.

“It’s not like we have to make it boring,” Nina pouts.

“I’d also love to see what costumes Reader looks best in,” Jane muses. “Maybe a little bunny?” She jokes, index finger tapping your nose and making you giggle as you scrunch your nose up in response.

“What about a kitty?” Kate suggests as she glances down one of the aisles. “I think that would be purr-fect for her.” Kate grins slightly and holds her hand out to you, watching as you unlink your arm from Nina’s to travel down to the lawn decorations.

You chuckle as Kate warmly holds you while glancing at all the lawn decorations. There’s clowns, slashers, things that you’d genuinely love to have on Slender Man’s front lawn! However, you know that he’d be put off by the “tackiness”.

You turn your head to the side and that’s when you see it - a giant, poorly made Slender Man that wiggles its arms and barely lunges at whoever is viewing it. “Oh my gods,” you say, suddenly letting go of Kate’s hand and stalking towards the ungodly thing like a moth to moonlight.

Kate raises a brow and looks over her shoulder to finally see what you’re looking at, and a laugh escapes her throat. “Oh my gods, guys, look-” she says as she begins to walk over and join you, hands in her pockets.

Natalie, who had been busy talking shit at the poor Pennywise animatronic, was suddenly pulled over by Jane to see the Slender Man reject. She grins and links arms with Jane and Nina, laughter escaping their lips as the thing lunges weakly at you. “He’s so ugly,” she snorts.

“He’s always ugly,” Nina giggles as she looks upwards at the tall prop.

“Yeah,” Natalie adds on, “how dare he exist in the same space as Reader, right?”

Laughter rings out from the group as their eyes slowly move over to you.

“Beauty and the Beast situation,” Kate continues as she slings her arm over your shoulders.

“She’s gotta kiss him to make him pretty?” Nina chuckles as she pokes the animatronic’s spindly arms. “Ooooo, maybe if Reader kissed me I’d become pretty?”

You make a sound of surprise and feel heat rush to your cheeks. “What? You’re already pretty!”

“Think I might need a kiss too,” Natalie hums.

“Same here,” Jane grins.

Kate hums and presses her lips to the crown of your head. “Me too.” You laugh and shake your head before reaching into your back pocket for the list of things you need. “Ladies, we’re here on a mission!” You exclaim in a slightly flustered tone.

“We know,” Jane hums, her fingers gently playing with your loose strands of hair. “But how often do we get to hang out with you?”

“Right,” Natalie nods. “Might as well have some fun with it,” she teases in a joking tone, her hand grabbing yours.

You watch with wide eyes as the clock eyed woman raises it to her lips, gently planting a kiss on the back of it. Heat erupts over your face once more. Your heart is thumping wildly in your chest.

Nina pouts. “No fair!” She stomps her boot onto the linoleum tile. “I was gonna do that to Reader!”

Kate laughs and sways you in her arms. “Reader does have another hand.”

You sigh playfully and relent, watching as the clad in purple woman bounds up to you.

Gonna be a busy shopping trip, huh?

[peachhyychenle]

bloom bloom, heart | h.rj

'bloom bloom pow! the moment i met you, i felt like i'd explode. my heart fluttered. i hope it's not a dream' - bloom bloom, the boyz

pairing: florist!renjun x reader

genre: fluff

word count: 1.6k

for the nostalgic melodies event hosted by @knet-bakery

playlist: bloom bloom the boyz, life still goes on nct dream, dive into you nct dream, cherry kisses chungha

a/n: my first fic for an event!! i hope you all enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it. also,, go check out everyone else that participated in the event!! oh, i also haven't had the time to proof-read this so, sorry lmao.

summary: flowers held many different meanings, and renjun loved that. from giving someone a baby's breath to giving them peonies, he loved how up front the message was, yet how hidden it was to someone that didn't understand their true meanings. You had always adored flowers, the colours, the scents, the meanings. And so, every week, you would go into Floral Dreams, to buy new flowers to draw, however Renjun would always throw in additional flowers to express his ever-growing crush on you, unbeknownst to him you understood every word.

If you had told Renjun this time last year he would be working part time as a florist, he would've simply laughed. But yet here he is, adorning a black apron, rearranging the plants in the display cabinet.

Floral Dreams was a great place for Renjun. It was never too busy, it was a five minute walk to his apartment and, thanks to Donghyuck, he has learned far more about flowers in the past month than he has learned about art history at his uni classes. He would never admit it to him, but Renjun was intrigued by the meanings each flower held.

From the bluebell to the yellow carnation, every flower held a different meaning. At first, Renjun couldn't care less. They were just flowers after all, their only job to him was to sit and look pretty. However the longer he spent in the floristry, the more his curiosity and his passion grew.

And now here he was, currently wiping down the counter he had just used to arrange a bouquet for somebody's birthday.

As he returned behind the till, the soft chime of the shop door bell rang. He glanced over and locked eyes with you. You seemed to be a regular. always popping in on a Wednesday afternoon, no matter the weather, to buy different pre-made bouquets. At first, Renjun found it odd how you would only buy one particular colour palette of flowers or even just a singular flower, however as you came in more often than not with a camera bag over your shoulder along with a sketchbook poking out the top of the tote bag you carried, it started becoming clear why you would buy them.

His current theories are that you are an artist that just really liked to paint flowers (specifically pink and yellow varieties) or you're a plant mum that just has an apartment filled to the brim with colourful flowers and plants.

His first hunch was correct.

A few months ago, you had moved into Neo City in order to attend the local university and study fine art. It was an interesting place for sure. It was a quaint town yet there was always something going on, whether it be different celebrations for certain holidays or events, to small annual carnivals and parades that would happen.

During your first week of moving in, you had explored the town centre, natural curiosity getting the better of you. That was when you stumbled upon Floral Dreams. The forest green painting on the window frames along with several broad leafed plants sat outside the shop, charmed you.

You remember when you first met Renjun. It was a rainy Wednesday about a month after you had moved. Your classes had just finished and you decided to buy a small bouquet. Something to brighten your dreary dorm room. And so you headed to Floral Dreams. When you stepped into the shop, instead of the cheery greeting you would usually get from Donghyuck, you found that he was busy talking to another guy, Renjun.

Both boys had briefly glanced towards the door, with Donghyuck giving a small wave, whilst the other boy shot you a smile. He was cute.

Returning the wave with your own, you continued into the shop, looking at all the flowers, taking in their colours and scents. Five minutes had gone by and you had chosen all the flowers you had wanted and walked up to the counter to place your order.

You rang the small bell placed on the countertop and after a few seconds, the new guy from earlier emerged from the back room and properly greeted and introduced himself, Renjun.

To say he was pretty was an understatement. He had a soft smile, kind eyes and long hair which made him look ethereal. His voice was melodic. So melodic that you only snapped back to reality halfway through his sentence.

You purchased the flowers and had another look around the empty shop, this time to admire the blossoming flowers. Back at the counter, Renjun would glance at you, whilst he wrapped the bouquet, his mind thinking about your smile and vibe whilst his hands carefully wrapped the bouquet up.

When he was finished, he rang the desk bell to catch your attention. He handed you the flowers and you were on your way. Not before turning back to Renjun and shooting him one last smile with a cheerful goodbye.

From the moment you walked in, Renjun knew his heart had exploded and his slightly dull world would never be the same again.

Week after week you would come back to the shop. It was always at 4pm and it was always an hour into Renjun's shift. You guys had managed to acquaint yourselves and make small talk, with the weather and how both of you had been, being the usual topic of choice.

Today Renjun was determined to make a move. Whether it was changing the topic to be something more in depth, or giving his number to you, he was definitely going to do something. And so when you walked up to the counter to place your order, Renjun made his move. He asked the question that had been on his mind. Why in the heavens did you buy so many flowers? The laughter that followed made Renjun's heart flutter, it was beautiful.

You then proceeded to explain the reason you moved and why almost all the store's sales were from you. Upon hearing that you went to the same university he did, Renjun was enthralled and began talking about his passion for art and the history behind famous pieces.

Much to his dismay, his hands had a mind of their own, and had wrapped up your selected bouquet far too quickly for his liking. Just as you were about to grab the bouquet, Renjun let out a 'wait!' which made you pause.

He ran into the back room and came out a moment later with some ribbon along with a couple of gardenias and blue salvias. 'It'll make the bouquet look amazing, trust me' he said with that smile you had fallen for.

Once he was done, you took the flowers, bid him adieu and left, ready to take photographs of this masterpiece.

As soon as you left, Renjun let out a sigh of content and his heart started to calm down. He had a crazy idea to use what he had learned from Donghyuck, and to confess to you in the form of flowers.

It was a bold move, one that made him feel happy with himself.

Over the next couple of months the same routine would occur. You arrived, picked out flowers, ordered the bouquet, Renjun would wrap them up, you would take them, then leave.

However, as time went on, you began noticing flowers that you hadn't picked out.

For example, you had ordered a bouquet with mainly red flowers, with a couple of white ones to make it more visually appealing, however you don't really remember picking up the white camellia. Or that time you noticed a couple of yellow jasmines mixed with your sunflowers.

You eventually thought of looking up what these flowers meant. You knew one of your old high school flowers loved gardening and would often talk about flower meanings, but you had never paid any mind to them. Oh how you wish you had.

And so that's how you spent the evening on different websites looking at different meanings for all the flowers you could remember buying, and the definitions.

The morning after, you had a brilliant idea.

That next week, you came in at the usual time with a list on your phone of all the flowers you had never actually bought. You suspected that a certain someone kept slipping different flowers into your bouquet, which was actually quite sweet to you, however you were going to surprise him.

You picked out various flowers that were composed for a yellow, blue and white theme. You included the yellow jasmines and gardenias, along with the white camellias and blue salvias. Additional flowers were added and made a stunning bouquet, the best you had imagined yet.

For how quiet the shop was, your heart was thumping a lot louder than usual, despite this you walked to the till with a small smile. The normal routine went on, Renjun making conversation with you. The topic for today was conspiracies and aliens, which would usually be quite interesting to you, but your mind was in a different place.

Just as Renjun was tying the last ribbon up, a 'wait!' escaped your lips. A slightly startled Renjun paused to look at you. Dashing away to the front of the store, you picked out a red rose and walked back to where he was waiting.

Much to his surprise, you added the rose to the centre of the bouquet, pushed the bouquet towards him and then pulled out a letter that had been in your coat pocket and pushed it across the counter in his direction.

He froze. Almost everyone knew what a red rose meant.

He opened the letter. All the flowers he had given you with their meanings were listed, along with the red rose.

I love you.

Underneath was a small paragraph. His already racing heart began to explode as he read the words 'let's go on a date tomorrow' followed with your number underneath.

He looked back up to you. You were currently looking everywhere and anywhere that wasn’t Renjun.

Placing the letter down, he came around from behind the desk and hugged you. He could feel you tense up under him, however in a matter of seconds, your arms were around him, and a sigh of relief escaped your lips.

From the moment he met you, his heart had exploded, the colours in his world seemed to be brighter whenever you were there.

He loved hearing your laugh, seeing your smile, being in your presence.

Time felt non-existent with you.

He loved you, as much as you loved him.

And that was all he needed.

[songficsbyrissi]

This X-Mas (Spooky X Reader)

“'Cause this Christmas, will be the Greatest time of your life from me I ain't asking for the diamond rings I ain't really got a list of expensive things I just want you to myself while the children sleeps Santa baby, would you make a little time for me?” - Chris Brown feat. Ella Mai

A/N: hey y’all! I know I kinda abandoned you but being in College during a panoramic (Twitter joke) but I finished! I graduated undergrad so it’s lit! Even tho I don’t really care for Christmas or the holidays and I dislike Christmas music, I love this song and since it’s been a while, I might as well give y’all a Christmas gift soooo Merry Christmas! 🎄🎁❤️

************

You were not a fan of the holidays.

It’s not like you never were. You used to be but as you grew up, you grew a disdain for Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years', all that.

The most wonderful time of the year, your ass.

From November 1st up until January 2nd, every year, you were annoyed and couldn’t wait for this time of the year to be over. You didn’t like it and if you had to hear “All I Want from Christmas is You” by Mariah Carey one more fucking time, someone was gonna get kicked where they’re more jolly.

You were relaxing on the couch when you heard a knock on your apartment door. You announced you were coming and opened the door to 3 boys by the names of Cesar, Jamal, and Ruby.

“Hey, boys! What brings-“

“BATHROOM!” Jamal ran past you and straight to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Ruby shook his head and Cesar gave a nervous laugh.

“Would you believe we were just in the neighborhood?”

You pursed your lips. “Nope.”

Ruby sighed out of frustration. “We need help getting Christmas gifts for our.....” He swallowed hard. You closed your eyes.

“You’re still struggling to call Jasmine your girlfriend?”

“SHE’S NOT MY GIRLFRIEND!”

“Yeah yeah yeah.” You waved him off and right then, Jamal stepped out the bathroom, relieved.

“Whew, my bladder was full! Where you get that hand soap, Y/N?! Smells lovely!”

You rolled your eyes, irritated. “At Bath and Body Works where y’all should get gifts for your girlfriends.” You narrowed your eyes at Ruby, who shuddered at the G-word. “Now if you excuse me, I was enjoying my alone time.”

Cesar stopped the door from closing. “Wait. Didn’t you say you were leaving today to go spend Christmas with your family?”

Shit. “Uh yeah. Duh. I needed alone time before I left.”

“I don’t see any bags packed.” Ruby indicated, skeptical.

“Or an airline ticket on the desk. Yeah, I noticed!” Jamal added, folding his arms.

You looked at the 3 teenage boys who were waiting for you to confess. You sighed deeply, knowing the jig is up.

“Fine, 3 wise men!” You stated with a tone dripping in sarcasm. “I’m not going home. I never was going home. The reason why is because I don’t care for the holidays. I stopped a long time ago. It’s never been special to me. Also, I don’t have a close-knit family. Actually, we’re dysfunctional as hell. This isn’t the most wonderful time of the year for me. I lied so you guys wouldn’t know the truth, now are you happy?”

Jamal had a dismal expression on his face and pulled you to his chest. “Now I see what the Scrooge looks like as a black woman.”

You pushed him off and Cesar grabbed your wrist before you could hit him.

“Does Spooky know?”

You shook your head. “Nope and it’s gonna stay that way. I mean it, Cesar. Don’t say shit to your brother about this.”

Were you really depending on the little brother of your gang member friend that’s not really a friend but he’s kind of your boo to keep his mouth shut?

“Cesar told me you lied.” That was what Spooky said when you opened the door the next morning which was Christmas. You sucked your teeth loudly, disappointed that your dumbass trusted a 15-year-old who feared his brother.

“I should really kick your brother’s ass.”

He smirked at your comment. “Talk to me, Mami. Why you not fucking with Christmas?”

You left the door, letting him outside and he closed the door behind him. “Because it’s annoying as hell.”

“Nah, that ain’t it.”

You turned to Spooky with your arms folded. “Why do you even care, Oscar? It’s not like your thug ass cares for holidays and shit.”

Spooky remained unfazed by your attitude and you calling him by his government. When you first met him, he would be pissed at that. Even tried scaring you but it didn’t work. Eventually, he got used to it and only allowed you to call him Oscar.

“You’re wrong and I’ll show you. Get dressed.”

You were feeling dangerous. “And what if I don’t?” You responded with a roll of the neck.

Spooky let a dry laugh that scared you yet turned you on at the same time. Damn. You started to bite your lip then pulled it back. He got dangerously close and stared you down.

“Do you really wanna know, Princesa?”

Yes. No. Shit.

You got out of his face and got dressed as you were told. You’ll let him win this round. You got into his car and he drove back to his house where Cesar and his girlfriend Monse were making a mess in the kitchen.

“Hey Y/N!” Monse greeted you. Cesar looked at you nervously.

“Hey Y/N, how’s-“

You held your hand up. “Save it, snitch!”

“He forced it out of me!” The young boy pleaded and you rolled your eyes in response.

“Whatever. What are y’all even doing?” You asked, confused and disgusted by the sight of the kitchen and glancing at Spooky’s face, he was not too pleased either.

“Trying to do a Christmas brunch but somebody doesn’t wanna listen to the instructions.” Monse gestured towards her boyfriend with a roll of her neck, causing Cesar to groan.

You couldn’t help but giggle at the two. “Alright lemme help so I can fix this. You!” You gestured towards Spooky. “You’re helping too!”

“Nahhhh cooking ain’t my thing.”

“Well Christmas ain’t my thing but I’m here. Now throw on an apron, cholo. You’re on bacon duty!”

You couldn’t lie. Making Christmas brunch with the kids was fun as hell. You found yourself smiling and giggling during the cooking and eating. You even caught Spooky staring at you a couple of times. You pecked his lips just because he looked so adorable but if you told him that, he’ll turn into a jackass. When the boys left to get something from God knows where you were left alone with Monse. You didn’t know too much about the girl but figured you could get to know her more.

“So Monse...you’re spending Christmas with your boyfriend.”

“So are you.”

Your eyes narrowed at her response. “1. Spooky is not my boyfriend and 2. I was forced here. Christmas is bullshit.”

“I love Christmas. Even though I don’t remember the last time I actually spent it with my dad.” Monse shrugged bending over and fix her shoelaces. That caught your attention.

“Wait, you’ve had shitty Christmases and you still love Christmas?!”

She shrugged again. “Well yeah. My dad is always away for Christmas and I don’t have my mom so I’ve always dreamt of doing Christmas stuff with the people I love. When I met the boys, not to sound corny but my dreams came true. Another reason why I need to keep the group together.”

You were lost for words. “Wow, I’m sorry, Monse.”

“It’s ok. Hey, I think I hear the boys coming back.”

The boys revealed themselves and Cesar announced that you guys were being invited to have Christmas dinner with Jamal’s family which was great because you didn’t want to cook.

“I’m telling you marmalade is better than jelly. I don’t wanna hear it!” Jamal declared during dinner. A debate broke out between marmalade and jelly which really entertained you. Jamal’s family was funny and so welcoming to you, a stranger. It felt weird to you that they were showing so much love to you, a stranger. Oscar held your hand throughout the whole dinner which did something to your stomach. You don’t wanna say butterflies. Maybe it’s gas.

When the group stopped by Ruby’s house to pick him up for “friendsmas”, his grandma pulled you aside with a serious look on her face.

“Open your heart, mama.”

You gave her a confused look. “What?”

“You closed your heart. Open it. Even if it’s to Papi Chulo over there. “ she gestured towards Oscar who was lighting up a cigarette and looked back at you. “Open it to Christmas. To any holiday. Just....open it.”

You kept that in mind as you went with the others back to the house for the kids to engage in their “friendsmas”.

“I’ve never heard “Friendsmas.” You muttered as Spooky handed you a glass of wine and you watched the kids from the doorway.

Oscar shrugged taking a swig of his Corona. “Well you hate Christmas so I’m not surprised.”

You elbowed him in his side and he began to laugh in response. “I don’t hate Christmas. I just never found joy in the holidays but now I do.” You looked at him and placed a soft kiss on his lips. “Thank you. Thank you for making this Christmas special for me.”

Oscar began to grin and pulled something from behind his back. “It’s not over yet, hyna.”

You gazed at the blue velvet rectangular box and opened it slowly to reveal a silver chain that said “Oscar” You looked up at him, speechless.

“Spooky, I....I.....”

“You don’t have to say anything. Just put on my necklace and be mine.” The gangsta in front of you took a deep breath. “I love you, Y/N.”

Your eyes were as big as saucers. “You....you do?”

“Yes, girl he do! It was so obvious!” Jasmine’s voice broke through the moment and everyone glared at her. Her mouth formed an O. “Oooh sorry! I forgot we were supposed to be acting like we weren’t paying attention. My bad!”

You shook your head and felt a surge of love and confidence. You loved this man. You have for a long time but never admitted it because...your heart was closed. Damn. Ruby’s crazy grandma ain’t so crazy after all.

“I love you too, Oscar.” You pulled him in for a long passionate kiss and the crew clapped in excitement.

“Girl put your back in it! You’re under the mistletoe!” Jasmine yelled again.

Ruby started. “Jasmine-“

“Shut up and kiss me!” She grabbed him by his collar, planting a kiss on his lips.

When you finally pulled away from your kiss with Spooky, you smiled up at him and his expression was matching yours. You spoke up through your grin:

“I’ll be damned. It is the most wonderful time of the year.”

A/N: Cheesy as fuckkkkk I know but Christmas is all about the cheese if we’re gonna be honest. I hope you enjoyed it! Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, y’all! ❤️🎄🎁

Tags: @karmawaelualani @chaneajoyyy @ctrlszn @witchything @sabrinafey @penguinpower17889 @robingreysantos @namjoonwatcheshentai @pananegra @bloatedandlonly @blackmissfrizzle @chonisberonica @flamingweasley @cynthetic @momobaby227 @this-glitter-pussay​ @beyondprincess​ @joyrivh​

[rolandtowen]

Prince Zuko was a harsh, entitled boy.

Firelord Zuko is a ruler who makes amends. - a study in the various side characters that Zuko came across in his banishment, and how he repays his past actions.

Read Chapter One on ao3 or under the cut! TW for referenced non-con and colonialism

[I believe @flamehotman and @flameomcfirey wanted to be tagged?]

Chapter One: Song

We will get there when we get there, don't you worry Feel bad about the things we do along the way But not really that bad We inhaled the frozen air Lord, send me a mechanic if I'm not beyond repair

- The Mountain Goats

It happened on a Tuesday afternoon.

Zuko was meeting with the agricultural council, a collection of both scholars and farmers, to discuss best practices for renewing the Fire Nations agricultural trade. For so many decades, the Fire Nation out-sourced its agriculture to land in the colonies and imported much of its food. But with the land being given back, the Fire Nation was either going to have to begin growing its own food again, or import their food at a fair price. The economic committee decided on Monday that reviving the Fire Nation farms would be far more cost effective - and of course, would create more jobs in the Fire Nation. With the war over, the number of soldiers that the military required had dropped dramatically, and there were many citizens without work. Zuko had instated severance benefits for unemployed soldiers - the ones not found guilty of war crimes of course, mostly the young recruits - but it couldn't last forever.

It was maddening. Every time Zuko unraveled one problem, he undoubtedly found or created another one. He was trying, really trying, to keep his people safe. But he also had a duty to the rest of the world. The nations that his lineage colonized, pillaged, and destroyed. He resists the urge to write to Aang, to ask him how he does it, how he balances all of the nations in every action he takes. But Aang is busy, all of his friends are, spread thin to the four corners of the world.

Uncle visits him occasionally, when the letters from staff concerned about Zuko's health pile up on his desk. One too many servants have found him, asleep at his desk, face down in treaty papers. But Uncle has his hands full. He already splits his time enough between the Jasmine Dragon and Ember Island, looking after Azula.

Azula.

She was improving, and that's really all Zuko can ask for. He sees her a couple of times a month, pours her a cup of tea, and they sit on the balcony of their vacation-house-turned-mental-retreat. Most of the time, they don't talk. Zuko won't push her; he remembers his silence in his first few months of being banished, how Uncle had to coax him to say anything at meals. Sometimes the only words he uttered in a day were in prayer before meditation. Zuko had thought to himself, speaking out got me into this mess: I'll never speak again.

He's not sure what words were exchanged between Azula and Ozai before he left her and went to burn down the Earth Kingdom, but he can guess it wasn't good. Few of his father's words were.

So they sit and drink their tea. Sometimes, on a good day, Zuko will fix up Azula's hair for her, and she'll reveal some bits of information that he files away for future examination. Something like, I saw Mom before you came with Master Katara. Or she'll double check her reality, asking, you let Ty Lee and Mai out of jail, right? and Zuko will say yes, her friends are safe, they should be visiting any day now.

As painful as seeing her may be, spending time with Azula is far preferable to sitting through an agricultural council meeting.

He looks down at the paper in front of him, a comprehensive budget list for all of the supplies needed to revitalize the Fire Nation's agricultural sphere. Dozens of machines that he's sure Sokka had a hand in inventing, hundreds of varieties of seeds that Omashu is generously selling to them, and -

Thousands of ostrich-horses.

"Councilor Yichen, can you elaborate on the number of animals in this budget? Certainly with the machines we'll provide, farmers will not need so many working livestock."

Councilor Yichen stands, giving a little bow in Zuko's direction. "Of course, Lord Zuko. While the machines will certainly boost productivity, we only have enough for one per farming village at this point. Each family needs at least one working animal, if not to plow the fields, then to transport goods. We decided on ostrich-horses on a recommendation from farmers in the Earth Kingdom colonies, who found them to be invaluable. An ostrich-horse is, in many ways, more valuable than a machine."

Zuko's stomach settles uncomfortably, but he isn't entirely sure why. "Thank you, Councilor. I understand now."

Yichen gives another little bow before he sits, and the rest of the meeting goes as planned, with the exception of a strange seed of unknown guilt now growing in Zuko's stomach.

"Uncle, do you remember when you made tea out of that poisonous plant?"

Uncle laughs, hands faltering as he pours Zuko a cup of jasmine tea. "I remember, Nephew. How could I ever forget?"

"Do you remember the girl who helped you?"

Uncle takes a sip of the warm tea. "Song. Her mother made the best roast duck." He looks at Zuko out of the corner of his eyes. "Why do you ask?"

Zuko looks out over the gardens. He's able to see the whole palace grounds from where they're seated on the second-floor balcony, watching the sun rise. As far as the eye can see, Zuko is upheld as a flawless ruler, his word taken as law. He's sick of it.

"I stole her ostrich-horse," he murmurs into his tea, taking a sip to calm his nerves. "I just remembered, in that agricultural meeting a few days ago. I - I never knew how essential those were to farmers, I just thought I was taking their ride." He turns to fully face his Uncle. "But I think I took a lot more than that."

Uncle meets his eyes with understanding. "And now you want to give it back."

"I know there's no way for me to fully apologize for how I acted in exile, but it feels like I have to try." The cup quivers a bit in his hands, and so his hands drop to his lap. "I'll need someone to watching over the Nation while I'm gone."

Uncle places one of his warm hands over Zuko's shaking ones. "I'm sure I can deal with your advisors for a few days." He squeezes his hand just slightly around Zuko's. "I'm proud to see that even in a few short months, your wisdom as a ruler is growing. Go, make your amends. The Nation will be here when you return." Uncle calls for Zuko's secretary and tells her to clear as much of the Firelord's schedule as she can for the next week. Their voices fade into the background as Zuko stares into his tea, wracking his brain to try and figure out how to track down just one girl in the entire Earth Kingdom. Sending scouts or soldiers from town to town is a recipe for disaster, and the Earth Kingdom villages have been traumatized enough. He supposes he could always call in a ride on his favorite air bison but - this feels like something he should do on his own.

If Song hates him, it might be hard for her to show it in front of the Avatar.

So he'll go alone. No friends, no royal guard. He'll come into Song's town the same way he came last time - defenseless. She can hate him if she wants, he'll give her that.

And he'll try to give back what he took from her.

He packs light, pulling an old tunic and boots from the back of his wardrobe. Though they've been thoroughly cleaned by the palace staff, the scent of campfires and smoke linger upon them. He grabs a cloak - the Earth Kingdom will be starting to chill at this time of year - and he slips out of the palace, using the servant's entrance to get onto the streets unseen.

Autumn comes quietly in the Earth Kingdom. The trees slowly lose their color, giving the last of their strength into vibrant leaves. Soldiers previously conscripted to fight in the war have either returned to their families or have gone to tend to the scorched earth where the Phoenix King made landfall. They clear the debris of fallen airships, making room for the earth to slowly restore herself.

Song envies those soldiers.

Their lives have changed with the ending of the war, but Song's life continues on, its mundane routine continuing over and over again. She cares for a small garden, crafts herbal remedies for her neighbors, and tries to make her mother comfortable. She curses the Spirits for their cruel sense of humor - her mother survives the greatest war ever seen, lives through the attempted invasion of her homeland, only to be struck down by frailty months after the end of it all. Hasn't she suffered enough? Song has whispered those words to the woods on her way to the well time and time again. Now, her body is just - stopping.

Her mother is dying and there's nothing she can do.

Song knows all living things have their time. And she's seen too many living beings go before their rightful time. But she never imagined her mother's time would be in a time of peace. Wasn't ending the war supposed to stop all this pain? Apparently not. She tries not to become bitter, knows that that's the last thing her mother would want for her, but - it hurts. And there's not a damn thing she can do about it.

The leaves from dying trees crackle under her feet.

She arrives at the well, alone. Her hometown is just barely beginning to wake up, rising from its slumber as mothers bring in dry clothes from the clotheslines and fathers begin to toil in the fields. Children run freely from street to street, with a joy that was forbidden during the Fire Nation's occupation. They're kicking at a ball, passing it from one pair of bare feet to another, and Song smiles at them. Someday, maybe.

She sets her water jug on the stone wall of the well and begins to lower the bucket before hearing the ball make impact and a man's voice grunt, "oof!". She spins rapidly around to see a young man, rear planted firmly in the dirt, one hand rubbing at his forehead while the other wipes at a watering eye. The group of children stand, frozen, and she gives them a look, and unspoken command to stay and apologize to the man they just hit with their ball.

"Here, take my hand," Song holds out her right hand, and the man takes it. When the young man meets her eyes, she almost drops him back in the dirt. He has those amber eyes, and she can just see under his loose hair - a burn scar. "Lee?!"

He stands, brushing dust from his cloak, and she catches the hints of red fabric that lie beneath. She recoils. He sighs. "Um, about that." Song sees his hands tremble against his cloak. "My name's not Lee - and I'm from the Fire Nation."

Song reacts as if she'd been slapped. She trips backwards, away from Not Lee, landing hard against the stone of the well. Her leg is aching, feels like its on fire all over again, looking into those amber eyes.

"How could you? I let you into my home." She braces her hands against the well, her leg threatening to give out at any moment. "Now it all makes sense, that you stole from me. That's all you ashmakers are good for." She spits, and it lands on his scarred cheek. "You take land that isn't yours, take women that aren't yours, you take lives!" Her leg finally collapses, and she sinks to the ground with her back against the well. Not Lee makes a move, and she throws her hands up. "Don't you touch me," she grits out, clutching at her leg. He stills, and she wraps her arms around herself, bringing her knees to her chest. "I pitied you, you know? I thought your mother must've been - I looked at your eyes and thought you were a victim like me, like my mother." Her whole body is trembling, but she doesn't care. "But I bet you know who your father is, I bet you're proud to have his eyes."

Not Lee mirrors her, curling in on himself, not even bothering to wipe his face clean. "I do know who my father is, but I'm not proud of him." He looks up to meet her eyes, and Song is struck by how young he looks. When she'd last seen him, he'd looked gaunt, malnourished, with sharp cheekbones. Now, his face had filled out and he looks - young? The scar makes him look older as well, but when you look on the opposite side of his face - all she can see is a kid, couldn't be older than a teenager.

And he was crying.

Stubborn as he is, Not Lee is resolutely ignoring the tears slowly falling from his eyes, but nevertheless - they fell. Song didn't expect that reaction. Tears are not what she expected from a Fire National. Anger, rage, violence - those are the things she's tasted at the hands of firebenders, but this? This is new.

"I'm sorry," Not Lee whispers, looking at his feet. "I came to apologize, I wanted to repay you for your kindness and return what I took. But I think I've overstayed my welcome." He scrubs at his face roughly with the heel of one hand. "But I am, truly sorry. I acted selfishly the last time I was in your home, and I took advantage of your compassion. And I understand that my nation has done even worse. I'm trying to make it better." He pulls his hair back with a band. "I know you have no reason to trust me, but I would like to purchase you a new ostrich-horse. And anything else you or your mother may require."

Without warning, Not Lee shifts from his seat position to a bowing one, kneeling with his head pressed to the dry earth. Song stares at him for a small eternity, before realizing that he's waiting, unmoving, for her response. For her judgement.

She lets out a small breath. "Okay," his eyes flick up to hers and her stomach twists. The way he bows is so precise - it must have been drilled into him hundreds of times before. Another thing she wouldn't have expected from a firebender. "Come to dinner."

He stands after she does and gives another slight bow. As they begin the walk back to Song's home, he offers to carry her water jug, and Song feels more weight than one lifted from her.

"What did you say your name was again, young man?" Mei pokes at Zuko's shoulder as she hobbles to the table.

"Mom, I'm sorry about her, she's getting older," Song sets a bowl of fragrant roast duck in front of him and Zuko feels his mouth begin to water.

"No, it's okay, I don't think I've actually properly introduced myself." He takes a quick sip of tea - bracing himself for whatever will happen next - and calmly sets the mug back down. "My name is Zuko," he begins slowly. "AndI'mkindoftheFirelord."

There's the sound of Song dropping a bowl in the kitchen, and Mei leans in a bit closer to Zuko.

"Sorry, dear, could you say that again? My ears aren't what they used to be."

Zuko opens his mouth to respond, but Song slowly enters the room, her eyes narrowed in on Zuko. "You said - you're the firelord?" He nods at her, waiting for her to swing a knife at him, kick him out of their home, call some earthbenders to rough him up -

Before his panic can start to set in, Song runs out the front door, slamming it behind her.

Zuko looks helplessly at Mei.

"Give her a moment." Mei brings her pair of chopsticks to her mouth. "Hmm, she still doesn't make it as well as I used to."

"What about you? Do you hate me?"

Mei sighs, putting her bowl down. "I'm too old for hate, dear. My time in this world is almost over. I can't spend it hating world rulers." She takes a sip of her tea. "But Song? She -" Mei sighs again. "She's been hurt deeply by the Fire Nation, in more ways than one. And it isn't just you. But for a long time, the monarchy has been the embodiment of everything terrible that's ever happened to her. And now you're here, standing in front of her."

Zuko nods. "I understand. And I am sorry, to you as well. I don't think I fully understood the reach of the war. I was always taught that the army acted with honor, that women and children were untouchable." He looks down at his folded hands. "I can see that was false."

"Unfortunately, you are correct." She reaches between them to refill Zuko's cup, then Song's, and hands them both to him. "Go to her. A bit of tea should help bring you some good favor."

The screen door opens and closes, and Zuko finds himself out on the porch. Song sits on the edge, absently massaging her leg, peering into the darkness of the forest.

"Can I join you?"

She shrugs, and he takes that as a yes. Handing over her tea, Zuko sits besides her and tries to find what she sees in the darkness.

For a few minutes, the only sounds are those of them drinking and crickets chirping. Then Song speaks.

"His name was Bao."

Treasured. Precious. Rare.

"That's a lovely name."

"What happened to him?" Song turns abruptly to look at him with shining eyes. "Did he...?"

Zuko shakes his head emphatically. "My Uncle and I traded him to a florist for safe passage to Ba Sing Se. The florist seemed like a good man."

"You went to Ba Sing Se?"

Zuko runs one hand down the back of his neck. "I might have conquered it, actually?"

Sing snorts. "That part I've heard about. You've lived an interesting life, Zuko."

"If by 'interesting' you mean messy, then yes." He sighs. "You had no reason to trust me. Why did you let me back into your home?"

Song laughs, tinged with bitterness. "My mother says I'm too trusting, too gullible." She swirls the dregs of her tea around the bottom of her cup. "But I think there's strength in being kind. And I really did want to forgive you. But you have to be ready."

"And do you think I am?"

She smiles softly at him. "For me, yes. But my guess is I'm not the only person you hurt in exile." She gulps down her remaining tea. "They may not be as forgiving as I am."

"I'm preparing myself for that possibility."

"Does it scare you?"

Zuko ponders it. "I think it does. The idea that I've hurt someone innocent so badly that they may never be able to move past it... that keeps me up at night."

Songs turns towards him, tucking her knees up to her chest. "We can't control how other people see us in this life. How they react to our actions is up to them - all that we can control is our response. You have to be ready to accept that someone may not be ready to forgive you, and you can't let that eat you up." She stares at him intently. "You have to confident that your own actions are enough. That they're good."

It's Zuko's turn to laugh sourly. "Easier said than done," his hand wanders to his scar. "Sometimes I'm still not sure if what I'm doing is right."

"You don't have to do it alone, you know," Song gives him an understanding look. "You need other people around you, Zuko, to remind you what's good."

He huffs, looking down at his hands, folded in his lap. "Do you want to be one of those people?"

"I think you have more than enough goodness surrounding you already. You just have to be confident enough to ask." She sighs, looking back out into the darkness. "Besides, I have to stay here with my mother. She doesn't have long."

"Are you sure there's nothing I can do? I could send my healers -"

She shakes her head, cutting him off midsentence. "It's her time." She begins to rub at her scars again. "I just didn't know how much it would hurt. We finally have some peace, and suddenly it's her time."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be, not for this. It's due to you that she'll be able to die during peacetime." Her hands come to her eyes, wiping tears away before they can spill down her cheeks. "Her biggest fear was that she'd die and leave me alone to fend for myself during the war. You released her from that fear. Of course I forgive you, Zuko. My mother's no longer scared of dying because of you."

The two of them are silent for a long time, watching fireflies flicker off and on in the trees, listening to the crickets sing.

"I'm going to find Bao for you."

Song looks up in surprise. "You don't have to-"

"I want to, I'm sure he's still out there somewhere." Zuko rises from his seat. "If you ever need anything, anything, you write directly to me. I'll tell my staff that you're a priority."

"Are you leaving?" Song stands as well. "You could stay, if you want."

Zuko shakes his head silently. "I have to get back, and travelling by night is best for a Firelord who doesn't want his identity revealed," he smiles, his scarred skin relaxing into it. With that, he pulls his hair out of its topknot, grabs his pack and swords, and starts to disappear into the night.

"Firelord Zuko?" He stops and turns back at the sound of Song's voice. She makes the sign of the flame and bows. "Thank you, for everything." He bows back, lower than protocol dictates, but he doesn't care.

Three weeks pass, and the air has turned bitterly cold.

Song again makes her daily trip to the village well, with snow crunching under her feet instead of dead leaves. The soldiers have returned from their work in restoring fields for the season, and so the village feels alive when she steps into it. Despite the chill, children still run in the street, under the watchful eye of their mothers and fathers. Song feels a twinge of longing, but she tries to focus on the happiness she feels for the children instead. Song sets her water jug on the side of the well, breathing hot air into her palms to warm her hands after touching the freezing stone.

"Excuse me, miss, are you Song?" A voice comes from behind her, and she turns to see two men dressed in red tunics.

"I am," she replies, tucking her hands into the pockets of her hanbok. "And you are?"

They bow to her. "We come on behalf of Firelord Zuko, to deliver a gift." A third man rounds the corner with an ostrich-horse on a tether. "We found him at a desert settlement, he's been well taken care of, but if there's anything you need -"

They're cut off as Song runs to throw her arms around the neck of the ostrich-horse. "Bao!" She strokes his beak, looking into his eyes. "Do you remember me?"

Bao cocks his head to the side, pupils widening as he chirps softly, and then he lets out a loud whinny, pushing his head into Song's chest. He purrs, closing his eyes and relaxes against her.

"Sweet Bao, it's really me, you're really home," Song can feel her eyes dampening, but holds it together as one of the men hands her a bit of parchment.

"A note from the Firelord. He wanted us to remind you that you can write to him anytime you need anything."

Song nods. "And tell him I said 'thank-you' again." Bao whinnies loudly again, and she adds on, "Bao says 'thank-you' too."

"Of course, miss." With a synchronized bow, the men depart, and Song unrolls the parchment.

Song,

I've followed your advice and surrounded myself with good people. It helps.

Give my best to your mother - my Uncle still talks about her roast duck sometimes. I've established a fund specially for women and child victims of the war, inspired by some of what you and Mei shared with me. Write me if you feel like you or anyone in your village wants to apply for it.

And, thank you for trusting and forgiving me. I'll try to keep earning it.

May the Spirits continually bless you,

Zuko

She tucks the parchment into her pocket, fills her jug, and finds herself back in Bao's familiar saddle after more than a year. "Come on, Bao," she says as she takes the lead into her hands, guiding them back to the empty farmhouse.

"Let's go home."

[if you read through this whole thing, go drink some water! I'll know if u don't :) ]

[vindicatedvirgil]

art is (not) dead / analogical

inspired by an idea brainstormed in a discord server i’m in.

art critic logan!!!!! give him art rights! immediately!!!!

[masterlist]

---

Logan adjusted his glasses, eyes focused on the abstract painting in front of him. When it came to artwork in that style, he either appreciated it or it confused him, and this piece fell into the latter category. It was a white canvas with cloud-like shapes in various shades of purple, gray, and black. Logan wanted to understand what the artist was trying to convey, but he only felt perplexed. As he stepped up to read the information about the piece, a man stood to his left. 

“Priced a bit high,” Logan muttered, gripping his pen a little tighter. He scribbled down the title, price, and artist of the piece, then straightened back up. He spun on his heel, and the man who was standing there was looking at him, frowning. Logan observed the badge on his black coat, denoting him as an artist. The name… “Oh, this is your piece,” Logan said, recalling the name he had just written down.

“Is there something wrong with my art…” the man, named Virgil Storm, narrowed his eyes onto Logan’s badge, explaining that he was the critic at the show, “...Mr. Crofters?” Logan sighed, glancing back to the large art piece.

“I do not understand why you have titled it ‘anxiety’,” Logan explained, “and the colors don’t… bring any certain emotion.” Virgil rolled his eyes, inhaling sharply. He was used to this by now, critics claiming they knew what art needed to be, but he was sick of it. The art represented how he felt, no matter how abstract it was.

“Look, you don’t need to understand art for it to be worth something,” Virgil explained, gesturing to all of the art surrounding them. “It means something to the artist. But you wouldn’t understand that, you just like critiquing and judging the things that people put countless hours into, hmm?” Logan frowned at this, and felt a pang of unease. “Yes, Mr. Crofters. I’ve heard of you and your… critiquing. You caused Roman Prince, one of the greatest artists in the area, to have a mental breakdown because you didn’t ‘understand’ the piece that he dedicated to his brother.”

“Look, Storm. This is what I studied. I know art-”

“You know what you like, and I don’t care if you think my art is overpriced. You couldn’t create something with half as much heart or emotion, I’m sure,” Virgil started to step away, but Logan stepped in front of him, eyes dark.

“I can paint,” Logan informed him. He thought he was no good, though, which is why he became a critic. He hadn’t painted in years.

“Oh? Prove it, then,” Virgil fished a business card out of his pocket. “The address for my studio is there. Come by tomorrow and prove to me that you can do art.”

-

Logan stared at the brick building, the wide windows startling him. He considered turning back, going home, because why did he need to prove himself to a cocky artist like Virgil Storm? Except he didn’t turn back, he gripped the paints that he had dug out of his closet a little tighter in his hand and stepped to the door, knocking only once. If Virgil didn’t hear him, then he could say it wasn’t his fault-

Of course, Logan was not that lucky. The door swung open, revealing Virgil with a stained button-up lavender shirt, paint-splattered black pants, his long hair pulled into a bun. “Ah, the critic,” Virgil smirked, stepping aside to let Logan inside. “Didn’t think you’d have the guts to show after my painting sold for higher than the listed price.”

Logan glanced around at the bottom floor of the lofted building; it was covered with full, half-full, and blank canvases and plants, and he could see that on the second level there was a full bedroom. There were two easels set up, one with what Logan assumed was Virgil’s current work in progress, the other with a blank canvas. He glanced down at his own clothes; his polo shirt and tie and slacks, and wondered if he should have worn something that he didn’t mind getting paint on.

“Need an apron?” Virgil asked, strolling over to the easels. He pulled an apron from behind one of them, paint splatters and charcoal stains coating most of the fabric. “You can use this one,” he tossed it at Logan, who nearly dropped his paints in the process. Virgil lifted a paintbrush from his easel, and Logan noted the bright colors he was using with the current piece; yellows, pinks, and teals in a pattern that almost resembled a sunset. 

“Thanks,” Logan set his paints down on the bottom of the easel and slipped the apron over his head, then got out his brush. He glanced over at Virgil, who seemed to be deep in thought, lips pursed as he splattered some orange onto the canvas. Logan began with black paint, outlining a figure, and the two painted in silence for a while, until Virgil set his paintbrush down and stretched his arms up, his shirt riding up to reveal a pierced belly button. Logan blinked, then returned his focus to the silhouette he was painting.

“Want anything to drink? I’ve got about twenty types of tea, but there’s also wine…” He ran a hand through his hair to fix it back up into a bun, not realizing that there was yellow paint on his fingers, and Logan bit back a grin when the paint streaked Virgil’s dark hair.

“Um, tea’s fine. Whatever kind you’re having,” Logan responded. He had loosened his tie earlier and his glasses were situated on the top of his head, and he felt more relaxed than he had in years; painting was something he enjoyed so much, but with his work schedule and the discouragement he faced from those around him… he had stepped away from the thing that he was so passionate about.

Logan refocused on his painting; it was a silhouette of a man standing outside, and he had decided that he would paint the night sky around the frame of the man’s likeness. After a few minutes, he felt Virgil standing next to him, and noted that the artist had placed a mug of tea on the table between the easels. 

“Wow,” Virgil breathed out, his eyes focused on the painting. “Your silhouette work is incredible,” he murmured, and Logan glanced at him, wondering if he was being mocked, but the expression on Virgil’s face only showed admiration. 

“Oh. Um. Thank you,” Logan grabbed the mug of tea, holding it up to his lips to distract from the blush that had coated his cheeks. The aroma of roses and jasmine wafted into his nose, and he felt a bit calmer. No one had ever complimented his art; he didn’t know how to react to Virgil’s kind words. 

Luckily, he didn’t need to say anything more, as Virgil stepped away and back to his easel. 

-

By the time they had both finished their paintings, the sun had gone down and Virgil had flipped on the lights of the loft, revealing several sets of fairy lights in the windows. It was almost… magical, Logan thought, and as he pulled the apron back over his head, hanging it off of the easel, he wondered if he’d be allowed to come back and paint another time.

Virgil stood beside him, hand on his chin, looking at Logan’s painting closely. Perhaps unconsciously, Logan had given the silhouetted man a bun and a paintbrush, and he wondered if Virgil would notice.

“Well, it looks like I owe you an apology, Mr. Art Critic,” Virgil finally said, turning to glance at Logan. “You can paint, and you’re good. You should enter in the next show.”

“It’s really not… that good,” Logan muttered, closing the case with his paints. “It’s been a long time since I painted. I don’t think I’ve touched a paintbrush since college.”

“Why is that?” Virgil asked, eyes focused on the way that Logan’s face was turning a pale pink.

“I was… discouraged often. My parents didn’t think that painting was a worthwhile endeavor, but I didn’t want to step away from the world of art,” Logan’s eyes followed Virgil, who sat down on a plastic-covered couch, then beckoned the critic over. He sat down next to him, and Virgil pulled his legs under him, his elbow on the edge of the couch and his chin in the palm of his hand.

“You realize that’s what you’ve become, don’t you?” Virgil asked incredulously. Logan raised his eyebrows, frowning. “Roman hasn’t painted in weeks. If I wasn’t familiar with my own self-doubt, your words could have stopped me, too. Art isn’t meant to be judged, it’s meant to be appreciated and encouraged, and you should be aware of that, if that’s what you went through.”

“I… I’m sorry.” Logan didn’t say anything else, he wanted to run and never come back, but he felt like he could trust being around Virgil. “Do you… have Roman’s phone number? I would like to apologize to him.” Virgil nodded, but made no other movements, except to flutter his eyes shut. “I should go.”

“Do you want to take your painting with you?” Virgil asked, glancing over at the easels. Logan glanced, too, and shook his head.

“No. You can keep it,” he wanted to ask Virgil if he could come back the following day to paint some more, but he didn’t want to impose. Or be annoying. Logan often found that people didn’t want to spend time with him, so he began to favor being alone. “It was nice to paint again, if only for a bit.”

“You’re not going to get back into it?” Virgil’s hand was on his forearm, and Logan sucked in a deep breath, then shook his head.

“I have no reason to,” he explained, wanting to pull his arm away. Virgil grimaced at this. 

“Yes you do. You love it. You’re good at it. Don’t give up on it again,” Virgil’s voice was nearly pleading, and Logan looked away from the man, because the emotions were too strong, and he couldn’t bear to feel them. He didn’t want to feel anything. “Logan.”

“I can’t. I don’t have an easel or canvases or…” Logan trailed off, and Virgil squeezed his arm gently. “I can’t get back into it. It’s not… serious enough. I want to be taken seriously. I need to be.”

“Why?” Virgil’s voice was calling him back, his long fingers warm against Logan’s skin, and the critic resisted the urge to run again. “Why do you need to be taken seriously? Because of your parents? Logan, your skills speak for themselves. You can be taken seriously as an artist.”

“Does your family take you seriously?” Logan asked, and Virgil’s eyes opened. He chewed on his lower lip, then sighed before responding.

“I haven’t spoken to my family since I was seventeen. There was a lot more than just my art that they didn’t accept me for,” Virgil’s voice was low, and Logan just nodded, understanding. “You can come back to paint whenever you want, Logan.”

-

And so he did. The following morning, he showed up at Virgil’s loft, bagels and coffee in hand. Instead of his normal professional attire, he was wearing an old pair of jeans and a NASA t-shirt that had bleach stains. The door was open when he approached it, so he peeked in to see Virgil already at his easel, a new painting in the works, dressed in the same outfit as the day before.

“Um, good morning, Virgil,” Logan said, announcing his presence. “I brought some bagels and coffee,” he said, stepping over to set the food and drinks on the kitchen counters. 

“Thank goodness, I’m going to need caffeine. I didn’t finish the painting from yesterday until three in the morning,” Virgil groaned, stepping away from the easel temporarily to grab the coffee Logan had brought for him. “You’re my hero.” Logan turned bright red at this, looking down at his feet. “Oh. I talked to Roman. He actually started painting again. Let me get my phone to show you the picture,” Virgil stepped away, and Logan had to hold back again. Standing close to the other man was intoxicating, but he craved it. Even though he had only known the painter for two days, he was entranced, and had never felt the need to gravitate around another person in that way.

When Virgil stepped back over to him, phone showing a picture of a painting of a throne. Logan smiled faintly at it, remembering Roman’s penchant for theatricality and royalty. And then Logan realized just how close he was standing to Virgil. The artist seemed to notice, as well, because he stepped away, clearing his throat. Without saying anything, the two went to their easels, and painted in silence for some time.

Virgil had given his canvas a thorough once-over with black paint, and allowed it to dry before starting to add colors on top of it; dark blues and purples were swirled on. Logan found himself pause what he was doing to watch the way that Virgil arched his wrist in a precise way to allow for different points of pressure from the brush. He wondered if Virgil had studied art, and glanced around the room to see if he could locate any degrees. None were visible, though, and he didn’t want to ask and break the comfortable silence they had entered.

They painted in that space of tranquility for a few hours, until Logan heard his stomach grumble. Virgil chuckled a bit at this, setting his brush down and stepping back from his own easel. “I’ll order us some lunch, is Chinese takeout alright?”

“Sounds delicious. Kung Pao Chicken, please,” Logan responded, setting his brush down to look at his painting as a whole. It was a silhouette again, but this time there were two figures, and it looked like they were dancing. He hadn’t done the background yet, but he wanted to do something similar to the galaxy he had painted the day before. He heard Virgil finish making the order for takeout, and then felt his presence next to him.

“Are they dancing?” Virgil asked, letting his hair out of its bun. Logan ignored the way that his dark hair framed his pale face, and instead just nodded. “You must be familiar with dancing, I can almost see the movement in them.”

“I’m not much of a dancer, but my cousin Patton is,” he explained, remembering the times when, as teenagers, he and Patton would learn different styles of dance, even ballroom dancing. A smile crossed his features, and he barely noticed that music started playing from a speaker. Then he felt arms on his, pulling him into Virgil’s arms so they could move to the music. “Virgil, I-”

“Shh, just dance with me,” Virgil’s voice was calm, and Logan leaned into the touch, his head resting on the other man’s shoulder, Virgil’s hands settling on his waist. They moved around the empty space of the room until the doorbell rang, and Logan felt as if he had been pulled out of a dream. The two ate their takeout in silence, though the quiet was not as pleasant as it had been prior; there was now this tension spread out in front of them, and neither of them knew what to do with that.

By the time they had both finished eating and returned to their easels, Logan knew that he was visibly rigid, but his hands shook with every movement. He could barely press his paintbrush against the canvas without needing to pull away for fear of making one wrong move. Of course, it was the fact that he was afraid of all of his past wrong moves and the fear that if he made a false choice now, the progress he had made and the confidence he had built up with his painting again would fade away. 

Virgil could practically feel the unease dripping from Logan’s body, so he left his painting to dry (at this point, all he wanted to do was add some white borders to the swirls), and stepped over to Logan, taking the brush from his hand. “You want to talk about it?” Logan wouldn’t meet his eyes, but nodded, and the two moved to sit on the couch, Virgil leaning close into the cushions, watching Logan with those dark eyes of his. 

“I want to learn how to be okay with the things that I tried to push back,” he finally said, and Virgil knew it wasn’t just the painting he was talking about. “But… I don’t know where to start.”

“You already have started, Logan. You’re painting again, and you need to keep painting, no matter how hard it is or how conflicted you feel,” Virgil’s voice was soft as he scooted a little closer to the critic, and his fingers pulled Logan’s face to look at him. “As for the other things… take your time. Be open. It’s… hard. But… I think that everyone deserves a second chance, and I’m happy to help you on your journey.”

-

Logan stepped into the building and walked up to the table with badges, scanning the rows until he found the one he was looking for: Logan Crofters, Artist, Dancing Under the Stars. A faint smile crossed his face as he pinned it to his jacket, and then he wandered to where he knew the canvas was hung. 

On his way there, he passed Roman, whose throne painting was hung proudly as the center of the show, and they shook hands, exchanged friendly greetings, and made promises to see each other at the after party. Then Logan went to stand by his painting, the lights from up above illuminating the silhouettes in a way that no natural light could. 

Logan felt a presence to his left, and glanced over to see Virgil beaming brightly. His sunset painting was on display a few exhibits over. Their hands linked together, Virgil’s thumb brushing comfortably over the back of Logan’s hand, and Logan leaned up to press a kiss to Virgil’s cheek.

“I put in my notices,” he informed Virgil, who nodded, still smiling. “No more critiquing. No more boring apartment.” He hadn’t been spending much time in his apartment over the past several months, anyways. Each morning he’d find himself waking up in Virgil’s warm embrace, the fairy lights of the loft illuminating their way, and each afternoon they’d paint side by side like they had at the start, except now when they needed a break, they’d fall into each other’s arms, cascading across the room, lips brushing together like paintbrushes on a canvas.

[bemybstar]

Hello! I don't really see anywhere if requests are open, so sorry if Im bothering you ;; But can we get some hc about Gouhin with red panda reader? Its just so cute idea, red pandas are sooo much smaller than Giant pandas, both eat bamboo, and have you seen how red pandas sleep on trees? Im not saying that gouhins arms are the size of branches, but they are. Have a great day!

A/N: It’s no bother at all and thanks so much for requesting. My requests are open and I usually put them in my bio or in my fics just to get the message across twice.

I love red pandas since they’re so adorable!!! Gouhin is honestly such a mood, no lie. I hope you have a great day as well...

Feedback is appreciated and requests are open! Gif isn’t mine!

• Your first encounter with Gouhin happened at the Black Market, a place designed specifically for carnivores and their temptations...

• But you had no business there being a red panda and all, meat isn’t really your ideal food.

• You were there under cover, you didn’t work for anyone but the idea of the Black Market’s purpose always intrigued you... but maybe this time you bitten off more than you could chew.

• You were cornered by a snow leopard whose been following your every move and was growing suspicious of why a herbivore would even think twice of stepping foot in this place.

• You were ready to try your best to fight him off but a large bear like figure caught your eye lingering in the shadows.

• Unbeknownst to the carnivore the figure poked them with the sharp end of a bamboo stick which prompted them to turned around only to be struck right in the face by the figures forceful punch.

• The leopard stumbled back with dizziness giving you the perfect chance to bite down hard on his tail causing him to shreek in pain and run towards the figure only be thrown down hard on the ground before fleeing away in defeat.

• You dust yourself off and see a set of eyes staring back at you to which you assume was a look of worry but soon turned it’s back on you ready to walk out.

• “Wait!” You call out and they stop. “Come into the light...”

• The figure takes a deep sigh but does what you say coming into contact and finally revealing that this vigilante was in fact a male Panda.

• “Follow me,” he takes after a serious tone. “If you still want to live.”

• You do just that and that’s how the two of you have been going on forever since that day.

• Since you were a psychologist Gouhin decided to keep you around as his assistant, his job became yours and together you tried to save as many struggling carnivores as you possibly could.

• But what came with the domestic side of Gouhin? After all it wasn’t long before you developed feelings for him and vice versa...

• Sometimes after long days of research you’d make jasmine tea with a shot of bamboo which was always his favorite.

• Being pandas and all bamboo was something you’d both enjoyed as a snack. Gouhin always breaking a piece in half for you to share since he knew you weren’t capable of eating an entire stock with those tiny teeth of yours.

• Height difference like its so obvious at this point, him being a giant panda and all.

• Sometimes your small stature would get in the way of basic everyday activities.

• One time while you were trying to reach something from the top shelf and couldn’t, Gouhin picked you up by the hips which made you let out a small squeak in surprise but you shook it off and got what you were looking for.

• He wouldn’t say it to your face but it was the cutest shit he’s ever heard.

• Another incident happened to be when you slept in the same bed together for the first time.

• You dozed off first and hung onto his bicep for comfort, they reminded you of how safe sleeping ontop of trees from your childhood had made you feel.

• At first he was skeptical on why you were so affectionate but after a couple more times he gave in and learned to accept it. He’s been touch starved for soo long and didn’t really know how to handle the situation but he’s willing to put his guard down just for you.

• Most nights he’ll tuck you in before joining you in bed and plants a kiss to your nose which always made you smile.

• But if he’s the first one to sleep which is relatively rare you’ll cover him in blankets, snuggle in close, and try your best to squeeze your way into his arms to which he never turns you down on.

• Morning routines like making breakfast for the other, workouts/yoga, and lots and lots of research.

• One morning he even taught you how to defend yourself in case there be a time he wouldn’t be able to save you.

• He’d be smart enough to not start you off with a heavy gun so a small set of blades like daggers and darts did the trick.

• Soon enough you were ready to kick ass and take care of aggressive animals from off the streets as a team.

• Just goes to show that the same one who saved you, trained you, cared for you, and most importantly loved you would do anything to keep you safe.

• Overall loving Gouhin was a gamble since you never knew what was to come next but it was a gamble you were proud to call love.

———

Tag list - (just ask to be added)

@starr60

This was really fun to write! Hope y’all enjoyed it!

[lilquill]

On Representation, Diversity, and “have characters of color just don’t write about the experience of being a person of color”

Alright. I’m gonna piss a bunch of people off and also confuse a bunch of well-intentioned white people because I don’t think that you can write about a character of color without talking about the experience of being a person of color of a certain culture.

Seriously. There’s so many conversations celebrating how people have narratives where it “doesn’t matter” that one of their characters is a person of color and that their characters’ identity as a person of color “doesn’t affect the storyline” or whatever.

I’m going to cut right to the chase here: as a reader and storyteller of color, I’m not a fan of narratives where race doesn’t affect the story.

My race and culture and ethnicity ABSOLUTELY impact the way I perceive the world around me! For instance, many South Asian families bond with lively debates and discussions and lovingly roasting their family members. The way that I develop positive relationships, often with a solid dose of conflict and loudness and argument, is therefore fundamentally different from the way a white person would develop relationships; in fact, many white people are intimidated by how loud South Asians like myself are. We’re dramatic and loud and love jokes with wordplay! That’s just how it is and it means I form bonds with people differently.

I also have different values. White people are often more individualistic in culture, with more weird distant formal bonds with their parents (shit like referring to their parents by first name or, on the other end of the spectrum, calling their dads “sir”???) as opposed to the more comfortable and closer bond I have with my parents, where my family is all up in my shit literally all the time LMAO.

Literally white families are SO DISTANT to the point where white people consider practices like co-sleeping with your young child, something very common in South Asian families, to be child abuse?? Like, as if keeping your baby in a crib in another room where they’re not close to you and it’s harder to hear them isn’t dangerous but apparently suffocating a child while sleeping (which is very rare especially since co-sleeping is a practice that has gone on for MILLENNIA) is the bigger threat here??

White kids might perceive that as invasive or a violation of their privacy; I don’t perceive it that way because of the way South Asian families are structured. There’s a stronger emphasis on closeness with family. Of course, there are situations of kids being estranged or difficult family relationships or child abuse in South Asian families as well, but family is more valued in my culture.

The plants I put in my garden are different because of my identity; flowers like bela (Arabian jasmine) and bougainvillea and roses and gladiolus and marigolds and such things are what I’m fond of because of biases based on what my parents and grandparents like. I even once grew nenua (a type of squash). (I’m gonna get my hands on a raat ki rani soon I hope!!) And, of course, not every South Asian is partial to these flowers, but there’s definitely a cultural aspect as to why I personally like them!

The colors and patterns I gravitate towards are also different! I’m not a big fan of western “neutrals” and I find bright colors more appealing, especially because hey, those vibrant shades look better on brown skin! And GUESS WHAT, part of why the western world gravitates towards neutral colors in formalwear is because of colonialism and a disdain for the vibrant colors and dyes that colonized countries used. I love wearing jhumka earrings and statement necklaces and bright, vibrant jewelry as well. Now, obviously, this isn’t the case with every South Asian, but there is certainly some level of impact on these choices from my culture and upbringing.

Hell, even the food I eat is different! I drink chai in the evenings. I gravitate towards spicier dishes and better seasoning. I don’t eat meat other than fish/seafood and chicken and occasionally turkey because of cultural stuff, though ofc lots of South Asians are vegetarian and on the flip side lots of South Asians DO eat red meat and stuff.

And this isn’t even universal to ALL South Asians by any means, because my parents are specifically Hindu and from northeastern India and I’ve grown up in California! And there’s so many other details I could go into but for the sake of not writing a twelve-page essay I’m stopping here. 

Basically, my point is, I don’t want representation where race “doesn’t matter” to the story. Race impacts so many aspects of my life and how I perceive and interact with the world around me.

It’s ridiculous to me how so much “representation” is basically just starting with a default of a white character, making her brown, avoiding the stereotypes, and that’s....it. It doesn’t feel real. It doesn’t feel authentic to take away cultural impacts on your characters. People start with white western archetypes and tropes and try to mold them to fit characters of color, instead of starting off with an authentic character of color, and it really, really shows.

Especially because Tumblr and writeblr are such white spaces, and also because culture is usually picked up from the environment as opposed to online, the conversations centered around “representation” are always about “don’t do x stereotypes” as opposed to how to actually learn about other cultures and actually....write a character of color. So many of y’all only know how to NOT write a character of color as opposed to how to ACTUALLY write a character of color.

I see so many lists of tropes and things to not include in stories, and not enough things about values and family structures and food and fashion and ways of developing relationships and all that fun stuff that will shape who you are as a person.

And some of y’all don’t even TRY to, I dunno, engage with the culture of your character of color to actually write them. For instance, if you’re writing a South Asian character, go explore South Asian cinema! Go make South Asian friends who can tell you little details about their lives as they, y’know, exist and are your friend! In general, explore the movies and literature and music and dance types and food and drink and whatnot of the culture your character is from! Form relationships with people of those cultures; it’s the internet! I know this is a super white space but there’s PLENTY of poc on here! Make an effort, not just to avoid harmful stereotypes, but to write a character of color whose identity actually MATTERS.

When I’m reading escapist fantasy/sci-fi/romcom/etc. literature where characters aren’t being hurt by racism, I don’t want a story where RACE doesn’t exist, I want a story where RACISM doesn’t exist. I want cultural understanding, empathy, and compassion!

I don’t want a role a white character would play just switched out with a character of color.

For instance, in the movie To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before, Lara Jean’s identity as East Asian is reflected in her fashion choices; book author Jenny Han lent inspiration for this. The Yakult drinks she likes, inspired by Korean tastebuds, plays a role in the story, too. These are details that don’t necessarily heavily impact the plot; it’s a fake-dating high school romcom. But they make a more real, fleshed-out character. They’re little details, little in-jokes and references, showing that the character’s race and culture actually MATTER to the story.

There’s a part in Pacific Rim where Raleigh Beckett, a white man, is frustrated with Mako Mori, a Japanese woman, for not going against the wishes of her father figure, Pentecost. When he tells her she doesn’t have to obey him, she responds, “It’s not obedience, Mr. Beckett. It’s respect.” This depicts her cultural understanding of family and respect; her relationships and her responses to things are impacted by her culture.

This is what I’m talking about! In order to write an actual character of color, you MUST write about their experiences to a certain extent. Of course, don’t make your characters of a certain culture a monolith in terms of personalities and responses and all that, but understand how they may be similarly impacted by their identities.

Now, don’t write a whole damn novel about a character coming to terms with their racial identity and coping with racism, but you absolutely MUST holistically incorporate their identity into your narrative.

Otherwise, it’s not actually representation. It’s you essentially writing a racebent white character. It’s you using a white default and trying to adapt it to totally different experiences.

[lydiabeckett]

                      ❝ 𝐍𝐎𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘 was noticing but she was disappearing.                       nobody was noticing but she was already gone. ❞

Type: Self Para.

Date: April 12th, 2021.

Mentioned but not featured: Eleanor Hirsch, Georgina Livingston, Jasmine Volkan, Jack Adler, Theodore Carlson, Holliday Carlson, Christine Beckett, Gabby Livingston.

Featured: Thomas Beckett, Declan Carlson, Dr. Jeanine Pierce.

Trigger Warnings: Depression, physical abuse mention, abandonment, transplant mention, panic attack, trauma.

Nobody was noticing but she was disappearing.

There was a lot to say about enduring trauma during childhood. Something that branded you. Skin deep. Raw. Effective.

Most of the days Lydia didn’t know why she came into the world.

Her mother had been cruel. Calculating. Manipulative in ways Lydia wasn’t sure to be possible for a mother to be. Where Lydia considered herself to be a hurricane, Catherine had been a tsunami. Receding at first. Apparently apathetic, before coming and sweeping it all away.

Lydia wouldn’t admit it, but she missed her, she missed her sisters the most, but she missed her, and what kind of person could she be when she was missing a person like her?

She remembered clear as day the day her mother left her behind. No second thought. As if she was something to be scrapped and left in the junkyard. She remembered the tears streaming down her face as she begged her mother to stay until her voice went hoarse, she begged for her to take her along for the ride as well. It wasn’t just the bags, but something in Lydia knew that her mother would never come back and she was sure that she wasn’t enough to make her stay. 

She cried and begged as the rain fell on them, thick and unforgiving. Lydia sobbed as her hair got swept on her face and the sobs turned into hiccups until there was nothing left in her. Lydia remembered feeling numb. A whole lot of nothing inside of her. Suffocating her. She just wanted to be gone.

Still, stupidly maybe, there was a part of her that still loved her father. 

The man was violent on his best day, Lydia had been branded over and over again just because. He was a drunk too, and never sustained a job. Part of her didn’t blame her mother for wanting to leave that all behind. The other part of her beat herself up in wondering why the woman hadn’t taken her along.

A twelve year old mind didn’t know much about realizing when something was wrong. When her mother left, she had taken to herself to fill in her shoes, taking care of a man who couldn’t take care of himself. After all, if it wasn’t for him, Lydia wouldn’t have existed right? Maybe in some ways she still resented him for putting her in this world, but still. She took care of him.

For years she did his laundry, she fixed the house, she had multiple jobs and concentrated on spending the most time she had free away from home. In places she felt safe. With Eleanor in the Hirsch residence, even though she felt deeply undeserving of being there, with Jasmine and sometimes even with Gabby. How in the hell she had friends when she barely could maintain herself standing, escaped her comprehension.

Life did move on though, and once it was time, she would say she didn’t feel bad about leaving the man behind, but she did. Nevertheless, there was a bigger need for all of that. The need to get out covering the real quest to run away. 

For the next few years, Lydia found her father in every man she came across. They were all undeserving of her in some ways, but they felt like home, and she didn’t recognize home in softness, in kindness or love. Home for her was harsh, violent, brutal and cruel, and times it was like she masochistically sought out home in every person she encountered. She would like to say that there was a balance, but sometimes there weren’t. Her suffering was offered and for free. It took her a long time to plant the seed of not deserving it, and she was sure that the seed had not sprouted just yet.

Daniel was the one she spent most of the time with. Daniel was undeniably charming. Daniel was powerful. Daniel made a submissive out of her in no time at all. Daniel didn’t take long to show what he was there for and when she didn’t flinch, pull away, or blamed him, Daniel kept being egged on by her helplessness.

Unlike her father, Daniel didn’t need alcohol to raise a hand and strike it down as hard as he could. Unlike her father, Daniel was sociable, funny, the way he wrapped his arms around her during dinner parties in front of his friends would make anyone believe that they were exchanging devotion, love, but it was possessiveness, obsession, submission and fear. 

Five years she had stayed there, five years in the same loop. Wake up, breakfast, work, fight, rinse and repeat. No man could look at her funny. No woman could look at her funny. She wasn’t isolated inside their work space, because he could see her everywhere. She knew where she was at all times, and Lydia was stupid enough to confuse this for caring, for love, even though she knew that if it was something she wasn’t openly gushing about with Eleanor, than it must be wrong, right? 

It took him almost killing her to make her walk away. She remembered waking up at the hospital and a nurse telling her that Daniel had been there every day, holding her hand, waiting for her to wake up. What a man he portrayed for other people. What about her? There was nothing left for her there anymore and she prohibited his visitors, any visitors and once she felt capable enough, she ran away, again. Pulling out a duffel bag and ending up God knew where.

She couldn’t breathe again.

She came back.

Not for him though. She quit her job at the publishing house and she found Holly. She would never admit for a woman so stoic, but Holly had been a lifeline for her. Her and her spunky little boy who Lydia never thought could fill her heart so much. 

It was incredibly scary how Declan could see right through her. He was imaginative, observant and bright. Sometimes a little difficult, but hey, what kid wasn’t? He was the one who asked her what she loved to do and it shut her up, she replied “hanging out with you” but soon enough came “and writing”. If she ever managed to finish her first book, she knew she wanted a dedicatory to him, for the last three years he had been helping her continuously see the good in life and know, maybe, somewhere deep inside that she wasn’t meant for all that hurt, after all.

She never thought about being a mother before. Thinking about the times her father would look at her and say that she was “just like your mother”, and being just like her mother meant a lot of things and being unable to carry that title was one of them.

By then Lydia had already witnessed how much of a hurricane she could be. How much she was able to sweep into people’s lives, cause destruction and walk away without flinching.

Lydia remembered seeing two blue lines in a pregnancy test when she was still with Daniel. Never two blue lines made her so scared or put things into perspective. The sudden pregnancy was short-lived and Lydia resigned to life with him. Motherhood was not for her. How could she guide a child, when she couldn’t even set herself straight.

Still, Declan had shown parts of her she had never seen before. She had been able to open her heart fully and let him in. There was a connection between them and a real friendship. She loved the little man, and she always made sure to stay on top of her game when she was around him. He had brought her so many people just by being the reason she returned to Catalina.

Georgina, Jack, Jasmine, Eleanor, Teddy, Holly… the list went on and on and when she saw herself surrounded by so much--- it was suffocating, at times. Yet, she was eager to be better.

Maybe he was the reason why she had decided to test to know if she was compatible with her father.

He had come up to her in the kitchen with a bright smile while Lydia was cooking for him and asked him “why are you so sad Lydia?” It took her by surprise. Not to butter her own biscuit, but she had been excellent at wearing a sturdy mask when around people, even if her own thoughts were cloudy most of the time. She could have laughed it off and just told him that she was not, but she knelt down to his level and hugged him. “My dad is sick buddy,” the blonde confided and he hugged her back, the kind of comforting and trusting hug only a kid is able to give. 

“Miss Beckett, are you ready?”

She was snapped from her thoughts by the nurse who came to call her. 

She went in that morning to test herself. They said it was a simple blood work, but it was much more than that and knowing that she would need some time to recollect herself before entering the real world, she asked Holly if she could take some days off, which was unlike her to do. Nobody knew she was there. 

She didn’t tell Eleanor, which was also unlike her, but she was afraid Ellie wouldn’t understand why she was doing it. The brunette had been the one who got front row and center tickets to the Lydia shit show, something she had not signed up for and she never wavered, not for a moment. Eleanor’s repetitive words of her not deserving that and of her father not deserving of anything from her were echoed in her mind, over and over again. She didn’t want to disappoint her best friend. So she didn’t tell her.

Taking a deep breath, Lydia followed the nurse down a long and well lit white hall. She hated hospitals. She really hated them. Every time she stepped in to visit her father, she got nauseous at the clean smell and how there were just people dying everywhere in that building.

She did put her brave face on that morning and once she was seated, another nurse came by and tourniqueted her arm before the recognizable pinch of the needle happened making her face screw up at the sudden pain, she hissed. The nurse had a smile on his face, and she bet that it was a reaction he had predicted many times. Once she was good to go, they directed her back to her father’s room to wait for the doctor.

Her father was sleeping and whenever he was sleeping he was almost peaceful.

She had shared with Georgina that her father’s condition was getting worse. It was funny when in the times she needed for a mother, Lydia went directly to the woman even though she was only a few years ahead of her. It was a shame that Georgina had gotten into her life too late to replace a mother that was never there, but she was thankful nonetheless. She promised she’d take up on the offer and promise of a talk, if needed, but she was unsure now, unsure that her thoughts and feelings could ever be put into words.

For someone who wanted to be a writer, Lydia was a shit communicator.

Her father had been put into ventilation for now, and the bills were sucking the life out of Lydia and her bank account looking fairly dry nowadays. Maybe if she could just finish this, she could get rid of him for good.

She would never admit it though, that there was a small part of her who wished he would be a better father after this. Bridge the gap between them. Maybe a liver transplant could change one’s personality? She hated that she was holding up on such hope. Still, absentmindedly her hand reached out for his and she wrapped it. It was calousy and hard, they were never meant for tenderness and had never shown them. Remembering the way he asked for her forgiveness the last time he was away made her stomach flip and her throat constrict. The sound of the door opening made her turn around startled, a hand flying to her chest, but it was just Dr. Pierce. She breathed out in relief.

“Lydia, did not mean to scare you, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine, I’m just a little jumpy,” Lydia smiled and put her hands inside her jeans pockets.

“You should go home and rest up a bit, I’ll be calling you in a few hours with the results, we’ll process them as quickly as we can, but we are a little backed up,” there was an apologetic tone in Dr. Pierce’s voice, to which Lydia just nodded.

“What will happen if I am compatible?”

“Those chances are high, so you should definitely be prepared. We’ll bring you in and do some more tests to know if you’ll be able to withstand the surgery well, and probably no longer than tomorrow we’ll be doing your surgery,” she explained, Lydia nodded along to let her know she was following up. “I do need to tell you again, though, your father might not survive the surgery or even recover if he does, there is a lot of damage done over the years and during the extensive period he spent in the hospital waiting for this, so even if he goes through surgery, he might not have a good recovery or even one at all.”

It was a reality check, she knew. Didn’t make her feel any less shitty though. Lydia nodded again.

“You’ll call me, right?”

Dr. Pierce confirmed once again and with a kiss to her father’s forehead, Lydia all but ran out of that hospital.

She stopped outside, catching her breath, she didn’t like the taste that the Doctor’s words left in her mouth. She had waited too long in her indecisiveness and now she might as well take the knife and kill her father herself. 

She didn’t go back home, she walked around the island, wherever her feet wanted to take her. Her mind was clouded and she felt as if she could cry at any given moment. It had been days she had not been sleeping well and the concealer was doing a poor job at hiding the dark circles under her eyes. She had gotten a bit thinner as well, but she didn’t feel hungry and food made her stomach feel queasy. Nobody had quite warned her before that guilt was an all consuming feeling. It was eating her from the inside out.

It was hard to know how long it really took or how long she was walking around, but at the first chirp of her phone, her heart started hammering loudly inside her chest. She picked up and sure enough Dr. Jeanine Pierce’s voice hit her ears.

“Lydia, your tests are back, I was wondering if you could come by my office so we can have a word?”

She was there in no time, whistling down a cab as her head went a million times per hour. Was there something wrong? Was she not compatible? Was she sick too? Her mind was so busy that she almost tripped on her own feet as she got out of the cab and rushed inside. Her heart was in her throat and it was hard to swallow. Lydia rushed through the hallways to get to Dr. Pierce’s office, a place she had grown quite used to. She waited outside after identifying herself, feet tapping impatiently on the floor making her receive some looks, thankfully, her entrance was permitted quickly.

“What is it?”

She was out of breath and it showed.

“I don’t know how to say this, Lydia, but while you and your… father are compatible,” the way she said the word father made Lydia’s eyebrows furrow, “it seems that there is no correlation between the two of you. If you’re comfortable with it, I would like to take a DNA test to confirm it, but it doesn’t seem that biologically you are father and daughter.”

Lydia had heard about them before. Moments that shift your whole world.

Most people talk about them in a good light, but she wasn’t sure that was one of those. It became rather hard to focus on what the woman in front of her was saying, even though her lips were moving. She had said something about a DNA test and Lydia just nodded, not really knowing what was happening, but going along for the ride. She signed papers, she was taken down the same hall she did earlier and this time around, she didn’t feel the pinch and she was sure the nurse could see that there was nothing behind her eyes. Not fear, or pain, or relief, or joy, it was just void. A whole lot of nothingness.

She was returned to the doctor’s office and while she started speaking again, all Lydia heard was Charlie Brown’s teacher's voice. No words meant anything to her. 

It did take a while, but it all returned, all at one. Her breathing suddenly grew shallow, constricted in a tight throat. Her mouth was dry. Impossibly dry. 40 days in the desert dry. Her eyes tried to focus somewhere. Anywhere, but it was all blurry. Was that what a panic attack felt like?

Dr. Pierce must have noted because she wasted no time. She had something calming about her. She was already into her 60s so she had long acquired that motherly soothing tone in her voice, but Lydia didn’t want to listen. She tried to breathe in deeply, but it wouldn’t pass through her throat. Her eyes would have been rimmed with tears had she not felt the complete void of any water inside her body. The air around her felt dry. The chair felt hard. The metal felt cold. Dr. Pierce’s hands felt weird and suddenly, everything went black.

She woke up a few hours later, dizzy and not knowing where she was. There was an IV attached to her body, pumping fluid for a much needed hydration. Still everything was fuzzy and as she looked frantically around her, Dr. Pierce was the first one to get into her line of vision.

“Calm down Lydia, you passed out after the test, you’re in the hospital, you’re fine,” she explained and her breathing came down, she needed to be out of there.

“H-How long was I out?”

“5 or 6 hours? Looked like your body needed some rest and since you had your father listed as an emergency contact, I had no choice but to keep myself here,” she smiled kindly.

Back in New York, she had Eleanor listed as her emergency contact, but recently, with a few changes that were made to her health insurance, she had forgotten to put her name on it.

She attempted to get up, already in a rush to go back home. Or to Holly’s home, to her room, but was pushed back by Dr. Pierce’s gentle hands.

“Calm down, I need you to stay here for observance for another hour or two, and was able to rush your results and I don’t want you passing out on me again, okay?”

Lydia nodded and Dr. Pierce took out an envelope from her lab coat and opened.

“You and your father share no DNA,” she said, and Lydia couldn’t help but frown, a strange feeling happening on the tip of her stomach, “my guess is that you weren’t aware of it?” Lydia shook her head in response. “You are still compatible if you wish to follow through with the surgery, but I understand that this is a lot to process. Do you have anyone who can help you do that?”

She had people, but no one that could understand how those news had sunk her heart to her stomach. Still, she nodded, unable to voice it out loud.

“I’m still gonna need you to get back to me by the end of the week, okay? Even though he is not your biological father you’re still his next of kin and quite possibly, the only one who can see him through this.”

Dr. Pierce spoke from an oblivious place. A place of someone who didn’t know what hell her childhood had been and how that man… that stranger, was responsible for screwing her up so badly, maybe beyond repair. She was speaking from the eyes of someone who maybe didn’t have a fractured relationship with her parents, or with her children. Those were the facts that made Lydia not reboot and press her lips together with a nod.

“Can you let me out? I’m good, I promise, I just don’t want to be here right now.”

“Sure, but you understand that you are leaving against medical orders, right?”

Another nod.

It still took a long time to get through bureaucracy and be released. She didn’t spend much time after she was, not really bothering a visit to her father’s room. If she could even call him that ever again. She knew she hadn’t processed that. Maybe it was an elaborate prank and she would be laughing about it later.

She walked impatiently through the doors until she was in the parking lot and took a deep breath, taking her phone from her pocket so she could call… who?

Eleanor had been clear that she didn’t like the man. She had a good family despite some strangeness that happened every now and then. Lydia wouldn’t know how to explain what she was feeling now.

Georgina was wise beyond her years, but this wasn’t something she could relate with. Not when her parents were magical and her siblings were tight. Besides, this was a part Lydia hadn’t fully disclosed for her yet, because if she was 100% honest, she hated that look in her face. That look that made Lydia aware that if Geo could carry all her burden she would. Sometimes it might have felt like, but she was not her mother, and the last thing Geo should be doing was wasting her time with someone like her.

Jack was a good friend, supportive and Lydia had thought about him in many less friendly ways recently, so he wasn’t someone she could just reach out about this.

Her friendship with Jasmine had just started to blossom again. They were just learning to be around each other again. There was no way she would cloud that with her darkness.

Teddy… no. It was better if he didn’t know she was so distasteful.

She returned her phone to her bag.

It felt like pieces were slowly falling inside her brain like a painful tetris game.

Her father was not her father.

Could she even call him father now? Should she?

All that pain, all the times he hurt her, everything she had endured thus far. A lie. A fucking lie. Why had her mother not taken her? Why had she left her in the care of a total stranger?

Did she even have a father? What if he was some dead beat? What if he was just dead?

For a million questions there were a million more and it was overwhelming, but no tears came. She felt like she could cry at any time, but nothing.

Lydia felt numb, stale, cold, empty.

Just a wave of nothingness sweeping through her in the middle of a parking lot.

But for every wave that crashed on shore, another one was already on the way.

Soon it would swallow her whole.

Right now Lydia was as unimportant as she felt. As hopeless as she felt. Still, her face was stoic, her breathing was normal again.

Maybe not feeling was the best thing she could ever hoped for, after all, with just a few words her world had been turned upside down.

Lydia turned her phone off. She didn’t want to be found. Not for now. Not for a while.

She started walking away, without really knowing where to go. It was hard to admit but it had been some time since she had been slipping away from people’s lives. meticulously. Carefully. Gently.

Maybe this was the final nail on the proverbial coffin.  

Nobody was noticing but she was already gone.

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, vyxynheartssterek!

For @vyxynheartssterek. I hope you enjoy it!

Read On AO3

*****

Forward Motion

Claudia rocked back on her heels and brushed her hair out of her face. “Well, I think that was the last box.”

Stiles admired their shelves, the glossy dark wood lined with dusty tomes that they’d finally hauled from home. They’d been in the attic, the basement, the kitchen and the living room for longer than Stiles had been alive, and seeing them on display, all together and organized neatly instead of piled haphazardly on a box of old baby clothes was surreal and a little thrilling. “It looks great.”

She gave him a sideways look. “We still have stock to put out, pal. Don’t get comfortable.”

He laughed, knocking their elbows together. “Yeah yeah. It still looks good. I told you it would.”

She snorted. “Save the “I told you so”s until after opening day. Why don’t you go get us some caffeine to power us through until lunch, then we’ll get your dad to help us with some of this?”

“He said he’d help this morning, too.” Stiles stepped over a crate of crystals, around two stacks of boxes, and through a maze of shelves they’d yet to fill. “Usual order?”

“Yes, please. Oh, can you move that shelf to the window on your way out? It’s where I want to put the potted herbs.”

“Sure. Be right back.” He maneuvered the herb shelf—still empty for the moment—over to the window, adjusting it until it was lined up with the window, before he stepped outside. It was chilly out, just on the edge of cold, with a breeze that smelled like wood smoke. He turned and stepped to the edge of the sidewalk, balancing his sneakers on the curb so he could admire their sign.

It’d just arrived the day behavfore, and installation had only taken minutes. The Beacon’s Raven curled in the deep red Claudia and Stiles had chosen weeks ago. The window had a beautifully painted raven with its wings outspread on it, front and center, and off to the side, a neat list of their hours. A banner hung over the glass door: “Grand Opening: 2 Days!” It was satisfying to see people passing by, peering in the windows on tip toes to see deeper into the store, chatting about how soon they could go in and poke around.

Stiles headed for the coffee shop down the road. He’d finally talked his mom into opening a real, actual store after years of her (and, eventually, him once he’d gotten old enough to grind herbs and mix potions) operating out of their house. The supernatural community of Beacon Hills had known and trusted Claudia and her family for generations, trusted and knew their magic and quality of products. It only made sense to finally move from backdoor sales to a real shop, where people could browse and where they could store extra potions without accidentally mixing them in with the cooking spices.

Although Stiles still thought John was overreacting about accidentally putting a sleeping potion in the chili that one time.

The coffee shop on the corner, Mocha Latte Memories, was also relatively new—only two years old, which in Beacon Hills meant it’d be referred to as “the new place” for another thirteen years—but it was doing great. It also happened to be Claudia’s favorite, so she’d dragged Stiles there as soon as he’d come home from college; they’d both been going at least once a week ever since.

Stiles caught sight of his reflection in the big bay window of the café and paused. His hair was covered in dust bunnies and cobwebs. “Gee, thanks, Mom,” he grumbled, using the window as a mirror to bat the dust away. He spent a minute combing through his hair with his fingers so he looked less disheveled.

A shadow moved beyond the glass.

Stiles reared back. “Oh! Oh, gods.”

A man on the other side of the glass was grinning at him, apparently watching while he fixed his hair.

Heat rushed to his face. “Oh my god.” He turned on his heel.

Claudia laughed at him when he told her why they wouldn’t be having coffee and why they should promptly move to the next town over. She called John to ask him to bring lunch and coffee while still tearing up with laughter.

Stiles worked through his mortification by sweeping aggressively.

“You two,” John sighed when he arrived. He took a drink of his own coffee while they were digging into their lunch. “The place looks great already.”

Claudia smiled up at him, heels bouncing off the crate she’d perched on in lieu of a chair. “You should’ve seen Stiles with the books.”

“My organization skills are legend,” he muttered, biting into his sandwich.

John snorted. “I still can’t believe you’re putting them out like this.”

She shrugged. “Beacon Hills is our town. We’ve always shared the knowledge anyway, and this way, they can look for themselves.”

The family spellbooks weren’t for sale; they’d dragged them all out and to the shop with a different idea in mind: at the back of the shop, they’d created a little reading room filled with chairs, two-top tables, and jars of pens. Witches and starter spellcasters could come to research spells and potions from their collection if they wanted, copy down instructions, or just read a while, rather than asking Claudia for a copy of a spell they’d heard she had.

And as an extra bonus, whatever they needed for most of the spells, rituals, and potions could be purchased from the shop before they left, if they wanted.

Stiles couldn’t wait to get started.

John stayed to help until well into the evening, when he made them leave for the night. “Your boxes will still be here in the morning,” he sighed. “Let’s go get dinner.”

Claudia set out one last display container, waiting to be filled, and let her fingers trail over the shelf, smiling as John led her out.

Stiles hung back, watching them hold hands down the sidewalk. He and Claudia had come in the jeep this morning, but he figured she’d ride back with John. He brushed dust off his cheek and smiled to himself. He’d missed them while he was away at school, he’d missed Beacon Hills, and being back, opening the store…it felt right.

“Absolutely not.”

Claudia grinned, shaking a box of amethyst at him. “Stiles, don’t be a coward.”

“Mom, don’t be annoying.” He ducked when she swatted at his head. “Why don’t you go get the coffee, and I’ll finish putting the crystals out?”

“I have a plan in mind, I need to do it a certain way.” She arranged the amethyst in the display box she had on the shelf, then tilted her head, studying the effect. She bent to grab some jasper.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “You just want me to embarrass myself again.”

“You did that all on your own.” She set down the jasper next to the amethyst, then wrinkled her nose. She faced him, putting her hands on her hips. Her white POISON shirt was smudged with dirt and old paint stains, hair braided back with flyaways sticking up around her face. “What are the odds of seeing that same guy again? And,” she continued before he could reply, “what are the odds that he’d even recognize you? The man saw you for a total of ten seconds, kid.”

He made a face at her. “What if he works there?”

She smiled.

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. But you’re getting the coffee next time.”

“Of course. Next time it’ll be my turn.” She shooed him and turned to the flat carts of planters, which were filling the shop with the heady scents of jasmine and lavender.

Stiles preferred to make potions with dried plants himself, but a lot of people were into growing their own lately. He didn’t stop outside this time—he didn’t want to give himself time to chicken out and go to Starbucks further up the road.

Mocha Latte Memories was right between the breakfast and lunch rushes when he got there; there were three girls at a table posing for a picture and an older man sipping from a mug and reading a book, but otherwise, the place was empty.

The walls were strung with photographs and every other table had an instant camera set up on a bolted tripod next to it. There were also disposable cameras set on the bookshelves, the counters, some tables, the window sills, and the console by the door, with a laminated sign on the wall explaining. The cameras confused Stiles until Claudia had dragged him and John to a table, set the timer on the instant camera, and took a photo of the three of them, waving it in his face.

Patrons were encouraged to take pictures with any of the cameras so they could be displayed on a rotation—they were also just allowed to take the instant photo home, if they wished. After a week on display, the pictures could be claimed by the person who took it or who was in it.

It was cute, Stiles thought. There was potential for creepy people to abuse it, but from what he’d seen, the staff kept a sharp eye on the cameras and who claimed which photos, and the owner was an old high school friend of Claudia’s and had gotten some witchy protections against that kind of thing. Photos taken of people without their consent would show up completely blank, as far as Stiles knew. There were other protections in place, but he hadn’t gotten any further details.

“Hey, Stilinski,” the barista, Cora, called out. “The usual for you and Miss Claudia?”

“Yes please.” He used his card to pay and found two fives in his wallet. Feeling cheerful—one day until opening and they were nearly done setting everything up—he dropped one into the tip jar, making Cora grin.

Behind him, the bells set above the door chimed as someone came in.

He set the five on the counter. “Put that toward their order?”

Her grin widened. “If you’re sure…”

“Yes, please.” He moved off to wait by the pick-up counter, looking at this week’s photos while he waited.

“Hey, thanks for the coffee.”

Stiles winced. He knew Cora was quick, so he’d kind of hoped his drinks would be done before the guy could notice him. He turned. His smile froze on his face.

The guy’s eyes lit up with mirth and recognition.

“Oh my god,” Stiles breathed. He looked down and wondered how hard his mom would laugh at him if he filled the place with smoke and fled.

“You do remember me. I’m Derek.”

“Stiles,” he managed, strangled. “I-I—we’re—there was dust,” he blurted. “There was dust and I was trying to get it out of my hair, okay, and I don’t think it was that big of a deal, okay?”

“Okay,” Derek said, still looking amused. “I didn’t say it was a big deal.”

“Right.” Stiles eased back, even more mortified. “I-I-”

“Stiles! Drinks are up,” Cora called.

“Bye,” he croaked. He snatched the drinks and left as fast as he could.

Claudia was waiting outside when he returned, a worried frown on her face. “I felt you panicking, what-”

He shook his head. “I bought,” he gasped, “the guy coffee.”

Her brows shot up. “Start at the beginning,” she said, so he did.

He was right: she laughed at him.

The Beacon’s Raven opened at nine sharp on Saturday morning, doors flung wide and a mixture of orange and lavender smoking gently, filling the place with Claudia and Stiles’s favorite scents. The shelves were full, neatly organized, and inviting, the floors gleaming clean, and there was a carafe of hot chocolate and individually wrapped cookies set up by the register. Claudia turned on lively violin music and Stiles kept himself busy straightening the shelves.

“Mrs. Stilinski,” a familiar voice called out. “It looks wonderful in here, doesn’t it, Mom?” Lydia and Natalie Martin came in, arm in arm, already holding two other shopping bags.

“It does! Good job, Claudia.” She grinned, crossing to give Claudia a quick squeeze. Like Lydia and Stiles, Natalie and Claudia had gone to school with each other. “I wanted one of those wind chimes you make for Lydia’s new house and we thought we could take a look at the tarot cards—I’ve never been much of a reader myself but we think Lydia’s a bit of a sensitive.”

Lydia rolled her eyes at Stiles, but followed their mothers into an aisle anyway.

Two more people, witches Stiles recognized as regulars for dream talismans and ritual potions, came in, chatting about the store. Dotty, dream talisman buyer, spotted Stiles and shot over to commend him on the choice of orange and lavender— “Peace and energy in one, what a good idea for the first day,” she said, catching his arm.

Melissa and Scott showed up after that, then Heather and her boyfriend, and a group of local witches and some shoppers who were non-magical but interested in the local-made jewelry they were also selling.

Stiles kept busy ringing people up, helping a man pick out the right set of rune stones, and bagging things, keeping up a steady chatter about the store, so he shouldn’t have noticed one more person entering the shop. He should’ve heard the bell and called out a greeting and let Claudia handle it. Something made his head snap up. His eyes narrowed.

Coffee Shop Derek waved at him.

A tall, dark haired woman stood next to him, reading from the back of a crumpled receipt.

Stiles blinked back to his customer and smiled. “Thank you, have a great day.”

Mavis smirked at him. “Oh, you too, Mischief.”

He grimaced.

Mavis had been buying ritual herb bundles from Claudia since Stiles was three. She knew too much.

Claudia crossed to Derek and the woman and, to his surprise, hugged the woman. She gave Derek a sober handshake, smiling and saying something Stiles couldn’t hear.

He didn’t really recognize them aside from some vague familiarity, but Claudia clearly did. He glanced around, but everyone was busy looking—they were crowded, which wasn’t surprising. Beacon Hills was small enough that everyone and their grandmother had heard that little Dee Gajos, no, Stilinski now, and her son were opening a shop finally, and they all had to check it out, witches or not.

Stiles flicked his fingers.

“-Mom wanted some new talismans for the house, and Aunt Nettie wanted some cleansing potions for the party we’re having,” the woman was saying. “Mom also wanted us to congratulate you and let you know she’ll be out to see the shop as soon as she can.”

“Thank you, that’s sweet. I know she’s busy. Oh, one moment.” Claudia turned. “Stiles!” Her voice boomed, making him clap his hands to his ears.

Crap. He’d definitely been caught eavesdropping.

Her smile was far too wide. “Sweetie, why don’t you help the Hales find the things on their list while I run the register for a while?” Her voice was still too loud—raised so he could hear her across the store, if he hadn’t been eavesdropping.

He had two options, and only one of them would preserve what little dignity he had left at this point. He sighed and rounded the counter.

“Hey, I’m Laura.” She smiled when he approached. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Stiles.”

“Oh, really?” He narrowed his eyes at Derek, cheeks going red. Two mildly embarrassing run ins and the guy goes blabbing to his family.

“Yeah! You’ve met my mom Talia Hale a few times when she was picking up talismans from Claudia.”

Stiles’s gaze snapped up to Laura, then skimmed over her. “Oh, you’re werewolves. And Hales. I’ve met some of your pack.”

She laughed. “Yeah, that’s us.” She passed the list to Derek. “I actually wanted to talk to you about some blessed candles, Claudia, if that’s alright? I’m sure Stiles and Derek can handle the list.”

“Oh, sure. Here, we can go up to the register and talk.” Claudia smirked over her shoulder.

Stiles turned his back on her. “So.”

Derek lifted a brow. “You aren’t going to run away this time?”

“I’ve got nowhere to run,” he muttered, making Derek laugh. “Besides, I didn’t run. I just—I had things to do.” He cleared his throat. “Your mom buys talismans from my mom. I’ve helped make them before,” he added with a grin, deciding that he could push past his embarrassment. “She likes her bases covered, huh?”

Derek chuckled. “You have no idea. She’s going crazy over having the whole family at the house for our winter gathering. That’s why she wants to replace the talismans now.” He checked the list. “Four talismans, a house cleansing potion for Aunt Nettie,” he yawned widely, “new bells for the windows and,” another half-stifled yawn, “my uncle wants bloodroot.” He made a face.

“For what?”

He lifted that brow again.

Stiles flicked a hand at the shelves behind them. “I just mean if he’s making something for protection, we can make a bundle that’ll help more than just one plant.”

He shook his head. “No idea. He just came in and scribbled down bloodroot when we told everyone where we were going.”

“Ah.” Stiles shrugged. Not his problem. “Well, if they’re all concerned about the house, we can get some herbs to help with that, too.” He glanced at Claudia, but she and Laura were still talking. “The talismans take three days to make—they’re specific, so we don’t typically have them ready-made.”

“Oh.”

“Everything else is ready though.” He led Derek down the prepared potions aisle; already-made potions were popular with werewolves, shifters, and regular humans who couldn’t make potions themselves. He handed him the teal-colored cleansing potion. “There’s a tag with instructions on the cap, but I know Annette Hale buys this every few months.”

“She does.” Derek yawned again as they made their way to the herb aisle, stifling it in his elbow and shaking his head, like he was annoyed.

Stiles scooped bloodroot into a bag, avoiding eye contact. “Did you have a…long night?” he asked, and cursed himself for being so awkward.

Derek shook his head. “I just keep having these weird, vivid dreams, and when I wake up, I feel like I haven’t slept. And then I can’t make sense of the dreams.” He shrugged self-consciously.

“Have you tried-?” Stiles paused and frowned at him. “Sleep potions don’t work for werewolves.”

“Nope.”

“Huh.” Stiles touched some vervain thoughtfully, then shook his head. “No. What about an herb bundle?”

“I have no idea. I’ve never tried any of this stuff,” he admitted. “I don’t usually have trouble sleeping, either.”

Stiles dropped his hand and wandered over to the bells. “Maybe you should put a bell on your bedroom window instead.” He examined the smallest bells they had on display and picked out a silver one with a raven carved into the side; some of the bells had symbols or animals carved in them for extra protection, and others had nothing, a blank slate, but Stiles thought Derek could use the raven for some clarity. He held it out with a smile. “If anything is causing bad dreams, the sound will ward it off, and it should help make the dreams clearer so you can figure out what’s going on.”

Derek held the tiny bell in his palm. “Thanks.”

Stiles nodded, then looked back at the others. They had sets and singles. “Did Talia say what colors she wanted?”

“Oh, uh, no. Just some basic, uh, bells for us to string above the windows this winter.”

“Hmm.” Stiles chose a brassy gold set and a few tiny yellow gold chimes, and added a coil of delicate, triple braided twine. “Your mom will know how to string them.” He helped Derek carry everything to the register. “We’ll get the talismans started today.”

Claudia smiled as they set everything on the counter. She was wrapping up a full set of candles for Laura already. “One of you can come back to get them on Tuesday,” she assured them. “Oh, bloodroot alone? But-”

“Uncle Peter only asked for bloodroot.” Laura shrugged. “Nettie tried to get him to explain but he wouldn’t.”

“Huh.” She shook her head. “Maybe he’s got something in mind.” She rang them up while Stiles carefully bagged the rest of their purchases.

“Maybe.” Laura poked at the silver bell.

Derek snatched it and put it in his pocket. “That’s mine.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh-kay. Thanks again, Claudia. We’ll be back on Tuesday for the talismans.”

“No problem, thank you guys for coming in!”

Derek turned back so he could wave and smile at Stiles one more time as they were leaving.

By the time they closed at seven, Stiles was dead on his feet; the plan was for them to open again the next morning at the same time, and be closed on Mondays and Thursdays, but he wasn’t sure they’d make it to Monday at this point. They needed to hire some more people.

Claudia was sprawled in a chair in the reading room, beaming and as exhausted as Stiles. “That was…better than I had hoped for.”

Stiles flopped into a chair across from her. “I told you people would come.”

She shrugged. “It’s different, selling little mixtures and plants from my kitchen and selling it in a store.” She flung her hands out over the arms of the chair. “I expected…well, you know how people here can be.”

“Assholes.”

“Fickle,” she shot back. “Supportive one second, and then the next saying I’m thinking too highly of my skills.”

He snorted. “I would love to see anyone from Beacon Hills claim that. They know you, Mom.”

She smiled. “They can be assholes, a little bit,” she admitted, and he laughed. “I was thinking of hiring some part timers, to cover us when we need breaks and a day off. Thoughts?”

“Yes, please.” He dropped his head over the back of the chair. “If we have more people here, we can close a little later, stay open most days without working everyone twenty-four seven, and be able to help more people. Also, we have to get the Hale talismans going.”

“Right.” She tapped her fingers on the edge of the chair. “What did Derek Hale need one bell for?”

Stiles lifted his head. “Hmm?”

She shot him a look. “Don’t play dumb. One silver bell.”

He rubbed his eyes. “Well, he kept yawning while we were finding the stuff his pack asked for, so I asked him if he was having trouble sleeping. He said he was having vivid dreams that were keeping him from resting, so I thought a bell would help, you know, in case it was something coming in.”

She frowned. “But they’re not nightmares?”

“Apparently not. Just vivid dreams.”

“That’s odd.”

“Maybe the bell will help.”

She nodded. “Okay! Let’s go straighten up, count the till, and get started on the talismans for the Hales.”

Because they’d known they would be brewing potions on-site, they’d picked this building in part because it had a kitchen already, so they wouldn’t have to have one built.

“We really need more people working here.” Stiles rocked to his feet.

“I’m working on it. Natalie Martin was interested already, but I’d like a few more witches on staff, too.”

“Dad can help out.”

She smiled as they headed for the kitchen. “He’s bored now that he’s retired.”

“He needs a hobby.”

“Please.” She handed him a broom. “Sprinkle some orange and violet ashes for luck first.”

“Aye aye, captain.”

It wasn’t quite as busy the next day, although they were making an almost equal amount of sales—fewer browsers, Stiles guessed. Around noon, Claudia left him alone to get some coffee and lunch, which was when Derek wandered in. Stiles straightened from the counter and smiled.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” he replied uneasily. “Um, your talismans are still soaking in the first potion.”

Derek looked blank. “Oh, no, that’s not why I’m here, but thanks. I actually—the bell didn’t help,” he blurted.

Stiles frowned.

The woman over in the reading room sneezed, making Derek jump.

“Alright…let’s try an herb bundle.” Stiles rounded the counter. “Something to promote deep sleep, good dreams, some peace….that could help.”

Derek followed him. “I’m willing to try, I’m exhausted and the dreams don’t even make sense.”

“Hmm.” Stiles picked up a mesh sachet and skimmed through the dry herbs, letting his magic pick for him. He sprinkled in lavender, which was an obvious first, a tiny bit of valerian followed by peppermint mostly to disguise the foul scent of the ashes, chamomile, a tiny bit of eryngo, and some gardenia to tie it together, then sealed the bag. “Okay, there’s enough in here for you to sprinkle a tiny bit around your room, and keep the rest in this bag under your pillow while you sleep.” He put the sachet in Derek’s hand.

“You didn’t look at a recipe,” he pointed out.

Stiles frowned, plucking at the hem of his shirt. “Well, I don’t need one for that. I was just…feeling out what seemed right for you.”

“Do you do that for all of your customers?” he asked, smirking. His hair was damp from the chilly rain turning everything gray outside, curling over his forehead.

Stiles focused on a drop forming just above his eye. “No, not really. But none of them have asked,” he added defensively. He crossed his arms. “I was trying-”

“Excuse me. How much is this journal, young man?”

Stiles held his finger up at Derek and went to help the guy in a patchy tweed jacket with the journals. To his surprise, Derek was still waiting when the guy had paid and left. “Yes?”

He lifted the sachet. “I haven’t paid.”

Stiles blinked. “Oh, I—I was giving that to you.” They stood, blinking at each other for a prolonged moment.

Slowly, Derek’s cheeks reddened. His eyes went wide. “Oh, I didn’t realize. Thank—you?”

“No problem.” He smiled. “Did you ever figure out what your uncle wanted the bloodroot for?”

He shook his head. “He just took it and left, didn’t even thank us. He’s been annoyed all day, too, which for Peter means he’s been insufferable.” He turned the sachet over in his hand, then lifted it closer to his face to sniff.

Stiles glanced around the store, but the only person there was the witch in the reading room still. “We have some cookies left from yesterday, want some?”

“Sure.”

Stiles went to get them from the kitchen and poked at the talismans that were gently simmering in a warding potion. The first of three; the next would be applied later that evening. He scooped up the cookies.

Claudia had returned when he got out to the front, asking Derek how his parents were. “The cookies are still good,” she added with a quick smile in Stiles’s direction. “Why don’t you two eat in the kitchen while I watch the store? I can eat after you’re done.” She smiled again. “I got an extra sandwich.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes.

She winked at him and looked at Derek again. “You have time, don’t you, Derek?”

“I…uh, sure.”

“Great!” She thrust the sandwiches at Stiles. “Derek, I hope you like roast beef on rye with mozzarella and onions?”

Derek looked between her and Stiles. “Yes…that’s…my favorite.”

“How lucky,” she chirped.

“Yeah,” Stiles muttered, “lucky.” He glanced at Derek, who looked surprised but not suspicious.

He clearly hadn’t spent enough time around witches.

Stiles took the sandwiches to the kitchen anyway. “You don’t have to stay,” he told Derek. “She’s just…” He didn’t know what she was doing. Teasing him for his two embarrassing encounters with Derek? Being overly friendly? Trying to help Stiles make friends like a shy five year old?

“It’s okay. I was just going to get lunch when I left anyway.” Derek looked around the kitchen, the glass front cabinets and the crockpot simmering on the counter. “I guess customers aren’t really meant to be back here.”

Stiles shrugged and set the sandwiches on the table. He grabbed some napkins, gesturing at the seat closest to Derek. “It’s only our second day open, we don’t have rules yet.”

Derek tucked the sachet into his pocket before he sat and unwrapped his sandwich. “You guys have been selling potions and talismans and stuff for a while though, right?”

“Yep.” Stiles licked mustard off his thumb. “Mom’s been doing it her whole life—before she and my dad got married, she and her parents sold supplies and stuff from their kitchen.” He rotated his wrist. “Beacon Hills is getting bigger and it was getting harder to run all this from our kitchen without overrunning the whole house with it.” Stiles took a minute to eat a few bites, watching with his head lowered as Derek did the same. “Your mom and your brother Sean, your dad Leo and your cousin, I think, Connie, I’ve met them all in passing. Annette, too. Amulets, talismans, potions, herbs, crystals—Connie bought a crystal when she was doing her midterms, more for a worry stone than anything, I think.”

“She still has it,” Derek said with a smile. “She wears it on a chain.”

Stiles smiled, too. “See, I’ve met several of your family members—your pack mates. But you’ve never come for anything.”

Derek shrugged. “Everyone else always had plenty and I never really needed anything.”

“Until now.” Stiles nodded at him, indicating the sachet in his pocket.

Derek flashed a grin. “Until now.”

After Derek left, thanking them for lunch and smiling at Stiles an extra time before he left, Claudia whirled on Stiles, beaming.

“What are you up to?”

“Absolutely nothing, how dare you accuse me of being up to something.” She wiped the counter with a damp rag, a smile playing on her lips.

Stiles wasn’t sure what he was accusing her of quite yet, so he fell quiet. He’d bide his time and get her back later. Three giggling high schoolers came in to ask about love potions and, having already been subjected to the Love Potion Lecture at age seven, and then twelve, Stiles made himself busy straightening the shelves and checking the plants for dry soil.

Claudia went into the back to eat after the girls left, so Stiles was left to deal with Mrs. Howard’s very particular taste in rose quartz for her daughter’s birthday. It wasn’t so bad, not nearly as bad as the PTA parents wanting “luck” potions for a bake sale.

John wandered in when things died down, while Stiles was drawing mindlessly on a legal pad. He leaned over. “Anything good?”

Stiles studied the shape. “Not sure yet.” He added another line. “I think it might need…copper. Amethyst.” He tilted the pad. “Some spirit quartz for an added layer, maybe, to clear things up.” He rubbed his finger over the top curve thoughtfully.

“Who’s it for?”

“Dunno. It just keeps coming to me.” He finally looked up and grinned. “What’re you all dressed up for? I thought you were strictly into jeans these days.”

John ran a hand down the neat button down shirt that he’d paired with a completely wrinkle-free pair of khakis. “I’m here for a job interview,” he said grimly. “Think I got a chance with the boss?”

Stiles grinned. “I dunno, she’s pretty strict.”

Claudia came out of the back wiping her hands on a towel. Her eyes widened. “Well, now, Sheriff, don’t you look handsome.”

Stiles, still grinning, shook his head and hopped off the stool behind the counter to hunt up some of the materials he needed for the amulet he was going to make. Chips of amethyst and flint were his first ingredients, and the rest, he figured, would come to him as needed. It wouldn’t be anything fancy, just copper wrapped around three very small stones in the shape he couldn’t get out of his head.

He rang himself up after he’d gathered a few more things, then put his supplies aside—his tools and the other things he needed were at home.

“What’re you making?” Claudia asked after watching him tuck his bagged purchases away.

“An amulet, I think.”

“Hmm.”

John was across the shop enthusiastically helping a witch select a chain for her new pendulum.

She looked amused despite the fact that John clearly had no idea what to direct her toward.

“He always was better with herbs,” Claudia mused. “I can’t believe he hasn’t picked up more from us after all these years.”

“Maybe he should just run the register.”

“He’s got it.”

Stiles shrugged and went back to his rough sketch, tracing the spirals with his finger.

He spent the evening coiling copper wire at the kitchen table, carefully wrapping it around the smallest piece of pearl dolomite he’d been able to find, then spirit quartz, and finally a tiny piece of flint. The amethyst chips went along the wire, and after that he sprinkled gardenia and lavender ash on it to sit for the night. He studied it; it wasn’t his best work, but not his worst, either. The amulet would need to be charged with his magic to bind it together, and he’d need a chain for it before it could be worn. The amulet itself was small, about the size of a silver dollar.

He left it overnight and took it to the shop the next morning. Stiles and John were handling the front while Claudia retreated, with a miserable growl, to do the accounting.

Her day job, after all, used to be the head of an accounting firm, and she had the most experience. Besides that, she wasn’t ready to hire someone else to take care of it.

“I’m still not sure, this one over here is really beautiful.” The customer indicated a hand painted tarot deck made by a local witch Claudia had grown up with.

“If you’re just starting, a basic deck is the best way to learn how to read the cards.” He smiled. “You can get fancy later, I promise.”

“Well…I suppose you’re right.” She sighed. “My mom said the same thing, and I definitely knew that was the right way to do it, but the hand painted deck is so…” She picked up the deck Stiles had pointed out to her. “Do you guys carry altar cloths? I would like to get a new one.”

Stiles grinned. “We do, actually. Dominic Birch embroidered them, his work is unbelievable.”

After she’d paid and left—with two new journals, an altar cloth, and her tarot deck—John helped a guy pick out a potted aloe plant and Stiles sold three necklaces and a ring.

The bells chimed as he was restocking with more jewelry. “Hi,” he called out, turning.

Derek waved awkwardly and held up a piece of paper. “Peter wants some more stuff.”

“Ah. Did he say what it was for this time?”

“Nope. He’s just as irritated today, too.” He passed the list to Stiles, thumb brushing the back of his hand. He was wearing a blue sweater in concession to the chill hanging in the air, and the fact that the sleeves were just a little too long for him was too much for Stiles. “Oh, hey, I think those herbs you gave me worked, last night I barely had any dreams at all.”

Stiles smiled at him. “That’s great.” He flipped the list over. Buchu, rose, dandelion—dried and ground. Huh. “Did he say how much of this stuff he wants?”

Derek shook his head. “But he did send his debit card, so feel free to ring up as much as you’d like.”

Stiles snickered. “I’d love to, but I think we should try to keep our reputation good, you know, since we’re so new and all.”

Derek snorted. “If he noticed, I doubt he’d say anything anyway. There’s so much going on at home, though, I don’t think he would notice.”

Stiles bagged the herbs as they talked. “What’s going on?”

“Just the usual holiday madness. For our winter celebration, our extended pack—that’s everyone who’s moved away and joined or formed other packs—comes to visit. All three houses are overrun for days.”

Stiles laughed as he tipped a scoop of dried dandelion into a bag. “That sounds awesome.”

“I guess it is, sometimes. That’s why everyone is freaking out, though. It takes a lot to prepare for all those werewolves.” He rubbed the back of his head, sighing. “I’m gonna have to share my room with a couple of my cousins.”

“Aw, didn’t you miss your cousins?”

“No.” He scowled, then sighed. “Yeah, a little bit. There’s just a lot of them—we all end up completely sleep deprived by the end.” He took the bags Stiles held out. “But it is fun. You guys should stop by. The festivities start on the twentieth.”

“You make it sound like a carnival,” Stiles laughed as he walked him to the counter.

“More like a circus,” he muttered. “But I swear it’s fun, and there’s enough food to feed at least three armies.”

“Won’t your family mind if we crash a family gathering?”

“No, I’m pretty sure my mom invites Claudia every year, only she always had plans.”

“Yeah, we usually do year end rituals and stuff, but I can probably, uh, stop by. If you wanted.” He studiously avoided the way John was looking at him while he rang up Derek’s purchases.

Derek beamed at him. “That’d be great.”

Stiles smiled. In his pocket, the amulet grew warm, then hot. His hand jumped to it, closing around the wire, and his eyes widened. “Should—should I bring…anything?”

“Just yourself. Maybe some earplugs. Aunt Nettie’s sister-in-law just had triplets.” Derek grinned at John. “Sheriff, you and Mrs. Stilinski are more than welcome, too. My mom will probably be calling sometime tomorrow or the next day to invite you herself.”

John smiled. “Maybe we’ll stop by this year.” His gaze inched over to Stiles and his smile stretched into a grin. “Just to make sure Stiles stays out of trouble.”

“Very funny,” Stiles muttered. “I’m an angel.”

“Lying is a sin, angel.”

Stiles, unable to flip him off, stuck his tongue out, and got a pitying look in response. He remembered Derek a second later and flushed, whipping around so his back was to John. “Uh, uh—let me know how—if the weird dreams come back,” he stammered. “We can try something else.” He cast around for something else to say as they inched away from the counter and noticed Derek’s bag. “Your uncle isn’t…trying to see the future, is he?”

“No idea.” Derek peered into the bag. “Why, is that what this stuff is for?”

Stiles tilted his hand side to side. “They can be used for a few different things, but yeah, divination and visions are some of the more popular things.” He shook his head. “Not that it matters, it’s not a big deal. Plenty of people use herbs for prophetic visions,” he assured him. “Us, we prefer crystals if we’re trying to see something.”

“Do you look into the future often?”

Stiles shook his head and met Derek’s gaze. “I prefer to be surprised. The future can change, so what’s the point in worrying about one vision you saw once, by chance, that might not even happen?”

Derek’s lips quirked. “Speaking from experience?”

He glanced back at his dad automatically; Claudia had joined him at the counter, their heads tipped together as they spoke. “Yeah, I peeked and I didn’t…” He shook his head again. “Doesn’t matter, it’s already changed.” He smiled at Derek.

“What kind of magic do you use, if you don’t try to see the future?”

He lifted his shoulders. “All kinds, I guess.”

“What are you good at?”

He laughed. “You want me to brag about my skills?” He waggled his fingers.

“Yeah.”

Stiles laughed again, he couldn’t help it. “Well, I’m pretty good with water-based magic, and my telekinetic prowess is, if I do say so myself, pretty awesome.”

“You’ll have to give me a demonstration sometime.”

Stiles nodded and lifted his hand, palm up. Water formed on his fingers and slid down, gathering into a ball. He flexed his fingers. It froze solid.

“Okay, that was impressive.”

“A Stilinski, flirting by showing off, why am I not surprised.” Mavis’s voice made Stiles jump, the ice ball flying out of his grasp. “How utterly predictable.”

Derek snatched the ball before it could hit the ground and shatter.

“Mischief, you are just like your mother, I swear. You can do better than that to impress the man. Claudia,” she called in her croaking voice, “did you see what Mischief was doing?” She shuffled away from them.

Stiles covered his eyes. “Good gods.”

Derek mouthed, “Mischief?” but dropped it when Stiles shook his head. “Well, I thought it was impressive.” He held out the ice.

Stiles closed his hands over it. “There’s no reason to do big spells indoors, Mavis.”

“Balls of ice aren’t impressive, Mischief.”

He rolled his eyes at Derek. “I’ll see you later, I have to go chase an old lady with a broom.”

He laughed. “Good luck.”

Stiles finished the amulet on his break, holding his hand over it and binding the ingredients together, all the pieces, the copper, the flint, the quartz, the dolomite and amethyst, with his magic. He found a black chain he thought went well with the copper triskelion and attached it, then stared at the completed piece. It’d come to him for a reason, amulets usually did, but he just couldn’t figure out who it was meant for.

Claudia put the Hales talismans in the last potion while he was still staring at it. “Looks good. What made you use a triskelion?”

“I’m not sure, it just…came to me.” He shrugged. While Claudia had always had an instinct for talismans, Stiles had the same instinct for amulets, the shapes and materials often coming to him and hovering in his mind, behind his eyes, like he’d stared at a light too long. She’d found him making them enough throughout his life to know he hadn’t made it for himself.

“Have you figured out who it’s for?”

Her tone made him look up, eyes narrowed. “No…why?”

She poked at the talismans, then covered them again. “Well, the triskelion is the Hale pack’s symbol. They use it to identify their pack.”

Stiles looked at the amulet. “Huh.”

“Maybe you made it for Derek,” she teased.

“Mother, are you implying something?”

“Just that he keeps coming here…daily…and that he invited you to his family gathering.” She shrugged. She had an ivy leaf caught in her hair from that morning.

“He’s just being friendly.”

She snorted. “Laura, maybe, Nettie absolutely, but from what I’ve noticed, friendly is an optional trait in the Hales and they don’t bother unless they think you’re worth it.” She held her hands up. “Could be he just likes you as a friend, that’s true.” Her eyes gleamed. “But I say you take that amulet over on the twentieth and see if he says no when you ask him out.”

“Oh, is that all?”

“If he turns you down, I will admit I was wrong, somehow.”

“Not good enough.”

She tapped her fingers on the table. “If I’m wrong, what would you like?”

“Grandpa’s book of charms.”

“Oh, Stiles.” She shook her head. “They’re messy.”

“Blood?”

She held her fingers a half inch apart. “But it’s more in the mud and clay and wet ashes way. Trust me. Messy.”

“I want them.”

She put her hands up. “Fine, since I’m sure I’m right, if Derek shoots you down, I will dig out your grandfather’s book of charms. Only if I’m wrong. If he accepts, you do Laura Hale’s interview. She wants to work here,” she added with a smile.

“That’s absolutely not on the same level.”

“Those are my conditions.”

“Ugh, fine. Are you and Dad going?”

She smoothed the wrinkles out of her black and pink dress, smiling serenely at him. “We have to be there, dear, it’s only polite.” She turned on her heel, ponytail swishing as she left.

“You’ve got ivy in your hair!” he shouted after her. He looked down at the amulet. “Damn it.” He needed to find a box for it now.

The twentieth arrived before Stiles was fully prepared. They’d been busy with people coming for ritual kits, herbs, potions, and gifts, enough that they could consider their first two weeks of being open a resounding success. Stiles found a decorative cherry wood box with a small raven carved into the side to put the amulet in, on a bed of gardenia and lavender, and dressed casually for the party.

Cora at Mocha Latte Memories turned out to be another Hale that Stiles hadn’t met and had told him to just show up whenever. “The dress code?” she’d repeated blankly when he’d asked. “Uh…casual. We’re a mess, don’t worry about it. Some of the littler kids probably won’t even be dressed.” She’d shrugged. “Shifters, you know.”

So Stiles wasn’t sure what to expect as he headed to the Hale property. It used to be just one house, but they’d added two more to accommodate their growing pack. Stiles hadn’t seen it in a while—not since he was a teenager, wandering the preserve at night with Scott and Heather, being stupid—so the sight of about twenty extra cars and a camper clogging the long driveway and part of the yard, plus about six people on the wrap around porch just chatting, was something of a surprise.

Stiles parked behind a blue SUV and turned the jeep off deliberately slow. He stared at the little box on his passenger seat and sighed.

John and Claudia had come over earlier, just after noon, but Stiles had managed to procrastinate so long that he now had to arrive alone. Maybe he could just sit here until he spotted Derek and act like he’d just arrived.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

‘Coming in at any point, son?’

Stiles scowled. He figured blocking her wouldn’t work, so he just shoved it back in his pocket, swiped the box, and got out. He had to weave through several cars to get to the yard, where he could see a flattened path from everyone walking the same route.

Behind him, someone shouted, “Quit it!”

He turned.

Fifteen feet away, Derek got tackled by a tall, skinny werewolf with short dark hair.

Stiles tensed, but it wasn’t until another werewolf, shorter, partially shifted and snarling through long fangs, joined in that he started running. “Hey!”

Derek snarled and rolled, but the shifted werewolf bit his ear, making him yelp, while the other sat on his legs to pin him down.

“Hey!” Stiles shouted again. He stopped before any of those flailing claws or fangs could hit him and studied the ball of werewolves.

Someone up on the porch noticed them and snickered.

Stiles flinched when blood spattered the grass, a yelp coming from the bottom of the pile. He rolled his eyes and put his free hand out, then swept it aside.

The taller werewolf tumbled aside, landing on his butt a couple feet away.

Stiles caught the other one and flicked him away, too, leaving Derek disheveled and a little bloody. Stiles turned to the two that’d tackled him and shook his head. “Two on one is shameful,” he scolded. He could see now that they were teenagers; their partial shifts had made them look older, but as the fangs and tufted ears melted away, they looked young.

The taller one looked petulant while the other simply looked mortified.

“He drank our hot chocolate!” the tall one snapped.

“Uh—what?”

Derek sat up. “You can’t prove that.” Blood trailed down his cheek, but the cut had, thankfully, already healed.

“It’s always you,” the embarrassed one piped up. “Uncle Peter says you keep stealing his coffee, too.”

Derek’s ears went red. “He’s exaggerating.” He looked up at Stiles sheepishly. “I always refill the cups after. I’m just useless in the morning.”

“You’re always useless.”

“Markus,” a man on the porch snapped.

He rolled his eyes. “Sorry.” He looked at Stiles. “How’d you do that?”

“He’s a witch, dummy.”

“Todd,” the man scolded.

Todd held his hands up. “But he is.” He squinted at Stiles. “Right?”

“Right.”

Todd smirked at Marcus.

Stiles held his hand out to help Derek up. “Brawling with teenagers?”

“They hit me first.” He smiled. “I thought you’d decided not to come when your parents showed up without you.”

Stiles shook his head. “Just running behind.”

Derek nodded, fighting a huge yawn that nearly wrenched his jaw apart.

He lifted his brows. “Dreams again?”

He nodded. “They came back a couple days ago.” He looked toward the house, ears going red. “You were in them this time, even though they still don’t make sense.”

Todd rolled his eyes and pulled Markus to his feet. “Stop stealing everyone’s drinks!”

“I thought it was Peter’s coffee,” he admitted. “I didn’t mean to steal your hot chocolate.”

Markus rolled his eyes. “Make your own coffee, jeeze, Uncle Peter’s right. You are nose blind.”

“I am not!”

Stiles prodded Derek’s shoulder. “Excuse me, did you just say you’ve been drinking your uncle’s coffee?”

Todd nodded, aggrieved. “Derek steals everyone’s drinks, every year.”

He looked guilty. “Only when it’s really early, and I always refill the mug, brats.” That last bit was directed at his cousins, who were clearly unconvinced.

“You do not.”

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

“You can sleep in Cora’s room tonight,” Derek hissed.

Stiles shared an exasperated look with Todd, though he was sure Todd was more bothered by the hot chocolate theft than he was. He had a bigger problem. “Derek.”

“Yeah.”

He tried to think of a nice way to phrase it, but… “Are you, possibly, nose blind?”

Todd and Markus cackled.

Derek looked insulted. “No!”

Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose. “Uncle Peter is the uncle who’s been sending you to get potion ingredients from my shop, right?”

“Yea—ah, fuck.”

Markus’s mouth opened in a wide, wide grin. “I’m telling Aunt Talia.”

Todd’s hand shot out, catching his shirt. “Derek can buy our silence.”

Markus’s eyes went even brighter, delighted.

He glared at them. “What do you want?”

“Take us to the potion place.”

“Excuse me?”

“We never get to go to witch stores, we want to buy magic potions.” The boys looked excited by the mere idea, breathless at the power that was just in their reach.

Stiles leaned around Derek. “If you go find Miss Claudia in the house, she’ll tell you all about magic potions. That way when Derek takes you, you know which one to pick.”

They looked at each other, smirking, then ran for the house.

He straightened up. “That lecture should keep them busy for at least twenty minutes.” He swung back around to Derek. “You’ve been drinking coffee laced with potions.”

“Apparently.”

“Potions for prophetic dreams.”

“Yep.”

“Then refilling the cup before anyone noticed the coffee was gone.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Which means your uncle has been drinking regular coffee thinking it was laced with potions, and probably getting annoyed that it’s not working—stop laughing!” But Stiles was laughing, too. “This is serious, you could’ve poisoned yourself.”

He shook his head as he wheezed. “Peter’s been so pissed lately, and it turns out it’s because his experiments aren’t working—because I’ve been drinking them.” He shook his head, overcome.

“Didn’t he—no, you said he didn’t tell you guys what it was for.” Stiles rolled his eyes. The cold was starting to seep under his jacket finally, chilling him.

“No, he didn’t. Serves him right for not telling us what he was making us run errands for.”

Stiles lifted a brow at him.

“Hey, I got my payback by losing sleep.”

“Somehow that doesn’t seem to compare.” Stiles looked at the box in his hand and sighed. “When was the last time you drank his coffee?”

“Yesterday morning,” he admitted sheepishly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck and shuffling his feet. They were barely an arms’ length apart, over the muddy disturbed grass where he’d been wrestling with his cousins. He scratched drying blood off his temple.

“You’ve probably got another couple nights before the dreams wear off.”

He nodded. “Hey, I’m—I’m glad you came over.” He smiled shyly.

Stiles smiled back. “Me too. Now I know why none of my usual tricks worked for your weird dreams.” He tapped his finger on the box. “You don’t remember any of them?”

“Nothing that makes sense.” He shrugged.

Too bad. He shook it off and held the box out. “I brought this for you.”

“Thank you.” He took it carefully, tilting it so he could see the carving on the side. He traced it gently with one fingertip. “You guys are fond of ravens, I guess.”

“They’re a thing with my mom’s family. And they’re good friends.” He shrugged. “You don’t have to wait ’til sundown to open it, you know.”

Derek made a show of examining every inch of the box before he pried it open. His lashes fluttered. “You made this.” Not a question, no surprise. A fact.

“How’d you guess?”

He lifted his gaze. “I can feel it. You weren’t kidding about your magic being powerful. Can I wear it now?”

“Of course, I made it for you to wear.” Stiles had to look away, his neck prickling. He normally didn’t make a big deal of his amulets and the receivers of them typically followed his lead. He didn’t know what to do with such gravity. When he looked up, Derek was wearing the amulet around his neck, the triskelion resting just beneath his collar bones.

“How’s it look?”

Stiles nodded. “Pretty good,” he squeaked. He looked over his shoulder, but everyone who’d been on the porch was gone. He took a deep breath. “Well, now that I’ve given you fancy jewelry…”

“A protective amulet,” Derek corrected, cupping his hand over it as if he was shielding it.

“Right. I was—I wanted to ask if you wanted to go out on a date. Maybe get coffee from somewhere your sister doesn’t work.” He caught his breath and reminded himself that either way this went, he would get something he wanted.

He just, maybe, wanted to date Derek more than he wanted that book of charms.

Derek smiled. “Sure, that sounds great.” He lifted his gaze and winced. “But, uh, first we have to survive this.” He pointed.

Claudia and Talia were watching from the door, both grinning, while noses pressed against nearly every window around them.

“We could make a run for it,” Stiles said out of the corner of his mouth. “I think I can hold the door closed from here and we can make it to the jeep.”

“You can’t run from every problem.”

“I am fast enough to out run most of them,” he pointed out.

Derek caught his hand, twined their fingers together, and tugged him up toward the house. “There’s not that many of them in this house—most of them are out in the backyard.”

“Your mom is in there,” he whined.

Claudia winked.

“My mom is in there,” he added under his breath.

They laughed together and moved out of the doorway, linking arms and heading toward the kitchen, by the looks of it.

Stiles squeezed Derek’s hand. “Because you didn’t shoot me down, I have to give your sister a job interview.”

“If you can survive this, interviewing Laura will be nothing.” Derek kissed the back of his hand, making him flush all over, before he went into the house.

“Derek!” a man growled, followed by a yelp and a thud.

Stiles shook his head and went inside to save him from Peter’s wrath.

[five-rivers]

Exile

Prompt by @halfaqueen. My goodness, this took forever to write. I have no idea how it got so long.

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Danny hadn't realized that exile was still a thing, but when he and Jazz had gotten expelled, and their parents had been banned or barred from basically all public places, and all of them had gotten restraining orders of one sort or another, and dozens of lawsuits had been filed against Fentonworks... Well... Officially, it wasn't exile, but that was what Amity Park was clearly aiming for with this harassment campaign.

He watched his city, his haunt, disappear over the horizon from the back window of the GAV. It was all he could do not to cry out aloud. Leaving like this felt like tearing part of himself away.

"Don't worry, Danno!" said Jack, leaning over the back seat. He wasn't driving, as he had lost his license early on in the city's war against them. "Just give it a few weeks! They'll be begging for us to come back, what with all the ghost that'll attack!"

This did not make Danny feel better.

"Jack," said Maddie, drawing out her husband's name. As clear as day, her tone said, Don't get their hopes up.

"You betcha! Because nobody can catch a ghost better than the Fentons, that's for sure!"

Jack Fenton hadn't ever been good at reading things as abstract as tones.

"They think they can stop the ghosts by closing the portal? Please! If it was as easy as that, we'd have closed it ages ago!"

Danny cringed, and sunk lower in his seat. No. None of that made Danny feel better.

Amity Park had hired other ghost hunters, blatantly replacing the Fentons, but Danny didn't know how good they were. He didn't know how good he should hope they were, either. On one hand, he wanted them to be bad, so that Amity Park would drop the restraining orders and he could go home. On the other, he wanted them to be good, so that Amity Park would be safe, so that everyone would be safe and no one would be hurt. But, then, if they were good, and everything was fine, that meant that Amity Park didn't need him any more, that he wasn't helpful, and, even though it was selfish, part of him wanted to be needed.

But, worse, what if they were good enough to defeat the more common ghosts, but then someone powerful come through, someone big, and they couldn't handle it? What if the new hunters worked for the GIW and would send the ghosts they caught off to be experimented on?

Danny had warned away as many ghosts as he could about what was happening before they left, but it didn't seem to be enough. And what if that warning got to someone who would see it as an invitation? As an opportunity to strike, now that he, Phantom, was gone.

He'd been so worried, stressed, and paranoid that he'd made himself sick. He was probably going to make himself sick again before the day was out.

"Where are we going, anyway?" he mumbled.

"Didn't we tell you?" asked Maddie. Danny shrugged. "We're visiting some relatives of Jack's. They have an interest in the supernatural, and they offered to let us stay with them while we look for a more permanent solution."

"Yep!" said Jack. "My favorite cousin, Cory! She's not quite a ghost hunter, but she has that Fenton blood for sure!"

"Cordelia Nightingale," said Maddie. "I don't think that her branch of the family has been Fentons since the sixteen-hundreds."

Danny swallowed. He was not a fan of the name 'Nightingale,' all things considered. It reminded him too much of pain and Sam pushed up against a wooden stake.

He decided this, on top of everything else, was a bad omen. He bet that 'cousin Cordelia' was going to turn out to be a ghost or, somehow, something worse. Like a witch. Or she had something like Freakshows staff. Or she grew blood blossoms for fun. Or she was part of a cult.

Ugh, why did that sound like something that might happen? What was his life?

Half gone, that's what.

Jazz patted him on the knee. "Maybe it'll be nice?" she said, hopefully.

"Maybe," said Danny.

He didn't have high hopes.

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Sam probably would have liked the house. Danny didn't. The Gothic architecture only accentuated his fears. He frowned up at the spikes on the railing and the darkly painted boards. No. He didn't like this house at all.

He wanted to go home.

But, at his mother's prodding, he bent and picked up his suitcase. Most of his things were still at home and, if this lasted longer than a week, would then be put into a storage locker along with the rest of the family's belongings, to await a time when they once again had a house of their own to live in.

Jack bounced up the steps and pressed the doorbell with his thumb. Almost at once, a thin woman with graying brown hair opened the door. She wore a black turtleneck and a dark, straight skirt that ended at her ankles. Somehow, she made the outfit look practically Victorian.

"Cory!" exclaimed Jack, giving her a trademark Jack Fenton hug.

Both Jazz and Danny cringed slightly. That felt a bit too familiar for someone who he hadn't seen for literally their entire lives. Danny just hoped this wouldn't be Vlad all over again.

But, to his surprise, Cordelia gave Jack a thin smile and hugged him back. She extracted herself and stepped away from the door, into the house.

"Please," she said, "come in. You must all be tired. Amity Park is hours away."

One by one, the Fentons passed through the door, Danny bringing up the suspicious and paranoid rear.

"You must be Jasmine and Daniel," said Cordelia, closing the door. It wasn't quite dark inside the house, but it did feel rather dim. It smelled sweet, but dusty. Like flowers. Old, dry flowers.

"Jazz and Danny, please, Ms. Nightingale," said Jazz.

"Call me Cordelia. We're family, after all."

Was that ominous, or was Danny just paranoid? Well, it wasn't paranoia if people really were out to get you, right?

His breath went cold in his mouth, and something moved out of the corner of his eye. He whirled, trying to trace it.

He couldn't see anything. His ghost sense hadn't gone off.

"Danny?" said Maddie. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I just thought I saw something."

"Probably my cat," said Cordelia, calmly. "She's a shy little thing, but curious. Don't be surprised if you don't see her again."

"Right," said Danny, doubtful, but not wanting to press the point.

"Now, I've cleaned out rooms for you upstairs," she gestured, and began to lead the way.

Danny started to follow, but another shadow moved at the edge of his sight, this one distinctly humanoid. He turned again, trying to find what cast it. There was nothing. He hurried to catch up with the others.

"Do you live here all alone?" he asked as they climbed the stairs.

"Oh, no," said Cordelia. "This place is much too large for one person. I let out rooms to some nice young ladies who work in town. None of them are here right now, of course, but I'll introduce all of you at dinner."

Well, there went that theory. He glanced back down the stairs. There was definitely a chill in this house.

"You didn't have to give us this much space," said Maddie, snapping Danny's attention back to the conversation. "We should pay you."

"Nonsense. You're family, and those rooms weren't being used anyway. Here, this one has a king mattress, so you two will want this one, even if it is a bit tight, and Daniel, Jasmine, you two take the ones on either side."

Danny and Jazz shared a look. It was a lot easier for Jazz to cover for Danny, or for Danny to sneak into her room for help, when they were next to each other. But there was nothing to be done. They shrugged.

It didn't matter who took which room. Jazz went left. Danny went right.

The room was a lot like the rest of the house. Old-fashioned and dark. It was also meticulously clean and decorated like something out of an old movie. It looked like a set piece. It really did.

Then again, Cordelia did say she had just cleaned the rooms. It wasn't anything to get nervous about, even if it did make Danny feel like he was the main character in a horror film.

He put down his suitcase.

"The bathroom is just down at the end of the hall. The schedule is posted next to it, make sure you write down when you want to shower, so you don't disrupt anyone," said Cordelia, still talking to Jack and Maddie in the hall. "The kitchen is downstairs and in the back. If you take the last of something from the refrigerator, write it down on the shopping list. Otherwise, go ahead and make yourselves at home. Freshen up, take a nap. Dinner is at six."

"Do you want any help with that?" asked Maddie. "You're cooking for an awful lot of people."

"No, no, I'm more than used to it."

"Alright. Did you catch all that, kids?"

"Yes," said Jazz.

"Yeah," said Danny. He wanted to look for whatever was giving him this chill. He didn't like the idea of something supernatural sneaking up on him or his family while he slept.

.

He couldn't find it, and it was driving him crazy.

There was something in this house, even if Danny couldn't see it as anything but a shadow in his peripheral vision. Jazz couldn't see it at all, but she believed him after that whole thing with Youngblood.

Even if they couldn't find the thing, however, they found lots of other... things. Creepy things. Dead-eyed porcelain dolls. Dusty portraits. Bundles of dried herbs. Weird sculpture things. Light fixtures that should have been updated before Danny was born. A stuffed cat. A closet full of brooms.

"You know what I haven't seen?" asked Danny, as it turned five o'clock.

"No," said Jazz. "What? Ghosts?"

"A litter box," said Danny.

"That doesn't really mean anything," said Jazz. "It could be in one of the bedrooms, or there's a cat door and the cat goes outside."

"Maybe," said Danny. "Let's check out the yard."

This far from the nearest town, the yard was big and cut into a forest that loomed darkly over them even in the bright sunlight. The yard itself was full of flowering plants, but...

"I think these are all poisonous," he said. "At least, a lot of them are."

"Isn't that normal for decorative plants?" asked Jazz. "They weren't bred to eat."

"Yeah, I guess," said Danny, frowning. "But would you necessarily want a cat out here with all this?"

"Cats are carnivores. They wouldn't eat the plants. Can you see the neighbors?"

"No. Too many trees."

"How far away are we, I wonder?"

"It can't be that far," said Danny. "Not if her boarders commute to town."

"That's true. We're not in the wilderness." Jazz scanned up and down the height of the trees. "Not really."

"Maybe a little bit," said Danny. He could imagine some of those trees being hundreds of years old. The ground might not have been untrod by human feet, but... "Does everything here just sort of feel... off? Or is that just me?"

"I don't know," said Jazz.

Gravel crunched in the driveway, audible even from the other side of the house. Jazz and Danny walked to the corner of the house so that they could see around the corner and watch what was happening.

A small white car was pulling into the driveway. It stopped next to the GAV. As they watched, three young women stepped out. One of them had long, dark hair and wore a red sweater and skirt, reminiscent of Cordelia's. The second had pale blond, almost white, hair and wore a deep brown shirt and skirt. The third had red hair, and wore white. All of them had wicked looking boots and matching leather purses.

"Okay," whispered Jazz, pulling Danny back around the corner. "I... Maybe they just like to match?"

"I hate this so much," said Danny. "I want to go home."

"Maybe whatever is going on here is friendly?"

"We are literally never that lucky," said Danny. "I hope it's just a ghost. I can deal with ghosts. It's probably a ghost."

"Really?"

"No. Let's go in. We're going to have to meet them eventually."

.

"This is Sofia," said Cordelia, indicating the dark haired woman. "This is Alison." She put her hand on the blonde's shoulder. "And this is Morgan." She nodded at the redhead. "Girls, these are my cousins, Jack, Maddie, Jazz, and Danny."

Three sets of eyes moved sequentially from Jack, to Maddie, to Jazz, to Danny. They stayed on Danny.

"It's nice to meet you," said Sofia, still looking at Danny.

He tried to hide his discomfort. Could they tell he was half-ghost? He hoped not. That was his trump card if everything turned out as badly as he feared and he had to get his family out in a hurry.

What he wouldn't give for a piece of concrete evidence right now. Without it, his parents would never listen to him. They hadn't with Vlad.

They were still looking at him. Jazz slipped in front of him.

"So!" she said, brightly. "Dinner?"

Danny pushed back in front of Jazz. "Yeah! It's six, right?"

"Well, it sounds like the kids have inherited that good old Fenton appetite! Huh, Cory?" added Jack

"Yes, yes, come along. Girls, why don't you go ahead and get the table started. No, Maddie, the girls know how I like it, I'll show you later. You just sit down and relax." Cordelia disappeared into the kitchen.

The three younger women moved smoothly around the room, pulling plates and silverware- real silver silverware- from a china cabinet. They set the long table in the middle of the room with rigorous formality. There were more kinds of forks at each place setting than Danny had seen even when having dinner at Sam's. They topped it off with two candelabras.

Cordelia emerged with a casserole dish. Whatever was in it was thick, roughly cylindrical, and covered with a thick red sauce.

"Wow! Is that a roast?" asked Jack.

"Yes," said Cordelia. "I always make this when new guests arrive. The girls have all had it."

The 'girls' nodded as one, and retreated to the opposite side of the table. They almost moved in sync with one another.

Cordelia put the roast on the table, and went back to get side dishes. This gave the three women more time to stare at Danny.

On occasion, Danny did want attention, acknowledgement, what have you, but this scrutiny would have been a bit much even when he was at the height of his 'look at me' phase. He kept a tight hold on his core to keep himself from flickering invisible.

Cordelia came back with two serving dishes full of green... things. Possibly vegetables, but Danny didn't recognize them. She then started to, with excruciating slowness, carve the roast.

The slow exposure of the meat under all that sauce was enough to make Danny vaguely ill. It was too... wet. Too vibrant and too gray all at once. He swallowed against the smell.

"Wow!" said Jack, as Cordelia dropped a slab of meat on his plate. "This looks great, Cory! What kind of meat is it?" He was already sawing away at the flesh. It was all Danny could do to keep himself from slapping it away from him.

"Beef," said Cordelia, smiling at him as she carved. "Locally grown and harvested. It's an old family recipe, from before our branches split and we were all Nightingales."

"You mean Fentons!" said Jack around a mouthful of meat.

Cordelia's smile turned brittle. "However you would like to put it, Jack." She went around the table, serving herself last.

Danny made no move to pick up his utensils. The women on the other side of the table ate while watching him, barely looking at their food. Jazz was the only one who seemed to notice, and when Danny caught her eye and shook his head, she put down the bite of meat she had picked up, turning her focus to the vegetables.

"So," Jazz said, "what do you three do?"

Sofia's eyes flicked briefly to Jazz. "Graphic design," she said.

"That must be interesting."

"It's a job."

Danny didn't eat that night.

.

"I have some granola bars," said Jazz, grabbing his arm before he entered his guest room. Not that he intended to sleep there. Or anywhere.

"You keep them," he said. "I'm fine. You didn't eat much, either."

"You didn't eat anything," said Jazz.

"I'll be okay." Danny flared his eyes. "I've got an extra reserve, remember?"

"If you say so," said Jazz. She was frowning. "Danny... Let's share a room tonight."

"What?"

"I don't like how those three were looking at you," she said. "I can't believe Mom and Dad didn't notice..."

"They don't notice anything," said Danny. He pulled Jazz into the dubious safety of his room. He didn't want to have this conversation out in the hallway. "Wait," he said, eyes flicking over the room. "Where's my suitcase?"

Jazz shrugged. "Kind of reminds me," she said, not quite whispering. "I was thinking about barricading the door."

Danny hissed through his teeth. "I put my thermos up here when we went to eat. It's gone, too."

"If this were a horror movie, this would be when we yelled at the screen for the characters to leave."

"Think we can convince Mom and Dad?"

"Maybe together?"

Danny shrugged. "Let's give it a try."

They left the bedroom, and knocked on their parents' door. There was no answer.

Jazz frowned. "Maybe they have their earplugs in already," she said. "Can you, you know." She made a gesture where her arms crossed each other.

"Let's see," he said, going back to the bedroom. He waited until Jazz shut the door to turn invisible and phase through the wall.

Passing through the wall felt... odd. Like walking through layers of cobwebs. He shook his head as if to clear it and surveyed the room. Jack and Maddie were already in bed. He made a face and stepped back into the other room, becoming visible and tangible for Jazz.

"They're asleep," he said, shaking his head.

"First thing tomorrow morning, then," Jazz said, wringing her hands. "Maybe- Do you think we should sleep in the GAV? Put up the ghost shield?"

"I'm not even sure that this is a ghost," said Danny. He walked around the bed, part of him still looking for his missing suitcase. "But you have a point, I just..." He glanced at the wall his room shared with his parents'. If he and Jazz slept in the GAV, Jazz would be very safe, but their parents would be vulnerable. If he stayed here, and Jazz slept in the GAV, she'd be safer than sleeping alone in the house, and his parents would be safer, but if something happened to her, he wouldn't be able to react to it, he wouldn't be able to protect her. "I don't know."

"Let's at least go down and look. Maybe you left your suitcase in there, after all?"

"I don't think so," said Danny.

"We can get the weapons locker."

Danny blinked. "I almost forgot about that. Yeah. Let's go."

They were halfway down the stairs when Jazz grabbed his shoulder. "What?" whispered Danny.

"I can't hear anything."

"Huh?"

"This house is old. These stairs creaked when we were walking on it before. Why isn't it now?"

Danny bit his lip. "Let's keep going." He put his hand on Jazz's and made them both invisible.

"I can't see my feet," said Jazz.

"Just be careful," said Danny, continuing down the stairs. "I'm going to phase us through the front door, okay?"

"Fine."

It was still twilight when they stepped outside, the first stars just beginning to show. It wasn't hard for them to navigate, slipping around the white car, but when they did, and finally got a good look at the GAV, they froze.

Jazz said something very un-Jazz-like. Danny let his invisibility fade.

"What happened?" asked Jazz, in shock.

"It looks like someone beat it with a crowbar," said Danny, almost reverently, touching the crumpled metal. "A really big, really fast crowbar."

"Danny, this glass is supposed to be bulletproof."

"And ghost-proof," agreed Danny. "Let's go barricade your room. Think it can get through a dresser?"

.

The thing about being under high levels of stress for long periods of time was that it was tiring. Exhausting, even. So, even though Danny didn't intend to sleep, he did.

He woke up unable to move, something heavy weighing down his chest. His eyes fluttered open. Something huge and dark, the shadow he'd only glimpsed before, loomed over him, pressed down on him. He could see Jazz's bright hair hanging off of the bed above him. He tried to call out, to warn her, to get her to run, but he couldn't speak.

He couldn't breathe-

.

When his eyes opened again, light was weakly streaming through the thick glass of the windows, making the dust in the room sparkle gold. He sat straight up, breathing hard. He was still in Jazz's room, the dresser pulled across the doorway. Why do that and then leave him here? It didn't make sense.

"What's wrong?" asked Jazz, voice deep and crackled with sleep. She yawned.

Danny told her.

"That sounds like sleep paralysis."

"Like what now?"

"Sleep paralysis," said Jazz. She yawned again. "Some people get it. They wake up, but they're still asleep and they can't move. And also they hallucinate."

"That sounds fake."

"You sound fake."

"You know what? That's fair. That's actually fair. This whole situation sounds fake, so why not add sleep paralysis to the whole thing? It's better than an actual literal demon." He took a deep breath. "What do we do now?"

Jazz licked her lips and ran a hand through her hair.

"We tell them that the GAV has been trashed, that those women were staring at you like they wanted to eat you all dinner, and that your clothes were stolen. And then I'll spell it out for them, if I have to."

"What, that this place is probably haunted or possessed and Dad's cousin is a witch?"

"No," said Jazz, making a face. "That'll probably only make them want to stay even more. That those three are probably pedophiles who stole your clothing and wrecked the GAV so we couldn't leave, and that neither of us felt safe sleeping alone. Sorry. Then we'll make them call a cab."

"No, no, that's fine. That's a better explanation than I could come up with. Let's do that. I would honestly rather stay at Vlad's than here."

"Yeah," Jazz dragged her hand through her hair again, and grimaced. "Let me get dressed, first. Do you see my brush over there?"

"No," said Danny.

Jazz looked around the room. "Actually... Where is my suitcase?"

"It was-" Danny stopped. "It was in that corner when we came in, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," said Jazz. "Okay, forget getting dressed. We're talking to Mom and Dad now." She swung out of bed and made her way to the door.

Danny phased through her, so he would reach the dresser first and easily pushed it out of the way. He stuck his head out the door, looking both ways for Cordelia and the borders.

The door to the room next to Jazz's, their parent's room, was open.

"Shoot," said Danny. He walked over. "They're not here."

"Downstairs? Maybe they went to get breakfast." Jazz emerged from the room crossing her arms over her chest.

"Maybe," said Danny. He had a bad feeling about this.

Cautiously, they made their way down the stairs and peered into the kitchen. No one was there.

"Hello, children," said Cordelia, directly behind them.

They jumped, both trying to get away and spin at the same time. Jazz clipped her elbow on the doorway and almost fell. Danny caught her and pulled her back up.

"If you are looking for your parents, you just missed them."

"What do you mean?" asked Jazz, a little more sharply than she usually would.

"I mean, they just left," said Cordelia mildly. "They took that vehicle of yours to town to go shopping. Something about not eating me out of my house. It was very kind of them."

"But the GAV was wrecked..." said Jazz, even as Danny gave a tug on her arm.

"Was it?" asked Cordelia, smiling. "It seemed fine when they left. You should get dressed, though, Jasmine, and, Daniel, are those the clothes you were wearing yesterday?"

"Our clothes are gone," said Jazz.

"You left them in your car? Well, no wonder you're looking for your parents. I think I might have some old clothes that will fit you. Come along, now." She turned.

Possibilities tumbled through Danny's head. A large part of him wanted to just grab Jazz and fly away to find their parents in town, but he estimated that there was a pretty good chance that they weren't in town, but trapped here somewhere. Jazz had apparently made that same calculation, because she was giving him the 'don't you dare use your powers' head shake.

Fine. Okay. Play along it was, then.

Cordelia lead them into a dusty ground floor room full of chests. She opened one, knocking free a number of cobwebs. "These are a little old fashioned, I'm afraid, Daniel, but it has been a while since a boy your age lived here." She handed him a small, neat stack of clothing. "And these are for you, Jasmine. I wore them when I was about your age. I grew a few inches, after that."

"Right," said Jazz, already backing away. "We'll just go... change... then. Right Danny?"

"Yeah," said Danny.

Jazz didn't speak to him until they were back upstairs. "What now?"

"Now," said Danny, "I go ghost and see if Mom and Dad are trapped in a dungeon under the house or something. If not, I take you and get the heck out of here. If they are, I rescue them, we get the heck out of here. We'll steal Cordelia's car or something."

"Not much of a plan."

"Don't kid yourself. We never have a plan. Do you want to get dressed, first, or...?"

"Pass."

"I'll have to bring you with me. I don't want to leave you alone up here while I'm searching," warned Danny.

"I know. I don't want to be alone here, either."

Danny took a breath and-

Did not go ghost. He doubled over, gasping for breath, transformation rings flickering to nothing around him as the shadows pressed inward, suffocating him. The huge fingers around his chest- The almost-human silhouette-

"Danny?" asked Jazz, alarmed, shaking his shoulder. "What's wrong? What's happening?"

"Not," wheezed Danny, "sleep paralysis."

The shadows crept up over his eyes and everything went dark.

.

When he woke up, he was wearing different clothes. Very different clothes. They were all white and loose. He wasn't sure if he should call them robes, but they had that kind of feeling. His shoes were gone. He was in his guest room, on the bed. Jazz was nowhere to be seen.

Danny should have taken his family and run as soon as he saw that not-ghost shadow. He swallowed, shaking, and clenched his fists. It was still here, watching him. He could feel it, even if he couldn't see it.

Okay. First step, get out of here.

He swung his feet off the bed. As soon as they touched the floor, something twined around his ankle and rapidly climbed up his leg. He gasped and yanked himself back, trying to free his knee from the shadow twisted around it. It held fast, firmly squeezing his thigh.

Danny growled. This wasn't the first shadow he had fought. He gathered ectoplasm in his hand and poured energy into it until it burned brighter than magnesium. The shadow retreated, and Danny scrambled to stand on the middle of the bed, ectoblast still in his fist.

"Now, now, no need for any of that."

Cordelia stood in the doorway, not the least bit surprised to see Danny wielding supernatural powers.

"Where's my family?" demanded Danny.

"Safe," said Cordelia, neutrally, "and they will continue to remain so."

Danny shifted, and the bed springs squealed. "What do you want?" he asked.

"My heritage. Come along. I will explain as we go." She turned in the doorway and looked over her shoulder. "Our shadow will not trouble you, should you follow now."

Danny clenched his jaw at the threat but gingerly climbed down from the bed and followed Cordelia across the frigid floor.

"Our last common ancestor was Elizabeth Nightingale," said Cordelia. "She was married to James Fenton. They had two children, John Fenton-Nightingale and Mary Fenton-Nightingale." She paused. "Elizabeth was knowledgeable in what would have been called witchcraft, and she was very, very good at it."

They climbed down the stairs to the first floor. All of the lights were off.

"But, as these things happen, she died. A mistake with a summoning." Cordelia turned into a long hallway Danny had missed in his earlier explorations of the house. "John and Mary were divided on how to handle her legacy. John," the name was said with anger, "decided that Elizabeth's craft, her knowledge, was evil, and decided to destroy it. He burned generations of Nightingale knowledge in a single night. When Mary tried to stop him, to salvage her mother's legacy, he tried to burn her, too. He denounced her as a witch."

"I'm sorry about that," said Danny. "I really am." After all, he knew exactly what that felt like. "But I don't see what that has to do with us. That was hundreds of years ago. A bit late for revenge, don't you think?" A sufficiently disturbed ghost wouldn't, but Cordelia was, as far as Danny could tell, human.

"This isn't about revenge," said Cordelia. "Besides, it has everything to do with you. Of the two of us, you are the one who met the man, Phantom."

"What are you talking about?"

"There's no need for you to play coy with me, young man," said Cordelia. "Why else do you think I put so much time and effort into getting you here? The magics to turn your town against your parents weren't child's play, after all." She bent and seized the corner of a rug, pulling it up and back to reveal a trap door. "Neither was calling the shadow to keep you bound." She lifted the ring handle on the trap door, pulling it open. "After you."

Danny stared down the dark hole below. There was a metal ladder, but he couldn't tell where it ended. A very faint light from somewhere to the right reflected off of some of the rungs.

"Is this where you reveal you're a cannibal?" asked Danny, unimpressed. "Is that what horror movie this is?"

Cordelia rolled her eyes. "Hardly. Although you and Jasmine refusing to eat with us last night made everything harder than it had to be."

That definitely wasn't Danny's stomach growling at the reminder that he hadn't eaten since lunchtime yesterday. "Drugged, was it?"

They stared at each other over the trap door.

"If you refuse to cooperate, we can always use Jack. Or Jasmine."

Danny's lips twitched as he held back a snarl. "Fine," he snapped, angrily climbing down, into the hole.

It turned out that the ladder wasn't terribly long after all. It descended into a basement of normal height.

That was, however, the only normal thing about the space. Far from simply being unfinished, the floor of the basement seemed to be stone. So were what little he could see of the walls. It was like the basement had been carved from one huge piece of bedrock, but that couldn't be possible. Danny didn't know, well, anything about geology, but he was pretty sure houses usually weren't built on stuff like this.

To the right, there was a small table with a single burning candle on it and two chairs, one on each side. Beyond that, Danny could make out a circle on the ground marked with chalk.

The cold feeling that had been plaguing Danny since yesterday was a hundred times stronger in this room. His core was alert, but the relief that his ghost sense usually brought just never came.

The strain was beginning to ache.

"Sit down," said Cordelia, indicating the chair closest to the chalk circle.

Danny complied, tense, and Cordelia moved the candle to one side, taking out a book and setting it on the table. The book was old and singed, the edges of the leather cover and several of the pages burnt and curled. Cordelia stroked it, reverently.

"This is all that Mary managed to salvage from the flames," she said. "Just this one book, out of so many. All that knowledge lost. Elizabeth was the last one to have it."

Danny heard movement in the dark corners of the room and turned his head to Sofia, Alison, and Morgan emerging, all of them in robes similar to his own, but in their own colors. They came close, and grabbed the back and arms of his chair.

"You asked me what I wanted. I want Elizabeth Nightingale."

A surprised laugh, almost a scoff, forced its way between Danny's lips. "Well, I'm sorry, but I don't exactly have her in my back pocket. Do these pants even have pockets?"

"You might not have her," said Cordelia, annoyance creeping into her otherwise level tone, "but you can get her. Bring her back from beyond."

"Uh, not sure what's in your book, but, contrary to popular belief, not all dead people know each other. She might not even be a ghost. She might have moved on."

"She hasn't," said Cordelia, almost smiling. "Not with the summoning she was doing. We are going to send you to her, and you are going to bring her back." She tilted her head to one side. "We could do this with any blood relative. The original plan was to use Jack, but your condition makes you so much more open to this kind of thing. Your chances of success are much higher."

Danny crossed his arms. "And if I don't succeed, you'll make Dad and Jazz try."

"That's right."

"Why don't you do it?" asked Danny. "You're a blood relative, aren't you?"

"Sadly, the ritual requires four people."

"Yeah, that's the only reason, huh?" said Danny, because he liked to antagonize people he couldn't strike back against in other ways, and also because he was an idiot.

"As I said, we can always use one of the others if you do not cooperate."

"And you'll let us all go if I do?"

"If you bring back Elizabeth, yes."

"Fine," said Danny. "What do I need to do?"

"Very little," said Cordelia. "Give me your hand. Your right hand."

Reluctantly, Danny held out his hand. Cordelia took it and wrapped a thin, white cord around it.

"That will lead you to her."

"I thought you were sending me to her," said Danny.

"You won't be in exactly the same spot," said Cordelia.

Then she whipped a knife out from under the table and sliced deeply into Danny's hand. He pushed back, away, holding his bleeding hand close to his chest. The only reason the chair didn't tip back was because the other three witches were holding on to it.

"Go stand in the circle," ordered Cordelia.

In a fit of pique, Danny phased backwards through the three women holding the chair, not bothering to wait for them to move away to let him go. The shadow pushed uncomfortably against his shoulders, but did not otherwise protest.

The circle was simple, no runes or symbols, just a single line of white chalk on the dark stone. Danny stared at it for a long moment, before stepping over it and standing at the center, his elbow dripping blood as it ran down his arm from his hand.

"Alright, girls, you know what we need to do," said Cordelia.

.

Danny stood in a field of washed-out red grass. Overhead, the sky billowed with rolling, boiling gray clouds. They seemed too close. The air smelled of smoke. The horizon was blurred and warped, as if Danny were looking at it through thick, wavy glass, or as if in a dream.

This wasn't the Ghost Zone.

He took a deep breath, the smoke washing through him. Okay. He was here. Now he needed to find Elizabeth Nightingale.

He looked down at his hand. The white cord had been turned red with his blood, and it had grown longer, reaching back over his shoulder.

"Eat your hear out, Ariadne," muttered Danny. He looked over his shoulder.

A forest was on fire.

The tall, straight, slender trees burned from their tops, like candles. Their trunks were bare, entirely free of leaves, needles, or branches. Danny should have felt the heat, even at this distance. He didn't.

The bloody cord led between the trees.

"Right," muttered Danny, "because nothing can be easy."

Resigned, he started walking towards the trees and discovered that the 'grass' on the ground actually consisted of thin-walled ceramic-like tubes. Fragile ceramic tubes. The ones he stepped on shattered and cut into his bare feet. He hissed, resisting the urge to hop around and get even more shards stuck into him. The bottoms of his feet felt wet and hot. He tried to phase the shards out and couldn't.

"Is this hell?" asked Danny, aloud. "This has to be hell. Ancients."

He couldn't feel the shadow near him anymore, but that didn't mean it wasn't there. Despite the 'grass,' he hesitated to try and go ghost to fly over it. He didn't want to pass out onto the tubes and break them even more. He didn't want those shards in his face or hands.

The squelching of his blood as he shifted his weight decided it for him. He couldn't walk over all of this.

He sent one last look around him for the shadow and summoned his rings. He was relieved when they flowed smoothly over him, transforming him into a ghost, into Phantom.

His normal hazmat suit did not appear, however. Instead, the white robes he had been dressed in turned black. Danny frowned at this. He was not a fan. He wanted his hazmat back.

Whatever. There were more important things to focus on. For example, both his blood and the cord had turned a lurid, ectoplasmic green. Much easier to see against the red-hued backdrop of this world.

He lifted up off the ground and flew on, occasionally pausing to pull shards out of his feet. His accelerated healing made the wounds scab over quickly. The cut on his hand, however, continued to bleed freely. This was beginning to concern him. He didn't have an infinite supply of blood. Or ectoplasm. Whatever.

As he approached the burning forest, he expected to start feeling heat, but even when he was right at the treeline, hovering midway up the impossibly tall, thin tree trunks, he couldn't feel anything. It wasn't hot. It wasn't cold. The smoke didn't smell any stronger.

Even so, he knew fire didn't have to be hot to burn. Fire was a chemical reaction, and Danny had no intention of being one of the reactants.

That was, if this place obeyed anything like normal physical laws. Since the trees hadn't actually burned down at all, the fire staying at the same height, he had to conclude that they didn't.

Still. He was going to stay away from the fire. Briefly, he considered flying over the forest, but the cord angled ever so slightly down, and he didn't know how the cord would fare trailing through the fire. Nothing the witches had said made him think it was indestructible.

He flew under the fires. It was bright underneath the trees, in a sort of inverse of a real forest. Bright, dry, and somehow brittle. Danny flew cautiously. This might nor be the Ghost Zone, but he didn't trust it not to have carnivorous landscape features, and even Earthly forests had their dangers. Lions and tigers and bears.

Oh my.

The angle on the cord began to point down more sharply. Danny was getting closer. The forest was also becoming stranger. The tree trunks bled, and glowing eight-legged flies licked at the ichor. Flowers of sickly fire bloomed from the ground in intricate geometric patterns.

Then, amid the burning brightness, Danny saw a house. A big house. A castle, even, its sides built into the burning trees, its pennants alight with flame, smaller fires moving, no, patrolling the battlements.

Danny quickly went invisible. He had a horrible suspicion that Elizabeth would be in the dungeons of that castle. The cord was going to make him hilariously easy to see, not to mention that he was still dripping blood. This was going to suck so much.

But as Danny approached, the fire creatures did not appear to have noticed the cord at all. Some of them even passed through it without slowing down.

Okay. So, as shocking as it was, Danny had actually caught a break.

Slowly, relying on the fire creatures to open the doors, Danny made his way through the castle and down. Down. Down.

The walls down here glowed, as if with heat, but it was a dull, old, tired glow. A rosy cherry color that burned Danny's eyes and made his head pound. Doors in the walls were made of wood that burned from the inside, veins of embers streaking their surface. The bars set in them glowed white-orange.

The green cord snaked across the floor and wove in between the bars of one of these doors.

Danny stopped. He was quite sure Elizabeth was behind that door. But...

Was freeing her the right thing to do? He had gotten the impression that she was dangerous. At least as dangerous as those witches. Even to save his family, should he set someone like that loose on the world?

But Danny had made this decision and all decisions like it the moment he died in the portal. That was the essence of an Obsession.

Besides. Elizabeth was family, too.

He held out his hands, letting frost form on his fingers and palms and pressed them against the door. Once again, he wondered why he couldn't feel any heat. He should. His ice should at least be registering the pressure, the power drain, of something trying to melt it. It didn't.

Ice spread over the door, extinguishing the light and making the metal creak. Feathery tendrils wound up the bars and encased the hinges. The wood began to fall into ash, as if the fire had been the only thing holding it together, and the bars clattered to the ground.

The inside of the cell was incandescent white. The only dark spot was a huddled, burnt black figure in the corner. The cord let straight to it.

Danny, very emphatically, did not want to go into that room. He hovered at the threshold.

"Elizabeth Nightingale?" he called, softly. If the falling bars hadn't alerted the fire creatures to his presence, he wasn't going to ruin that luck by speaking too loud. "Elizabeth?"

The figure abruptly lurched sideways and fell. Danny flinched. Bit by bit, the figure clawed their way towards the door, dragging itself onward.

Danny could hardly bring himself to watch. Part of him wanted to help. Part of him wanted to run far, far away and never come back.

But, at last, the ruined and horrible body made it to the threshold. It reached up with a claw-like hand and grasped Danny's ankle. He cringed at the feeling of the flaking burnt flesh, but didn't try to shake off the hand. He bent slightly, unsure if he should try to help the figure up.

"You," rasped the figure, ash falling from its jaw, "not from here."

"Um," said Danny. "No. I'm not."

The figure began to pull itself up. As it did so, it sort of began to piece itself back together. Danny had seen similar things before, with ghosts returning to their base form, healing, after an unusually devastating attack. Usually, though, it was slower and usually-

Danny abruptly pulled away. Usually ghosts who were doing that were draining his energy to do it. He glared.

"One of mine?" asked the figure, that was now decidedly feminine. It finally drew itself to its knees. Her knees. "One of my," she coughed, "grandchildren?"

"I'm a descendant of yours, I guess," said Danny, cautiously. He wasn't quite pressed up against the far wall, but he was close.

"You came for me," she said. Her voice was still too rough and dry for Danny to detect any emotion in it.

"I was sent," said Danny, flatly. "If I pick you up, are you going to start draining me again?"

She didn't respond for a long time. "No," she said, finally.

"Great," said Danny. "Let's go."

Elizabeth wasn't hard to carry. She wasn't much larger than Jazz, and he flew her around all the time. The problem was, he couldn't seem to extend his invisibility to her. Any power he sent to cover her was simply absorbed.

"Okay," he said, finally. "We'll just have to be fast, then." Mentally, he began to map out the path he would have to take, and how many doors he would have to blow down. It made for a discouraging picture.

"They can't harm you," croaked Elizabeth.

"What?"

"Pure soul. They can't harm you." She reached up to trace his chin and cheek with her still-charred fingers. "You don't feel the heat. You can't. You can't be harmed."

"Uh. Yeah. I don't think that's how it works. I stepped on some sharp stuff when I first got here, and, let me tell you, it hurt."

"The fires can't burn you. Sending you was clever." Elizabeth seemed to have exhausted herself at that; her hand fell back into her lap.

Right. Well. Whatever. The fires hadn't burnt him yet, but he had stayed well away from them. He was going to continue to do so.

He took a deep breath and flew out of the dungeons as quickly as he could. As expected, the fire creatures spotted him quickly, and they began to shout and shriek in a language Danny couldn't even begin to understand.

They also threw fireballs. And fire spears. And fire chains. Just, a lot of things made out of fire.

It was a good thing Danny had ice powers. Otherwise he would have had a hard time combating all this. A few fireballs passed far too close to his head for comfort. His ice also seemed to be unusually effective on doors.

Finally, Danny was able to get above ground, and, no longer constrained to follow the cord around his wrist, he escaped through a window. He spiraled up, almost high enough to hit the underside of the flames licking at the trees, and then dove away.

"So," he said, "what now?"

"You don't know?" Elizabeth looked a lot better now. Almost human.

"I wasn't given a whole lot of information when they coerced me into doing this. They just said to follow the cord to you, and I did that." Speaking of which, what had happened to the cord? It had just vanished, without Danny even noticing. "I was half-expecting to just get zapped back the moment I found you."

"Coerced?"

"They said they'd make my dad or my sister do this, if I didn't, and they can't fly."

"They're alive."

"Yeah."

There was something like a frown on Elizabeth's face. "They shouldn't have done that."

"Yeah. You don't have to tell me that." More shrieks were approaching from the direction of the castle. "They did this with one of your books. Please tell me you know how to get out of here."

Elizabeth licked her lips. Her tongue was pink. "We go out where you came in," she said.

Danny looked at the trees around him. He only knew where the castle was because of the noises coming from that direction. Otherwise, everything looked the same in every direction. He was pretty sure that even if he went back to the castle, he wouldn't be able to tell which direction he had approached it from, and after that...

They were screwed.

"Follow the blood," said Elizabeth.

It was better than nothing, Danny supposed. His green blood did stand out against the red, but he's been high in the air when he shed it. Following that trail was going to suck, and it still required going back to the castle and avoiding all the fire creatures.

Some of this must have shown on his face, because Elizabeth said, "Not like that, boy, look." She pointed to the small puddle of ectoplasm that had dripped from his hand while they had been talking.

Flowers and vines were growing from it. Ghostly green and blue flowers and vines. As he watched, the vines grew longer, the flowers opened wider.

"Oh," Danny said. "I guess that makes things easier."

.

Easier was, of course, a relative term. Was following the trail left by ghostly plants growing out of Danny's blood easier than stumbling blindly around the burning forest? Yes. Was it easy? No. No it was not. Especially not with the fire creatures hunting them through the trees and how far apart the blood spatters could be.

Still. Danny was able to follow the trail for an hour before the fire creatures caught up to him.

When they did, they seemed almost, confused. They didn't attack. It was like they were waiting for something.

Danny would have run, but he was worried that he'd lose the trail if he tried to do that, and he didn't think he'd be able to find it again. He and the fire creatures stared each other down. Every few seconds, one of them would make a noise and another would answer.

Rapidly, Danny was becoming surrounded. He would have to make his move soon. He really didn't want to lose the trail, but he didn't think he could win this fight.

Too many enemies. Too much fire. Maybe if he flew straight up, he-

The fire creatures attacked. Danny ducked, wove, and conjured shields of ice and ectoenergy, but there was a limit to what he could do against this many attackers, especially while carrying Elizabeth.

He saw a ball of fire coming that he couldn't dodge and instinctively twisted to spare Elizabeth.

It splashed against him harmlessly.

Everything stopped. The fire creatures froze, even their flames going still, as though they were videos that had been paused. One began to wail, and then they all fled, disappearing into the brightness of the forest.

"A pure soul," said Elizabeth again. She patted his shoulder. Her skin was a burnt red, now. Her eyes were as blue as his were when he was human. Her frown was deeper, more obvious. "It was clever to send you... but they shouldn't have."

"Sure," said Danny, a little surprised. He scanned the trees, trying to see if any of the fire creatures were waiting in ambush. Seeing none, he continued.

.

They reached the field of tubes, and Danny followed his blood trail back to where he had lacerated his feet.

"Now what," he said.

"Land," said Elizabeth.

Danny grimaced, remembering what had happened to his feet the last time he had tried to walk here. He landed carefully on what looked like the thickest part of the vine growing from his blood-

-and was abruptly back in the chalk circle in Cordelia's basement.

The shadow pounced on him. Unprepared, Danny dropped Elizabeth and fell. Pain sparkled along his limbs as the shadow pulled at his ghost form. It was too much. The lack of sleep, the hunger, the stress, the energy he had spent finding Elizabeth and bringing her back, the blood loss and pain from the wound in his hand, his inability to protect his family, and now this attack. He curled up, trying to protect his head and hand, and abandoned his ghost form.

"Stop this at once!"

"Grandmother, I-"

"Call off this shadow."

A beat. "Very well." The shadow stopped its assault, and Danny stumbled up and out of the circle, scuffing the lines beyond all recognition. Cordelia and Elizabeth were the only women standing. The boarders were all kneeling, faces hidden.

"Grandmother, many times great grandmother, I greet you. I am Cordelia, the last descendant of your daughter, Mary, and I have labored long to bring you back to this world, so that your works will not be lost."

Elizabeth, Danny noted, was standing very straight, her skin sunburn-pink in all but a few places, her arms crossed over the burnt rags of what might have once been a shirt. She did not look pleased.

"So my works won't be lost," repeated Elizabeth.

"Your son betrayed you," said Cordelia. "He burned all your books, all your magics. This is all that survived." Cordelia held up the singed book.

Elizabeth pressed her eyelids together briefly. "And so, you forced your cousin, a child, into that place after me, rather than coming on your own?"

"There was no choice-"

"There is always a choice," said Elizabeth, cutting her off with a sharp gesture. "Better that book should have burned as well, and I was imprisoned forever. You were lucky in my captors. Others would have delighted in taking a pure soul as an ornament for their court, even if they couldn't have harmed him."

"You can't mean that-"

"I do. Is it true you have imprisoned the other members of this boy's family?"

"He would never have agreed, otherwise. Please, this is all we have left of our heritage. We need you. This was all necessary. I beg of you, teach us."

Danny began to back away, to the ladder. Maybe if he got out fast enough, he could trap them in the basement and look for Jazz and his parents.

"Do you know how I wound up there? In that place?" asked Elizabeth. "I went too far, and I ignored the rules. What's your name?"

"Cordelia."

"Cordelia. Cordelia Nightingale-Fenton?"

"Just Nightingale."

"I begin to see," said Elizabeth.

Danny was almost to the ladder. Maybe he could tap into his ghost powers a little bit and float up, quietly.

"If you had come to get me yourself, if you had even asked him-" Elizabeth gestured to where Danny had been. Both women did a double-take, and then their eyes traced up to where Danny currently was.

"What are you doing?" hissed Cordelia. This was the first time Danny had seen her visibly angry.

"Stop," said Elizabeth, grabbing Cordelia's shoulder. "What is your name, boy?"

"It's Daniel Fenton," said Cordelia, when Danny didn't answer.

Elizabeth considered Danny for a moment. "Go to your family, Daniel. Whatever curses or enchantments Cordelia cast on them should be lifted. Including that hate curse." She ran her fingers down Cordelia's arm. "Why on earth did you cast that?" Her eyes flicked back up. "Expect to receive my correspondence, Daniel Fenton."

.

Danny found Jazz and his parents in the attic. Their luggage was there, too, and Danny and Jazz's missing clothing. Maddie's cell phone was going off. Danny ignored it. He started shaking them. Slowly, they came awake.

"Danny?" said Jazz. She scrubbed at her eyes. "Ugh, what's that sound?"

"Mom's phone is going off."

"What?" said Maddie, groggily. "My phone?" She fumbled at her pocket. "Yes, what is it? Yes, this is Doctor Fenton. What? Well," this last word was a bit snide. "It's about time. We'll be there before the end of the day." She snapped the phone closed. "Jack, sweetheart, wake up, we're going back home. All the charges against us have been dropped, and they want us to look into a ghost attack. Apparently, Phantom didn't show up. As we knew he wouldn't."

"Huh? Ghost? Where?"

"In Amity Park, Jack."

"In Amity Park! Alright!" said Jack, jumping to his feet, and grabbing most of the luggage. "I knew they wouldn't last two days without us! Let's go, kids!"

He ran down the stairs. Maddie took a moment to look around, pursing her lips. "How did we get up here?" she asked. She shook her head, dismissing the question. "Do either of you kids know where Cordelia is?"

"She went out," said Danny. "To town. She won't be back 'til later."

"We'll have to leave a note, then. You two should get dressed before we go, or you'll have to try and do it in the GAV bathroom."

"So what really happened?" asked Jazz, after Maddie went down the stairs.

"Long story," said Danny, throwing on a pair of jeans, "and we really do need to leave. Fast." He took his luggage and rushed down the stairs.

.

Danny watched Cordelia's house shrink in the rear-view mirror of the GAV, right up until it shimmered out of existence like a mirage. He clenched his teeth. He had seen worse.

He turned in his seat and put his hands in his pockets, intending to brood over what had happened, but his hand encountered a stiff piece of paper that had definitely, absolutely, not been there before. Well. Elizabeth had said to expect her correspondence.

He pulled a crisp white envelope out of his pocket. On the front, in spidery cursive, was his name. He turned it over. On the back flap was written the name Elizabeth NF.

She was family. Distantly. He put his thumb under the back flap, and began to open the letter.

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens - Dodge and Parry (Rated NC17)

Summary: Crowley discovers that he is rather enamored of his angel's bruises ... especially the ones that go farther than skin deep. (2006 words)

Notes: I wrote this for Kinktober 2020, the prompt 'bruises'. So I was going to write a piece about bruise worship, which this sort of is, but it went much deeper. I will try to come up with something kinkier and more fun another time XD

Read on AO3.

“How does that feel, angel?” Crowley asks, soaking his washcloth completely, then wringing it out over Aziraphale’s scalp. “Too hot? Too cold?”

“Neither.” Aziraphale hums happily with eyes shut. “It’s perfect. Sublime, I should say. Like soaking in a nice, warm cup of tea.”

“We’ve added enough dried flowers and wot not that you could just be,” Crowley comments, swiping a hand through the water, swatting at a cluster of rose petals, lavender, sweet jasmine, and chamomile.

“Hmm. Then you could drink me,” Aziraphale says, sinking deeper into the steaming water.

“Ngk … I … I could …” Crowley stumbles, but he recovers, a triumph since that remark from his angel almost had him choking on his tongue. “But let’s save the sweet stuff for later, eh? We’ve gotta get you fixed up.”

“Yes … let’s. Then … I can do you …” Aziraphale mumbles, drifting off, his cheeks rosy from the warmth and the company. Crowley soaps up his cloth and runs it over Aziraphale’s arm, sliding past a mark that has blossomed considerably since he last saw it. He runs the cloth over it again and it seems to darken, the cream-colored suds rinsing into cloudy water and revealing a plethora of purples swirled together, related to one another by hues, tiny freckles sprouting along the fringe like shy violets.

A galaxy of them really.

Crowley isn’t normally fond of scars and bruises, especially on his angel. Aziraphale bears many types of blacks and blues, with varied stories behind them. Older scars on Aziraphale’s corporation - ones following mortal paths and having faded to silver - come by way of other angels who delight in his suffering. Crowley has seen every one of those, categorized their existence, set their placements to memory. A touch of his fingertips tells him when they were created … and by whom.

Crowley has gathered a list of enemies on his angel’s behalf, and that list is long.

Very long.

Not all of angel’s bruises are visible to the naked, mortal eye, but they’ve dimmed his aura considerably.

Crowley never thought the humans’ quarantine would get to Aziraphale. Being locked inside, forbidden to go out and socialize, leaving him heaps of time to read his books, seemed like a dream come true. With no one coming into his shop to browse, there was nothing keeping him from doing his crossword puzzles till his heart’s content. And it seemed that way for the first few months.

But it didn’t stay that way.

More and more, Crowley would catch his angel sitting in a chair by the window, staring up at the sky, sighing deeply as if for a long lost love, which seemed utterly preposterous to Crowley since every book Aziraphale could ever want lay in a stack beside him. Aside from that, he had his music. And cake! Why, they’d been baking cake every single day! So much cake, in fact, that any poor soul who so much as poked their head out of their door received a cardboard baker’s box packed to bursting with confections, passed along at a socially safe distance courtesy of a long, wooden shepherd’s crook.

And thanks to a wonderful service with a mildly vulgar name, whenever Aziraphale so desired, a delivery person dropped by with a box of his favorite sushi, which Crowley generously tipped for.

But Aziraphale still wasn’t happy. And he was becoming less happy by the day.

Something had changed.

He mentioned several times to Crowley that he felt hemmed in; that lately, being locked inside made it difficult for him to breathe. He longed to walk through the park, soak in the sunshine (when it made itself available), and feed the ducks again.

Crowley didn’t understand it. Aziraphale despised exercise to such a degree that if he sat at Crowley’s kitchen table, preparing to sup, and discovered that he’d left the butter in the fridge, he’d rather do without then to get up and fetch it.

It wasn’t until days later, when Crowley found a stack of newspaper clippings hiding underneath Aziraphale’s ledger, that he began to catch on:

Covid cases increase rapidly as next steps planned

'Tier Three' Covid restrictions in announcement on Monday

More than 80% of positive UK cases in study had no core symptoms

It wasn’t the toll quarantine was taking on Aziraphale. It was the toll this disease that caused the need for a quarantine was taking on the humans he was so fond of. That time spent staring at the sky, Aziraphale spent praying, wondering why the Almighty would let this continue, let so many of Her beloveds die and for what?

From the expression on his angel’s face after, Crowley assumed he got no answers.

It was like the Ark all over again, only without the refreshing rain, and with no rainbow in sight.

Determined to take his mind off of it, Crowley arranged a private movie marathon for his angel at his flat. They sat on his sofa with homemade snacks and watched some old Errol Flynn movies. And it worked! After a while, Crowley started watching Aziraphale more than the film, his angel that much more entertaining. Aziraphale had started the way he watched every movie - sitting primly upright, hands folded in his lap, eyes glued to the screen. But over time, he’d started to inch forward, lean in, muscles twitching to recreate the fight scenes - the swipes of a sword, the parries, his feet shuffling enthusiastically in place to mimic the steps of the actors’ retreats like they were performing a gavotte.

Encouraged that this was a way to break through Aziraphale’s melancholy, Crowley recommended they dig out the old fencing foils and have at it, sans protective gear in honor of old Errol. Besides, they didn’t need it.

“Oh! No, no, no!” Aziraphale argued at first, even with a smile on his lips. “I couldn’t! It’s been so long!”

“Nonsense!” Crowley retorted, heading for his closet. “You were an expert swordsman centuries ago. I’m sure you’ll do wonderfully now. It’s like riding a bicycle.”

“And how’s that, dear?”

“Once you fall off, you get right back on.” Crowley tossed Aziraphale a foil, which he caught without looking, and Crowley smirked knowingly.

Crowley didn’t give Aziraphale a chance to back out, didn’t salute him like at the beginning of an official duel. Crowley came at him like a buccaneer, crowing and catching Aziraphale off-guard. But Aziraphale fought back. He wasn’t upset by Crowley’s abrupt start. On the contrary. He laughed at Crowley’s antics, especially when he tried to evade by climbing over the sofa, and then onto an end table. His joy was infectious. It rang through Crowley’s flat, made the plants (which had initially recoiled at the sound of clashing metal) stand straighter, wave their leaves and cheer. It rose up inside Crowley as if the joy were his own, making him laugh, too.

Laugh till he snorted, which he hadn’t done in a long time.

But it didn’t last as long as Crowley had hoped.

Aziraphale got lost somewhere in the fight, lost in thinking, his mind drifting in all directions while he dodged and parried by rote. His face grew tense, his expression morphing from concentration to anger … to vengeance. He went after Crowley with clouded eyes, as if everything pent up inside him - the sadness and the anxiety - had found a weak spot in Aziraphale’s armor.

And now, it was starting to break through.

Crowley didn’t know who Aziraphale saw when he looked at him. Those world leaders who didn’t take this pandemic seriously, who didn’t act quick enough, who were greedy.

Beelzebub and the Dukes of Hell, whom Aziraphale credited for the speed in which this disease took hold, and the blind, stubborn stupidity of those who refused to do their part to stop it.

Gabriel, who has long since laughed off any correspondence Aziraphale has sent him regarding the matter, rejecting the last dozen with a very snarky ‘Return to sender!’ emblazoned in gold across the envelope.

Or the Almighty, who has the power to stop this but who has refused, and doesn’t have the decency to tell him why.

Or maybe he simply saw Crowley, who treated the whole thing like a joke, not only taking a nap for the first few months but then extending it, leaving Aziraphale alone when he might have needed him most.

Aziraphale attacked, closing in on Crowley fast, fighting with more fist than blade, and Crowley defended.

They struck one another at the same time - Aziraphale bringing his wrist down on the bridge of Crowley’s nose, Crowley’s guard-covered fist coming up to block and accidentally clocking Aziraphale on the jaw.

Both stumbled back, seeing stars.

Had they been human, Crowley’s nose would have broken, and Aziraphale’s jaw would have shattered. As was, Crowley’s nose ended up a bit crooked till a minute ago when Aziraphale snapped his fingers and set it straight. Aziraphale’s jaw still sported an indigo bruise reminiscent of a mum.

“Oh … oh my dear boy! I am so sorry!” Aziraphale apologized profusely when he saw Crowley’s nose, blood pooling underneath.

“Wot?” Crowley sniffed, wiping his Cupid’s bow with the back of his hand, examining the stain left behind with swimming eyes. “Oh, this? It’s nothing. Barely a scratch. Think nothing of it.”

“But … but …” Aziraphale stuttered, on the verge of tears. He dropped his sword, almost dropped to his knees, too, but Crowley hurried forward and gathered him up, wrapped him in his arms and held him.

“It’s all right,” he whispered, hugging Aziraphale tight. “It’s going to be all right, angel.”

“Do you … do you really think so?”

“Yes,” Crowley said with a sigh. Whether he did or not didn’t actually matter. But no one, angel or human, was going to get through today and on to the next if they didn’t believe it was at least possible. Crowley had to hold Aziraphale together, even if he did it with lies. He had to keep the one angel left on earth who still cared going. “I do.”

That’s when Aziraphale’s tears began to fall.

Crowley held him.

An hour went by, and Crowley held him.

Crowley declared Aziraphale the winner, and as a reward, offered to give him a bath and miracle him healed.

But when he got his angel naked and saw the bruises glowing on his skin, he hesitated. He shouldn’t be attracted to them. He shouldn’t find them appealing. On top of being physical damage to Aziraphale’s skin, some of them were bred out of despair. They should have repulsed Crowley, but they were actually glorious, like a small corner of impressionist art brought to life and tattooed on his skin.

Because not all of these new bruises, exploding with vibrant color and depth, were bad. They happened when Aziraphale was still smiling, still laughing. When his leg banged the corner of a table during a particularly rowdy retreat. When he tried to follow Crowley vaulting over the back of the sofa, misstepped, and landed on his knee. When their foils tangled together and Crowley accidentally kicked Aziraphale in the thigh in his effort to separate them. Aziraphale had watched Crowley fly backward, land on his heel, and spin three times like a ballerina, stopping in a perfect arabesque, just to then trip over air and land in a chair. Aziraphale threw his head back and laughed so hard, he walked right into Crowley’s (blunted) sword, the flat tip leaving its circular shadow behind.

Those bruises …

Those are bruises of pleasure.

They run deeper than skin.

And Crowley is quite satisfied by that.

Crowley almost regrets his promise to rid Aziraphale of them.

But being the one who gets to heal Aziraphale is an honor all its own.

However, he realizes with a grin, there is a way to get them back.

He’ll memorize these, too. Their exact locations.

And freshen them up later with his mouth.

[agent-breakdance]

(Icarus Ch. 1) - Game On

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x F! MC (Olivia Anika Cohen)

Word count: 1.3k words

A/N: Hey everyone! This is the first ever chapter I’ve written so saying that I’m terrified is a huge understatement. This series will be pretty fast paced and severely ANGSTY so I hope you guys like it! A huge thank you to my beta @deliciouslydeafeningstarlight for putting up with my ridiculous ideas and rants!

Warning: Language

Disclaimer: PB owns characters. There’s lots of Grey’s Anatomy and Friends references with some dialogue borrowed from Open Heart.

Tag list: @deliciouslydeafeningstarlight @drethanramslay @ohramsey @theeccentricbibliophile @justanotherrookie @kaavyaethanramsey @batgirlassociationofgothamcity @tyrilstarfury @lilypills @juneiswriting @fleur-de-jasmin-fdj @mvalentine @sanchita012 @choicesstan1 @junggoku @aylamreads @whatsamottowithyou @utterlyinevitable​ @openheart12​

Let me know if you’d like to be added or removed.

Song: Eye of the Tiger by Survivor.

She stepped out of the car and her eyes swept over the tall imposing structure in front of her.

Johns Hopkins University.

As she walked across the sprawling campus, she thought about the events of the previous years. She felt her chest tighten. Her heart started to race and fill with guilt. Her thoughts took her right back to the battlefield.

The campus was a different side of the same coin. The battlefield wasn’t new to her whatsoever. She had to work hard to survive. She couldn’t afford to fuck up. 

Not then. Not now. 

The consequences were the same. If she fucked up, people died. 

The only difference? 

There, she faced immediate repercussions but here, they would be long and drawn out, haunting her for the entirety of her career as a doctor.

 Her mind flooded with doubt as she started to question her own competence but before she could shake herself out of it, she collided with someone. She managed to catch herself just before face planting and looked up to see a tall, stone-faced figure looming over her with a copy of Harrison’s Principles of Internal Medicine. He had been so engrossed in the book that he had failed to see her coming. 

He looked at her with slight concern, his brow creasing almost imperceptible to most but her sharp senses picked up on it. He immediately schooled his features to a scowl and snapped at her, “Watch where you’re going. I suppose I should have listened to my father when he said the admissions standards are in decline here.” He gave her a withering look before he stalked away. 

She muttered under her breath…. “Jerk.”

Picking up her bags, she made her way to the dorm. She got her phone out and quickly checked her room number. She stood outside the door to her shared room and chanted softly, almost like a prayer…… “Please don’t be a bitch…please don’t be a bitch.”

Apparently, the walls (and door) were thin because a cheery voice called out to her from inside, “You know, I was just thinking the same thing about you…”

Olivia cursed under her breath and opened the door with a sheepish smile. “Sorry, I didn’t know the walls were so thin.” 

“That’s quite alright. I was just praying that you weren’t a shark.”

“Excuse me?!” 

“We students gotta stick together right? This whole program was designed to push us to our limits. We won’t get through unless we have each other’s backs! Sharks only look out for Number 1. But what they don’t realize is that there’s safety in numbers. So let’s be dolphins!”

Olivia burst out laughing. “So long as I don’t have to make dolphin noises.”

She held out her hand. 

“Olivia Cohen.”

She was quickly smothered in a hug by her roommate. 

“So nice to meet you! I’m Sienna Trinh.”

As they pulled out of their hug, Sienna fetched a box and held it open for Olivia. 

“Chocolate chip cookies!”, she said. 

Olivia gave her a broad smile. “Oh we’re gonna get along just fine...”

***

Seeing as how Sienna had already been there for a week, she offered to give Olivia a tour of the campus. Olivia agreed though there wasn’t a single part of the campus or the university that she hadn’t thoroughly researched.

As they wandered through the campus, she spotted him. He seemed to be engaged in light conversation with another person. As Olivia looked on, details caught her eye. The reasonable space between them and his relaxed, unguarded stance would suggest that he was with a friend. “So he does have friends… surprising, considering the stick up his ass”, she thought to herself.

“Who has a stick up his ass?”, Sienna asked. That shook Olivia from her thoughts. “Wait…did I just say that out loud?”

“Have you guys met already?” 

“Yup. Mr. Stick up his ass was actually the first person I met here.” She quickly explained their encounter.  

“Whoa… he’s a Grade A Shark for sure.”

They both laugh. Olivia glances over at him, only to be greeted by his stern narrowed eyes staring right at her. Sienna grabs her hand and pulls her along, away from his gaze.

***

He walked around campus completely absorbed in the book he was reading when he heard a familiar voice call out to him.

“Ethan Jonah Ramsey, do you ever not read?”

Ethan looked up and saw his best friend of three years, Tobias Carrick. They had done pre med together. Tobias and Ethan were always complete opposites. Tobias had always been the fun-loving one and Ethan, the wet blanket but Tobias had managed to lead him astray once in a while.

“And what, end up like you? Not a chance.”

“You’d be lucky to end up like this.” He gestured to his body. 

“Anyways, did you meet anyone else yet or are you determined to keep your total friend count at 1 forever?”

Ethan’s eyes shifted slightly as he thought back to his morning encounter but he focused back into the present and smirked. “If it were up to me, it’d be 0, Carrick.”

“Call the doctor, I’ve been wounded. I suppose that’ll be us soon enough… Still we should try to find you some more friends.” Tobias starts pointing at random students. “What about him or her or her?” 

Ethan’s eyes follow his finger as they land on the final person he points at.

 It’s her. 

He narrows his eyes at her and regards her disdainfully as her eyes meet his. His frown starts to dissolve just as she is dragged away by her friend. A flash of regret passes by his face but it’s gone just as fast as it appeared. 

Tobias seems oblivious to this exchange as he keeps rattling on.

***

Soon enough, it’s time for orientation.

Sienna and Olivia make their way to the auditorium which was filled to the brim with the excited chattering of med students.

Amidst the horde of people, Olivia spots a handsome guy waving them over. There’s an air of confidence around him. Sienna leads them over and they take the two seats next to him. 

He extends a hand, giving her a playful wink. “Bryce Lahela aka the hottest med student here.”

Olivia rolled her eyes but couldn’t help but smile at his confidence.

“Olivia Cohen.” 

Sienna chimed in. “Hey Bryce, where’s the rest of the gang?”

“They’ll be here soon. Went off campus for breakfast.”

“Wait. You two know each other? And there’s a gang? How late am I?” 

“Relax Liv. We all got here way too early and bonded over our soon to be med school debt.” 

“Liv? Nicknames already?”

Bryce winked at her. “I work fast.”

Soon, the rest of the gang arrived but before introductions could be made, the Dean, Dr. Paul Rothman took the stage and a hush settled over the entire crowd.  

He started to speak. “This is the beginning for you. The four years you spend here will be the best and worst of your life. More will be demanded of you than you’ve ever experienced. You will be pushed to your limits and your job here is to soak every ounce of knowledge like a sponge. But, medicine is never limited to what is taught to you. You must be able to think for yourself and use what is taught to you as a guide and not a rule book. The human body is unpredictable. You must be willing to alter and adapt yourself to groove with it.

Some of you will buckle under the pressure; some of you will quit.  But some…some of you will thrive. 

This is your starting line. This is your arena. How well you play? That’s up to you.”

As soon as the speech was over, the students looked around familiarizing themselves with their competition. 

Olivia turned to her right and she saw him regarding her with his piercing blue eyes, almost as if he was assessing her threat level. A smirk formed on both their faces at the same time, like they were thinking the same thing…

Game on.

Chapter 2: Rookie Mistakes

[naturecpw]

Stop Throwing Out Your Used Tea Bags

They’re surprising useful. Here are 12 things they can do post-brew. - Shifrah Combiths

It feels so good to be able to do something with the things we’d normally discard. Coffee grounds as rose fertilizer and clementine peels saved for DIY candles come to mind, not to mention composting in general.

If you’re a regular or occasional tea drinker, you can add your tea bags to the list of garbage you shouldn’t throw out just yet.

Here are some ways to re-use them post brew:

Add a hint of flavor to rice or grains. Hang your used tea bags in boiling water to infuse your food with a touch of flavor. Think jasmine tea with rice or chai tea with oatmeal.

Protect house plants from fungal disease by re-brewing a used tea bag and using the weak tea (cooled) to water your plants.

Neutralize odors naturally. Spread dried tea leaves in stinky spots like the cat litter box or in the bottom of your garbage bags.

Make cleaning the fireplace safer and easier. Dump the damp contents of tea bags onto the ash to weigh it down before sweeping out the fireplace.

De-grease pots and pans. Soak hard-to-clean dishes in water with a used tea bag tossed in. The tea will help loosen stuck-on food and break up grease.

Add them to your bath. The antioxidants in tea are good for your skin and the gentle scent will add some aromatherapy to your soak.

Take the sting out of insect bites and sunburns. Using a cool compress will reduce pain and inflammation of the affected areas.

Make a hair rinse. Remove product buildup without using another product. Soak 3-4 used tea bags in warm water and pour it over your head after shampooing and conditioning as usual. Don’t rinse. Pro tip: Chamomile brightens blondes and black tea adds a coppery shimmer to brunettes, according to Housewife How-Tos.

Deodorize carpets by scattering the dried contents of several teabags over your rugs before you vacuum.

Depuff tired eyes. Place cool tea bags over your eyes, cucumber style. According to Chasing Green, the tannins in the tea leaves may reduce bags and dark circles.

Clean leather shoes by buffing with a damp teabag.

Wash stinky hands, using a tea bag as you would a bar of soap to help eradicate garlic, onion, or fish odors.

Shifrah Combiths has been writing professionally for twenty years. She loves lifestyle photography, memory keeping, gardening, reading, and going to the beach with her husband and children.

https://getpocket.com/explore/item/stop-throwing-out-your-used-tea-bags?utm_source=pocket-newtab

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