#All text on the second slide is Ford

[xx-akubara-xx]

Subtle forshadowing-

[piss-pumpkin]

🌲home🌲

Older!Dipper pines x reader

~3.2k words Chapter 1 of Douce amere,

Master list

The air in Gravity Falls was different. Maybe nostalgia clouded your perception, and maybe that was okay. It still smelled like pine and cedar and adventure here. And the day had that electric feel. It was the day they were coming.

Your alarm blared, and you groaned in response, grasping under your pillow to find your phone and silence it. Nine AM, on the dot. An early morning at the start of summer was a punishment in itself, but you had good reason today. Their bus came in at noon, and you had to be ready, meet them at the stop with the Grunkles and gang. You stumbled out of bed, and started to get dressed.

Half of you wanted to just wear pyjamas and spare yourself the trouble. The other half wanted to dress as nice as possible to snag attention. They hadn’t seen you in person in a year, even him. You sighed at yourself for giving into the stereotype, but you did want to catch his attention. No pyjamas today.

As you started to brush your teeth, you could feel the anxiety. As exciting as it was to start a new summer with them, it was scary too. What if they’ve changed? What if I’ve changed? You texted and called a lot, but… 

You shook your head, trying to clear the thought. They were friends. Always were and always will be. You hoped. 

Still, that wasn’t the only pain. You were older now. It was one of the last summers you’d be able to spend here with them before high school ended. You had to squeeze every bit of fun out of it while you could. Time seemed to slow here, but it still passed. Summer still ended eventually, despite everything. 

You shook your head again. The very beginning wasn’t the time to think about the end. 

Dressed and ready, you grabbed an apple and started to the mystery shack, a few hours before they were set to arrive. “Bye, Y/n! Have a good day!” you aunt shouted from the kitchen. 

“Bye, Susan, you too!” You called back. She was incredibly kind to let you stay with her, lazy Susan. 

The shack was close, and the soft grass folded under your shoes and wet them with dew. “Y/n!” You hear Soos call from the porch. He was still sporting the question mark shirt, but it was under a suit jacket, and the hat he wore was the fez Stan had given him all those years ago. 

“Soos!” You shouted back, waving as you jogged your to him. 

“Dude, I am so stoked for today, you don’t even know,” he said, leading you inside. 

“Dude, I know too well,” you laughed. “Ugh I can’t wait, I should have slept in more.”

Wendy popped her head in from the break room, “amen, man, I’ve been here since seven.”

You cringed, and clenched a fist near your chest, “My condolences.”

The mid morning passed quickly though, despite everything. There was still that static feeling, and it only grew as the day went. And eventually, the time did in fact come. The time to go to the bus stop and meet them. You had to. All of you. Stan, Ford, Soos, Wendy, none of you were willing to prolong the meeting any further. The only shame was that Candy and Grenda were still out of town. 

                                             …

The bus was rolling in, all to slowly for your liking. For everyone’s liking. You could feel how the people around you were buzzing with excitement too. One year was far to long away from these people. Your people. The bus came to a stop seemingly at your feet.

The door seemed to slide open agonizingly slowly, but against all odds, it opened. Out came Mabel, screaming.

”Aaaaaugh! Guys!” She yelled, jumping out of the bus and skipping the stairs. She threw he luggage aside as she managed to envelope everyone in a group hug before they had time to respond. 

Stan was the first to recover, quickly leaning into the hug. “Kid, you get taller every time I see you!”

Ford laughed, “You almost beat Stan and I.”

You almost spoke, but your eye caught on the second person leaving the bus. Dipper had a wide smile on his face as he watched the scene. With a sigh, he placed his bags with Mabel’s and joined he hug. 

“Dip!” You found yourself exclaiming, along with Wendy. The both of you maneuvered to let him in the centre of the hug. 

There they were, at last. Dipper and Mabel, Mabel and Dipper. Here. Home. You smiled, barely hearing the words around you as you buried your face in Mabel’s hair and Dipper shoulder. They smelt a bit musty from the bus ride, and a bit like Mabel’s strawberry shampoo. This was the place to be. You squeezed tighter. So did they.

                                               …

Walking back to the shack was nice, pleasant, nostalgic. Dipper and Ford talked science, while Stan interjected to call them nerds. Soos and Wendy were chatting, and You and Mabel were catching up behind them. 

It wasn’t like you didn’t call and text, but there was so much you had to just say. But Mabel was, on occasion, a stinker. She had a smug grin on her face as she drifted back a bit behind he others, prompting you to follow. 

“So Y/n, are you gonna do anything about your crush on-“

You threw your hand towards Mabel, and covered her mouth before she got his name out. She immediately started to lick it, but you stayed strong. Your head whipped in front of you to Dipper and the rest of them before looking back to Mabel, who’s smirk you could see in her eyes. “Dude, what the fuck?” You whispered. Or maybe it was more of a hiss. “Don’t just say that! Not now!” You wiped your wet hand on your pants.

She giggled. “Fine, fine,” Mabel shrugged, still smirking smugly. “Just trying to help is all.”

You pursed your lips, and squinted at her. “Somehow I don’t believe that… and who says I need help?” You turned your head away from her with an uplifted chin to add an air of smug snottiness to your question. 

“Uhh, the fact that you’ve been pining for like, two years, and are still single?” Mabel said dryly. You could still hear the shit eating grin in her voice, “But hey, what’s a professional matchmaker to that, hmm?”

You winced, “Okay you have a point.” You snapped your eyes back to her, and smiled, a slightly evil and cunning smile. “But this summer, I have a plan… this is the one I can feel it.”

Mabel faked a gasp, pressing her palm to her open mouth, “My gosh? A plan?” She mocked. “You sound like Dipstick now.”

���Oh god, don’t say that,” you laughed. “This isn’t like his plans, this one is simple, honestly.

Mabel looked quizzically at you in response. Her hands started to come it her eyes, nearly forming her skepticals.

”No really, don’t even with that,” you said, swatting her hands down. “I say plan but it’s really just… an idea. I’m just gonna flirt, like a lot. Like really smooth, hopefully. Or try to, at least.” Saying it out loud, you almost felt embarrassed, a slight heat creeping onto your cheeks.

Mabel on the other hand, looked ecstatic. Her head was on a swivel looking between you and Dipper. “Okay, that’s a plan I can get behind,” she said. “I think you could have moves, I see the potential.”

You stifled a laugh, “Glad to hear it, glad your rooting for me.”

”Of course I am!” She said, hands flying into the hair for effect. She turned to you as you walked, and pointed to your face with one hand, the other resting on her hip. “And I will do my absolute best to assist your noble quest whenever possible, should you choose to call upon my services!” 

You played into the bit. “Appreciated, you are like my loyal knight and this is a war which we must win together.” You clasped her pointing hand in yours, “We will prevail!”

Mabel’s eyes lit up, “Fuck yeah we will!” She yelled. A bit too loud. Dipper and Soos turned their heads in front of you, shooting you curious looks. 

Ever smooth, you shot them back a snap and a finger gun. Dipper only smiled, giving Soos a light punch punch the  arm before drifting back to walk with you and Mabel, at your side. He laughed, “Fuck yeah you will what?”

You smirked, and stroked your chin with faux smugness. “Mmm, wouldn’t you like to know, Dip.”

Mabel chimed in, “Yeah, we got secrets, we’re scheming!”

Dipper rolled his eyes as he chuckled, “God, that has to be a new record for you guys, we’ve been here a whole five minutes and you’re already plotting shit.”

You smirked, and did your best to maintain eye contact. “Hey, I always am, it’s how I keep life interesting.”

”Life is very much that when you’re involved,” Dipper laughed. 

You could feel Mabel’s eyes burning into the back of your skull as she held her tongue and listened to your banter. Involuntarily, your smile widened.

”And I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said. 

You laughed, “You couldn’t even if you wanted to.”

He blushed, his cheeks turning a slight pink colour, hopefully at your comment. First blush of the summer, hopefully the first of many you’d get from him, he was rather cute when he blushed. You were particularly fond of how the corners of his mouth curled up when he did, in the slightest of smiles.

”Welcome home, kids!” You heard Stan yell in front of you.  He turned around to walk backwards toward the shack so he was facing you and the twins. “Finally, am I right?”

Ford kept his back to you, but turned his head so you could see his eyes, “we’ve been looking forward to you kids coming back for a while, if you couldn’t tell.”

”Stans been driving me up the walls talking about you guys for months,” Wendy chuckled. “Y/n too for the last few days.”

You couldn’t help yourself, ”Hey, I did not!” you defended.

Soos snickered, “dude, you totally did.”

You pursed your lips and hummed lowly in disapproval. They were probably right, but that wasn’t something you’d outwardly admit. “Yeah whatever, nerds, that’s not how I remember it.”

Stan cackled, ”The congratulations, you got Alzheimer’s before the seventy year old man!”

You grumbled, trapped in this conversational corner. Mabel smiled, and elbowed your side, “Awww, somebody missed us!”

Dipper spoke too, “That much?” he asked, a little too innocently. Innocent enough to be mocking. 

You scoffed, “like you guys are any better.”

You all moved inside the shack to get settled in the living room, all still chatting. Dipper and Mabel’s suit cases were leaned against a wall by the stairs. 

Mabel pushed Dipper hard on the back towards you. “You’re right, Y/n, this little rascal hasn’t shut up about you guys for a week.” Dipper whipped his head around to glare at her, as if a threat. She snickered, “especially you, Y/n,” she teased. 

Dipper spun his head back around to look at you, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Not like that-“he sputtered, a blush in his cheeks. 

You smiled. If you had to guess, you’d call if fifty/fifty it was actually not like that. You hoped anyway. Fifty/fifty on a good day, twenty-five/seventy-five against you on most others. “I believe it, Mabel is a half reliable source at best.”

”Hey!”

Stan chimed in and spoke to Mabel, “Hate to agree with Y/n, but they are completely right, sweetie.”

                                             …

The conversation moved, and you all caught up with everyone. As much as you already had, having arrived a few days before the twins, there was always more to say, more stories to tell. A lot can happened between summers. 

And eventually, it simmered down, and the twins started to try and settle in. 

There was a double edged sword to that, being, the twins still shared a room despite their age. It was slightly more annoying now then it was when they were twelve, especially to you, who occasionally wanted to hangout there with Dipper, and divorce yourself from Mabel’s match making antics from time to time. 

Mabel took her bags up first, running up the stairs with haste and excitement. You walked up behind Dipper, catching his attention, and did you best at a little bow. “May I help with your bags, m’lady,” you asked.

Dipper grimaced and recoiled, but a smile crossed his lips. “You sound like a redditor,” he snickered as he started to pick up his suitcases. 

You shrugged, “Your loss.”

He smiled, “I wouldn’t let m’lady strained their perfect hands.”

You laughed as you walked with him up the stairs. “Ew, yeah, I hear it. Never again, no more m’lady, too neckbeard for me.”

”Good, because I took a lot of psychic damage from that,” he said. “You can mimic the Redditor mannerisms with freakish accuracy, right down to the face.”

You put your hand to your chest, feigning hurt. “I take incredible offence to that, I do not have Reddit face,” you scoffed. 

As you approached the door to the attic, you stepped in front of Dipper to open it for him, who had full hands. Mabel was already laying on the bed with Waddles, kicking her feet in the air as she laid on her stomach. There were already posters on the wall and stuffed animals on the bed, too. 

Dipper barely batted and eye, moving to his side of the room with a small comment, “you work fast.”

Mabel shocked, ”You know me, they call me sonic in the-“

“Buddy,” you cut her off. “You finishing that sentence would actually kill me.”

She smirked, and rolled on her back to face you. “There’s a joke there about finishing, but I don’t wanna look for it.”

”Everyday you find new ways to disgust me.”

“Imagine living with her,” Dipper added, taking folded clothes out of his suitcase. 

Mabel grumbled, but said nothing and instead rolling over and looked at her phone. Waddles oinked beside her.

“Hey, it’s summer, I can imagine it perfectly well.”

Dipper laughed, and sat on the bed, looking at you with a smile. “Yeah… you do pretty much live here in the summer, huh?”

You sat down next to him, and grabbed the old musty pillow that rested at the head. “Good thing or bad thing?” 

He looked away, and laughed slightly, “Good thing.”

                                            …

The day went by, remarkably fast. The sun set, the energy simmered, people left. Soos and Wendy went home, leaving you chatting with Stans late at night. You didn’t quite want to leave yet. Instead, you nodded and snapped a finger gun to Stan and Ford, and quietly ascended the stairs to the twins room.

Mabel was sleeping already, snoring lightly. Not loud enough to bother you much. Dipper though, was reading. A small lamp in the bedside table illuminated the small space by his bed, where he sat upright against the headboard. “Dip,” you said quietly. “What are we reading?”

He looked up from his novel with wide eyes, as if broken from a trance. “Oh, God- y/n,” he stuttered, startled. “Are you staying over?”

You bounded over to the bed and took a seat next to him, nestling your feet under the blanket. “Yeah, but that’s not the point,” you said, leaning on his shoulder and glancing at the books pages. “What are we reading?” 

His skin was warm on your hands and arms as you leaned on him. His loose t-shirt was soft, too. He stammered a bit, “Oh, well- it’s a mystery novel, a murder, detectives…” Dipper looked at you for a flicker, as if checking to see if you were still interested. “There’s these two brothers that are the main characters, and this one guy who’s their partner.” Dipper taps the pages, and chews his lip. “But I have my suspicions about one of them.”

You hum slightly in a hushed laugh. “So tell me now, who’s the killer?”

Dipper rolled his neck, cracking it. “Man, I really think it’s the partner guy, but it’s awful because one of the brothers is in love with him.”

You winced, “oh shit.” You knew the feeling, empathy for a doomed character. “That kind of sucks for him.” Dipper nodded, and turned the page. He was maybe halfway through the book. you read along with him, trying to gain whatever you could from the out of context scenes. “So should I pick it up, or wait for you to finish it so I can read your next book with you?”

Very quickly you felt heat radiating from him. You did your best not to pull away in the inherent embarrassment of closeness, pushing though the fact that you made him blush again to stay leaned against him, your chin rested gently near his collar bone. “Well I mean- this one is really good, I’ll admit, but I may have just spoiled it for you…”

You waved your hand as he turned another page. “Eh, I don’t mind too bad. Mystery isn’t even my main genre, I just love the book club,” you said. It was nothing but true, it didn’t matter the quality of the book if you were reading it with him, or anyone really. But mainly him, or sometimes Mabel. Even if it was the worst book ever written, it was at least fun to discuss it and make fun of it together. 

“Well in that case, yeah I’d recommend it,” he said. “Wanna borrow my copy when I finish?”

”Mmhmmm,” you hummed, tired. “Or I could just read with you, I guess. I’m sure the first half wasn’t that important.”

Dipper shook his head, a slight and baffled smile forming across his lips. “I disrespectfully disagree with you,” he said, turning the page.

You yawned, “That’s… rude.” Your eyes were sluggish as they followed along with the words. Dipper started to turn the page again, before you were ready. You quickly cut him off, “Hey, hey, wait for me, I’m tired, alright?”

He turned the page back, “Alright, alright,” he yawned in response. 

You pawed at the pages when you finished, and on the next one, Dipper waited for you to do it again before turning it. And then, again. 

And somewhere along the way, you fell asleep, sitting with him on his bed, head leaned on his shoulder, and feet warmly huddled under the blanket. It was summer, and everything was okay again, home, in gravity falls. Whatever the summer held for you, whether it be mystery, adventure, love… you were ready. Whatever summer could throw at you, you were ready

Next chapter

Hello! This is a part of my Multi chapter dipper x reader story, I love it a lot, it’s one of those fics that’s like my baby. This was the first chapter written so yeah, it’s kinda rough. I really don’t wanna reread it so if there’s spelling errors lmk I guess😭

[seenoversundown]

Sparrow Of the Dawn : Chapter 1

Sam x Willa (Fem OC) Warnings: Alcohol / Mentions of drinking, brotherly banter, dark humor/mentions of death (if you squint), otherwise silly boys being boys.

Word Count: 3.9K

Summary : Sam unfortunately finds himself in not so meet cute with Willa. Hopeful that he doesn't cross her path again; the world works in mysterious ways and not always in your favor.

Authors Note: AHHHHH I can’t wait for everybody to read and I hope you all love it as much as I do!! I’m so excited and nervous, feels like I’m waiting for the midnight premiere of Deathly Hallows (part 2) all over again 🥹😭💜

Flower Power - Greta Van Fleet “She’s a sparrow of the dawn, our love is born”

“Oh, HEY,” Jake says sarcastically the second he opens the front door, “Nice of you to show up, Jackass,” huffing out a laugh as he shuts the door behind me. The scuffed-up cherry wood floor creaks under the weight of our feet as I follow him over to where he had been organizing new stock behind the bar. 

“Right.. aaand where’s my paycheck again?” I retort, sliding onto my regular spot and dropping my camera bag next to me. The spot in the dead center of the bar has been claimed as mine since before Jake even opened, the stool now complete with my etched initials SFK under the cushion. 

“Time is money, brother, and I lend you mine for free, so you get me when I’m free. Which apparently to you means 9 a.m.?” I say, clasping my hands on the bartop, “So please, tell me what is so important that I needed to be here so early.” He sourly smirks back at me.

“Yeah, yeah. I have a few new ones in for you to shoot, and I’d like to get it done before we get busy today.” He picks up his clipboard, eyeing his stock list.

 “We finally got the pomegranate Downeast released last month that was on backorder, as well as the pear and the guava passion fruit. Then we have ‘Reciprocal’ from Bissell Bros here in Portland, and ‘Interchangeable #7’ from Blaze Brewing in Biddo. I’d really like to get the blaze shot for our ads because it has the most interesting can art. But, ya know, I trust you.” He reads off.

A year ago, Jake, my older brother, bought this bar located right here in the heart of the Old Port. Back in his senior year of high school he got really into “Black Sails”, this pirate TV show; he practically made it his personality. Naturally, he decided he wanted to run a bar for the rest of his life, so when old man Chuck decided to retire, Jake jumped at the opportunity to purchase it. “Caravel Tavern” has only been open for 6 months and It's been his baby ever since. 

“Wow, Jake Kiszka putting trust in ME? Are you feeling okay?” I feign shock grabbing at my heart.

“Just get it done, you idiot,” he says with a roll of his eyes.

“Alright, alright,” I say, glancing over the options. “Give me like an hour. I have an idea that might work. I need to head to the farmer’s market in town, but I can have the best shots edited and emailed to you tomorrow, and then we can pick the best ones for print.” I grab my bag, digging around for my car keys. “Hey, when is Josh in today? I’d like to get some shots of you guys pouring drinks for the website and Instagram for Josh’s intro post.”

“He should be here by the time you’re done with everything. That is if he’s on time. But let's be realistic, when is a Kiszka ever on time?” He replies as he breaks down boxes with a box cutter. 

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I take a right onto the gravel that’s set behind the farmers market, my rusty 92’ Ford F-150 rattling as I park. I hope to god it’s just a heat shield making that noise. I cannot afford another repair on Edith. She may be an old crotchety bitch, but she has my whole heart. Well, right behind Penelope, my Bernese mountain dog, Penny girl will always be my number one.

Ding 

I put her in park and shove my hand into my backpack blindly searching for the source of the text tone. Finally finding my phone Tweedle Dum🦞 appears on the screen.. I let out a giggle. 

We’re running a special on whiskey sours tonight pick up some eggs, princess.

I switch Jake and Josh’s contact name back and forth between tweedle dee and tweedle dum mainly to keep them on their toes, but I’d be lying if I said tweedle dum isn’t just whoever has pissed me off or been dubbed the biggest dumbass that week. The emojis always stay the same so I can keep them actually straight though. 

You got it, boss, I send back to Jake, winning the title this week for making me wake up at the ass crack of 9am. Which absolutely is early for me. 

Gathering my things, I step out of my truck, immediately being hit with a cold gust of wind, the air causing my eyes to water slightly. I brush away a tear forming in my eye before it threatens to fall down my cheek. For it being the end of March the air is crispier than normal. I pause a moment too long, and a shiver runs through my body. I zip my jacket up a little higher, trying to preserve my body heat. Making sure I have my mesh bag with me, I shut my door and head over to the booths. 

I make a beeline for Linda, a sweet older woman who is here every week selling chicken eggs, various fruits from her garden, and some knick-knack crafts she makes. I have about seven bowl koozies, though I’m not sure I even own as many bowls considering it’s just me, but they are really good for ramen and ice cream. Which I do not eat together. Jake and Josh live in the apartment above the bar, so when I moved back after college, I got an apartment a couple roads away to stay close. 

Our parents moved out of our small hometown, which sits just on the other side of Portland. Padded off to Apple Valley, Georgia trying to settle into a warmer climate or something. They bought a house big enough for just the two of them and a guest room on an acre of land, “just in case any of you boys come to visit” Mom said. In all honesty, Apple Valley is just the same town, different state. They always said they didn’t like the city because it was too big, which is funny to me after spending the last four years in Boston. Everything here seems much smaller now.

“Morning Linda!” I smile and wave at her.

“Oh, Samuel. You’re up early this week. How are you doing, Sweetheart? How’s my Daniel?” She flashes me a warm smile. She’s also Daniel’s biggest fan. Pretty sure she only comes into the bar to see him, even though I met her first. But what can I say? I’m apparently an excellent matchmaker; we just won't mention the fact that she's 72.

I chuckle, “I’m just out running some errands for Jake. I’m on call today, apparently. Daniel’s good though! He misses you, ya know.” I finish flashing her a wink.

She lets out a high-pitched laugh, “I’ll be down to visit with Miss Eleanor. You tell him not to worry.” She raises an eyebrow and smirks at me, “Anyway, what can I get ya my dear?”

“Think two dozen will do it for today.” I hand her a crumpled ten-dollar bill in exchange, “Keep the change, Lin. I’ll see you at the bar or next Saturday, whichever comes first.” I set the eggs carefully in my tote and head toward my next stop, the flower truck.

The beer I’m photographing for the bar has a brightly colored logo in a style reminiscent of comic book art. A bold red can with yellow, blue, and purple adorning the signature name. My idea is to use a bouquet of different flowers to accent the colors and make the can pop. 

I scan through the metal buckets, trying to mentally piece together an arrangement without disturbing the flowers too much. They are far too delicate to be pulling and yanking on them just to try them out for size. Some of the people here, like Linda, make their living posting up every Saturday. 

I reach for a bundle of forget-me-nots, settling on those along with the last of the remaining Irises, a few red Dahlias, Daffodils, and Butterfly Milkweed. Taking a step back slightly away from the displays, I start to rearrange the bouquet to my liking. Extending my arms out in front of me, and changing my angle to make sure I like how the flowers look together. Just as I decide that, yes, these will do for what their intended purpose is, I feel someone aggressively poking my bicep. 

I turn toward the person attached to the finger. Not going to lie; I’m a bit impressed by the force of it, considering I’m wearing a sweater under my quilted jacket, and the woman who’s doing the poking is standing at about 5 foot nothing and looks like a swift breeze might carry her away. I blink slowly at her a few times and raise my eyebrows waiting expectedly.

“Did someone die, or did you just fuck up like, wicked bad?” the snark heavily laden on her tone. 

I close my eyes and let out a long breath, “Uhm, it’s uhh –” I stutter a bit, really trying to play it up, “My grandma died last week, actually. Did you know her? Her name was Althea.” I gaze down at my shoes and drop my head a bit, taking a moment before I attempt to look for her reaction through my eyelashes. If I held my breath long enough, I might just be able to work up a tear. Would that be too dramatic? .. maybe.

“Oh.. uh. No, I didn’t. I’m sor–” Regret immediately paints her face.

“I’m fucking with you.” I let out a small laugh

“What?” her eyes narrow at me, trying to figure out if I’m lying or telling the truth.

“I’m joking, my grandma is fine. Are you okay? Or is it a normal occurrence for you to ask a complete stranger if they’re mourning a dead relative?" Amusement settles on my face.

She lets out an audible groan. Why is she so angry? She tugs down at the sides of her short floral dress and waves a hand out toward my arrangement. 

“Why on earth do you need every single purple flower!?” She exclaims, “And who jokes about their grandma dying?” stamping her beaten-up Doc Marten into the patchy grass. She actually stomped her foot at me. What are we twelve?

I roll my eyes and attempt to alleviate the situation, “Bachelor Buttons.” 

I have work to do and absolutely do not need an attitude from a complete stranger, even if she is cute. I have brothers for that purpose, and they do their jobs well enough.

 “They’re mostly purple but with a bit of blue. They symbolize love if you’re trying to give them to someone important.” I scratch the back of my head and briefly hope she says she’s not. I immediately throw the thought away with a shake of my head. Nope, not opening that door.

“I don’t need Bachelor Buttons.” 

“.. ookaay. You could always d –” 

“I need Irises.” She says, cutting me off, “Specifically. Okay? And I’m fine, but if I can't find irises today because of you count *poke* your *poke* days!” she ends her sentiment with a final sharp poke to my chest and storms away. God damn, her finger is like a tiny dagger.

Listen, growing up without any sisters means I don’t know much about women, but what I do know .. is definitely never believe one when they say they’re fine. 

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As I walk through the door of Caravel Tavern for the second time today, I call out, “Okay, Jake, I’m back with your eggs, Asshole. Where are you?”

I set my camera bag and the eggs down and lean over the counter, checking to see if he’s kneeling behind the bar top.

 “.. Jake?” I look side to side. Where the hell is he? It’s the middle of the day, not nearly early enough for lunch.. Not like the guy takes a break anyway. 

“JAKE WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?!” I yell through my cupped hands. The sound echoes through the empty space.

He comes running from the back room, a panic written on his face. “Jesus Christ, Sam, what?”

“Got your eggs.” grinning wildly at him. I swear I'm actually his favorite brother. 

“Well, thanks, Samuel, for being useful for one thing today.” He says, before changing his tone, “You okay? You look a bit tense?”

“Yeah,” absentmindedly, my hand drifts to my shoulder, rubbing at the area where angry-flower-girl poked me earlier. “Actually, you’ll never believe what happened to me at the farmers market.”

He’s not looking at me when he hums his response, just putting the eggs in the mini fridge next to the ice well. I slide the second carton over to him.

“I ran into this girl, actually, she ran into me rather. I was picking out the bouquet arrangement for the photos I want to take and she sorta.. Came at me poking?”

He slowly stands and looks at me, his brow furrowed a bit. “She.. came at you?” He pauses. “Poking?”

“Poking,” I point to my shoulder in disbelief.

“Okay, and what did this poking girl want?”

“To yell at me for taking all the irises. I tried to do the gentlemanly thing and suggest an alternative, but she poked me some more and stomped off. She was hot as hell even if she was a bit psychotic.” 

“Well, why did you take all the irises? You also could have taken the other- wait, “ Jake pauses, turning to face me head-on. He sets the empty carton on the counter, “No, whatever you’re thinking about, cut it out,” He points at me, “Did you forget about the last ‘cute but insane’ girl?” 

“Hey, she wasn’t that bad! AND she was really hot?!” both hands raised.

“Sam, she cracked your windshield” he pinches the bridge of his nose.

Just as I’m about to further protest, “Cracked windshield? We’re not talking about ‘the Bride of Chucky’ are we?” Josh says

“Oh, come on guys, you can say her name. And again.. She wasn't that bad.”

“No, every time you say her name she comes back like Voldemort, and none of us need that shit.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. Get your ass clocked in so I get your headshots done, and you can get to work lest Jake have a stroke.” I lean toward Josh and whisper, “You’re already late.”

“When isn’t he late?” Jake sighs and rolls his eyes.

“Well,” Josh claps his hands together, “it is clearly time for my close-up. Sammy, let’s get this shit fest over with.”  

Oh, Josh, ever the dramatic brother.

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I don’t spend a ton of time taking Josh’s photos, grateful that he isn’t afraid of the camera. I barely have to direct him, which makes my life that much easier. If he could work on just not being a pain in the ass the rest of the time, that’d be great. 

A few goodbyes later, and I’m finally off to edit. Putting all my things into the passenger seat and giving my truck some words of encouragement, the engine turns over. Thank fucking god. I live fairly close to the bar, so I decide to not bother with the radio and just listen to whatever comes my way. 

Still thinking about the poking girl, mostly because my chest was sore. I didn’t expect to be stabbed today. I do hope she found her Irises…  

‘Now I don’t hardly know her, but I think I could love her,’

I turn the volume up on the radio, hoping it’ll help me focus on driving and not thinking about her.  

I make it back home, throwing the truck in park and hustling up to my apartment. I’m quickly greeted by my bundle of joy. I set all my things out to edit on the counter and take care of Miss P before I start working.

Taking a walk is probably what I needed to do anyway. 

I got Penelope right after I graduated and moved back up here. Being used to a house full of people to just living alone was.. well, lonely. I think I lasted only a few months living alone before I gave in and went to find a pet. The twins suggested a cat because they’re fairly low maintenance, and their plan was to get a couple cats once their lives settled a bit. Settled ended up being right around when Jake bought the bar, I would hardly call that settled, but it worked out for them. Me on the other hand, I’m more of a dog person. As soon as I saw Penny, I knew she’d be my adventure buddy, coming with me on my walks and hikes and photography trips. It’s definitely easier with a dog, despite what Josh says about how easy it is to train a cat with a harness to adventure with you.

Once she is settled in after our walk, I sit down to edit for a while. Pulling up the photos of Josh, something seems off. Why are half of these out of focus? I think to myself, scrolling through the options. If he could have just stopped talking for two seconds, this one would have looked good.  The longer I scroll through the options, the more annoyed I get. Why did she poke me so fucking hard? Finding myself rubbing the spot on my chest, I force myself to get up for a minute. Maybe I just need to walk around. Wandering into my bathroom, I pull the collar of my shirt down to see the spot, if it doesn’t actually bruise, I’ll be SHOCKED.  

Sitting back down, I take one look at the photo I've been trying to salvage, letting out a sigh. This is awful. 

Me: hey I’m not super happy with how Josh’s pics came out.. Do you care if I just borrow him in the morning to get some new ones? 

Me: Not at 6am tho-  it’ll be Sunday, The Lord’s day, and he would want me to get my beauty rest. 

Tweedle Dum🦞: lol that’s fine bud 

Me: I may come back for a drink tho. Shit has me STRESSED.

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“God, Sam, don’t you ever leave?” Josh calls from behind the bar. 

“You’d think I was tired of looking at your ugly mug all day, but guess not.” My lips wind into a tight smile. “Can I actually get a drink? I’m annoyed as fuck that I hate all the pictures I took today, and a drink sounds like the perfect remedy.” 

“Turning to alcohol to solve your problems, hmm?”

“Shhhhh,” I wave my hands in front of me. “Can I get a Clover Club, maybe? In a whiskey glass.. No garnish. I don’t wanna look like a little bitch.” I groan 

“Let your freak flag fly, brother,” spinning away to go make my drink and tend to the other patrons seated down the bar top. 

This drink really better do the trick so I can relax for five minutes. Honestly, the pressure I put on myself to make sure I do well for Jake’s pride and joy, along with trying to find my own way with a full-time job is a little exhausting. It’s hard knowing that Caravel is his baby; he really doesn’t have much else going on. I swear if he got laid, he’d be a hell of a lot less uptight about it, but I digress. I don’t totally feel like I’m the most reliable person, but I try to make sure he can count on me and I don’t contribute to his stress. Ya know, he’s my brother, and I want him to be as proud of me as I am of him for doing what he loves so much. I don’t think I tell him enough how proud I really am of him. He’s someone I look to for inspiration for trying to pave my own way. I’d never tell him that though, because he’d probably think I was yanking his chain or something. I have a job trial-type thing down in Boston later this week, and I’m really hoping it turns out to be something good. I could use something good right now.

Josh interrupts my thoughts, setting my drink down, “Just how you asked for it in a cocktail glass with extra garnish.”

I sigh audibly, “Ya know, I don’t even care. Gimme it.” I gulp it down in nearly one go. Josh looks surprised at me. Whether it’s because of my eagerness or because he knows I’m terrible at holding my alcohol, I’m not sure. I don’t care. 

“One more.” I close my eyes, waiting for the gin to work its magic on me. Feeling my muscles relax bit by bit, my brow finally straightens out, and I sink down against the wall closest to my seat. I sigh audibly again, though this time it’s one of relief.

The longer I sit here, the more people are trickling in. Sipping on my drink this time, I notice people in all sorts of outfits looking vaguely like anime characters. Gathering in little cliques of friend groups, a few interesting folk bouncing from table to table. I can't tell if time is moving incredibly fast or if the alcohol has made me move slower, but suddenly, I have the realization that it’s packed in here. Since opening, they’ve been able to handle everything behind the bar, just the two of them, with Daniel manning the door, but I don’t think they’re equipped to handle whatever event these people are overflowing from. 

I swig back the last sip of my drink, grab my glass, and make my way to the back room. I toss the raspberry garnish before setting the glass in the sink to be washed. Grabbing the ice bucket, I start to fill it to make sure the front is stocked for them; ice is usually always the first thing to go. I lug the full bucket back behind the bar, and refill the ice well. 

“Thanks, Sammy. Hey,  would you mind bussing some of the tables and asking the people with tabs if they need any refills, please? I’ll make sure I put you on the payroll for the night,” Jake asks, eyes pleading and desperate for help. And really, who am I to say no to him?

“Of course I can. I’ve got nothing else better to do anyway.” I start to reach for a tray. 

“Thanks. I mean it.” he says, squeezing my shoulder, “I forgot PortCon was happening, and we’re close to one of the hotels.” He explains before returning to the drink he's making. 

That explains the costumes. I do my rounds checking to make sure everyone seated in the booths are okay, grabbing the empty drinks out of their way, making light conversation when I can. I bring a tray of glasses, napkins, and various random trash items back behind the bar and set them in the bin next to Jake. Just as I go to take another trip, my eyes catch the door. Of course. Of course, this would happen to me. I can’t have a single day go smoothly if my life depended on it. Good God, someone is out to get me, I swear. 

“Fuck me,” I say out loud. 

“Who is that?” Jake says to me as he’s working on his current drink order. 

“The angry-flower-girl with the dagger fingers,” I pause, looking at the dude standing next to her, “annnd her date.”

“Oh shit.”

Crimson and Clover - Tommy James and the Shondells

“Now I don't hardly know her But I think I could love her Crimson and clover”

<- Prologue Chapter Two ->

Masterpost | Taglist | Jukebox Playlist

Taglist:

@gvfsstardust, @myleftsock, @mindastreamofcolours, @dont-go-home-without-me, @literal-dead-leaf, @lizzys-sunflower, @threadofstars, @mackalah, @klarxtr, @edgingthedarkness, @writingcold, @i-love-gvf, @takenbythemadness, @ladywhimsymoon, @earthgrlsreasy, @ourlovesdesire, @peaceloveunitygvf, @anythingforjtk

[bradshawfanclub]

With You

Made this account because I thought I lost my original, so hop over to @bradshaw-fanclub to read the rest of my works

Pretty much part II of "Thinking of You"

Summary: Reader finally sees Bradley after weeks apart.

Warnings: smutty smut, minors DNI!!, Bradley’s dirty mouth, oral (male receiving), fingering, probably got a seat reserved in hell for this one, minimal editing, gif has no purpose other than to remind you how beautiful he is

You're sitting at Bradley's graduation banquet, he's in the chair next to you at a large, circular dinner table. His hand is on your thigh and he’s running his thumb back and forth across the fabric of your black dress - a stark contrast to his Navy Whites.

There's other graduates and their dates at the table with you and although Bradley had introduced you to them, you can't remember any of their names to save your life, too distracted by how good your boyfriend looks.

He's laughing along to something one of the graduates is saying. There's a slight flush to his face, he's got a few drinks in his system and he's riding the high of graduating the Top Gun program. He looks happy, buzzing with an energy that you haven't seen in a while.

It's been 13 weeks since you saw him last. You had stayed home while he went away for training and, while he tried to call you every day, it was a busy 13 weeks. You're happy to be here for him, to support him, but all you can think about is how long it's been since you've been with the man next to you.

You try to follow along with the conversation, but his hand seems to be burning where it lays on your thigh, a constant reminder that he's so close to where you really want him.

Your need for him isn't a surprise, you'd texted him plenty while he was gone about how much you missed him, needed him and occasionally had time to relieve yourself over the phone; the sound of his voice all that you needed, husky and raw as he guided you through your actions.

But now you're sitting right next to the man who has been on your mind for weeks in less than PG ways and you can't touch him - at least not in the way you want.

He's telling a story, his eyes flicking to you. He catches you staring, the corner of his lips quirking up and he holds your gaze. His story trails off, just for a split second - and the way he's looking at you, it's like he knows what you're thinking.

He lifts his glass of water to his lips, taking a slow sip. He shoots you a knowing wink before clearing his throat and turning back to the group.

And, dammit. You had thought that maybe -

"Well ladies, gentlemen. I think it's time y/n and I call it a night," he says to the table and hold on a minute. Bingo!

He stands, hand held out to you and you take it eagerly. He helps you to your feet, lips ghosting a kiss against your cheek and a chorus of teasing rooster crows breaks out at the table. Rooster rolls his eyes, flipping the table off discreetly before he wraps his arm around your waist. He waves his final goodbye, leading you out of the banquet hall and to his blue Ford truck.

You're pretty sure you're shaking with excitement because finally. You're going to be alone with Rooster after thirteen long weeks.

He opens the passenger side door for you and you move to slip in, but you stop. You turn to face him, hands deftly sliding up around his neck to pull his lips to yours. He lets out a surprised moan, his hands coming to your hips, body pressing yours against the truck, and the corner of the doorway pressing into your back almost hurts, but the feeling of his lips hot and wanting against yours distracts you.

His tongue swipes hotly against your bottom lip and you let him in, his dominating yours. He's balling up the fabric of your dress in his hands, absentmindedly pulling the fabric up and if you weren't on the naval air station, you'd let him take you right then and there.

"Rooster," you gasp, the separation of your lips allowing him to trail hot kisses down your neck. He settles over your pulse point, teeth grazing the skin before his lips sooth over the sting. One of his hands has slid to your thigh, lifting your leg up against his hip and oh-

He starts a slow grind, the crips fabric of his Navy Whites against the flimsy material of your panties is so good.

"Not here," you whine out, voice breathy and high pitched but you can't control it - not when the hard, hot grind of his cock against your sex is so delicious.

"Take me home, Bradley," you all but beg and that gets him going.

And, yes technically home is the wrong term, you're shacked up in a hotel room - but 'take me to the hotel' didn't have the same sexiness to it.

"Fuck yeah," he breaths out, raspy with need. He lifts you into the truck, reaching across you to buckle you in, even though you could totally do it yourself, and you take the opportunity to bite a kiss into his neck. He shudders, body going tense where he's practically stretched out across you and he grunts out a quiet fuck.

But just as fast, he kicks back into gear and hurriedly shuts you door, jogging his way to the driver side. He climbs in, turning the key and high-tailing it out of there.

The press of his cock against the white of his uniform is mesmerizing, long and thick and hard. You're not even ashamed to say that it's mouth-watering and your brain floods with thoughts of getting your lips around him, to feel the hot weight of him on your tongue.

"Don't look at me like that," he says, voice thick with the promise of sex, "I swear I'll pull this fucking truck over if you keep looking at me like that."

And it really isn't such a bad idea.

"I've missed you, Roos," you say, all needy and wantonly and his jaw ticks, knuckles going white where he grips the steering wheel, like it's taking everything in him not to pull over.

And suddenly you want to see just how much it takes.

You start with a teasing touch, your fingertips trailing lightly up his thigh and his eyes flicker down to the contact.

"Y/n." Bradley warns and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stifle your eager smile.

You trace the outline of his cock, touch feather light before you give in and press the flat of your palm against him, just the way he likes. The friction punches a breath out of Bradley, the muscles in his thighs going tense.

This side of Bradley, the side where he's practically vibrating as he tries to control himself is so hot - and you intend to push your limits.

You unbuckle your seatbelt and Bradley shoots you a warning glare, as if telling you that you know the rules. Bradley's a good driver, observant and quick thinking even if he tends to go at least 10 over the speed limit; but he'll go to his grave telling you that you can't trust other people on the road. You're both stubborn; you about a lot of things, Bradly about your safety. You've sat in a Walmart parking lot for almost a half hour, the truck running idly as you both stared at each other. Bradley had refused to even back out of the parking spot until you put your seatbelt on, and you were feeling a little bratty and wanted to challenge him - you had finally conceded and buckled in.

Not tonight, though. He can give you his angry, broody eyes all he wants - you're winning tonight.

You slide across the cab bench, body pressing right up against his, your palm grinding a steady rhythm against his cock. Maybe it’s the friction or maybe he just thinks better of starting that argument, because he throws his right arm over the seats, making room for you.

That's all the permission you need. You press your face into his neck, kissing and biting at the skin as you work on undoing his belt and the button of his uniform pants.

His breath is coming out uneven and ragged, but he still manages to sound smug when he says, "so fucking needy, hm? Just couldn't wait until we got home?"

You shake your head against his neck, whispering thoughts about how much you need him, how much you missed him and he groans out a curse.

You pull back so you can see what you're doing as you try to work his uniform pants down his legs, just enough so you can get to the main event.

You stroke him in your hand, well aware that he's stealing glances at you from where his gaze is trained on the road ahead as you stare down at his cock in awe. You've told him time and time before that he's got a pretty cock, thick and long and just fucking pretty to look at. He'll deny it, thinks it's weird that you'd choose pretty of all adjectives; but that doesn't stop his dick from jumping when he catches you staring, when he sees how much you love it.

The cab of his truck is big, there's no center console for you to fight for space, so it's easy for you to slip to the floor - not between his legs but close enough to him that it'll be easy to wrap your lips around him.

He must look down at you, because next thing you know he's muttering a string of curses and groaning out an oh, fuck me.

You lick a slow stripe up the length of him, enjoying the jump in his thighs before slipping the tip between your parted lips. You circle the sensitive head with your tongue, wetting the skin so you can bob lower down onto the length of him, hand working in tandem with your mouth.

The hand that was thrown over the seats has settle in your hair, his hold on you keeping your pace nice and slow. You look up at him from beneath your lashes; his face is flushed red, jaw slack, mouth hung open slightly. His eyes are jumping from the road to you, the sight of your lips stretch around his cock too good for him to miss after being gone for so long.

"You're so fucking good for me," he rasps out, chest expanding with every ragged inhale. There's sweat beading up in his hairline, muscles tense and shaking and he looks so fucking good.

"Look so pretty with your lips around my cock," he continues and you hum around him, his hips jerking up at the feeling.

You take him as far as you can, the fat tip of him nudging the back of your throat and that must be all that it takes. You can feel the truck come to a fast stop, feel the bumps of the wheels as he pulls off the road. He puts the truck into park, thighs spreading wide as he gets comfortable and slowly starts fucking up into your mouth.

You moan around the width of him, letting him take over. There's tears sticking to your lashes as he nudges the back of your throat over and over, your nails digging into his thighs and he mutters filthy things about how pretty you look, how pretty your lips look when they're fucked raw.

He pulls your head back, hand still tangled in your hair as he guides you up to his lips; he kisses you hard and deep, teeth plumping your bottom lip further, tongue teasing yours. He gets you into his lap, your dress bunched up around your hips, his hands on your ass, squeezing and pulling, grinding your panty clad sex over his cock.

The material slips, just slightly and you get a tease of his bare cock against your wetness, the hot press of him against where you need him most. He reaches around behind you, fingers moving your panties to the side as he runs the tips across your wet folds.

"S'wet for me," he grunts out, pressing deeper into your heat, but continues his teasing glide up and down your sex.

"Bradley," you beg, hips chasing the dizzying tease of his fingers.

"I got you, baby," he rasps, "M'gonna take care of you."

He dips his middle and ring finger into you, curls them against your fluttering walls and you cry out, hips pressing down against his fingers to get him deeper.

"Look at you," he says, all raw and smug, "look how needy you are, fucking yourself down onto my hand."

And you don't care, because that's exactly what you're doing. You're fucking your hips back into the teasing thrust of his fingers, needing more and more and more.

He pulls his fingers away, the glide of them across the skin of your ass leaves a trail of your wetness and he lifts your hips so he can position himself at your entrance.

He pauses, running the tip along your sex as he grunts out, "I don't have any condoms, baby."

And you don't care, at least not tonight.

You’re kissing him again, whispering please and need you against his lips between kisses.

And truthfully he’s a man of only so many morals; can’t stop himself from guiding your sex down onto the bare length of him, can’t stop himself from telling you how much he loves your sweet pussy, how wet and hot you are for him.

He’s thrusting up into you, your hips chasing the sweet grind as you move in tandem. Your dress sticks to your skin, the air in the truck hot and damp with the smell of sex.

“Missed your pussy, baby,” he grunts out, sweat trailing down his cheek, his jaw, the long planes of his neck, “thought about it every night.”

He grabs handfuls of your ass, guiding your hips up and down his dick as he thrusts up into, his lips and teeth biting a trail along the line of your collar bone.

And it’s perfect, so perfect; the long, thick drag of his cock in your tight heat, his lips whispering filthy things against the shell of your ear.

You must zone out, body focuses on the pleasure, because next thing you know Bradley draws his hand back, smacking your ass before he growls out, “I said tell me how good it feels, tell me you love having my cock buried in your sweet little pussy.”

“Bradley,” you’re breathless, eyes squeezing tight because you’re so close.

His hands still your hips and your eyes fly open, protests already spilling past your lips.

He’s watching you; eyes dangerous, fingers flexing against your hips where he’s holding you so tight, like he’s trying to keep from pulling you into a grind.

“Tell me,” he rasps, grinding up into you with each word, like it’s a reminder of how good it feels.

“So good,” you cry out, “Bradley, it’s so fucking good, I missed you- please, Bradley-“

Words are pouring from your mouth, you’re not even sure if you’re actually saying them - drunk on the pleasure coursing through you, desperate to come.

“Yeah, fuck yeah,” he breaths, “I’ve got you, gonna make you come all over my dick, baby.”

And then he’s moving again. He sinks down into the seat, really getting his feet set under him before he’s fucking up into you like he needs it to live. You collapse against him, back arching just the slightest to give him a better angle, face pressed to his shoulder as you cry out yes and please and Bradley.

Your climax blinds you, body going taut as you fall apart on top of him, eye rolling back into your head, legs shaking, walls fluttering tightly around him, his name falling from your lips like a mantra.

“That’s it,” he’s grunting into your ear, “that’s it baby, come all over my cock.”

He follows behind, mumbles “gonna come in that pretty little pussy, baby,” into your ear before he’s cut off with a groan. He grinds up into you in short thrusts as he comes, dick buried deep in your sex, eyebrows pulled tight together, fingers digging bruises into your hips, lower lip caught tight between his teeth.

You’re panting against each other, clothes damp and sticky with sweat. He doesn’t pull you off of him, both of you basking in the post sex high.

He’s rubbing circles into your lower back, lips pressing kisses onto the crown of your head.

“I missed you,” he says, probably for the hundredth time since he picked you up from the airport that morning and you inhale, refreshing your brain on the scent of him.

“I’m proud of you,” you say, sitting back to look at his face, leaning in to press a kiss high on his cheek bone, “I’m so so proud of you, Roos.”

He’s grinning a cute little boyish grin, looking up at you from your spot in his lap like he’s never seen anything more beautiful; eyes full of soft admiration like he didn’t just fuck you within an inch of your life a minute ago.

He kisses your lips softly before he taps your ass, helping you off his lap and onto the cab bench before tucking himself away. You straighten out your dress, buckling yourself in and he leans over to kiss you; once, twice, a third time, like he can’t get enough of your raw, pouty lips.

His thumb brushes your lower lip and he’s staring at it like he’s thinking the same thing.

“I’m gonna get you home and I’m gonna fuck you on every possible surface,” he decides and a hot flush races up your neck.

Because, yeah, you have a lot of catching up to do.

[1engele]

daybreak | sal fisher x fem!reader - 8. solo

Previous | Next

[warnings: underage drinking, smoking, weed, near death experience?, crying]

"never have i dealt with anything more difficult than my own soul." — You leave the roof late in the night. Sal had gotten up and retreated into his apartment a little while earlier—but you'd decided to stay and make sure he didn't come back there.

Three days pass. They all consist of fleeting glances and irresolute tension. Things remain the same with the group dynamic, except for between you and Sal. Neither of you seem to know how to continue from that conversation on the roof. No one else notices, though. They'd never suspected anything from the beginning, it seems.

The beginning of your involvement with Sal involved a little bit of buildup and then a snap which resulted in a sexual encounter (or two).

Now it was a bit different. Now things were a little less lighthearted.

It's a Saturday—you'd planned to spend it inside as usual. That's until your phone starts ringing.

You flip your phone open, read over the contact, and answer the call.

"Hi, Ash."

"Y/N," she starts. You hear the excitement to continue in her voice. "There's a party tonight."

"Oh?" You get up from your seat on your bed.

"Some stoner Larry has connections with invited him and said to bring friends. He wants to bring us—save for Todd. He doesn't do parties."

"Wait," your eyebrows furrow. "Me?"

"Yeah!" She says from the other end of the line. "It'll be fun. Cmon."

You bite your lip nervously, anxiety knotting in your stomach. "I don't know. I've never really.."

Ashley is momentarily silent on the other line. She must be contemplating what to say to convince you. "Sal's coming too. Parties aren't necessarily his thing, either—so maybe you guys could try it out together?"

You open your mouth and then promptly close it. Something inside of you suddenly really wanted to go to this party. "Um... alright. Okay."

"Cool! What're you gonna wear?"

You look toward the drawer that contained your clothes and bit your lip. "Not sure yet. I'll update you on that."

"Okay, don't forget to text me! See you at eight."

The call declined from the other line. The phone that held the phone to your ear slipped into your lap. You pressed your lips together and tried to ignore the familiar feeling of sickening nausea and anxiety.

You don't rush yourself on getting ready for the party, because the time you're due to be done won't be for a while.

You take your time with the hours you have. You shower, take your time on eyeliner, mascara, and lipgloss—and finally decide on what you'll wear.

You decide on a square neck white cropped tank with short sleeves and your nicest pair of light blue, slightly washed out jeans. You slid on your favorite, sort of chunky white sneakers over white socks.

It isn't long after you finish when Ashley calls and informs you she's arrived at the apartments and Larry and Sal have already joined her out in the car. You give yourself a once-over in the mirror and then leave the apartment.

Your mother was nowhere to be found. She's either at work or drinking with her coworkers.

Once you've opened the door and climbed into the Ford Fiesta, you immediately realize your predicament—Sal is the only person in the backseat with you.

The drive there is decently long and painfully tense. Neither you nor Sal know how to speak to each other, so no words are exchanged beneath the heavy metal music emitting from the radio.

When you finally arrive at the party, it's recognizably crowded, drunken teenagers are flowing from the front door, in and out, and there's a good amount on the lawn. The newest radio hit is playing on a considerably loud speaker, and the vibrations are notable even from a distance.

"Woah," Larry says, staring at the house as Ashley pulls onto the side of the road. "Didn't realize he was so popular."

You all exit the Ford Fiesta and cross the road. You cringe as you watch someone vomit onto the grass, and another person ripping from a bong in the wide open.

Smoke flies into your face and your eyes as you enter the home. You cough, waving a hand as you blindly follow after your friends.

Eventually, the four of you find yourself on two couches directly facing each other. You on one, Larry and Ashley on the other. Sal is stood to the side.

Larry materializes a bottle of Fireball that you guessed he stole from someone on the way in, opens the cap with his teeth, and takes several gulps.

"Where did you get that?" Ashley laughs over the music, pulling the sleeves of her lavender sweater over her hands.

"Stole it," he looks to Sal and directs the bottle toward him. "Want some?"

"Sure," Sal replies, to your surprise—taking it from Larry's grasp and walking away and in your direction.

"You're drinking that?" You ask him, testing the waters.

"No, actually," you watch Sal round to the other side of the couch to linger behind you. "I'm limiting him. He'll thank me later."

Once he's out of your field of vision, you tip your head back and gaze up at him—your perspective on him being upside down. Your gaze zeroes in on the bottle of Fireball he's clutching in his hand.

"Hey," you say, meeting his eyes. "Give me some."

It was time to give him that excuse—the excuse to break the ice.

He leans in a bit, gesturing toward you with the bottle. "You want it?"

A grin pulls at your glossed lips. Instead of reaching for the bottle, you open your mouth and tilt your chin up.

Sal looks on for a moment but laughs once he realizes what you want. Everyone else at the couches seem decently distracted with each other and the overall environment—so he doesn't seem to worry about it too much.

He reaches his hand around and towards your neck, gripping your jaw in his fingers and holding you firmly. You feel his cold rings press into your skin when he tips your head further back just a bit—and then steadily pours a shot-amount of Fireball into your mouth with his other hand.

Sal stops at the right time, looks on as you pull back and sit up, and cautiously watches the back of your head as you assumedly swallow the whisky. But when you turn a bit in your seat to peer at him over your shoulder, you're holding your mouth closed and pressing a closed fist to your lips while soundlessly giggling.

"What?" He laughs, a hand moving to the top of the couch. He leans in a bit. "Can you not swallow it?"

Your shoulders shake slightly as you continue to laugh. You shake your head up and down.

"Do you need to spit it out?" Sal asks, his tone warming into concern.

You shake your head from side to side. You meet his eyes and swallow, gasping as the liquid slides down your throat and burns all the way down. You cough, the flavor of cinnamon and what tasted like Big Red gum overloaded your senses.

"God," you breathe out, giggling all the while. The alcohol is gross but you're feeling good. "It's not great."

"Yeah, that's why I'm holding Larry off, so he won't be puking his guts out later."

You look up to the boy, who's sat on the arm of the couch opposite to you. He's busy talking to some equally stoned guy, so you can't manage to catch his eye—but you catch Ashley's.

She had this look of astonishment on her face.

Had she been watching what happened? When Sal poured Fireball in your mouth?

Your face grew hot thinking about it.

Sal wanders away from you again, and you find yourself drinking more than you should. Eventually, your rationality disappears.

It's been a few hours and Sal hasn't seen you for a while. So when he hears about a girl wearing a white crop top walking across the roof of the house, he feels like he's going to vomit.

It takes him a record time of 6 seconds to get out of the door and onto the lawn. Upon looking up at the roof, his suspicions are confirmed. He shoulders past multiple people to place himself near the front of the crowd and gazes up in horror.

"Sal!" You yell, gesturing toward him with something between a wave and a point. "I'd recognize that hair anywhere!"

Multiple heads within the crowd turn away from you and towards him. He puts aside his social anxiety and the wave of unease that washes over his body and tries to focus on you. "Please come down," he rushes out, raising his voice just enough for it to be audible over the crowd.

You laugh like he's told a hilarious joke and he quickly realizes his mistake. That's the worst thing he could've told your intoxicated self. You move toward the edge of the roof, shaky and uncoordinated. "You want me to jump?"

"No!" He exclaims, his hands flying up, fingers splayed. "No. Don't do that!"

"Holy shit!" He hears Larry shout from somewhere closer to the front door of the house. Sal guesses he's just now catching wind of the current situation. Moments after, both of his brunette friends are at his side.

"What the hell is going on?!" Ashley yells, verdant eyes glued to the sight before them.

You lost your balance once again, but this time a bit worse—your foot catching on a shingle on the roof and effectively knocking the red solo cup out of your hand. It dropped onto the downward slope of the roof and the liquor inside of it spilled down the side.

Whenever Sal witnessed the toe of your white sneaker catch onto that shingle, he felt as though his very soul had been ripped from his body. Immediately after he watched you regain your footing and stable yourself, though—his heartbeat calmed to a steadier pace.

"I'm going up there," he stated beneath the chatter.

Both Ashley and Larry's heads whipped toward him.

"You'll kill yourself!" Larry exclaims incredulously. Ashley opens her mouth to assumedly second Larry's statement, but Sal cuts her off by walking away.

"Not before she does," he mutters, pushing his way through the density of bodies and forcing his way through the front door. His senses are disoriented like he's been submerged beneath water as the volume of the music scratched at his eardrums and pulsed the innards of his skull. Adrenaline courses through his blood like a drug whilst he shoulders past both mindlessly drunk and carelessly high teenagers.

Sal doesn't spare them a second glance, but their unconcern does remain in his mind. The fact that they're continuing their lives while he feels as though something that's growing into something of importance in his is about to be taken from him... it's mind-numbing.

He's never been an optimistic person, he's always tried to view things in the way they're most likely to happen—and all that's beneath that two-story house is a long drop and concrete. If you fall, you'll break your head open and you'll die.

He finally makes it to the stairs. He makes a break for it then, tripping over his own feet multiple times. Anything could happen in this amount of time, and he knew no one else was going to help him.

Sal's thoughts grow more and more disordered as he navigates the dark halls of the house. The music seems to have only grown louder, the deafening mixture of guitar and drums taunting him.

He remembers the window on the outside of the house. Sal estimates which room it would be, locates it, and approaches the door. He turns the knob, but it doesn't fully rotate.

The door is locked from the inside. Of course. Who would have a party and leave the bedroom unlocked so people could fuck all over your comforter?

He bites out a curse only he hears and prepares himself to force the door open.

Sal grabs the doorknob tightly, prepares himself, and rams the side of his body into the wood. He doesn't even feel the pain, just does it again, and again.

He goes until that half of his body is numb.

The door finally budges, and he wastes no time entering the room. He doesn't hesitate when he reaches the double-hung window he'd been seeking. He grips it at the bottom and pulls it up and open, clenching his teeth together painfully.

Sal stares out at the vastness of the night, the golden streetlights, and how they shine down on the crowd of people below him. They all seem to be looking at the same place, up, but not at him—and he can only swallow thickly.

Carefully, Sal moves to sit on the windowsill, gripping what was above him tightly, his legs outside. He then ducks to leave the room and shivers as cool air hits the front of his neck.

He starts walking the roof, steadily—like his life depends on it. Because.. it does.

Or yours. Yours depends on it.

"Y/N!" Sal calls as he finally reaches a point where you're in his line of sight. Momentarily, he's worried he'd scared you. But you turn your head, meet his eyes, and smile. Despite that, your face spells fear all over it. Something must have sobered you up a bit while he'd been inside.

"I'm going to come to you. Do not walk towards me!"

You blink lazily, because you were drunk, and nodded. You shivered, hugging yourself. It didn't seem to do much, though. Your arms were bare.

"Fuck," he breathes, gazing down at the fall that could await him if he misstepped and immediately reverted his gaze. Blood rushes between his ears as he steadily makes his way towards you.

"Please don't fall!" You suddenly exclaim, your hair tussling in the breeze. A strand blows over your face, so you quickly raise a hand to move it back in place.

He looks up from his feet and stares you in the eyes. "I won't," he affirms, you and himself, continuing across the roof. "Just stay put, okay?"

It doesn't take long to get over to you. He's mostly sober, so it isn't hard on that part. What's difficult is calming his steady heart.

He's not scared of falling. Not necessarily scared of injury or death. But he is scared of not making it to you.

Once he's at an arms reach of your shaking form, he reaches out a hand, palm facing the darkness of the sky.

You seem to read his mind, slowly grabbing his hand. Sal maneuvers your joint hands to where your palms press together and your fingers are interlaced. He doesn't know if it's the blood rushing through his ears or the distance from the ground, but it's as if everything below becomes very quiet.

You meet his gaze, your pretty eyes glossy with tears. The eyeliner you were wearing had just begun to collect beneath your lower lash line.

He squeezes your hand and leads you to be in front of him.

It's not long after that that he's gotten you off of the roof. Sal watches you slip through the open window before turning toward the density of people beneath him on the ground. He breathes in as he catches both Larry and Ashley's eyes—he can't read their expressions, but he wouldn't be surprised if there was shock written all over it—and then ducks back into the window.

As soon as the window is shut and it meets the windowsill once more, Sal whips his head toward you. "Y/N-"

Before he'd saw your face, and the language of your body as you were sat on the edge of the bed, he was going to scold you, and then go downstairs and find you some water and sober you up—all of that falls down the drain when he sees the stream of tears falling down your face. Every time you blink, more drop—quickly staining your cheeks with black makeup.

"Oh," he breathes, suddenly speechless. "Y/N-"

You attempt at taking a breath in, it seems—but it's a failure because it hitches and turns into a shoulder-shaking sob.

"I'm sorry," you cry, roughly dragging the tips of your fingers beneath your eyes. This only smears the running mascara further. "I'm just drunk."

Sal momentarily feels like breaking down in tears himself, that's how much this entire ordeal stressed him out. He approaches your trembling body and crouches down in front of you.

"Hey," he says, softly. "It doesn't matter whether or not you're intoxicated. Your feelings still matter, okay?"

You sniffle, still attempting to wipe your tears away, and reluctantly nod. "I'm sorry," you try again.

He places his hands on your knees and squeezes them firmly. "It's okay."

You jerk into a sob, leaning forward and pressing the side of your face on his shoulder. You slowly tuck your arms beneath his and cross them over the expanse of his back, palms flat on each shoulder blade. The convulsive gasps were hard to stop, making it hard to breathe.

Sal breathed out softly against the prosthetic, raising his arms and encasing them around your torso.

He didn't wonder about the reason for your tears. Assuming things wouldn't help you anymore.

"I don't know why I did that," you whisper, quieting yourself to swallow your saliva. "Maybe I do. I think I was trying to prove something to myself."

He finds himself holding you tighter, your chest pressed to his, feeling your heartbeat through the fabric that separated you both—oddly enough, even at this moment, it reminds him of that night in the car. You had been even closer to him then, though.

"It was stupid," you murmured. "Why would I do that, after what we had talked about last night?"

"What if we jumped together?" he remembers saying.

"Some things can't be explained," he replies earnestly. "You don't need to know why you did what you did. It was stupid, though. I'd probably walk across the roof of a two-story house for you again, but.."

You pull back and meet his eyes, your face wet. The majority of your makeup had been cried off and your lipgloss had been smudged.

You must've sensed his examination, breaking the visual contact and sniffling. "I know I look ridiculous right now."

Sal smiles. He knows she can't see it, but maybe she'll hear it. "I don't think so," he murmurs, looking off to the side. "I think that's a bathroom. You can clean up in there if you want."

You follow his gaze and then return your eyes to his and laugh a bit. You still sound drunk, he notes. Obviously. He'd poured a good amount of Fireball into your mouth and watched you drink plenty of other things.

"Feels kinda weird using a stranger's bathroom," you laugh, your breath hitching from the earlier crying.

Sal rolls his eyes humorously, gripping your knees tighter as he pulls himself off of the floor. "The guy who lives here is Larry's friend—and a stoner. I doubt he'd mind. And if he does get mad, I'll take responsibility for it. I forced that door through, anyway.."

Your gaze swivels toward the door, which is not shut but mostly closed. When he glances to where you're looking, he notices it seems a bit.. crooked.

He inwardly cringes. "I'll pay for it. Come on."

Sal follows you into the bathroom. You seem reluctant to enter first, so he does, opening the door and reaching to the side to turn the lights on. They do what they're supposed to—eventually. They're momentarily unresponsive before becoming alive—the illumination brightening the room with a dull yellow hue.

You step onto the tile and began to search for whatever it was you needed. You kneeled at one of the cabinets below the sink, opened it, and ducked your head lower.

"Oh!" You exclaim quietly, reaching in and pulling out two things. A bottle of half-empty makeup remover and a bag of some cotton rounds.

"Maybe he has a girlfriend?" He hears you say to yourself, standing up, nudging the cabinet closed with your foot, and placing the things you found beside the sink.

Sal reaches over and closes the door. He'd rather not have to witness the sight of some drunkards wandering in and fooling around on the bed.

"Lock it," you say. "I'd rather no one- no one see me like this."

His hand was already on the doorknob, so he just reaches down a bit and locks the door.

He watches you struggle a bit with the bag of cotton rounds, trying but failing to open it, so he reaches forward and delicately plucks it out of your grasp.

Sal slides the makeup remover over and pats the place on the counter it was previously. "Sit."

You peer into his eyes inquisitively but waste no time hoisting yourself up and onto the cold surface.

After that, he plucks the bottle of makeup remover off of the counter and douses the cotton round in the liquid. He reaches forward from the distance that your knees created between the both of you, but you spread your thighs and press the heel of your shoe into his lower back, pulling him in so he's between your legs.

Sal doesn't see it suggestively, because you're drunk—but he's glad you asked him to lock the door because, with his luck, Larry or Ashley would find their way into the bathroom and get all of the wrong ideas.

The firmness just beneath his navel presses into the edge of the counter as he cups one side of your face and began wiping away at the eyeliner and mascara and everything it messed up.

"Thank you," you say sweetly, blinking at him with appreciation in your eyes. "Where'd you learn how to do that?"

He remembers a silhouette. Her back was turned to him, golden hair cascading just past her shoulder blades. He remembers blue eyes that looked a lot like his own staring into a mirror, a hand which adorned a wedding ring wiping away makeup from the day.

"Read it on the label of the bottle," he replies, meeting your eyes and looking away.

As he's finishing up, he hears a rapping of knuckles against the locked door. He tosses the used cotton rounds into a trash bin in the corner and then locks eyes with you curiously.

"Occupied," he calls out, still looking at you. The knocking only gets louder, which makes you laugh.

"He said it's occupied!" You yell over the unintelligible music downstairs, your words breaking into a giggle. You press your knees against his waist, and he doesn't even realize it when his hands meet your thighs.

The knocking ceases, fading into a voice. "Is that you guys in there?"

Fucking Larry. Speak of the goddamn devil—that's what he would've said if he'd come knocking sooner.

The both of you seem to be thinking the same thing, locking eyes in terror. You quickly get off of the counter, and Sal unlocks the door and swings it open.

Sure enough, he's standing there—in all of his glory and highness. Larry blinks, the whites of his glossy eyes tinted red. He looks between the both of you before speaking. "Why were.."

"I had to pee," You choose to deadpan.

Sal feels himself grow even paler than he already is. "I came in.. after.. that."

Larry intakes a mouthful of whatever is in the red solo cup he's holding in his tan, lanky fingers, and swallows thickly. "Okay," he croaks, instinctively cringing as the alcohol passed through his chest. He gestured the cup toward you. "Uh..crazy stunt you pulled up there, huh?"

Sal saw your face shift in his peripheral vision. "Huge lapse of judgment," you reply.

"Nobody could tell who you were, so don't worry about that," the brunette smiles a bit. He returns his attention to Sal. "They've started playing country," sure enough, Sal hears the sound of a banjo from the speakers downstairs, effectively punctuating Larry's statement.

"Yeah.." Larry mumbles, sipping his drink and looking up and through his eyebrows. "Ash said to come find you guys so we can leave."

It doesn't take much, after that.

As you're leaving, Larry pulls the door open and furrows his brow at the condition of the hinges. "Wow. How old is this thing?" He mumbles.

Sal hears you snort.

The three of you descend the stairs, skirting past countless teenagers standing on the steps drinking or smoking. Sal makes the mistake of letting you fall behind and feels you stumble and smack him in the back. It's easy to steady himself, quickly gripping the railing—but he's concerned about you, so he turns around.

A guy with a cigarette balancing in his teeth is eying you with frustration pulling at his features. His gaze pulls from your face and down your body absentmindedly.

"Watch it," he murmurs.

"Sorry," you breathe, jerking your head away and meeting Sal's eyes worriedly. Keep walking, you express in the hues of your eyes.

Sal reaches forward and interlaces your fingers with his as he'd done on the roof. He makes a show of it, too—so the guy with the cigarette sees the rings on both of his hands. Sal gives him a distinct look when they lock eyes, rolls his jaw, and lets you lead him down the stairs, instead of the other way around.

By the time you're all nearly shot from weaving through the multitude of sweaty bodies and navigating through plumes of smoke thicker than fog, the three of you find Ashley petting what he'd assume is the host's dog.

No one questions it.

"You good to drive?" Larry asks, placing his cup on a nearby surface.

"Oh, yeah," she rises from her crouch beside the dog. The animal walks away, his golden tail wagging excitedly at the next person who would give him pets. "A gross sip of something put me off of drinking tonight a while earlier. And, uh.. the whole roof thing dried me out."

You sigh. "I'm sorry about that. It sobered me up, too."

She shakes her head, a wispy strand of light brown hair falling over her face. "It was stupid, yes, and I hope you don't do it again, but all that matters now is that you're safe."

Ashley blinks kind green eyes at you and smiles, reaching forward, taking your hand, and leading you away. Sal hears you laugh and follow after her as both of you head for the front door.

He turns to look at Larry once he loses sight of both of you in the crowd. He examines Sal with bleary dark eyes and looks as though he's about to say something, but he doesn't get to.

Even over the blaring country music, Sal hears a yell and then some fearful shouting. He whips around toward the sounds, which were toward the front of the house.

Red and blue flashing lights shine through the windows.

"Shit!"

"Ah, fuck," Larry groaned, nimbly wrapping his fingers around Sal's wrist and dragging him into the density of the panicked crowd. "Did you see where they went?"

Sal shakes his head. "No," he knows you're intoxicated. Panic settles in. He chews his lip, his eyes desperately scamming for a girl wearing a white top squared at the neck—you. "Y/N's had a lot to drink, Larry. If the police-"

"Don't worry about the Five-O, let's worry about the girls," Larry replies absentmindedly, keeping his firm hold on Sal.

"They must've gone to the Ford," Sal shouts over the music, which, for some reason, is still playing. "We were leaving anyway. I'm sure they're in the car."

Larry releases Sal and motions toward the back of the house. "There's a back door. I'll text Ashley and tell her to drive down the block and we can meet them on foot."

It was an agreeable plan. Waltzing out of the house and walking straight up to the car wouldn't be wise.

Larry does what he'd said he'd do. Turns out, Sal was right, they had made it to the car moments before the police had rolled up. Ashley informed him it was two squad cars and four officers. Seemed like overkill for a house party—but he wouldn't know. He didn't do this often.

When Larry was on the phone, Sal was very tempted to ask about Y/N, but refrained.

On the way to the back door, they crossed through the kitchen. Larry snatched an unopened bottle of alcohol of a brand Sal didn't recognize and carried it along with him for the road.

As soon as they made it out of the house, they both made a break for it, running between houses and into multiple different backyards on their way.

They slowed down once they were at a measurable distance from the party, gasping for air. Sal panted against the prosthetic, placing his hands on his knees and slowing his gasps into slow breaths, attempting to calm his racing heart.

They stood on the side of the road, the music in the distance (albeit a lot quieter) still pounding into the night.

Sal lowered himself down onto the curb. Larry joined him, raising the bottle he'd chose to bring with him to his mouth, and opened the steel cap with his teeth. He spits it onto the road and gestures it toward Sal.

"Bottoms up," he said, bringing it to his lips and taking several gulps.

Sal rolled his eyes playfully, eyebrows rising as Ashley's Ford Fiesta cruised down the road and slowed to a stop in front of them. He stood up from the curb and pulled Larry off of it as well.

They entered the car, sliding into the backseat. Larry continued to down the beer he'd found as Ashley turned around in her seat.

"The night's still young," she says. "Any ideas of what we could do?"

It's really not. Sal's a bit disoriented so he doesn't know what time it is but he wouldn't be surprised if it was 3 AM.

You then turn around in the passenger seat and grin mischievously. "Let's go to the lake."

Oh, great.

[skinsharpenedteeth]

Coming Up Easy - First Sightings

I am *SO* sorry this is so hella late this week. It's been... a fucking week. CW: One mention of a homophobic slur.

You can also read this on AO3!

CUE - First Sightings

Unpacking boxes was not one of Alex’s favorite activities. He hadn’t had many when he’d moved because he hadn’t wanted to rent a truck or deal with shipping things, so the twelve boxes he’d been able to load into the late nineties Ford Explorer encompassed all his worldly possessions. He’d finally gotten a chance to start unpacking the miscellaneous boxes after a trip to Ikea for bookshelves, a bed, and a couch. Furthermore, he’d promised himself he’d explore his new city more and find second-hand shops for other household furniture and accessories, but the bookshelves would be enough to finally clear away the last of his unpacked boxes.

Alex opened the last box and looked inside. His heart softened a little as he saw the small shoebox of photographs he kept. Promising himself he’d look through it later, he unpacked the few other knick-knacks out of the box and took them to the bookshelves to start placing them. The box didn’t reenter his mind until after dinner when he found himself lounging across his new sofa with a cold beer in his hand. The box stared at him from the floor where he’d left it. Setting down his beer on the floor, he quickly got up and grabbed the box, and brought it back over to the couch. He flipped open the top and gingerly picked up the pile closest to him.

Michael and him in the desert with guitars. Liz, Max, Michael, and him at a church car wash. Michael, Kyle, and him all leaning against a bathroom wall in various stages of being phenomenally sick from drinking too much. Him and Michael hanging out at the UFO Emporium. Him and Michael eating pizza and playing video games at Max and Isobel’s. Him and Michael in college at a frat party. Him and Michael. Him and Michael. Him and Michael…

It hit Alex quite suddenly that basically since he and Michael had become friends they’d been fairly inseparable. They’d dated other people and had friends that the other didn’t like, but as a rule, it was always the two of them against the world and it had been since they were fifteen. He picked up his phone and snapped a photo of the photograph he held in his hand where they were sixteen, pimply, awkward, and bent over laughing outside the high school band room.

Me 8:46 p.m.>> Who the fuck are these dorks? <<Picture sent at 8:46 p.m.>> <<Michael 8:50 p.m.>> Holy shit, look at those nerds!! <<Michael 8:51 p.m.>> Though I gotta say, the emo one is pretty hot. If I were sixteen, I’d definitely have a crush on him. Me 8:52 p.m.>> You did not have a crush on me at 16! I was so tragic! <<Michael 8:53 p.m.>> You were not. You were fucking feral. You took exactly zero percent shit from anyone. It was hot as fuck. Me 8:55 p.m.>> You are definitely misremembering the amount of bullshit I put up with. <<Michael 9:00 p.m.>> Do you know what you were doing the first time I saw you?

Alex cast back in his memory. He remembered the first time he was aware of Michael, but not necessarily the first time Michael was aware of him. He always assumed it was at the same time.

Me 9:02 p.m.>> Uh? Scribbling emo song lyrics on my bio lab notebook? <<Michael 9:03 p.m.>> Nope. <<Michael 9:03 p.m.>> You were having a fight with Kyle during gym because he tagged your gym shirt with the word “faggot” in pink sharpie.

“Mr. Manes, you cannot wear shirts with inappropriate text on them. This is the gym. White shirts only,” Coach Heim called at Alex as soon as he walked out of the locker room and started towards where the rest of the class was lounging in the middle of the basketball court. Alex could see Kyle elbowing his football buddies and smirking, barely containing their laughter. Alex felt his face grow hot with embarrassment and fury. He kept walking towards the group.

“MR. MANES! GO CHANGE YOUR SHIRT!” the coach yelled, putting more authority into his deep baritone. He was a fit, balding adult who generally was an alright guy, but Alex was swelling with indignation. He stopped a few feet away from the group so he didn’t have to yell to be heard.

“I don’t have another shirt, sir. This is my gym shirt,” Alex explained through clenched teeth. As the rest of the class got a good look at the words emblazoned across his chest and stomach, he heard them begin to snicker and giggle quietly.

“Well, you can’t wear that one. You’re smarter than this, Alex, why would you wear this out of the locker room?” the coach asked, not sounding unkind. He shot the gathered students a dirty look and they quieted their laughter.

“Because it’s all I had to wear and it’s not my fault it was defaced. Some pink-fingered fucking COWARD of a football player must’ve thought it’d be REAL FUNNY to break into my locker and--” Alex started, voice growing louder as he let the heat behind his cheeks infuse his voice.

“I did no such thing!” Kyle yelled, cutting in on Alex. Coach Heim looked over at him, eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth to say something, maybe to tell Kyle to sit down, but as soon as Kyle stepped forward away from his buddies, Alex pounced. He landed the first hit on Kyle’s cheek, the meaty smack of their skin satisfying to him. Kyle shook it off and came at him. Before he knew it, they were rolling on the ground hitting each other as hard as they could in anyplace visible. The pain was nothing new for Alex and he kept his head clear as he tried to aim for spots that would hurt long after he was pulled off.

Too soon, arms were wrapped around his chest and a much bigger body than his was pulling him back and off of where he’d pinned Valenti to the ground. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, his ears still ringing with rage, but he could see the thin trickle of blood from Kyle’s split lip and he felt himself smile at the shock on everyone else’s face as they watched him get dragged back. He would not take Kyle’s shit this year. He would not take anyone’s shit.

Alex rubbed his fingers across his eyebrows and sighed deeply. He had been so ready to cause someone else pain by then. His dad had only gotten worse towards him when Kyle started to pull away because it meant that his “unnaturalness” was evident to everyone. His fight then and the fights in the following year always had more to do with his dad than with him being ashamed of being gay. He put the photos down in the box and went to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. His phone chimed as he unscrewed the top and after a deep drink, he checked the message.

<<Michael 9:13 p.m.>> Uh oh, you’ve left me on read. You okay? Me 9:14 p.m.>> I’m fine. Sorry. Just got wrapped up in my head for a minute. Me 9:15 p.m.>> How did you see that? You weren’t in my gym class? <<Michael 9:16 p.m.>> I was hiding under the bleachers skipping english. Me 9:17 p.m.>> THAT WAS THE FIRST DAY! <<Michael 9:17 p.m.>> Right? Nothing to do anyway. It was fine. It’s in the past. I graduated high school, didn’t I? No harm, no foul.

Alex laughed quietly to himself, staring at the message screen. He went back to the couch and flopped back down across the cushions with a sigh.

Me 9:20 p.m.>> You did. Even graduated college. I guess you’re right. <<Michael 9:21 p.m.>> When do you remember seeing me for the first time? Me 9: 23 p.m.>> I feel like it was biology when we were lab partners. I was supposed to be with Max, remember? <<Michael 9:24 p.m.>> Yeah, I was with Liz. Max had no chill back then. How the fuck did it take Liz until senior year to notice that he liked her? Me 9:35 p.m.>> Had no chill? *Has* no chill.

“Michael! MI-CHAEL!” Max hissed loudly from his seat next to Alex two rows behind where Liz was sitting. The class period was just getting started and everyone was still milling around trying to find their assigned seats. Michael looked over his shoulder at Max who was looking desperately at him. Michael mouthed ‘what?!’ and gave Max an irritated glare.

“Switch with me!” Max whisper screamed. Alex was smirking into his notebook as he watched the exchange through the side of his eye. He hadn’t really noticed the curly-haired boy before, but the eye roll he gave Max was epic. He started to turn back to the front when Max whispered again. “I’ll pay you!”

Michael turned back around abruptly and narrowed his eyes.

“How much?” Michael asked, not whispering but keeping his voice low enough not to carry to the teacher who was about to start taking roll. Max looked desperately towards the front of the class at Liz’s back where she was ignoring what was happening beside her in favor of actually paying attention. She was about the only one.

“Fifty,” Max called out.

“Seventy-five and you buy my lunch for a week,” Michael countered. Alex was highly amused. Max darted his eyes over to Liz’s back again and nodded. Michael grabbed his stuff and moved quickly towards the back of the classroom while Max grabbed his stuff to go forward.

“Sorry!” Max called out to Alex softly before he left. Alex watched him slide into the seat next to Liz smoothly and take out his notebook. She looked over and smiled at him in confusion, turning to look back at where Michael was now taking his seat next to Alex. Alex looked over at him and was struck full in the face with his mischievous grin.

“That sucker, I would’ve done it for twenty-five,” Michael shared with Alex conspiratorially, leaning closer to him while he spoke so his voice wouldn’t reach Max’s ears. Alex felt himself blushing a little at the somewhat flirtatious smirk Michael was giving him. He’d been aware of Michael, but hadn’t really ever paid him any mind. Now he was near him, he could see the interesting light brown of his eyes somewhere between gold and green. He also smelled a little like lake water and the woodsy, spicy deodorant Alex had smelled on Mr. Valenti. It was weirdly comforting.

“So he has a thing for Liz or is he that afraid of failing bio that badly? I’m not stupid,” Alex asked, clearing his throat and trying not to seem offended by Max’s desperation to switch partners.

“Oh, he has a major thing for Liz. It’s gross. Like, she’s pretty, don’t get me wrong. But he’s been writing Mr. and Mrs. Ortecho-Evans in his notebook since third grade or some shit like that,” Michael revealed, taking out his own bio notebook from his bag and setting in on the lab table in front of him. Alex took in what he was saying and nodded.

“So it’s not cause everyone says I’m gay?” Alex asked, voice low and a little nervous to see Michael’s reaction. Michael looked over at him, eyebrows drawn together and something like sympathy passing over his expression before he responded.

“No, man. Max doesn’t give a shit about that and neither do I. You weren’t planning on trying to date him, were you?” Michael asked, shooting him a grin. Alex grinned back, relieved to hear that someone in the school who was so upstanding and obviously straight like Max wasn’t a complete jerk. Michael didn’t seem too bad either.

“Nah. He’s not my type. I like musicians,” Alex joked, shooting Michael a side-grin.

“You don’t say? Do you play?” Michael asked, eyes forward now in a semblance of paying attention to the teacher. Alex glanced up towards the board, but continued slouching over his lyrics notebook.

“Guitar,” he replied shortly as the teacher started explaining their first lab assignment.

“Cool. Me too,” Michael said. Alex could see him studying him out of the corner of his eye. “We should jam sometime.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

And they did jam together eventually. A week later they’d gotten together and Alex had learned that Michael did not know one end of a guitar from the other. He’d let Michael borrow his brother Greg’s guitar and then taught him everything he knew over the course of the next three months.

Me 9:40 p.m.>> Man. Who knew we’d still be friends this long after. <<Michael 9:45 p.m.>> I did. Once you taught me to play guitar, you were stuck with me for life. There’s an unbreakable bond built when one dude teaches another dude how to finger... Me 9:46 p.m.>> Jesus Christ. That was terrible. <<Michael 9:47 p.m.>> Bet you’re laughing though. Me 9:48 p.m.>> I plead the fifth. Also, I gotta get to bed. Early day tomorrow. <<Michael 9:50 p.m.>> That’s some responsible adult behavior right there. Gross. Me 9:51 p.m.>> You’re gross. <<Michael 9:52 p.m.>> I am gross. I’m going to take a shower and change that, however. When will you be young and fun again? Me 9:53 p.m. >> Shut up. Go take your shower. <<Michael 9:53 p.m.>> Fine. Go to bed. Think about me in bed. Me 9:54 p.m.>> *You* think about me in bed. <<Michael 9:55 p.m.>> Always do. Night Me 9:56 p.m.>> Night.

Alex heaved himself off the couch and went to his room. The apartment always seemed so dark and lonely when he finished talking with Michael. He needed to work on making friends. That would help him not miss him so much.

[nalgenewhore]

masterlist - ao3 - day three - day five

<3<3<3

TW: Mentions of PTSD, Psych Wards, Mentions of Child Abuse/Abuse, Gaslighting

<3<3<3

It’s so late. She’s exhausted after being on her feet for fourteen hours. 

Elide wants two things. 

One: The hottest, longest shower she’s ever had. 

Two: The piece of chocolate cake she bought, but hasn’t had the time to eat yet. 

As she drives home from the hospital, she nearly falls asleep at the wheel. Elide snaps her eyes open and sits up straighter. Opening her window, she hopes that the bitter winter wind will encourage her body to stay alert. 

It works well, and she starts to shiver, her teeth chattering lightly. She keeps the window open still. 

At a red light, her phone starts to ring. It’s in her bag, on the passenger seat, and Elide ignores it. The important people in her life text when they need something and she’s driving anyway. 

Her apartment building isn’t far from work, so she’s home shortly. After she parks in her unit’s assigned spot, her phone rings again. Elide reaches over and fishes it out. When she sees her girlfriend’s contact, she smiles and happily accepts the call. “Hey, you. I’m happy you called.” 

“Hi, love,” Lorcan says, her voice distant and shaky. “Are you at work?” 

“No,” Elide frowns at Lorcan’s voice, worried. “I just got home. Are you alright, Lor? You sound upset.” 

It takes a couple seconds for Lorcan to reply. “I’m- I… can you come over? I- I just really want to see you.” 

Immediately, Elide re-clips her seat belt. “Of course. I’ll be there soon, honey. Do you want me to stay on the line?” She waits with wavering patience, trying to force calmness for her obviously distressed girlfriend. 

“Yes,” Lorcan all but confesses, like she’s ashamed to have needs, “please.” 

“Good. I missed you today,” Elide puts the phone on speaker and places it in the centre console’s cup holder. “And last night.” She fakes a pout, “It’s so cold without you.” 

Lorcan chuckles, the sound forced and choked, “Yeah, ‘m sorry I couldn’t be ya personal furnace, princess.”

Elide smoothly changes lanes, “You should be. Anyway, I’m glad you called. I showered at work and was probably going to crash the minute I got home.” There comes another red light and Elide stops in the left turn lane. “Work wasn’t too busy, just so gods-damned long. I had rounds at five AM, hon, but I got to scrub in on a femur repair today.” 

Both of the women know that Elide’s chatter is so that Lorcan can be distracted. Lorcan makes minimal comments and mostly communicates in monotonous hums. 

Elide parks in front of Lorcan’s building and picks her phone up, taking it off speaker. She holds it to her ear, “I’m here, Lorcan. Buzz me in?” 

“Yeah. I’ll see you soon.” 

“I love you,” Elide says, biting her bottom lip. 

Lorcan’s voice is soft and warm, “I love you, Lee.” 

They both hang up and Elide gets out of her old Ford Explorer. She walks to the lobby and presses the button next to Lorcan’s unit number. 

“‘llo.” 

“It’s me, Salvaterre.” The locked doors buzz open. “Thank you, honey.” Their friends don’t understand how Elide can call her six-foot-seven girlfriend ‘honey’ but it just fits, and Lorcan melts when Elide calls her such. 

Elide pulls the door open and walks to the elevator. Lorcan’s building is relatively new, so the ride is short and smooth. Elide steps out on the thirteenth floor and goes down the hall to Lorcan’s apartment. Knocking on the door, Elide waits on the doormat in relative calmness. 

The door is opened a few moments later. Lorcan stands in a ratty t-shirt and rugby shorts, one hand on the doorframe and one on the doorknob. “Hi.” 

Elide grins and rests her hand on Lorcan’s arm, “Hey. Can I come in?” 

Lorcan nods mutely and steps out of the way. She lets Elide in and closes the door. The petite woman hangs up her jacket and toes off her shoes. When she stands back up, Lorcan wraps her in a long, tight hug. Elide melts against her girlfriend and slides her arms around Lorcan’s broad shoulders.  

She slides a hand through the loose hair at the back of Lorcan’s head and the other soothes circles between Lorcan’s shoulder blades. “Honey, I’m here. I’m right here.” 

Lorcan nods again, “I know. Thank you for coming.” She drops her hands to the backs of Elide’s knees and easily picks her up. Lorcan wraps her girl’s soft, warm thighs around her waist. Elide smiles. 

Lorcan walks them into her room and doesn’t turn on the lights. She puts Elide down on her bed and sits down on the edge of the mattress, not knowing how to say what she needs to.

Elide gets up, “I’m going to get changed and go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.” 

Lorcan hums and her eyes silently track Elide as she moves around. 

She trades her athletic shirt and scrub pants for a long sleeved skate shirt of Lorcan’s she had cropped and a pair of compression shorts. Her hips swing as she pads into the toilet. Lorcan stretches out on her bed and stares up at the rotating ceiling fan. 

Her father never calls. He never contacts her. 

The last time she saw or heard from him was seven years ago, and the subsequent PTSD episode landed her in the psych ward for a month.

Right now… she’s fine. She’s- she’s fine. 

Since he called her this afternoon, since she heard his low, threatening voice - the voice that haunted her childhood and nightmares - Lorcan’s been in a state of shock. 

Her phone rang. Not caring to see who it was, Lorcan picked it up and held it to her ear, “‘llo.” 

“Now, I don’t think that’s how you’re supposed to greet your father, Lorcan.” 

Her blood ran cold and her heart stuttered to a stop. The report she’d been working on was forgotten. “C-cillian?” 

He clicked his tongue and she flinched. Her hands began to shake as she remembered what used to happen when he clicked his tongue. Her father clicked his tongue when he was upset, not angry. Whatever punishment he doled out after he clicked his tongue was always worse, because he wouldn’t be blinded by rage. 

No, he was meticulous. Careful. 

“How are you, Lorcan? That mother of yours told me you’d moved to Perranth. She tells me you have a girlfriend, too.”

Still shaking, Lorcan asked, “You… you talked to my mom?” He knows about Elide.

“Sure did. You know, I was almost certain that you knew about my house in Perranth. It hurt that you didn’t ask to rent from me.” 

“Why can’t you leave me alone,” Lorcan whispered, trying to block out the memories and flashbacks his voice triggered. “I don’t want anything from you.” 

“Now, I know I’ve been gone for a while, but I am your father. I deserve the chance to make it up to you.” 

Nothing can ever make up for what you did to me, Lorcan thought. She closed her eyes and the tears she hadn’t known were forming spilt down her cheeks. “Please,” she said, “just- just leave me be. Leave my mom and the twins be.” 

Cillian sucked on his teeth, “Don’t be selfish, girl. You were such a difficult child. It hurt me so much to discipline you like that, but I had to. You know that.” 

“Good-bye, Cillian,” Lorcan said, her entire body trembling. “This conversation is over. If- if you attempt to contact me again, I will file a restraining order.” With strength she didn’t exactly know she had, Lorcan hung up and immediately blocked the number. 

“Lorcan?” 

She sits up suddenly, her heart beating quickly. Of course, it’s only Elide, so she relaxes. The mattress dips as Elide crawls back into bed. She rubs Lorcan’s tattoo-marked thigh, where there is hardly any skin left untouched by ink. “Do you want to be under the blankets?” 

“Yes.” 

Lorcan and Elide move so they can lift the duvet and quilts. When they’ve settled, Lorcan rolls onto Elide. She spreads Elide’s legs with a hand to fit flush against her and rests her head on Elide’s tits. 

Elide chuckles softly and scratches Lorcan’s scalp, “You big softy.” 

Lorcan works her arms around Elide’s waist and exhales slowly. 

“Do you want to talk or sleep?” 

“Talk.” 

Elide nods, unseen by Lorcan and kisses the top of her girlfriend’s head, “Ok. You don’t have to.” 

“Yes, I do,” Lorcan responds, unconsciously hugging Elide tighter. “I… I need to.” 

“Ok, honey.” 

It takes a full minute for Lorcan to speak another word. “My… Cillian called me. I was at work.” 

Elide stiffens, her hand stopping in Lorcan’s hair, “Your… your father?” 

A nod. “He talked to my mom, El,” Lorcan whispers, trying not to cry. “He- he knows that I live here. He knows about you .” A shuddering sob escapes her and Lorcan shakes. Her eyes screw shut. “I ca-an’t make him leave. ”

In her chest, Elide feels her heart crack in two. She kisses the top of Lorcan’s head and scratches a loop between her shoulder blades. “He’s gone. You’re with me. You’re safe.” 

Lorcan still cries, her grip desperate and greedy. 

Soon, she grows quiet and nudges Elide’s neck with her nose. “I love you, Lee. So much.” 

“I love you too.” 

As she lifts her head, Lorcan searches Elide’s face. She tilts her chin up and kisses the ‘v’ between her brows, and then presses her lips to Elide’s. Just for a moment, nothing but a mere touch. Lorcan rolls them and sits up, pulling Elide’s knees around her hips. Elide squeaks at the sudden movement, and quickly settles, looping her arm around Lorcan’s neck. 

Lorcan clasps her hands around Elide’s waist and stretches her long legs out. She rests her chin on Elide’s shoulder and closes her eyes, “I want to be fine. I-I want to be fine.”

Elide lifts her head, her face directly in front of Lorcan’s, “I know you do.” 

“I’m so tired,” Lorcan whispers, a confession. 

Her girlfriend’s eyes mirror her exhausted, drained state. Her fingers are soft and light as she traces them over Lorcan’s features, “I know that too.” Elide climbs off of Lorcan’s lap and chuckles at her whine of protest. “You baby. Lie down.” 

Lorcan grumbles, but does as she’s told. 

“On your side.” 

Again, she complies. She moves her arms, ready for Elide to slip into them and to hold her close. Instead, Elide slides her arms around Lorcan’s waist, her chest pressing against Lorcan’s back. For a moment, Lorcan stiffens and looks down in silence, sort of confused at the new position. She’s- she’s never been little spoon. Her girlfriends were always shorter than her, and it just made sense. 

Elide kisses the nape of her neck and doesn’t pull away as she asks, “Is this ok?” 

Lorcan carefully eases into Elide’s hold. Their legs move and Elide’s is stretched over her hip. She grips Elide’s thigh and nods, “Yeah. ‘t’s kinda nice.” 

“Kinda?” Elide teases, her grin spreading across Lorcan’s skin. 

A slight, barely-there smile curls Lorcan’s full lips. “I feel safe, Lee.” She takes Elide’s hand and kisses her fingertips, “You make me feel safe.”

<3<3<3

@ladyverena​​ @ladywitchling​​ @mythicaitt​​ @sassyhobbits​​ @darklesmylove​​ @julemmaes​​ @letstakethedawn @cicada-bones​​ @highladyofthegentry​​ @darlinminds​​ @nahthanks​​ @sjmships​​ @eyllweambassador​​ @flamingveritas​​ @adelzd-bookblr​​ @somewhatdynamite @woollycat22​​ @firestarsandseneschals​​ @the-regal-warrior​​

[katehuntington]

Title: Black Dog - part five Word count: 5600± words Episode summary: When  Sam gets an anonymous phone call with information about his father, Dean receives a text message with coordinates to different location. The brothers clash and split up, one following orders, the other trusting his instincts. Meanwhile, in the wilderness of Cascade Range, Washington State, Zoë loses grip on a personal case and is forced to confront her demons. Without back up, this might very well turn out to be her final hunt. Part five summary: Dean and David hike up White Horse Mountain, and the hunter stumbles on something he never expected to find. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only!  Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures. Supernatural creatures/entities, mentions of demon possession. Swearing, smoking, weaponry. Descriptions of  torture and murder. Illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Descriptions of suicidal thoughts and tendencies, depression, panic attacks, hallucinations. Author’s note: Beta’d by @winchest09​​​​​ & @deanwanddamons​​​​​​. Thanks, girls!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist

S1E03 “Black Dog” Masterlist

     “There. That’s our car.”

     David points at the Ford Escape ahead, which is parked alongside the road next to a stream. Dean peers through the windshield and nods, satisfied. He didn’t actually think it was possible, but David is as good at chart reading as Sam is. The nineteen-year-old remembers these backroads well. 

     Even though the timing isn’t perfect, now that the end of the day is approaching fast, the kid with the heart of a lion is determined to find his family and bring them home. If this creature turns out to be a wendigo, a hunt at night adds a bigger risk, but according to David, the weather is going to take a turn within the coming days, leaving not much time to lose. Then there’s the factor of those three missing hunters. The old wise man down in the village presumed them to be dead already, but a presumption isn’t definite. Dean will not write them off without finding either solid proof or dead bodies, and every minute passing slims the chances of their survival.

     As the hunter pulls over, he observes his surroundings. A fallen tree blocks the road ahead. It has been there for a while by the looks of it, because besides the SUV of David’s father, two other cars also await their owners to come back. One is a 4x4 Jeep with huge antlers attached to the grill, the other is a two-seat Land Rover with way too many bumper stickers on the rear end.      “I’m guessing those are the hunters’ cars,” Dean presumes.

     He turns off the ignition, the guitars and drums of Led Zeppelin’s Black Dog cut short, then he gets out of the Impala. The frozen ground crunches under his boots, the breath he blows out forming a small cloud as soon as it collides with the cold air. David takes his example and exits the car as well, moving towards the Ford.

     “There’s equipment inside that we’re going to need,” he says, while trying to have a look through the window.      Dean walks around his Chevrolet and slides the keys into the lock of the trunk. “Like what?”      “You know, the ten essentials. Ice axes, crampons, snowshoes, all that,” David sums up.      “Apparently I don’t,” Dean mutters, realizing it’s a good thing David decided to come along for the ride. His father had taken him and his brother on survival training plenty of times, but never in these snowy conditions on treacherous mountain tops.

     David curses, as he tries to open one of the doors. “Damn it, Dad locked it.”      “That’s where my equipment comes in handy.”      David turns around to see what Dean is talking about. He has opened the trunk of the Chevrolet and takes out a steel lath which is slightly bent at the end. David has seen it before in movies; it’s used for carjacking. For a second he glares at Dean. Why would he carry something like that with him? Skillfully, Dean slips the lath between the glass and the rubber frame, and with a quick motion, he unlocks it, without leaving a scratch.      He steps back and gestures to the car door. “Knock yourself out.” 

     Stunned, David glances from the SUV to Dean as he starts to wonder what this guy does for a living. Before he can ask, the stranger fires a question at him, though.      “How long did it take you to get over that ridge?” Dean wonders.      “About three hours. It’s getting dark already, so it might take a little longer than that,” David admits, watching Dean head back towards the slick, black car. “Where are you going?”      “I need to make a call before we go on this little adventure,” he notifies before he lowers himself into the driver’s seat.

     He closes the door and sighs, then takes out his phone. For a few seconds, he stares down at the little device in his hand, unsure if he should go through with what he’s about to do. Sam chose to walk away from him when he offered him a choice, Dean should not be the one crawling back to him. Or should he? Does he need to be the bigger man here? The first one to restore contact? If he does, he needs to do it now. The signal is bad down in the valley, not to mention up there between the clouds. 

     Pressing the speed dial before he can decide otherwise, Dean presses the dial button, but is eventually put through to voicemail. He can’t help but wonder if Sam just denied his call or that he’s unable to come to the phone. While the standard message plays, he starts to get worried. His little brother better not be in some kind of trouble. Then the final beep sounds in his ear and he leaves a message.

     “Hey, Sammy... It’s - it’s me. I just wanted to let you know that, uh... I’m in Darrington, Washington State. Dad was right, there is a case here. I’m not sure what it is yet, but I’ll figure it out. Anyway, I’m going into the woods and won’t be able to contact you any time soon, so…” He pauses and takes a breath. “I hope you’re doing okay, Sam. Leave me a message when you get this.”

     After those words, he hangs up and stares at his phone. Why couldn’t he say it? Why couldn’t he pronounce that simple word? Is it that hard to tell his brother that he is sorry about that fight? Apparently it is. With a deep sigh, he gets out of his car and notices David is already waiting. He has two backpacks ready and is carrying all sorts of tools on him.      “You’ll need this,” he offers, handing Dean a backpack.      Dean takes it and hooks his arm through one of the loops, then he turns to the trunk of his Chevrolet.      “Good, now let’s bring on the good shit.”

     With those words, he opens the lid and lifts up the double bottom, revealing his weapon collection. David’s eyes widen and stare down the trunk. Pistols, shotguns, knives, grenades, a sniper rifle, axes, crossbows. And is that…? Is that a grenade launcher? Every single weapon you could possibly think of is stored in that car. 

     Frightened, he looks over at Dean. “Are you going to kill me?”      Dean looks aside, puzzled. “What? No, of course not.”      He takes his gun from his waistband, unloads it, and replaces the bullets with silver ones. Curious yet scared, David monitors his actions.

     “Do you know how to handle a rifle, David?” Dean asks while he packs a set of flare guns and extra cartridges. It still bugs him that he’s not sure what he’s dealing with yet, which is usually step one when it comes to hunting. He doesn’t want to waste more time, though, with so many lives lost already, so he’s gearing up for every creature still on the list.      “Yeah, Dad took me deer hunting a few times,” the young guy replies, still doubtful.      “I’ll tell you one thing, it ain’t deer we’re gonna hunt,” Dean comments.

     He hands the young guy a loaded pistol, which David puts away behind his belt. Dean loads a shotgun with rock salt, in case he finds a spirit in these woods. When he’s done, he gives it to David as well as a flare gun.      “Shoot first, ask questions later,” he orders.

     “What are we hunting exactly?” David likes to know, slightly freaked out.      “Probably a skinwalker, which is a creature that is able to change into any animal it wants, and if we’re really lucky, it’s a wendigo, which is an incredibly fast and close-to-perfect hunter. But it could also be a daeva, ” Dean rambles, as if he’s reading from a boring history book while preparing his own shotgun.

     David's jaw drops. What did he just say? Is this guy for real? Or is he about to hike up a mountain with someone who should be admitted either to a mental institution or locked up in jail? That would be the obvious explanation, but after what he experienced, he knows it’s not the only scenario. This stranger, who he had never seen before in his life, is the only one who believes his story and has taken him seriously. He wonders, though. What’s the scarier thought? Going into the woods with a possible mad man, or to seek out something evil, something supernatural, in the wilderness? 

     Dean notices his guide’s reaction as he slams the lid of his car and locks it up. He figured the kid needed some time to comprehend, but they need to get going. The hunter turns to David again, skillfully loading his rifle single-handedly.      “Welcome to my world.” 

     Leaving the teenager in complete shock, he walks past him and expects him to follow, which he eventually does, once he snaps out of it.      “So… we just kill the monster?” he asks as he catches up with Dean, looking aside.      “Not ‘just’. These creatures are damn fast, so it’s gonna be a hell of a task.” Dean gives the directions clearly, knowing they will need some time to sink in. “If you see any kind of animal, you shoot it with that gun I just gave you. If you see something that looks slightly human, torch the fucker.”      “What if it’s something else?” the only remaining Cleveland questions.      “Then you run like hell and let me take care of it,” Dean orders.      David nods, trying to process the information. “And the shotguns?”      “Oh, I took those just in case we run into an evil spirit,” Dean adds nonchalantly.

     The young guy, who is exposed to way more new information than he can digest, stops dead in his tracks, leaving Dean in the lead. Completely staggered, he stares at him, bug-eyed. Did he just say ‘evil spirit’? As in a ghost?

     “You’re insane!” he concludes.      “If you have a better explanation for all this, please share,” Dean returns, growing impatient.      David catches up with him again, observing him while they march up the trail.      “You do this for a living? You actually hunt these things down?” he asks, both stunned and curious.      “It doesn’t pay well if that’s what you mean, but yeah. Someone has to do the job,” the hunter admits.      “And I thought I had it bad in college,” the teenager scoffs under his breath.

     Silence follows as the company of two starts their journey up the steep hills at the foundation of Whitehorse Mountain. It’s a good thing Dean has endurance, because it’s a tough trail they’re following. They parked the car at 750 feet, far below the Lone Tree Pass, and crossing these terrains isn’t exactly a walk in the park. Downed evergreens make it difficult to move fast, almost as if the woods are trying to slow them down, knowing what’s up there.

     They are about two hours on their way when they hit snow. The thin layer of white allows the two young men to make good time, and it doesn’t take them long to reach an open area. Ice crystals reflect the mystical moon rays, the only source of natural light they have. Dean might be wearing several layers of clothing, but he can’t shut out the freezing temperatures completely. His hands tingle and his nose and ears feel cold, the brisk night air uncomfortable against his skin. The hunter turns up the collar of his jacket to protect his neck from the elements, but silently wishes he had brought a scarf at least. 

     The snow that fell yesterday reached lower altitudes than it did last week, announcing winter. David’s flashlight shimmers on the silver surface as they cross the open space. Cautious, Dean scans the area holding his torch up, shining it in the direction where he’s looking. David, on the other hand, checks his altimeter.      “We’re at 2400 feet,” he notifies.      Dean checks his watch, it’s almost ten-thirty. “We’re not gonna reach the Lone Pass Tree before midnight, are we?”      “I’m afraid not. Want to set up camp?” David proposes.      “No, we’re not gonna close our eyes in these woods. Something’s off,” Dean replies, alert.

     The skilled hunter can’t put his finger on it, but the hair in the back of his neck is straight up. He looks around, his focus flicking over his surroundings. He lets the light glide along the edge of the forest, when he sees a hint of a shadow. It moves so fast he barely captures it, yet he immediately draws his shotgun, which alerts David.      “What?”      “Shh…”  Dean hushes him and gestures to follow him. “Stay close. Keep your eyes open.”

     Scared yet brave, David takes out his gun and does as told. The only thing they hear are the noises coming from the woods and the snow rustling under their shoes. Dean wants to get out of this clearing as fast as possible; they are sitting ducks out here in the open. 

     With his hunter instincts on high alert, Dean crosses the field, the stock of the shotgun against his cheek and the back end firmly against his shoulder pocket as he peers past the barrel. His father, having served in Vietnam, taught his sons everything he knows about 360 degrees combat. The military training has proven his worth  throughout his career in hunting evil, and today is no exception.

     The two make it to the treeline, finding shelter in the shadows of the forest. After a few hundred yards, Dean stops dead in his tracks, spotting something that doesn’t fit the picture. What appears to be the remnants of a campsite comes into view, and he lowers his weapon. He realizes it’s probably the three missing hunters, but as they approach, it becomes clear that the creature he’s tracking has beaten him to it.

     The place is completely trashed. A fire has died out, fresh snow covering the blackened logs. The tents, which were set up in a triangle around the only heat source, are shredded to pieces. Strips of canvas sadly hang from the tentpoles, the soft breeze moving them back and forth. Blood that leaked from the groundsheet and tainted the ice should have been a warning, but the young Cleveland pulls back the cover anyway, regretting it the second he beholds what’s inside. He stumbles away, instantly throwing up and dumping his half-digested meal into the snow. 

     Dean watches the young guy for a second, who wipes his mouth and stares back at him, pale as a ghost. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be the first dead body the hunter has come across, yet he still pushes away the torn canvas with caution. He can understand David’s response, because it’s anything but a pretty sight. Inside lies what remains of one of the men. His torso has been ripped open and bodily fluids have splattered everywhere. Bite marks and scratches have torn his clothes, revealing the disemboweled body. His face has been eaten away, his remaining limbs already turning black. Scavengers have been snacking on his flesh, yet the frost that covers him has taken away the worst of the smell.

     With a sigh, the hunter steps back and investigates the other tents, finding the same dramatic portrayal behind every curtain. He spots the rifles by their sides; they got ambushed. The fact that all three of them are still in a sleeping position indicates that the attacks happened at once. It’s not just one predator who has made this area their hunting grounds. There are at least three of those creatures out there, which makes them outnumbered.

     His flashlight catches the torn-up canvas. The fabric is cut up by razor-sharp claws by the looks of it, four digits instead of five.      “I can tell you one thing, it ain’t no wendigo,” he concludes, ruling out the lonesome monster.

     But if it isn’t a wendigo, then what? Dean glances up at the sky through the branches. The moon was full a few days ago, yet now it’s partly shadowed; it can’t be a werewolf either. When he redirects his gaze back to the ground, he spots an imprint of a paw, stained with crimson. It looks like one of a wolf or some other canine. The experienced hunter is putting his money on the monsters being skinwalkers, until he looks back into one of the tents. The guy’s chest is ripped to shreds, but his heart is still there. So what the hell could this be then?

     Pondering, he steps back, making eye contact with the teenager. David is trembling slightly, and Dean would do anything to break the picture that will be forever framed in his mind. The kid is scared for life.      “You good?” he asks sympathetically, holding his gaze.      His question is answered with a nod of the head. David swallows with difficulty, but then he exhales, collecting himself.      “Let’s keep moving, there’s nothing we can do for them,” Dean says. “Turn off your flashlight, it will only make us easy targets. Those things could be anywhere, so stay close, alright?”

     David nods silently once more, doing exactly as Dean tells him. They move away from the site where the horrific event took place and traverse left, further into the forest to a wide-open strip, leading to the slopes of the Lone Pass Trees. The tall evergreens seem to try and cut out every bit of light, isolating them from the rest of the world. Darkness overshadows the boy and the hunter, who have both drawn their weapons. 

     For a moment, Dean closes his eyes and listens, trying to identify the many sounds of the night. Then he opens them, giving his pupils time to adjust. They are being watched, the hunter can feel it in his bones. He taps David on the shoulder to tell him to stop. Alerted and highly aware of what’s going on around him, Dean holds his shotgun up. If it’s a forest spirit, the rocksalt is going to hurt, but if this thing turns out to be a daeva, it’s only going to buy them a few extra seconds. 

     Then he notices it, something sneaking at ten o’clock. A branch twitches softly, but it’s enough for Dean to aim the barrel in the direction where it came from, trusting his trained ear. In a reflex, he steps in front of David and pulls the trigger, shooting a slug from the barrel, immediately taking cover behind a tree and pulling his guide with him. It’s a good thing he does, because whatever it is, it shoots back. He hears the rock salt hit the target right before the slug from the other weapon splinters the bark right next to his head. As he turns his face and shuts his eyes, protecting them from the wooden fragments, he hears the creature scream out. 

     “AAH! God damn it!!”

     Dean’s eyes widen as he feels the tree trunk against his back. No fucking way. Impossible. Yet, he knows that voice, he knows it way too well. The hunter carefully peeks from behind his cover. “Uh-oh.”      “What?” David whispers, scared. “What is it?”      “This is far worse than a wendigo or a skinwalker,” Dean comments under his breath, after which he puts on a louder voice. “Zoë?”      A short silence follows as it seems to sink on their opponent who she just had a face-off with. When the realization hits, hell breaks loose.      “Dean Winchester, you fucking ASSHOLE!!” Zoë curses.

     She has her arm clamped over the area where Dean just unleashed the insides of his shotgun. The agonizing injury has her coughing, the wind knocked from her lungs just moments earlier. Zoë has never been shot with rock salt before and although she knows it won’t kill her, it’s certainly not a pleasant experience. 

     “You two know each other?” David assumes, surprised by this unexpected development.      “Unfortunately, we do,” Dean comments.      “You fucking SHOT me!!” she cries out, infuriated.

     Dean grimaces, cowering at her harsh tone; he’s dead meat. He just fired a gun at Zoë Sullivan and actually managed to hit her. He’s not sure if he will live to tell the tale. Then he remembers the little prank she pulled on him in Paragould. As his facial expression changes, he glares around the tree.

     “Well, you deserved it!” he shouts back, a part of him regretting his words the moment he pronounces them.      “WHAT did you just say to me?!” Zoë returns, in disbelief.      “You wrecked Baby!” Dean argues.      “Baby? What are you… Oh, you have got to be shitting me!” she snaps, frustrated. “You shot me over a fucking car?!”      Immediately, Dean’s eyes widen and he scoffs, insulted. “It’s a--”      “- ‘67 Chevrolet Impala,” the huntress interrupts. “Big fucking deal!”      “You know what’s a big deal? You shot me too, back in Rochester. With a real bullet!” Dean counters.

     Another pause follows, the quiet moment allowing her ragged breaths to be audible. Dean can hear her cough and groan. Shit, she’s in a lot of pain.  

     “Zo?”      “Yeah?” she moans.      “Sorry.”      The huntress huffs. “You will be when I’m done with you.”      “You’re not gonna shoot me, are ya?” Dean questions, before he dares to come out of hiding.      “No, I guess we’re square,” she sighs.

     Dean appears from the shadows while Zoë tries to crawl up, her forearm still tightly pressed against her chest. Seeing her on the ground has the older Winchester sibling fasten his steps towards her. He offers his hand, and when she glares at him she notices the concern in his eyes, despite the dim light. Reluctant, she places her palm in his and allows him to pull her in an upright position, after which the hunter crouches down next to her.

     “You alright?” he checks, peeling her warm coat away.      “Had worse,” Zoë croaks, clearing her throat with difficulty.      The winter coat she’s wearing has cushioned the rocksalt somewhat, but bruising is already evident, blood surfacing through her skin.      “Shit,” he cusses, his voice laced with guilt. “David, give me some light, will ya?”

     Perplexed, the huntress looks past Dean at the young guy who pulls a torch from his backpack. She assumed the tall figure behind the hunter was Sam, since the two siblings are so unhealthily co-dependent on each other.      Zoë snaps her head back to face the older Winchester brother, then hints at David. “You brought him here?”

     Before the hunter can answer her, the flashlight flips on, its rays exposing the state the woman before him is in, silencing him instantly. A blood splatter has painted her neck and chin with red, her brow and temple badly bruised. Crimson has dripped down from her forehead and dried into her pores, a cut on her cheekbone is still bleeding. No way in hell that a bit of rock salt caused that.

     Dean gapes at her. “Jesus, Zo. What the fuck happened?”      “I got into a little fight,” she admits carelessly.      Not satisfied with that answer, he sternly stares into her eyes. “With what?”      “Doesn’t matter,” she mutters, pushing herself off the ground, half accepting Dean’s support when he helps her. “I still can’t believe you dragged the kid with you.”      “He needed a guide,” David answers before Dean does. “I thought you were with Wildlife Services?”      Confused, Dean shifts his attention from Zoë to David and back. “You talked to him?”      “Of course I did. You think I would work a case without a background check?” she snaps, pulling herself loose from the hunter’s grip once she’s on her feet.      “Why didn’t you tell me?” Dean now asks David.      “I didn’t think it was relevant. I had my statement taken by several people. How was I supposed to know that she’s a hunter too?” the young guy excuses.      Now it’s Zoë’s turn to Dean in shock. “You told him?!” she cries out.      “He deserved to know, Zoë,” Dean defends.      “He deserves to live and so do you,” she returns firmly. “The both of you need to get off this mountain. Now.”      “No, not without my family,” the brave teenager states, determined.      “You’re no good to them dead, David. Believe me, you will end up the same way as your father and sister if you don’t go back,” she lectures.

     Confused, Dean watches the exchange, unsure what Zoë’s words could mean. “For fuck's sake, Zo. What are you hunting?”      “It’s taken care of, but you two need to leave. Now!” she replies firmly. “You can come back for your family’s remains, I promise you that. But not tonight, unless you want to suffer the same fate.”

     Her brown eyes bore deep into David’s. Her promise is sincere, but so is the warning. A pressing expression strengthens her words, convincing him to listen. There is something about her that forces David to understand he must do what she tells him to. He looks from one hunter to the other, then he nods as he swallows apprehensively.      “Okay,” he agrees.      “Here, take this with you,” she hands him an amulet.      Dean recognizes it as the demon protection necklace Zoë stole from his trunk back in Rochester. When he took the pendant back, he was sure he had left it in the trunk of the Impala, but she must have snatched it again when he wasn’t looking. Why would she need the enchanted jewelry? What is hiding in these woods that the amulet would work on? Demons? But that doesn’t fit the leads at all.      Wanting to get a grip on the situation, the hunter tries to read her, but Zoë gives him nothing.

     “Run and don’t look back”, she tells David.      “And the gun?” David gives the man who accompanied him on this quest a wondering look, the 9mm Glock burning behind his waistband.      “Keep it. Might come in handy,” Dean insists, also handing him a card from his pocket. “This is my brother’s number. When you get back to the village, give him a call and he will help you.”      “You’re going with him,” Zoë decides strictly.      The older Winchester sibling glances from David to the injured woman. Her breathing is still elevated, but her gaze is as penetrating as ever.      Dean doesn’t back down, though, his green eyes are as piercing as she has ever witnessed them. “No, I’m not.”      The huntress rolls her eyes skyward, trying to tie down the anger that is building in her stomach. Now is not the time for the hunter to fight her, yet she has to convince him fast before they run out of time. “Dean, listen to me--”      “I’m not gonna bail,” he makes clear, his father’s orders in the back of his mind.      “You are not part of this case,” Zoë hisses, suppressing her rage.      But Dean doesn’t falter. “I am now.”

     The smart woman who has made quick-thinking her middle name, turns away from him, her hands moving to her head, fingers raking into her brown locks. When she swings back around to face him, he sees a desperation in her stance he has never witnessed before.      “For fuck’s sake, Dean! Listen to me for once! If you stay, you will DIE!!” she cries out, retreating her hands from her hair and gesturing wildly.

     The complete change of demeanor stuns Dean. Trying to unravel her odd behavior, he watches her, noticing the shimmer in her eyes when the moonlight catches them. It starts to dawn on him that she’s not sending him away because she doesn’t want his help. There is so much more at stake than just pride.

     “I don’t want your blood on my hands, Dean,” Zoë continues, her voice much softer now. “Please, just… Please go.”

     Compared to her harsh words a moment ago, these come out as a pleading whisper. He could have sworn he heard a tremble, her words laid thick with fear and sadness. Nothing about this picture seems right. Could it be that the mighty huntress is actually scared? 

     It only fuels Dean’s determination to remain by her side even more. His green eyes turn softer, a mix of comfort and compassion filling them. “I’m not leaving you alone on this one, Zo.” 

     She breathes out a shuddering sigh, admitting the loss. It’s not often that it happens, but Zoë doesn’t argue further. The commitment in his tone, the way he’s looking at her right now, she knows that a nation’s army couldn't change his mind.      David seems to realize it too, because he steps back and intends to leave. “Good luck,” he wishes them.

     Both Dean and Zoë give him a nod, after which he disappears into the darkness of the forest. When he’s out of sight, the remaining hunter turns back to Zoë. She can’t look at him, aware that she has already lost the battle and that Dean has sealed his fate. She and the older Winchester brother might not get along, but this is not what she wishes for him. Now that he chose to stay, he chooses to die. Not okay with this in the slightest, she shakes her head and looks down at the icy soil at her feet.

     “You shouldn’t have followed me, Dean,” she sighs, trying to keep the tears at bay.      “I didn’t,” he returns, truthful.      “Oh, come on,” she scoffs. “How else would you explain that you end up here on the--”      “Dad sent me.”

     Stunned, she looks up, his words a complete shock to her. Several questions start to swirl inside in her mind. John? John sent him here? How did he even know she would be on this mountain? On this exact spot? And why would he send his son on a suicide mission? 

     “Why in hell would he jeopardize your life?” she counters, frustration and fury thick in her tone.      “Maybe because he thinks yours can be saved,” Dean brings to mind.      Zoë chuckles and turns away from the Winchester son who bears such a resemblance to his father, taking a couple of steps away from him while she tries to wrap her head around the situation.

     “Is that funny to you?” he questions, hostile, her cynical laugh rubbing him the wrong way.      “It is, because last time I checked, saving my ass is about the last thing your old man wants to do,” she returns, venom in her voice.

     Her acquisition puts John’s son off once again. He has noticed her disrespecting and aggressive attitude towards his father several times before and he can’t resist continuing on that matter this time.      “What the fuck is your problem with my father?” he asks defensively.      “Can we please not do this? Not now,” she intervenes, seemingly tired, after which her gaze wanders. “You shouldn’t have come.”

     Dean observes her intently, unable to comprehend what is happening. Zoë Sullivan who doesn’t want to pick a fight? That’s a new one. Her choice of actions alerts Dean, even frightens him a little. However, nothing will ever make him reconsider the decision to stick around. Dad gave him a job to do and finding the huntress here, clearly in deep shit, can’t be a coincidence. He approaches Zoë, forces her to look him in the eye by gently gripping her shoulders and turning her to face him.

     “Zo, what are you hunting?” he asks, emerald greens staring at her.      “I’m not hunting, Dean,” she answers, her voice only having a fraction of its usual strength. “I’m ending this.”

     In the far distance, a church bell rings. Startled, Zoë snaps her head to the side, staring into the direction of the valley as the single carillon chimes. Midnight is here. 

     Three… four… five… 

     Time becomes valuable when it runs out. This is it. This is the moment she has feared for exactly one year now. This is the moment that she has to pay her dues. 

     Seven… eight… nine…

     “Zo?”      Dean tries to call her back, hoping to get her attention, but she has shut herself out. The woman before him is identical to the girl he met four years ago, when she was possessed and the carpet got pulled from under her. Panic and fear swim in her eyes and tears begin to pool just above her bottom eyelashes. Unable to respond, she listens to the sounding of the bells, pulling in irregular breaths. She’s on the verge of breaking down.

     He isn’t sure how to handle her, the huntress who has seen so much evil and has endured so much pain. She never gives in to fear, never wavers, never gives up, until now. And still, Dean doesn’t have a clue what is going on, but he is starting to fear the worst himself. 

     Gently, he slides his hands down her arms until he’s holding her by the wrists, tightening his grip to get her to look at him. Finally, Zoë turns her head and stares back, teardrops coming down her bruised and bloody face. Despite the lack of light, he can see them glisten with sorrow. 

     Ten… eleven… 

     Then the last call of the church bell echoes through the valley. It feels like the drums stop right then and there and the floor is about to disappear from under her, which will force the seemingly unbeatable huntress to fight the noose. Her entire form trembles under Dean’s touch. She can barely say a word, because she knows they will be one of her last. And so she whispers the most fragile, truthful, and frightening message that has ever left her lips, only for him to be heard.

     “I’m so sorry.” 

Dun-dun-dun! Hope you enjoyed the cliffhanger. Feel free to rant about after the read. Thank you so much for reading. I appreciate  every single one of you, but if you  do want to give me some extra love,  you are free to reblog my work or  buy me coffee (Link in bio at the  top of the page)

Read part six here

[princess-of-riviaa]

Meet Me, Love Me chapter 2: daddys_pr1ncess

Chapter 1: The Lieutenant

Pairing: Walter Marshall x OFC (Erin)

Series Summary: After meeting a woman on the dating site Meet Me, Love Me, Walter finds himself falling into a messy web of lies, deceit, and heartbreak.

Chapter Summary: Erin does her best to stay professional around Lieutenant Marshall, which doesn’t last for very long.

Warning(s): masturbating, spanking, slight angst

Word Count: 2,488

“Valdez, you’re with Lieutenant Marshall today,” Officer Romero says before continuing down her list of every intern’s daily task.

Erin’s eyes pop. Today is her first day of field training. She’ll get to be front and center to all the action, which is the entire reason she signed up to be an intern in the first place. She’s been looking forward to this day for weeks. But why are they sending her out with a lieutenant instead of a cop with a lower position and less important things to do? And why, of all people, did it have to Walter she’s paired up with?

“You’re the guy I’ve been sexting for the last month,” she’d said that day in the restaurant as she realized that Lieutenant Walter Marshall was the.lieutenant, AKA the man she’d been calling daddy for the last three weeks. She’d never wished to be swallowed up by the earth more than she had in that moment. “Wait--you’re the guy who’s been sexting me!”

Holy shit.

She spent her mornings taking this guy’s coffee order and her nights making videos for him to jerk off to. How the hell was she supposed to show her face at work now that she knew what his dick looked like, had practically memorized every detail of it after all the pictures he’d sent her of his hard-on?

“What the hell do we do now?” she had asked, not necessarily to him, but to anyone who was listening and had the slightest bit of an answer.

“The only thing we can do.” There’s a reluctance in Lieutenant Marshall’s--Walter’s voice that she’d never heard before.

For some stupid reason, she let herself hope. Hope that he would say something along the lines of I know this is probably breaking twenty HR rules but let’s keep talking anyways, now do you wanna go to my place and fuck? Call her a hopeless romantic, or a stupid idiot. She’s not sure there’s much difference. But her chest had tightened and her heart had fluttered in those few seconds between his sentences.

And then he said: “We can’t do this anymore. We have to stop talking right now. Neither one of us knew who the other was when we started this… this… whatever this was. But it’s over. It has to be.”

Of course, she understood why he did it. Not only was it wrong to keep doing it while they worked together, but he was about ten positions above her, and that made it even worse. He had to save his job and his reputation.

She understood the logic behind it. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

Now, a week later, she’s being assigned to him for the day. The wound is still fresh. She still finds herself reaching for her phone to text him, only to stop herself when she opens the app and sees his username. She still reads their texts as she's lying in bed at night, feeling like a clingy idiot. They no longer riled her up now, they only make her start to cry. It’s stupid, she knows that. It wasn’t a real relationship. But she misses having him there, misses talking to someone at all hours of the day. So how the hell is she supposed to act professional around him today?

Once Officer Romero has given her instructions, Erin walks up to her and says, “Sorry, but I thought--”

The older lady holds up a hand, silencing Erin. “First, don’t ever start a sentence with ‘sorry, but..’. If you’re going to say something, you gotta mean it. I expect that kind of confidence in you before you pass your training.”

Erin nods. “Yeah, okay. Sorry. I mean… uh, I was just…”

Someone calls Officer Romero’s name and she excuses herself. Just as she starts to walk down the hall she passes Walter on his way in. She tells him that Erin is going to be under him today and--god, what is wrong with her for finding something dirty in that?--Walter stops in his tracks. He looks around the room until he spots Erin. She tries to give an apologetic smile but it feels more like a grimace.

This is going to be a long day.

An hour later, Walter has settled in, scanned through paperwork, had his three cups of black coffee, and Erin decides it’s time to head down to his unmarked Ford Explorer and wait for him. She’s in an actual police uniform today--normally she’s in sweats and a police t-shirt--and though it’s something that would make her giddy with excitement, the thought of spending her first day out in the field with Walter is killing her buzz.

Walter doesn’t say anything as he makes his way to his car and hits the unlock button on his keys. Erin slides into the passenger seat. Walter turns on the car and adjusts the AC and the police radio without even acknowledging her presence.

“So, I want you to know that I didn’t do anything,” Erin explains. “I didn’t say anything to anyone, Officer Romero just randomly assigned me to you--”

He silences her with a look.

She hesitates before adding, “I just… don’t want you to think that I’m not respecting your wishes. I’m not trying to make your job harder for you.”

His expression slightly softens. Slightly. 

Erin doesn’t let her mouth get away from her this time. The car is tense and silent as Walter switches into drive and heads off down the highway. Erin doesn’t know where they’re going but he looks like a man on a mission so she doesn’t question it.

They spend the first two hours in silence. No calls come in. They just sit on a part of the highway directly between the two biggest cities in the area and wait for a call on the radio that never comes. Neither one of them speaks. Walter finally speeds off down the highway around eleven. Erin thinks he’s been notified of a crime that she isn’t aware of, and is slightly disappointed when they pull into a McDonald’s drive-thru.

“What are we doing here?” she asks.

He ignores her as he pulls up to the window and orders half the menu. He doesn’t even ask if she wants anything before finishing the order.

“Walter?” she asks, then quickly corrects herself. “Er, Lieutenant Marshall?”

He still ignores her. Once he’s paid and gotten the three bags of food, he drives back to their waiting point along the highway. Erin can only stay quiet for a few more minutes.

“I’m putting in a complaint when we get back to the station,” she tells him.

He finally looks at her, giving her a look that says, why the hell are you going to do that?

She just stares at him with a look of her own. If you want me to explain myself, you’ll have to talk.

“Why are you putting in a complaint?” he sighs.

“You’re being completely unprofessional.” Normally she’d be too shy to speak to an officer like this, but she’s had enough of the stupid chip on his shoulder. Plus, he’s seen her naked, so there’s nothing left to be shy about with him.

“I’m not doing anything,” Walter protests.

“Exactly!” Erin agrees. “The point of taking me with you is to teach me stuff. We’ve already wasted half our shift and you’ve taught me nothing, except that you eat enough for a family of four!”

“I only eat once a day,” Walter argues, like that changes anything.

Erin rolls her eyes. “That’s not the point.”

“And what is your point? Do you actually have one or do you just feel like yelling?”

“My point is that you’re discriminating against me,” she says. “You’re letting the whole ‘Meet Me, Love Me’ thing get in your head and you’re using it as a wall between us. You can ignore me for the rest of your life. Fine. But not today. You don’t get to not teach me just because you regret our relationship. So act professional and teach me, Walter!”

He doesn’t say anything. Erin opens her mouth to yell at him some more, when she recognizes the strange new look on his face. His eyes are glazed over and his mouth slightly parted as he stares at Erin’s mouth like he’s under a spell. Erin’s face burns as she realizes what he’s no doubt thinking about: she likes to be a brat sometimes just to get a reaction out of him. He punishes her accordingly every time, but it’s the hottest thing to both of them. Walter loves laying down the law--his law--and Erin loves being punished. Intense heat wets her panties and she squeezes her legs together. He notices. His gaze jumps to her legs immediately and he fucking licks his lips. Is he trying to kill her?

“Walter--” she says, her voice shaking, but Walter’s phone goes off before she can say anything else.

He answers the call and, just like that, the moment is over.

“I’m needed back at the station,” he explains as he hangs up the phone. That’s all he says for the rest of the drive.

…

That night, after enjoying a couple glasses of wine, Erin locks herself in her room, away from her roommates, and decides to watch Pornhub on her laptop. She hasn’t needed to do this in a while; usually sexting with Walter is enough to make her satisfied. So having to look up adult videos is just another bitter reminder that whatever they had--a fling? A relationship?--is done. She may or may not have pulled up her Meet Me, Love Me messages with Walter beforehand, reading through their own conversations as a strange form of roleplay.

What she does do, however, is hit the record button on her phone without realizing. Once she shuts her phone off for the night, it automatically stops recording. And somehow, either through her tipsiness or her fatigue, she hits send. The video of her masturbating--and moaning Walter’s name as she cums--goes straight to the lieutenant himself.

…

The next morning, Walter drags her into a windowless janitor’s closet, his nails digging into her arm. He’s never been rough with her before--occasionally he’ll use harsh words when she’s been acting like a brat, but they’ve never been in physical contact for this to happen, and she has a strange and possibly psychotic gratefulness that his touch will leave bruises on her arm, a reminder that he’s not just some figment of her imagination.

“What kind of game are you playing?” he growls in a whisper-shout, cautious of the people on the other side of the door.

She has no idea what he’s talking about. She says as much.

“Don’t play dumb with me, you dirty little brat,” he spits.

Erin’s going straight to hell for the way those words--and his angry growl--sends heat straight to her core.

Walter continues, “That cute little speech you gave yesterday about wanting to stay professional… you don’t get to say shit like that and then send me videos like the one from last night.”

“What video are you…?” And then it hits her. She has no memory of sending him anything, no memory of even making a video. “Walter, I didn’t mean--”

He takes a step towards her, his shoes now flush with hers. Their chests brush against each other with every inhale. Erin has to crane her neck all the way back to look him in the eye. Dominance radiates off of him, as strong as his cologne, and fuck does it make her wet. She tries to keep her breathing steady, to not make it obvious that her heart is racing, but it gets harder the longer he looks at her with that anger in his eyes. It’s as terrifying as it is arousing.

Walter puts his hands on either side of her head, trapping her. His face is so close to hers that she can feel his breath against her cheeks. “You moaned my goddamn name when you came. You said my name--and you’re really trying to stand here and convince me that you hadn’t meant that video for me?”

“Walter--” Erin begins, her voice shaking, but she can’t get anything more than his name out before his hands are on her hips and he’s spinning her to face the wall. He presses his body against hers. His warmth envelopes her but it makes her shiver. She wants him. God, does she want him. She’d willingly let him fuck her right here and now, damn whoever might walk in on them.

“My name,” he growls in her ear, “is Lieutenant, got it?”

“Yes,” she whimpers. It’s taking every ounce of self-control to not beg him to fuck her. She can feel his erection against her ass; this is just as exciting to him. She wants that cock inside of her, moving between her walls and teasing her pussy, splitting her open as he enters her, fucking her so hard that she can’t walk after.

“Yes, what?” he spits.

“Yes, Lieutenant.” Her arousal is already soaking her panties. She wonders if he can smell it, the way she can smell his arousal.

“Good girl.” He’s really trying to kill her, isn’t he? He knows exactly what that praise does to her, how it makes her weak in the knees. “Now be good and don’t scream.”

Erin pauses, but before she can ask what he’s doing he yanks her pants down. She gasps, her cheeks burning with embarrassment as the cool air hits her asscheeks. And then she gasps again--for an entirely different reason--when Walter begins to knead her cheeks in his hands.

Her Latina heritage blessed her with curves, which includes a big butt. She used to be embarrassed of it her entire life. And then she started dating guys and realized they like touching her big butt as much as she likes it being touched. But Walter’s hands are big enough to make her feel small, even as he touches the biggest part on her body, and that does something to her that she’s never experienced. Something she can’t explain but she knows she likes.

And then he spanks her. His hands come down roughly on both of her cheeks and she gasps, more at the sound than the pain. But when the sting finally registers, it’s not completely unbearable. In fact, there’s something about the way her skin burns that makes it… addicting. She wants him to spank her again.

And he does.

Three more times, on each cheek. He doesn’t bother to be gentle with her. The masochist in her loves it.

And later, as she feels the ghost of his hands with every passing second, she smiles to herself. That video had been sent on accident, but she’d do it over again in a heartbeat.

***

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[lennydaisy]

SWAN SONG || The Walking Dead AU

‘You have to trust that every friendship has no end, that a communion of saints exists among all those, living and dead, who have truly loved God and one another.

You know from experience how real this is. Those you have loved deeply and who have died live on in you, not just as memories but as real presences.’

HENRI NOUWEN

                         The Walking Dead.

        Season 1-?

                                         FEM OC! and ?

This is the prologue for a Walking dead AU that I wrote ages ago, and I feel like its too good to waste. So here it is :))

‘Now to John, who's live at the scene. John, what's happening there?'

'I'm here at Central Atlanta Hospital where there has been a reported disturbance within the wards. Patients allegedly have gone rogue, biting and scratching the doctors and each other.'

'If we pan to our left here, you can see the hallways are overflowing with newly found patients from the attacks.'

Glancing up at the ancient box TV perched in the top corner of the room, eyebrows frowned as I take another bite of my bland chicken sandwich.

The screen displays a lit yellow Hospital hallway with beds and chairs cluttering the space. With no room to breathe, the patients packed together like a tin of sardines.

The camera zooms into one patient in particular, who judging by their attire is a nurse themselves. A sickly colour of unnatural grey washed over their face, a layer of sweat glistening under the cheap lights and her veins protruding from her neck as though she's struggling to keep herself calm.

'Miss, would you be able to explain how your feeling?'

I can't help but scoff at the reporter's request. She is clearly in no condition to answer any of his questions and it's downright ignorant to shove a microphone in the face of a woman who has clearly seen better days.

The women slowly turned to face the reporter, her eyes appearing to lack any colour with bags drooping down to her jaw, and glares with all she can muster. Despite clearly being exhausted from whatever is happening to her body, she has no problem expressing her aggravation towards the man.

'Not responsive I see. Well no mind, as the viewers at home can see, Central Hospital is in desperate need of doctors and nurses. So I'm here to announce that if there is anyone-'

I don't know how to describe what I just saw. Just know that it was revolting enough to put me off chicken sandwiches forever.

In the midst of the reporter's announcement, a pair of hands slowly made their way around his body. Their nails were bitten down to stumps, their fingers a troubled colour of blue as though clogged with blood. The sickly hands, lazily but purposefully, claw at the reports button-up shirt from behind. Tugging on the attachments like grips, the women who the reporter was previously questioning is now sinking her teeth into the man's neck. Trails of blood dripping from her lips as she pulls her jaw roughly away from his neck taking a clump of him with her.

The look of pure horror wash over the man's faces, and mines in probably mimicking his. I've never seen anyone's eyes pop so far from their head. The face of sheer panic and terror covering his visuals as he opens his mouth to let out what I can only assume to be a deafening scream but before a sound is made the camera quickly cuts back to the studio, where the two anchors are now shaking at the sight they just witnessed live.

'We'll be back after this quick intermission,' squeaked out the anchor, eyes still wide, never leaving the screen off camera.

'Were you recently involved in an accident?',  the convenient ad was interrupted by the television being turned off. Snapping my head to my right, only to be met by the sheepish face of Darcy, the department receptionist. Smiling weakly at me from her desk, "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about."

Nothing to worry about. "Were we just watching the same clip," I breathe baffled at the idea of not worrying about what we just witnessed, "That man just had his neck bitten into but some Wednesday Adams looking women," I laughed, struggling myself to understand what just happened.

"I'm sure he's fine," she waves her hand in my direction before quickly standing up as I did seconds before, " What are you doing?" She questions as I grab my hat off my peg.

Rolling my eyes as I make the reach for my keys, "My job," my fingers scraping the keys before they are snatched out of my reach. Looking up at the elderly women with bored eyes, I hold my hands out waiting for her to cave.

"No, half the department is already helping the city, we need you here in Kings County," she argues quickly running back to her desk, sliding into her roller chair. Out of my vision but not hearing, I hear the clashing of keys, the slamming of metal and the sound of a lock.

She locked my keys in her desk.

"Darcy- " I begin only to be interrupted.

"No" she heaves, hands crossed over her chest tightly, "It's bad enough those two are God knows where doing God knows what, I can't allow the only deputy left in the building to leave."

I would be annoyed and honestly, I am, the woman isn't not letting me do my job, but with just a simple look in her eyes I can see why she doesn't want me to leave, "You're scared," I point out pulling my chair over to the front of her desk, sitting my hat on the table.

Refusing to meet my eyes answered my assumption. She was scared and she had every right to be. What we just watched on the news isn't normal but it's not the first we've heard of this 'infection'. It's been going on for weeks, especially in the city. Residents reporting sights of people staggering through the streets, grabbing and biting anything they can get their hands on. Honestly sounds like a typical weekend in the city in my opinion, after a couple of drinks, you'd be surprised what some people turn into. I haven't seen any of these things personally but that news clip just made everything people have been bustling about all too real.

"These things are apparently migrating. It's not just a city virus, they're making their away out into places like this," her hands brushing the nonexistent lint off the top of my hat, her voice so soft, if you didn't listen closely enough you'd miss it.

"I'm not going to fill you with false hope because honestly, I have no idea what is happening but I will say this if I know you at all, something like a little virus isn't going to be the end to the bombshell that is Darcy Peters."

A small smile begins to creep onto her face, "You should have seen me in my youth," flipping her white shoulder-length hair.  Shaking my head with a giggle, I lean over her desk and turn her desktop towards me looking at the set back of work left for her to complete. Moving the mouse to the bottom of the screen I log her off, " Take the rest of the day off."

Knowing fine well she would say no, I left her no room for arguments as I hastily grabbed her coat passing it to her, "Don't tell me no Peters, Deputies orders," I said with authority behind my voice but eventually broke out into a smile at the delightful women before me.

"But what about-" she points at the computer addressing the work she still had to do. Grabbing the women's hands as I begin to drag her out the door, "Don't worry I'll handle it but you need to go home and chill out," snatching her car keys as I begin walking with her hand in hand to her beloved mustard Ford Fiesta.

Opening the driver's door, "M'lady," I bow holding the door. Shaking her head at my act, she wraps her arms around my shoulders, brings me in for a hug, slightly shocked but I hug her back none less, "Thank you, Macy," she laughs in my ear before pulling away, cupping my face like an affectionate grandmother.

Slapping my cheeks lightly she points her finger timidly at my face, "Now no running off play superhero, you're needed here," her eyes never leaving mine as though to challenge me to say otherwise. Well, I like a challenge, "No promises."

A dead look in her eyes causes me to laugh once more, "Okay, I promise I won't run off, I'll stay put. Now beat it, tell Richard I say hi," closing the door behind the women before stepping away from her car.

Just before she was about to drive off, she rolls down her window, "Oh before I forget, here's the key to the desk. Also there's something for Officer Friendly in there you won't miss it," see spoke throwing the flimsy key my way. Nodding my head towards the women, I mockingly salute her off, catching a glimpse of her rolling her eyes smiling.

Tossing the small, rusted key between my hands, I make my way back to Darcy's desk. After a couple of shakes and jiggles, the lock to the drawer eventually clicks. Pulling open the drawer, I grab my car keys stuffing them in my back pocket. That's when my eyes catch a shine reflecting out of the space. Reaching my hand in my finger brush across metal embroidery.

A Sheriff badge.

Unable to help the smile that made its way to my face as I stare down at the achievement of my friend. 'Officer Friendly's going to flip. So will someone else but for a different reason.' Shaking the thought from my head, I quickly run round to the desk of the newly found Sheriff. Going to place the shining badge on the desk, a note stops me;

Gone for a quick lapse of the county. If I'm not back by finish, I'll see you tomorrow, Officer Friendly.

Still sitting the badge on his desk, hoping that he at least makes it back in an hour, his face will be priceless. Snatching the remote from the floor, I flick the television back on, wanting to see if there are any updates on the situation.

'Government officials have requested that everyone stays inside their homes, only leaving unless extremely necessary. Until this is contained, please be cautious. This has been channel 5's news.'

Drowning out the rambling of the adverts, I absorb myself I'm my phone. 7 texts, damn I'm popular.

From Corey. Hey, can you drop me off :) Sent 07:39

From Corey. Oft okay never mind then I know I broke 3 of your car window, but that doesn't forbid access does it?? Fine two can play at that game, I'll walk. Ummmm that's when you're supposed to be the super big sister and say 'no sweet little sister, don't walk and ruin your BRAND NEW BOOTS, I'll happily drop you off' Boo you, you suck :(( Sent at 07:57

From Corey. Hey, can you pick me up ;) Sent at 17:12

This girl, I swear.

To Corey. I'll think about it :)) Sent Now.

Collecting my things, preparing myself for my leave. All too quickly trying to rush out the door, I skid to a halt and turn round to a certain desk in particular. Contemplating my options, I decided to take the newly found badge with me. For one; it is past shift time and I really want to witness his face when he gets promoted.' I'll just give it to him tomorrow when everyone's here', I thought.

Now I'm well aware that my car isn't exactly the best site for sore eyes, I'll be the first to admit that, but it was my dream car and it was the first real big purchase I ever made as an adult. My glorious, yellow Volkswagen Beetle. She's seen better days that for sure, but she means a lot to me and a couple of bumps and scratches isn't going to make me trade her in. Ever.

I grew up in Mormont, Georgia. A small county that no one has heard of and when people ask where I'm from I'm always met with the same look. In Mormont everybody knows everybody. It's a tight-knit community with no secrets. When word got out the resident widow had adopted 3 girls from the now shut down orphanage, the community was sent into a frenzy.

The same woman who was framed for burning down her old farmhouse that her husband happened to be still asleep in, was now going to be a mother of 3 very different daughters.

Without my mom I wouldn't even be here today, I would be how I am today. Mom adopted me when I was 4 years old, and even at a young age, I know that something about me was different from the other kids at kindergarten. Kids would come and leave joyfully holding the hands of their parents whitest they rambled on about what we did that day. I would leave on a bus with a woman who didn't really care enough to remember my name, looking after me in the centre was just a 9 to 5 for her and she got to go home to her family without a care in the world. I will never forget the day I was called down to the main office.

Believing that I had done something wrong, I reluctantly climbed down the creaking bunk beds steps. Looking around the room, I'm met with many stares, some glaring, some shaking their heads. I was in a room surround by judgemental toddlers.

I've never been called down to the office before. I've seen others been called down and they never come back. Tommy told me that Glenda, the houses mistress, feeds them to the two-headed man in the attic. I never believed him, knowing that he only wanted to scare me but now I'm not so sure. 'I don't want to be eaten', I thought.

One step at a time, I slowly make my way down the wooden steps that despite my lightweight still shriek under my shoes. Before I reach the bottom of the stairs, I'm met by the glorious Glenda. Her lopsided, spectacles clawed eyes boring down at me, 'Come,' she said before spinning around and heading to the room she just walked out from, 'There's someone here to see you."

'Someones here to see me? But I don't know anybody' I thought to myself as I follow behind the women with a newfound spring in my step.

"Mason this is Charlotte, she'd like to adopt you."

I guess you could say that's when I knew. When I first land my eyes on hers, I felt something that then in my short 4 years of life had never felt before, safe. Fast forward 22 years and that feeling had never left. Like the light of an eternal flame, that shine behind my mom's eyes never left, never even flickered. It's a constant reminder, I knew it when I was 4 years old and I still know it now at 26, that home isn't found in a physical building but instead found in those you surround yourself with.

No matter how hard I try, I will never be able to fully express my gratitude towards my mother. She gave me a chance and took me into her home with open arms. She says 'Thats what mothers do' and that might be true but she didn't have too. That's just the type of person she is. A heart of gold, a heart that is far too big for this world. She might not be my birth mother but in my opinion no one could do better, I don't know what I did in a past life to deserve the right to call her my mother, all I know is that I'm forever thankful for that.

Cora, or Corey, my sweet baby sister. The best way to describe her would be prissy. A real drama queen but strong-minded. When it comes to Corey no mountain is too high. Basically it's Corey's world and we're all just live in it. I take deep pride in telling her that she was an ugly baby and I'm not telling any lies. One look at her baby pictures sends a shiver down your spine.

She's your basic stressed college student who believes that the world will end if she fails to hand in one essay on time, but has no problem with partying the night before a big exam. Beginning to understand what type of person Corey is?

Then there's Ally. The big sister, my big sister. I remember growing up and always wanting to be like her when I grew up, I thought she was the coolest person in the world. She shaved off her hair when she was 18 and me and my 8-year-old self desired to do the same. Mom was mortified and kids at school did laugh at me for a while but I didn't care, I wanted to be like my sister, buzz cut and all.

As I grew up however I realised something, Ally had a darkness inside her. When I was younger I never noticed, I always saw her acts for rebellion as inspiration for my own mischief but as I got older and matured, she never. She always stayed the same. It some cases that's a good thing if you're a good person that is. I never believed my sister to be a bad person, more troubled than anything. I think why you get to the age of 36 and still rebel against your mother like an edgy teenager somethings not right.

Ally thinks the world is constantly against her, that the whole world is testing her, but that couldn't be further from the truth. I was the first to know she was pregnant, she didn't tell me herself but the positive stick sitting in the bathroom bunker was a big give away. I've seen her anger a handful of times and more often than not it consumes her, her anger is her own worse enemy and that day I meet the worst of it. There was a lot of screaming and hitting, and things being thrown in my direction. Luckily enough no one else was home when all this happened, but it was quite hard to explain why I had a black eye and Ally had burst knuckles. I lied, that's what I did.

'I got jumped,' it was the best I could come up with at the time. I made up a story of me being mugged and Ally saving the day. Mom barked up a storm, ask question after question, and I was slowly running out of ideas for my action sequence. That was until Ally spoke up,

'I'm going away for a while,' she said placing her fork down on her barely touched the plate, 'Work,' she replied to the looks that were sent her way. I refused to meet her eyes but I knew fine well that she was staring at me in particular, that didn't stop me from listening though.

'Oh, well for how long?,' Mom asked swirling around her glass of wine, 'A couple of months.'

'And what work relate thing causes you to be away for a couple of months?' Corey spoke up, her eyes never leaving Ally's as though to challenge her, 'The companies looking for a new manager, I thought I would try and run for it. It is more money,' she spoke trying to convince not only Cora but our reluctant mother too. Reluctant and our mom isn't two words that I would put together, she's a keen believer of 'if you want it, go and get it', but not when it comes to Ally.

'It seems like a good opportunity,' mother said honestly, nodding her head at her oldest daughter, 'seems like bullshit,' I muttered under my breath causing my mom to kick my shin from under the table, only to be faced with the stern stare of my mom.

'Language Mason' sternly spoke our mom making Cora laugh slightly at the use of my full real name.

'I'm just saying, she seems to go on a lot of these trips and comes back empty-handed every time, sorry for having some doubt.'

'That's enough Cora,' Mom said not breaking eye contact with her youngest who is sitting across the dinner table from her, 'yeah whatever, can I be excused?' Before she could get an answer she was already on her feet marching out the room.

Nodding sadly, mom looked around the table at the remaining 2, 'Macy, darling,  you've barely touched your dinner.'

Meeting her eyes, 'I had a big lunch,' the lies pouring out my mouth at this point.

The rest of the dinner that night was filled with awkward silence. The sound of the chair next to me scraping against the old hardwood floor breaks my concentrated gaze on my plate. Ally's hard duty boots marching out of the room and storming up the stairs.

My mom let out a sigh and placed her fork on her now empty plate, looking up at the only remaining daughter at the table. Flashing my mom a small smile, taking a sip of my now lukewarm water, "You make good spaghetti mom"

"Go check on her for me please," she practical begged, her voice suggesting nothing but defeat, "She never talks to me anymore."

'I'm probably the last person she wants to see," is what I wanted to say to my mom, but looking at my mother with her head in her hands at the thought of my troubled older sister broke my heart.

Before taking the dreaded walk up the stairs and to the door at the end of the hall, I placed a hand on my mom's shoulder, squeezing in reassurance.

'Everything will be okay.' I thought to myself.

Knocking on the door, only to receive no reply, 'I know you're in there,' I said continuously knocking on the oak door. Getting bored with being ignored, I did the brave and open the forbidden door, Ally's bedroom door.

Ally's bedroom is something, I don't know what that something is but it screams Ally. It's dishevelled yet bland, perfect for Ally I guess. Nothing but a set of drawers with half the handles missing, piles of dirty washing sitting in the corner of her room that will probably stay there for weeks, and a chipped dark wood bed. And then there's Ally, who is currently packing a bag.

'There is no business trip is there?' I asked even though I fine well knew the answer already. Throwing the last of her clothes in the bag, she stares me dead in the eye from her position at the bottom of her bed, 'I have to get out of here.'

Walking further into her room as she walks back to her drawers closing them loudly, 'Promise me one thing,' I asked looking out the window at the deserted street. Hearing no noise for behind me I continued, 'That we'll get to meet them one day,'

'I can't promise you that,' turning round to stare at her in confusion, 'what you're never coming back?' I asked softly shaking my head at the idea of her leave and never returning. Ally goes away a lot but she always comes back. We might not be as close as we use to be when I was younger but it's a comfort to know that she's here with us.

She just looked at me not speaking yet her glances spoke a thousand words. I didn't know silence could get any quieter but I was proven wrong in that moment. It was as though the whole world stopped spinning, it was like the world ended right and then. Shaking my head at my sister mentality, my heartbreaking even at the thought of what she wanted to do, 'Oh,' was the only response I muster up as I move to sit at the edge of the bed, my legs suddenly feeling like jello.

Rubbing my hands over my eyes and tugging at my hair, trying to get all my thoughts to settle down. The feel of a hand softly holding my shoulder caught my attention. Looking down at me was my sister, my big sister, that I wanted with every fibre of my being to be like when I grew up. But people change, and Ally surely did. That moment made me realise something, Ally never changed. No, she was always the same. It was me who changed, I was just too young to realise.

The day that Ally left, a part of myself left with her, and that necessarily wasn't a bad thing. No, she took the naive part with her. The sense that everything was okay now, that everything was perfect now because I had a family. Sometimes families go through rough patches and for some reason ours was never-ending.

Shaking my head, snapping myself out of my thoughts, focussing once more on my journey home. I love county lanes, there the best to drive on. You can go as fast as you want and when you go over a little hill you get those silly butterflies in the pit of your stomach. My family hates driving with me on these roads. Apparently I'm too careless when it comes to driving, I argue that I'm not careless I'm just used to acting like I'm in the Fast and Furious movies.

Speaking of radical driving, I hit the breaks slowly once I spot what's up ahead. A car parked sporadically in the middle of the lane, but that's not what's got me confused. There are people, a headcount of about ten, all banging their hands lazily on the windows of the car, smearing their faces over the glass.

Cutting the engine, leaning over to the car pocket reaching for my emergency gun, I slowly stalk my way out of the car. Holding the gun with both hands at the ground, the safety still on as I make my way closer but not too close.

"Hey, what are you guys doing, what's the problem-" my voice slowly losing its confidence as the figures around the car turn to face me and begin to walk drunkenly towards me. The noise they make doesn't sound too good, the air now filled with grunts and groans, the sounds of pain. I noticed a couple not paying me any mind, to busy eating something. Oh.

Realising exactly what I'm witnessing. Those are the sick people that has the world on edge. A group of them a coming right towards me. Raising my gun and flipping the safety off, I take aim, "Don't come any closer, I'll shoot," I announce not really wanting to have to shoot them. I might as well not have spoken, they just keep pushing, stumbling over one another as they inch closer.

Lining up, setting my sights on one, in particular, a middle-aged man, a civilian, I shoot one shot into his left leg. Nothing. A slight knockback at most but he's still alive. Trying again, I aim for his chest and the same happened again. Lastly shooting the head, that's what does it. He's down.

That one alone took up to much time, I have another 8 headed my way and I only have a limited amount of bullets. The odds were not in my favour, that much was clear. Making a dash for my car, hastily ripping my keys from my pocket. Silence.

"Come on don't fail me now!" I said through gritted teeth. Shoving the keys into the engine once more and twisting. Sounds of my struggle echo throughout the car as I feel the nonexistent sweat beginning to build as my breath becomes hot with frustration. Now as good a point as any to point out that I have 3 broken windows, no thanks to Cora. Not broken as in they don't go down, oh no, they don't go up. I mean how one single girl breaks 3 windows is beyond me. Honestly, it didn't bother me that much to begin with, it gives my car character. Right now though it's a different story.

If my internal panic with my car not starts wasn't enough, then maybe those things reaching their grimy hands in my car are. Before I knew it my car was surrounded by the creatures, some toppling over the bonnet of my car, others pushing their hands through my half-cracked down windows. I feel the lazy touch of the fingers brushing against my shoulders and hair causing my entire body to shiver.

"Please" I beg over the sounds of the deathly groans and screams. Turning the key again with my sweaty hands, my body shaking in fear of what's to come. As though Jumpstarted, my car roars to life. The sound of my own engine has never sounded so delightful and I should honestly appreciate it more.

Not caring for speed limits, I push the pedal to the metal. The shrieking of my tires scraping on the hard concrete leaving evidence of my wheels spinning. Pushing through the moss pit of things before my car wasn't as hard as it sounds, even though they look like dead weight, they are quite easy to redirect.

Speeding my car a distance away for the scene, next to the car they were previously attacking, before I slow to a stop again, looking in my rearview mirror. They're following me. Looking to my left, I see the beaten car. Curdling blood dripping from the passenger seat window with loose pieces of straggling hair stuck to the wing mirror. Leaning over slightly I see a few fingers laying on the ground. Holding back my gag, I look back up into the car, only to be met with a figure. A hard to distinguish figure. Completely devoured and unrecognisable. Those rabid animals shredded these poor souls face to shreds with any features now ruined.

Shaking my head at the sounds of the things coming closer to my car again, I slowing start moving, only to hit the breaks instantly as a thought came to my head. Looking in my rearview mirror again at the car, tears begin to build in my eyes. A mustard Ford Fiesta. That's the car. That's her car. My cheeks slightly soaked, my hands shaking once again as I roughly grab the roots of my hair. Having enough, I swat away the tears that are trailing down my cheeks, nose scrunched up as I try my hardest not to look back again. I didn't.

Driving down that road, the road that usually fills me with overwhelming joy, felt different this time around. It felt darker. The road that I knew ultimately leads me to home is beginning to feel like a drag. It's a road that I never want to drive down again because the only thought that I can think of now is: it's my fault.

[mildkatfics]

small talk  rating: m  word count: 6316 summary: Simon and Baz come to the family estate for Christmas, for the first time as an official couple. read on ao3

I did it with an email. Not even with my personal account. My fucking LSE address:  basilton.pitch@lse.ac.uk. 

Dear All, 

Hope you’re well. I’m sending this message this way because it would be too crude to do it on my mobile, and I didn’t want to wait to be back at Hampshire to tell you. I hope you don’t mind. 

I’m gay. Simon Snow and I have been in a romantic relationship this whole time, and we are happy. 

I suspect none of you are surprised, but it was getting ridiculous to pretend like none of us knew the situation. I am, however, happy to carry on as always. I just figured it’s time for us to get through this bit. 

Regards, 

Basil 

Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch 

MA Candidate, Teaching Assistant 

Department of Political Science | London School of Economics 

“Merlin, don’t use your email signature.” Snow peers next to me on the sofa. “Using this account is bad enough.” 

“I kind of like it,” I admit. “It reminds them to be proud of me.” 

“Remove it. And shut up, they’re proud of you.” He rests his chin on my shoulder. I can smell the coffee on him, though he’s showered after work. I wonder if he’ll ever stop smelling of Starbucks. He glares up at me through his eyelashes. “Say it.” 

I narrow my eyes. “No.” 

“Baz. Say it.” He rolls his eyes and shoves his body against mine, slightly toppling me over. He hasn’t gotten any gentler over the years. I love it. “Say that your family is proud of you.” 

I sigh, but give in. “My family is proud of me.” 

“So is your boyfriend.” 

I indulge in a sneer, and he throws it right back at me. I say it. “So is my boyfriend.” 

He grins, and sits back up. “Right. Now remove the email signature and send it. And remove my last name. You’re talking to your family, not applying for a mortgage.” 

I snort. “I’m pretty sure my father doesn’t know what a mortgage is.” 

“Here,” Snow takes my laptop from me and removes the signature and his last name from the email. I watch his brow furrow and his lips move slightly as he focuses on re-reading the text. He starts to tug on his hair, and I almost laugh. I didn’t bother spending too much time on the message, but here he is, reading and re-reading every word because he cares. I press my lips against his cheek. I let myself linger, inhaling his scent. Dark Roast. Probably the Christmas Blend. “Don’t give yourself a hemorrhage,” I murmur. 

He ignores me for a while before speaking again. “I’m gonna hit send, yeah?” 

I don’t take my eyes off him, not even bothering to read it over. “Yeah.” 

I watch his finger hesitate for a second on the trackpad, then clicks it. He blinks and takes a deep breath, and I laugh. “Are you going to be alright?” I joke. 

His eyes slide over to me. “You just came out to your family. I can’t tell if I’m overreacting, or if you’re...underreacting.” He cards his fingers through my hair. “I also can’t tell if you’re hiding your feelings from me, or if you’re a complete fucking sociopath.” 

I laugh again, and I consider his question seriously. “I’m happy,” I think out loud. I make sure to look in his eyes when I finish my sentence. “But that’s par for the course nowadays, isn’t it?” 

Snow tries to trap his grin into a smirk. “Sap.” He leans in and brushes his lips against mine. I lean hard and deepen the kiss, and I feel him grin for real and bite my bottom lip. I give an indignant grunt, but don’t bother pretending how much that gets me on. He pushes back until he braces himself against the arm of the sofa, trapping me. I grip his shirt in my fist, only because I would never let him do that to me. And I do it to him, because I get off on that kind of thing. And so does he. 

My laptop pings from the coffee table, and Snow breaks away. “What are you doing?” I hiss, and capture his mouth back in mine. 

“That’s probably your family.” He crawls back and opens my laptop. 

I slump back, keeping my eyes closed. “Is it my father?” 

I can feel him roll his eyes at me. “Baz. You read it.” I feel the sleek metal on my chest. I sigh, and I open it. 

Dear Basil, 

Thank you for your email, and for your candor. We look forward to seeing you both this Christmas. We’ve actually just invited loads of your aunts and uncles for this year. Wonderful timing, isn’t it? All my love to you and Simon. 

Also, please remember to bring my mixing bowl. 

Sincerely, 

Daphne 

Snow is peering over my shoulder. “I’ve always liked Daphne.” 

I have, too. 

— 

“I’m not asking you to memorize a family tree here, love.” I’m leaning against the condiment stand, now plastered with plastic snowflakes, a few feet from where Snow is working. The fairy lights around the place sparkle against his skin, complimenting his freckles. I watch the way his arms flex as he pulls chairs back, handles cups and saucers, and carries our conversation with a kind of effortless rhythm that I find really hot. “And you’ve done this before. You’ve spent, what, four other Christmasses with my family?”

“Oh, don’t even try pretending this is the same. This is the first Christmas since your email, not to mention all these people.” He replies without looking at me. He looks up and smiles towards the door when a patron enters, and turns his head back to an empty table. “You have, like, five uncles with loads of kids a piece, who all speak Latin—” 

“They speak English too.” 

“Not the French ones.” 

I purse my lips. “So you have been listening. Don’t worry about them. They stick amongst themselves, anyway.” 

“I’ll be right with you, mate.” Simon calls out to the guy. He throws his cloth onto his shoulder and starts walking backwards towards the bar. He redirects his attention to me. “Busy now, I need you to go away. We’ll talk about this at home.” 

I give him a pout. I’m six foot two, wearing a Tom Ford coat, and pouting at my boyfriend at a Starbucks. I’m shameless. 

His eyes, still locked on mine, sparkle for a second before he turns all his attention on his customer. “Sorry about that. What can I get started for you?” 

I let the smile stay on my face even as I exit the shop and head to class. 

— 

I lay my suitcase and my folded clothes on the bed. I almost ruined a white cashmere on my last trip by putting my toiletries on the same side, so I place it at the very top this time. Then I decide it’s actually better to put it at the bottom of the stack, to keep it safe. So I pull everything out to rearrange. I place my socks in between the empty spaces. “You should focus on your own packing instead of watching me do mine.” I turn to raise an eyebrow at Snow, watching me from the door. 

Snow mirrors the gesture, opens his dresser, and dumps a bunch of clothes into a black backpack that he picked up from the floor. “Done.” 

I wrinkle my nose. “Will you please let me pack for you next time?” 

Amusement lights up his face. “I think I should pack for you.” He sits on our bed, looks at my full suitcase, and looks up at me. “It’s two days, darling. Or is this one of your anxiety-packings?” 

“Aren’t you the one nervous to meet my family?” 

He groans and flops down on his back. “I’m trying not to panic, but the closer we get, the more I think about it.” He lifts his head to look at me. “Please tell me I’m not the only one. There has to be another cousin’s weird boyfriend or someone who flunked out of uni or whatever your family gossips about.” 

I consider it. “Elvira voted Labour in the last election and told everyone.” 

“Rookie mistake.” 

“I know. Don’t even utter anything remotely political in that house.” 

“Great. So don’t mention your school, career, or passions, and we should be good to go.” He sighs before muttering, so low that I can barely hear it, “Bloody hell.”

A beat of silence passes, and I can hear his brain spinning into overdrive. “Snow,” I start. 

“They’re gonna eat me alive.” 

“They won’t.” 

“They will.” 

“They won’t.” I look him in the eyes when I say it. “Do you trust me?” 

He snorts and rolls his eyes at my low blow. He looks at me for a moment, hesitates, then nods. 

“Good,” I say. “Just stay close to me and look pretty.” 

He shoves me, hard, and laughs. 

— 

The drive up to the country is still one of my favourites. Fiona would usually drive me each year in December for the holidays, and I loved watching London slowly disappear. The buildings and adverts fade away. The last minute Christmas Eve shoppers nowhere in sight. The snow on the roads thicker, whiter. Trees replacing lamp posts. The thrill is multiplied now that I’m behind the wheel, with Snow on the passenger seat, his fingers massaging my nape and pulling slightly on my hair. The road is deserted, and I accelerate. The engine purrs with the effort underneath us, and I can’t help but grin. I feel electric. 

Snow looks at me. “Are you smiling because you’re endangering my life?” 

I raise my eyebrow at him. I can make this drive with my eyes closed. I go faster, and his eyes light up. His finger travels up my nape, and starts scratching my scalp. Gooseflesh erupts across my arms. “You keep this up, and this car will spin off the path.”

“Anything to delay getting there, right?” 

My eyes slide towards him. Just as I try to gauge how serious he’s being, he retracts his hand to run it down his face. 

“Simon,” I start to say. 

“No, s’alright. S’alright, I promise. I think I just need to get through the first bit, then I’ll get in the zone.” I can hear his heartbeat pick up. I slow the car to a halt. 

He keeps his eyes closed when he mutters, “I may seem like I’m mental, but I’m fine. I’m great.” 

“I’m sure.” I keep my hands on the wheel when I turn to him. “We don’t have to do this, you know.” 

“‘Course we do.” 

“I’ll turn the car around right now if you’d like. I’m serious.” 

“And I’m serious when I say I can do this. I can. Besides,” he drops his hands and looks at me. “I want the roast beef.” 

I laugh, but my face settles into a frown. “Are you sure?” 

His lip quirks upward. “Start the car, Baz.” As we accelerate, he adds, “Though if Daphne decides to suddenly go vegetarian or something, I swear to Merlin and Morgana we are leaving.” 

I smile, and I let my right hand drop down to loosely lock with his left. The rest of the drive is as beautiful as I remember it. 

— 

When we pull in and step out, there are already cars lined along the path. Snow stretches his arms above his head, his green jumper riding slightly above his waist. I pop open the boot and grab my suitcase, but Snow touches my wrist. “Let me,” he says. I stare at him as he swings his backpack over his shoulder, take my suitcase and the paper bag in his right hand, and shuts the boot with his left. 

He takes my hand and starts walking. I roll my eyes. “Are you doing this to impress my father?” 

“I’m trying to impress my boyfriend.” 

He’s a git, and I love him. “At least let me carry the bloody mixing bowl,” I say, grabbing the bag. I think about how inappropriate it would be to snog him ten feet from my family home. We never did when we’d come for the holidays, but would we start, now that everyone knows we’re a couple? I spot a lamborghini parked near ours, and the possibility dissolves. Fat chance Snow would feel at ease enough to do anything like that.  

We approach the door, and I feel the heat and energy radiating off of him. His feet shuffle in place, and he rubs the back of his head. My finger hesitates before ringing the bell. I should say something. Some final words of affirmation, to make sure he’s feeling better— 

My eyes widen when Simon shoves me into the wall, and they flutter shut when he kisses me. Deeply. He looks sheepish when he breaks away, stil inches away from my face. “Sorry. Don’t know when I’ll get to do this again.” 

I kiss him another time before letting him go. “Idiot.” I let my smile stretch wide across my face as I ring the doorbell. 

— 

The parlour is already half-full of people, but the staircase is blessedly tucked away when we enter the house. I can see a few of my relatives from where we stand. Most I recognize, and others I don’t. Cousins whose faces ring a bell but have changed since they’ve grown. New wives and husbands. Little toddlers using their magic like firecrackers, sending sparkles and clouds of smoke in the air as they chase each other up and down the stairs. 

Daphne shoos them away as she leads us to my room—our room. “How was the drive, darling?” 

“Lovely, thank you. The snow’s being kind to us this year, isn’t it?” I can already feel my tongue change inside my mouth. My years with Simon has morphed my vocabulary and made my words looser. More relaxed. Simon’s chuffed, of course; my slurring speech and clipped words are entirely his fault. Here at home, though, it’s like my whole body automatically straightens. 

“Oh, yes.” Daphne replies. She swiftly spells the stray toys and wrinkled carpets tidy. The mixing bowl has long floated to the kitchen. “Nothing can be as ghastly as last year. Your Uncle Edgar’s tires had a tough time, remember? He’s got a new car now.” 

Ah, yes. The lamborghini. 

“Have you got new flowers, Daphne?” Snow asks. This catches me by surprise. 

That makes her smile. “Yes, actually. I thought orchids might brighten the place up for the children. You’ll see the poinsettias in the kitchen.” She clasps her hands when we reach our room. “Right. I’ll let you two get settled. Don’t wait too long to come down, everyone’s excited to meet you.” She squeezes Simon’s hand and walks back to the party. 

Simon opens the door, drops the bags, and walks back out. “Right, let’s do this.” I look at him. I was planning on showering, at the very least changing clothes. He speaks again before I can ask. “If I go in there, I’m not gonna want to come back out. Let’s get on with it, yeah?” 

I hesitate, then I nod. I rub his back while we go down the stairs, as the party sounds get louder. Well, calling it ‘party sounds’ would be misleading. It’s murmurs, conversation, and the occasional clinking of dishware. 

Snow grips my elbow before we step into the parlour. “Stay close to me,” he whispers. 

There was a time when I wouldn’t say my reply out loud. That was a long time ago. “Always.” I say, firmly. 

— 

It’s fine. It’s only been two hours, but it’s been fine. 

Snow and I entered the parlour, and I don’t know what dark curse is after us, but my cousin Emille approaches us first. Of the French Pitches. 

“Basil! Bonsoir, comment ça va?" She had smiled warmly. We always got on well during these events. 

“Bien, bien. Et tu?”  

We kept up this back and forth for a few minutes, and it became clear that she had no intention of speaking to Simon. “Sorry, I don’t believe you’ve met Simon. My partner,” I say in English. I place my hand at the small of his back and smile at him. 

He smiles at her and holds out his hand, right when she goes in for a kiss on the cheek. 

The conversation didn't last very long. 

As I was steering us away from Emille, I caught my father’s eye from across the room. His smile almost reached his eyes when he called us over. Almost. 

“Basil,” He said, gripping my shoulder. “Welcome home.” I nod, and he turned to Simon. “All right, Simon?” 

Simon holds out his hand. “Good evening, sir.” He smiles, but I can see his jaw pulled taut. I can feel his pulse picking up. He’s called my father that every year. 

I waited for him to correct Simon, to call him literally anything else, but he shook Simon’s hand and replied, “Did the snow give you any trouble on the drive?” 

“Not at all. Made it in record time,” Simon replied, while I grit my teeth in annoyance. 

“Very good. Your aunts and uncles are thrilled to see you...” 

Thankfully, since then, we’ve stayed off to the side as each uncle and aunt exchanged pleasantries and tried their best to casually mention their child being brilliant or athletic or powerful. Each is playing their own game, and they’re all losing. I see Simon intently listening, his eyes darting back and forth to keep up with this pathetic six-person tennis match. I want to rub his back again. To tell him not to waste so much energy for this. That he’s too good for any of them. 

Instead, I sip my wine and look around the house. Fiona hasn’t arrived yet—typical. She’d probably bust in at half-nine, after dinner and when the children are about to sleep. I watch Mordelia sit in the far corner near the dining room, her nose in a book, with one of the toddlers curl up next to her. Softie. She’s gotten so tall since I last saw her... 

My attention whips back when I hear my Aunt Ariadne says my name. “Are you at uni, then, Basil?” 

I uncross my legs and straighten my spine. “Yes, doing my Master’s at LSE.” 

I pray she’ll let me leave it at that, and she replies with, “Oh, lovely. Your cousin Rainn is thinking of pursuing one as well. She’s almost done her undergrad. Over at Cambridge.” Good old Aunt Ariadne. 

I nod and smile, about to prompt her about her precious Rainn and Cambridge, when my father speaks up. “Have you decided on your dissertation, Basil?” 

I try not to sigh when I say my practiced reply. “I have. I’m doing it on democratic theory and fiscal austerity in the EU.” I leave it as vague as possible, and hope the conversation simmers away. 

I see Edgar sit up, and I brace for impact. “Good lad. More people your age ought to learn about personal responsibility and the free market.” 

I think about my work, the research I’ve poured over, that argues just the opposite. How the time for austerity has long gone. How democratic theory must be at the forefront of economic policy. But nothing can be worse than a roundtable discussion with my dear Uncle Edgar and half the Pitch extended family, so I swerve. “Yes, the school work can be a pain, but I’m grateful for the opportunity.” 

“Public discourse has thrown what really matters out the window,” he presses, and I can see his face begin to liven up. “It has corrupted our society. Having Labour in power now, of course, is a bloody nightmare. Giveaways here and there. Iced lollies, penny sweets, thousands of pounds a month?  What difference does that make? Throw it all to the wind! There’s a ‘public program’ for anything nowadays.” He makes air quotes with his hand. 

“Edgar,” Daphne starts. 

He ignores her and starts to speak with his hands. Clearly, he’s enjoying being a world-class twat. “And what will that do with my taxes, hm? Wasting and throwing it to bums and lunatics.”

Edgar’s points are so dogmatic, so cartoonishly cookie-cutter, that I almost laugh, but I feel Simon tense beside me. I gently nudge my thigh against his. Steady, love, I want to tell him. 

“Well, dinner’s just about ready. Let’s all wash up and get the children, shall we?” Daphne suggests. Bless her heart. The others heave off the sofa, chairs, and loveseats handsomely positioned all around the parlour, and disperses to different corners of the house. 

I start to get up, relieved to eat, when I see Snow stay put. His jaw is set, and his eyes are fixed on a spot at the wall. The parlour has cleared, so I take my hand loosely in his. “All right?” I ask. 

His fingers absently toy with mine, but it takes a minute for him to look at me. I’m an expert in reading Snow’s transparent face, but right now, I’m at a loss. He nods, stands up, and drops my hand. 

— 

Dinner, so far, is hardly better. At least Daphne didn’t go vegetarian. 

The table is spelled longer to accommodate all the guests, and it stretches from the dining table, past the archway, and into the parlour. 

Next to me, Snow is quiet. He’s aced the table manners over the years, and I smile at the lumps of food on his plate. Underneath the table, I tap his foot with mine, and he taps me back. 

This is good. We can do this. 

Aunt Willow—A Danish Pitch—takes a sip from her wine and turns to us. “So what do you study, Simon?” 

I feel Simon straighten up. “Oh, I don’t, actually. I’m working right now.” 

“Like for a gap year?”

“Er, I’m not sure yet.” He chuckles, and he hides his discomfort well. But not to me. “Just reckon I’d spend my time saving up if I’m not sure what I’d like to study.” 

“Of course, I think that’s wonderful.” I take another bite, and try my best to look nonchalant. But I already start to dread my family’s behaviour. My body feels like I’m about to enter a duel. “Where do you work, darling?” 

Simon hesitates before he replies, “Central London.” I watch his fork swirl around the mash. Willow smiles and nods, and just when I can see her about to turn to someone else, he abruptly adds, “I work at a Starbucks. In Central London. Just by LSE, actually.”

“Lovely,” she says, and I can tell she’s at a loss with what to say next, but that won’t stop her from carrying a conversation. “I tried a scone from there one morning when I was running late to a conference. It was quite good.” 

Simon laughs, and I can feel an edge to it. I decide to jump in. “I’ve had all their scones, Aunt Willow. Almost comparable to Watford, if you ask me.”

Daphne smiles. “Maybe someone can give Cook Pritchard a run for her money.” 

“Baz, you interned at the Home Secretary’s office, didn’t you? When you finished your undergrad?” I hear my father suddenly add.

“Yes, father.” I reply without a beat, though my brow raises slightly at the question. What is he on about? 

“Well, maybe you can connect Simon. He ought to have a better gap year than a cafe, eh?” He’s smiling, but when we make eye contact, I can feel a bucket of cold water splash through me. I clench my fist and I feel a loud clunk on the floor. Simon ducks down to fish his knife from beneath the table. I’m so taken aback from my father’s words that I’ve stopped keeping tabs on him. 

I stare at him from across the table. It’s completely quiet now. 

“Mummy, will you pass the gravy, please?” An even voice says from three seats down. I look over at Mordelia, with her plate almost empty. 

Daphne clears her throat. “Sure, darling.” When Mordelia gets the boat, she sets it down and doesn’t pour it on her plate. 

I clear my throat. “That won’t be necessary. I don’t think they’d even remember me.”

He nods once, and goes back to his roast beef. 

— 

Thankfully, the rest of dinner is quieter. Snow is quieter. 

He barely finishes dessert before he excuses himself and steps away from the table. I smile, excuse myself, and follow him through the parlour. 

I can tell Snow is trying not to stomp and barrel up the stairs. I can tell his jaw is clenched, so tightly that I can hear his teeth scrape together. He opens the door, and we go inside. 

My walls have been permanently spelled sound-proof since I was fifteen. I can still feel the magic I left behind, permeating the wallpaper and the tapestries. A part of my brain appreciates the irony of that; I spell them on the summer I tried to wank my feelings away, and now the spell still stands, concealing the clenching jaw and heavy footsteps of Simon Snow himself. I think I would have been thrilled, had I knew. 

Now, though, I feel my stomach constrict, like cold water sizzling against my heated insides. I sit down on the trunk at the foot of my bed. I want to ask him to sit with me, but I know better. I  watch him five feet away from me, running a hand through his hair. “You’re angry,” I say. 

“‘Yeah. I am.” He’s not saying anything else, but he’s anything but quiet. He takes a deep breath and exhales out his nose. His heart is thumping, and I can hear his blood rush across his veins. He swallows, and I watch his Adam’s apple bob. Like I have countless times before. 

When he speaks, it’s barely above a whisper. “I wanted this visit to work. So badly. But those things he was saying. And you listening and taking it, and...and...” He huffs in frustration. It’s demeaning, Baz.” 

“Is it Edgar? My father?” I ask. “They’re old dickheads, Simon. They humiliate themselves. Can’t even go through small talk without—” 

“That’s the thing,” he interrupts me. His eyes flit to the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but me. “It’s not just </i>small talk.</i> That rubbish he spouts? You think it’s jest?”

“Why do you care what he thinks?” Seeing him so upset is sending a ripple of panic fluttering from my chest. I scramble, and I grasp, and apparently, I break. 

“It’s not just Edgar, isn’t it? It’s that whole lot. What would they say when they find out their darling Basil is dating a bloody chav from a foster home? Leeching away his money ‘cause I serve coffee eight hours a day.” He laughs a bitter, joyles sound. He’s still not looking at me. “This is real life, Baz. It’s not small talk. It’s not a chat during a fucking garden promenade at your family’s club. I guess I’d know if I picked up a few shifts there, wouldn’t I?” 

Irritation swells in my throat. I think about the Easters, Christmases, summers at the club where I kept my mouth shut when my family makes gay jokes about lads and queers and faeries. He has never thrown my privilege in my face. “You know I don’t mean it like that.” 

“Actually, I haven’t the faintest idea what you do mean. Not when you sit there and say nothing.” He breathes again. “It’s not just everyone else.” He repeats. “It’s...it’s you.” 

Fights aren’t the same from when we were twenty. Now, at twenty-three, they don’t feel like we’re one shout from breaking up. They don’t feel like Simon will slip from my fingertips unless I hold on so tightly that my knuckles are white with the effort. They don’t feel like the love I had for him was an overflowing static, buzzing through the air and hurting anyone who dares come close. Now, they’re just fights. 

But they still fucking hurt. 

“Simon, love—” 

“Don’t.” He holds up a hand. He stares at a far wall when he talks to me. “Don’t call me that when I’m upset with you. Please.” 

I stand there, at a complete loss. He turns around, unzips his backpack, and starts shoving his clothes out on the bed. I can see his hands trembling. His heart is still thumping, blood still rushing. I shut my eyes and start to feel the tears well up. Long before I learned to retract my fangs, I’ve mastered retracting my tears first. But I don’t want to hold them back. Not here. Not with him. 

He keeps his back to me, and I stare at it—at the thick ridge, strained and tense. I know he can feel me looking. I want him to keep talking. I want him to yell at me, tell me what to do. Because I’ll do it. I’ll do anything. 

I turn around and open the door. 

“Your toothbrush is in mine,” I mutter. “You almost forgot it this morning.” I close the door shut, and I go down the stairs. 

I blink, but the tears don’t come. Like I said; my body knows when I’m home. 

— 

When you hang a left by the garage, there’s a brick wall on the side of the house. It’s completely dark at night, and dead quiet. At half-eleven, it would be tricky for any visitor to end up there, and I easily make my way down there without being spotted.  It was my favourite spot to sneak a fag. Not that I have one on me. I’d kill for one now. 

I stop when I see Mordelia standing near the bins, one leg folded to prop herself up. I see her blow smoke up to the sky, with the soft ember at her fingertips the only light between us. I had no idea she smoked. 

I walk up to her and join her against the wall. She looks at me, but doesn’t say anything. “Have you got a spare?” I ask her. I can’t remember the last time we spoke. Surely, not last Christmas? 

She flicks open her pack and holds it out to me. I put one between my lips, light it with my wand, take a deep drag, and exhale. I close my eyes and relish the way my head starts to spin. 

“Aren’t you going to tell me off?” Standing next to her, I realize that she’s almost past my shoulder. 

I shrug. “I was about your age when I started.” 

She narrows her eyes and bites her lip, and I think about my life at sixteen. Fifth year. I hope to Merlin and Morgana that she’s not going through even a portion of what I did. I think about saying something to her, or asking about Watford, when she says something that throws me off. “Is Simon never coming back here? After spending a night with the family?” 

I laugh, almost bitterly. I never give her enough credit. “That Edgar is a real wanker, isn’t he?” I deflect. She chuckles, and I take another drag. I follow her line of sight and look at the stars. They’re so much prettier here, away from London. I continue talking. “He’ll be alright; he’s always been stronger than me. It’s me who can’t stand it.” I look back at her and give a half-smile. “Do you want him to? Come back?” 

I was meaning to take the piss, but she slowly nods. “When he spent that first Christmas with us, I didn’t like it. Not cause he was the Chosen One, or whatever. Crowley, that seems like a lifetime ago.” She takes a drag and exhales. I wonder if our father would blame her smoking on me. “I didn’t like it because you were different with him. Where he goes, you go. And neither of you have any clue. It’s like someone cast ‘Shall we dance?’ on you. And it freaked me out to see you so different. It never changed with every December, you see. Didn’t waver or dampen. And Simon never stopped looking bloody terrified every year.” She pauses when I laugh, and then looks at me when she speaks again. “I can barely remember what you were like before him now. I’ve never seen you so happy.” 

I look at her with wide eyes. In the moonlight, I can see how her eyelashes flutter. How her cheeks redden in the cold. I wonder how much she’s absorbed, how much she’s grown up, right under my nose. She puts out her cigarette and stomps on it. Without another word, she turns to head back inside. 

“Mordelia,” I call after her. She turns back to me and raises her eyebrow. “Happy Christmas.” 

She rolls her eyes, but I can see a smile start to form. “Go back inside. Don’t cock it up.” 

— 

I don’t know what to expect when I carefully open our door. Part of me hopes he’d be asleep; he tossed and turned all night last night. 

Instead, I find him sitting on the floor cross-legged, facing the fireplace. He doesn’t say anything when I shut the door behind me. 

I pad across the room and join him, leaving a few feet of space when when I sit. I watch him for a moment in my periphery. He’s hunched over his knees, resting his chin at the top of his knees. I indulge in inhaling his scent. “I’m sorry,” I say. 

He’s silent for a long time. In the quiet, if I concentrate, I can still hear the party below us, louder now that they’ve brought out the brandy. I remember the drill, and I hate it. 

Instead, I listen to the crackling of the flames. Simon’s even heartbeat. 

“I’m not angry anymore,” Snow mutters. He keeps his gaze on the fire. 

“I fucked up tonight,” I say. 

Simon shakes his head, and I spot a small smile on his lips. “You don’t fuck up, darling. You’re too perfect for that. You miscalculated, maybe.” 

He’s trying to lighten the mood, because he knows how. He’s bloody brilliant with that. With me. But I won’t take it. “Simon...”

“We save that phrase for actual fuck-ups, like me.” 

“Simon. No.” I shift to properly face him. He keeps his eyes forward, but that’s alright. “You’re right. Those things are important, and they matter, and they were unacceptable. And I didn’t understand that. And I hurt you.” 

He hesitates before replying. “Don’t you think they have a point?” 

Anger rises in my chest. “No,” I almost growl. “They don’t.” My hands ball into fists, and I force them to open again. I breathe. “Please look at me, love.” 

He does. I scoot forward and lean in, pushing his curls back. “You are not a fuck-up, SiImon Snow. I will make a spreadsheet, I’ll write you a speech. I’ll do a dissertation, and I’ll pass with distinction. Because I’ll prove it. Crowley, I will prove it.” Nothing would be easier to do. Would make me happier to accomplish. 

He looks down and smiles. He takes my hand from his face, kisses my palm, and laces our fingers together. 

“Will you forgive me?” I whisper. 

He leans forward and kisses me. “There’s nothing to forgive,” he answers against my lips. He moves to my ear. “I know I’ll never be a fuck-up as long as I’m your boyfriend.” 

“Because Basil Pitch doesn’t date losers,” I answer breathlessly. 

“Indeed,” he whispers. He moves to my neck, kissing me there. “Merlin, I’ll live up to it. I could be buried with that title, and I’ll be the happiest ghost around.” 

I close my eyes and breathe him in. His pulse is so loud, so close to me, that it rings in my ears. I pretend that it’s mine, that we’re sharing a heartbeat. If I had to stay this close to keep my heart pumping for the rest of my life, I’ll accept it. Gladly. Gratefully. 

“Do you want to go home?” I murmur against his hair. 

He pulls back and looks at me. “Really?”

I can see in his eyes that he wants to. I nod. 

“What about your family?” 

My lip quirks upward. “I think they’ll manage.” 

He keeps looking at me, searching my eyes for hesitation. When he finds nothing, he smiles slowly. “Will you let me drive?” 

I purse my lips. “Then we’ll be even?” 

His eyes sparkle, lips twisting in wicked amusement. “Deal.” 

It’s almost one o’clock in the morning when we step out of the house with our luggage, so I wasn’t expecting anyone to notice. We almost make it past the gate when I hear a voice behind us. “Leaving so soon?” 

I turn around. Fiona. 

I look at her, unsure of what to say. Of whether or not she’d stop us. She drops her cigarette on the ground and stomps it out with her boot. She rolls her eyes and says, “Just give me a hug before you go.” 

I walk forward and wrap my arms around her. When we pull away, she nods at Simon behind me. “Drive safely, yeah?” She jerks her head towards me. “He’d cry if you wreck that Jag.”

I hear Simon chuckle. “I will.” 

She nods. “Go on, then. Before anyone sees you.” 

I kiss her cheek. “I’ll ring you when we get home.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Go.” 

— 

Turns out, the drive is even better in total darkness. 

— 

We woke up on Christmas morning at eleven o’clock. 

I can’t remember the last Christmas where I slept in so late.

[ryttu3k]

Night Road quote text dump, because I've been deluging a friend with quotes and want a place to keep them all.

We're a bit like that, yeah:

They direct you to a hulking Malkavian named Severian, and the sullen giant directs you in turn to Gibberish Mike.

Fortunately, it turns out that "Gibberish" Mike is just Australian.

Practical concerns:

"That's it!" Elena says, leaning over your shoulder. "That's his yacht. Oh, and this is all about him. Very useful." She snaps a picture of the email with her phone, then the two of you get out of there before the technician returns. You head down the elevator and then back to Elena's Datsun.

You're so pleased by how well that went that that it takes you a few minutes to remember you're in Arizona.

"His yacht?" you finally ask.

Fun with bungalow ownership:

After a day of fitful dreams, you throw on your leather jacket and engineer boots and get ready for another night. You step outside to check your Integra. A neighbor parks next door in her Ford Super Duty and gives you a friendly little wave. You've been practicing this. You're ready.

"Howdy, neighbor."

"Howdy!" she responds before heading inside.

Fucking nailed it. You're one of them.

This is legitimately how I got the Messy Critical achievement:

You grab a hoe.

You rip through the underbrush with savage efficiency, staying a few steps ahead of the pushcart as Julian scans. You work in a trance, chopping and hammering. Only when you hear Julian shouting do you realize that you're holding a busted length of wood.

The head of your hoe is buried in the beautiful round black door of Prince Lettow's Rolls-Royce.

Raúlblocked:

You head to Raúl's place, but he's not there. You find a note hidden above the door that reads, "Problems in Phoenix. (Jesus Christ has returned? Stole a car?) Contact me right away for major jobs and I'll come back. Already missing you." And there's a ProtonMail address with some of the security contact codes you agreed upon earlier.

But it looks like Raúl will be occupied dealing with the Lord and His automotive crimes, and he won't be able to wander around Tucson with you.

Pattermuster doesn't get paid enough:

"Hello? What? Well, the blood can't be 'everywhere.' Surely that's an exagger—okay—okay, fine. Okay. Okay, I'll get—okay. Five minutes. What? No, Sissy Spacek. No, Sissy—you're thinking of Rosemary's Baby. No, Carrie had the prom scene. With all the pig's—yes, it was Sissy Spacek, I'm sure. That much blood? Jesus. Okay, hold—five—okay, five minutes."

Valid question:

Do they teach ax fighting at Quantico?

Julian Meyer:

"Man, it's been a while," Julian says, leaning against your door frame. "I remember the nights we spent keeping that elder asleep with offerings of blood, the days curled up together in the desert. Wasn't it romantic?"

"That never happened, Julian. You made up our relationship and tried to sell it as a novel until the old Prince of Tucson threatened to execute you." '

"Vampire romance was big at the time," Julian says with a shrug. "And I changed our names. I still don't know why no one wanted to buy it."

Dammit I thought I was done with uni:

"Awful," Dr. Caul says with a little shudder. "But now your real studies can begin."

Your real studies consist of a syllabus (thirty pages) and a trunk full of books (35,000 pages).

"Are you disappointed, Rook?" she says with a little laugh. "Were you expecting something more mystical? A bolt of cosmic enlightenment? A conversation with your Holy Guardian Angel, who would reveal the answers you seek?" She bangs the trunk as technicians get ready to load it into your car. "Get reading."

An enthusiastic boss:

You reunite with Pattermuster down in the morgue, where he's pumping his fists as a thin-blood on a gaming laptop watches with a worried expression because she can't tell if he's incredibly happy or insanely mad.

"Rook!" Pattermuster shouts, his eyes full of Blood, "you did it! You brilliant child, you did it! We're safe. Oh, thank God, we're safe." He pulls you into an embrace, then punches a brick wall because he's so happy, showering all three of you in dust.

I thought that was Finland?:

You catch all sorts of whispered gossip as you cross the rooftop garden.

"Camp Scheffler?"

"Gone. That Outlander courier had something to do with it."

"I heard the Russians helped the SI burn it down."

"That's ridiculous. There's no such thing as Russians."

Pot, kettle:

"Julian," the Eagle Prince says, "you will locate Reremouse with the equipment Vane brought. Once we find him, we will strike shortly before dawn. I have prepared a stake sufficient to pierce even his old hide."

"That easy, huh?" Julian says.

"No, but—"

"Your plan is ridiculous, convoluted, and dangerous," Julian says.

"And you have a better one?"

"Absolutely," Julian says. "We use Stonehenge to teleport him to Mesopotamia."

The must-have appliance:

He's a black outline in the glow of a single yellow bulb... and then the bats descend.

And then the bats get torn to pieces, because Pattermuster pulls his two katanas out of nothing and turns into an undead Cuisinart for a few seconds.

But aesthetic:

Leave it to a vampire to bring a sword to a gunfight.

It is pretty cool though:

"Oh my God," Julian says. "You're going to use the car engine to fling Prometheus into Reremouse's heart."

"Dammit, Julian, I am not doing this because it's fun. I am scrambling for every advantage I can because we only have one chance to stop Reremouse, and if we fail, the Second Inquisition will descend on us like wolves on a wounded deer."

"It's still cool," Julian mutters.

A e s t h e t i c:

The Camarilla looks unkindly on vampires who dress like Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, but what's the point of being dead if you can't look the part?

#JustToreadorThings:

You sleep badly and awaken to an aching and acute Hunger that crowds out other thoughts. But when you approach the Rolls-Royce, you find Lettow and Julian seated on a blanket, evidently in fine spirits. They're holding stainless steel mugs as they watch the last purple streaks fade from the western sky. There's something perfect about the composition before you: the two Kindred in their working clothes with their backs to you, the blue-black clouds, the faraway mesas framing the scene.

"I fear we've lost the Aesthete," Lettow muses. "Luka? Luka!"

It's just good sense:

A lot of keypads use 0911 as an emergency override for police and fire. That doesn't work, but a common default password causes the elevator doors to slide right open.

Change your defaults, people.

They draw the line at 31%:

Not all problems can be solved by putting a brick through a window, but at least 30 percent can.

Descriptive:

That's when your Nissan makes a sound like a bunch of typewriter keys dropped in a blender, and the whole truck lurches to a halt.

Munch munch:

"There are tags attached to all the payroll numbers," you say. "FNMA. PFC. What are they?"

"FNMA?" Antonio says. "That's Fannie Mae. The loan commission. Privatized in 1968. PFC…"

"Pavlodar Fried Chicken," Janet says. "Damn Commies."

Courier what did you do:

When you try to start your Mercedes, it vomits black smoke. That's not good. You kill the engine.

"Pop the hood," Julian says. "I'll get it up and running."

He checks the motor. There's a long pause.

"Did you melt a bunch of cheese in here or something, Vane?"

“I remember crawling out of a Nieuport 20 outside Gibraltar," Prince Lettow says. "The engine looked like that. Of course, ours had been on fire."

"Engine looks like Vane fed a bunch of sardine cans into a paper shredder," Julian says.

Almost!:

So Lettow is cute. I'm going to talk to him and see if he might be interested in a handsome young courier who almost has his own car.

Scientist life:

A beaker of cold coffee on her desk has a pencil in it; she flicks the pencil away and drains the entire beaker, then looks you in the eyes.

Domesticity:

"Wow, Vane," the Banu Haqim says, "did you finally settle down. Where's the wife and kids? Why don't you get me a beer, and we can talk about football and quote some Bible verses at each other?"

I really want to know where the fake werewolf came in:

"...so the whole fucking Cadillac is on fire, and I'm kicking and kicking, trying to get the window to break!" Dove says.

"Right, right, because —" You're trying to follow this story, and it isn't easy.

"Because I'm still handcuffed to the guy who was pretending to be a werewolf, right. And I finally kick through the window, rip half the dead fake werewolf's arm off to get free — I'm out of my fucking mind now, with all the fire — and I finally crawl out of the car."

"And get clear before it — do they blow up?"

"Escalades? I dunno, probably not," Dove says. "But anyway, I'm finally clear, so I run across the parking lot, laughing because I'm just thrilled not to have met final death chained up to that guy. And I barely have time to look up before Lettow comes screaming around the corner in a Ford Bronco with the lights off and runs me over. I was in the wrong Cadillac the whole time."

"No!"

"Two black Cadillac Escalades in the parking lot of the Marriott," Dove says. "How was I supposed to know which one — anyway, that's why I don't get to drive anymore. That's why Lettow wants assholes like you driving."

"Driving what?" you ask. "Because I need a car."

Dove shakes her ugly head. "I'll get you something. Give me a few hours to work on it, and I'll send someone to find you."

Cars are everything:

You still don't know how Julian plans to go from "divert a few funds and data streams from the Camarilla" to "transform the global information panopticon in a way that ends the Masquerade but keeps vampires safe," but he has a nicer car than last time, so he must be doing something right.

Guys please be nice to Raul:

"There appears to be a vampire hunter outside," he says, "investigating your electric vehicle."

"Send your bird to peck his eyes out," Julian says. "I'm not going outside until I find my sneakers."

Cheese?:

Over the next few minutes, you cough up a glorious wad of bullshit involving MKUltra, the Philadelphia Experiment, Star Wars (the movie), Star Wars (the Reagan-era government program), Jackson Pollack's CIA connections, the history of federal cheese, and the secret mastermind behind the seventies gas crunch.

In fairness it's a pretty rare sound:

You're way up in Limberlost, near the mall and the Walmart, when Riga settles on the roof of a Safeway. You reverse into the parking lot in case you need to get out fast and scan the cars at the pumps. It looks quiet. Then you hear a faint ringing.

The sound is musical, hypnotic. It reminds you of your childhood, and for a long time you just sit there in the driver's seat, remembering what it was like to be alive. But what is that sound? What memory from…?

Oh, right.

The pay phone next to the ice merchandiser is ringing.

It's a skill!:

Not every member of Clan Toreador joins their august ranks because of their great beauty or artistic genius. Some people end up vampires because of their extensive knowledge of Adobe After Effects.

Big Pirates of the Caribbean energy:

"I'd kind of like to give Lettow here a horse and a sword and let him tear through an entire police barracks," Julian says. "Tell me that wouldn't be fun."

"One thing I learned from Napoleon," Lettow says, "is that the most powerful cannon is useless if you cannot see your target. We know the location of one small encampment. That isn't enough to start shooting."

"You knew Napoleon?" Julian asks.

"Napoleon was my horse," Lettow says.

[sincerelyreidburke]

won’t you lay me down

Hi, I wrote some CCU hurt/comfort fluff. I know that sounds like an oxymoron, but bear with me.

In which: Derek has a bad mental health day. Will has his back.

Also on ao3!

///

Will doesn’t see the text at first.

It’s not really his fault. Monday mornings are busy. After morning practice at 6:30 (Will likes that better than evening practice, and as captain he’s tried to keep the practice schedule relatively consistent), he has a meeting with Hall and Murray for thirty minutes while the rest of the team filters out to their respective morning activities and routines. It’s the last he sees of Derek until the afternoon, every Monday— because after Will’s meeting with the coaches, he’s straight off to his internship in Boston for the rest of the morning, then comes back to campus for his 2:30 CS 381 class.

So when the text comes in, he’s mid-transit from Boston to Samwell, sitting in traffic on 128. As a general rule, he doesn’t check his phone while driving. Also, why the fuck is there so much traffic in the middle of the day on a Monday.

He doesn’t understand Massachusetts drivers.

Anyway. It’s when he gets back to campus that he sees it, sitting in his lockscreen over the wallpaper of him and Derek.

18m ago

Derek: do u mind if i chill in the basement

Derek: can’t focus in my room, c is playing music

Oh. Will unlocks his phone, sitting in his student parking spot. He and Derek use each other’s rooms all the time, even outside of their constant sleeping-over in each other’s. Many a time has he returned from class, internship, or other obligation to find his boyfriend hanging out in the bungalow.

They have their own spaces in the Haus, but they do their fare share of, well. Sharing.

Sry just saw this , he sends back. Was drivung. Of cuorse you can use the basment

He looks at the text thread for a second, then sends a <3 after his message, and tucks his phone away again.

On to the next thing.

Class is sort of tedious today, but what’s worse than it is the actual trek back to the Haus from the compsci building, because it’s frigid outside, a chill that gets to his bones even in his winter jacket and the beanie he stole from Derek. In typical New England February fashion, it’s supposed to snow tonight, or at least that’s what he thinks he heard from someone at his internship this morning. He spent most of his shift working out a kink in his supervisor’s code, and he was lost in the numbers and symbols for hours.

He likes it. It’s satisfying to figure out a program.

When he reaches the Haus, finally , Whiskey and Ford are hanging out in the kitchen. He waves to them on his way by, then wonders if he should bake tonight. Maybe after his homework, he can make cookies. The pie he made this weekend is gone already, because all three of the freshmen were here yesterday, nothing he bakes lasts long in their presence.

Will heads straight downstairs, and the door to his room is closed; the lights inside look like they’re off. He eases it open, reaching for the light switch. Derek must have finished whatever he was doing.

Or— not.

Derek is here, and he can tell because he hears Dwayne Johnson singing. He freezes with his hand on the light-switch before he can turn it on, and steps all the way into the room instead, where he catches sight of him— or at least catches sight of what he knows is him, under several layers of cover.

Derek has burrowed himself into Will’s bed with his laptop, and he’s watching Moana , the light of the screen on his face the only source of any light in the room at all. He’s wearing Will’s Samwell hoodie, the good one with Poindexter and 24 and C on the sleeve, and its hood is pulled over his head, strings drawn to make his face look like a blue-lit mask poking out of it. He looks only half-invested in the movie, because he’s resting his face on his arm, scrunched up to the pillow.

Will’s stomach turns. Bedridden Derek in his stolen sweatshirt and Moana are a combination that can only mean one thing.

He closes the door, gently, behind himself. “Der?”

It appears that this is the first Derek actually notices that someone else has entered the room. Will hears the click of the space bar, and the Rock halts mid-chorus. “Oh,” comes Derek’s voice from his blanket cocoon, and it’s small and drawn, the opposite of his loud bravado. “Hey, babe.”

“Hi.” Will drops his backpack at the door, then goes directly to him, crouching on the steps that get him to the loft bed. “Hey,” he says, across the laptop. “Are you okay?”

Derek pauses. He purses his lips at his computer screen, then sighs and lowers it. “Ch’yeah,” he mumbles. “I’m alright.”

With the laptop closed, Will reaches for his face. He cups his stubbly cheek in one hand, runs his thumb across his cheekbone. Derek looks blank, drained. Will knows this demeanor well by now.

“No, you’re not,” he whispers. Without the light of the laptop, it’s nearly dark inside. The slivers of gray daylight from where Derek pulled the shade on the window are all that remain.

Derek breathes in like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out. He nuzzles his face into Will’s pillow a little more.

“Der,” Will whispers. He kneels on the steps, pauses his thumb by Derek’s ear. “Gray day?”

Derek whimpers a little, like it pains him to admit it, but nods. “Yeah.”

Will keeps gentle. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks. “This morning?”

Derek bites his lip. “Didn’t feel it this morning.”

“Oh.” Will pauses. “When did it hit you?”

He closes his eyes. “When I got back to the Haus.”

Will frowns. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

Derek’s eyes are still closed. He shakes his head. “You couldn’tve known, babe.”

For a moment, the room is quiet. Will pushes Derek’s laptop aside a little. “What can I do?”

Derek takes his time, answering. Will is patient. He knows how to do this. He slides his hand into his curls under the hood; they’re matted, and they’ll be worse if he just lays in bed for the rest of the day. “You want to tie your hair?”

Derek takes a long breath.

“You don’t have to,” Will adds. “But if it’ll help you for later…”

“My scarf’s upstairs,” Derek mumbles, weakly, like upstairs is a continent away.

“It’s okay,” Will tells him. “I can get it, baby.”

Derek’s face contorts a little, like he’s about to cry, but he doesn’t; he just opens his eyes. His eye contact is distant, like he’s staring more into space than back at Will, but he’s trying, and Will knows that. “I love you,” he whispers, and then, “I don’t feel well.”

“I know,” Will hushes. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek groans.

“Never be sorry,” Will says. “Ever.” He kisses his forehead, feather-light, and then tells him, “I love you too. And I’m gonna go get your scarf, okay? I’ll be right back.”

Derek winces again, like something hurts. He nods, though, slowly, and rests his cheek on the pillow again. Will pulls back to go, but God, it’s hard, because he knows how much Derek hates being alone when he feels like this, and he’s already been in here by himself for God knows how long—

Okay, he’ll only be gone a minute. But even so, he feels the need to fill that space. He climbs down to his bookshelf, reaches onto its center shelf between Derek’s poetry books, and grabs hold of his oldest friend.

“Here,” he whispers, bringing Cromwell up so Derek can see. “Do you want a friend?”

Derek eyes the plush lobster, and though he doesn’t look like he has an ounce of energy to smile, his eyes soften. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “Please.”

Will hands him over, and Derek engulfs the little red thing in his sea of blankets, resting him right under his nose. The visual would be cute, if Derek weren’t in such a bad spot. Will caresses his cheek again, then smooths the few curls that are poking out of the hood. “Be right back, baby,” he says. “Do you know where your scarf is?”

Derek pauses, then shakes his head.

“It’s alright,” Will assures him. “I’ll find it.”

This was hard, at first, being so new to this side of him, and not knowing how to help him. But they’ve been together for eight months, and Will knows Derek’s gray days by now, knows the tells for when he’s feeling down, knows a few remedies that help to ease the numbness.

He makes a beeline for Derek’s room upstairs as fast as his legs can carry him. The space itself is even evidence that Derek isn’t feeling himself; there are more clothes on the floor than usual, and the bed is unmade, and his desk looks like his notebook exploded. Will sifts through his dresser drawers, between Samwell shirts, pairs of gym shorts, random articles of Will’s own clothing that’ve been stolen, but there’s no sight of the green headscarf he wears sometimes to bed. He moves his search to the desk, and then to the actual bed, and he’s about to give up when he finds it tucked between the down comforter and the sheets.

Success. He heads back downstairs.

“Hey, Dex, is Nursey in your room?”

“Oh—” Will halts in the kitchen doorway. The question came from Ford; she’s still at the counter. “Yeah,” he replies, poking his head around the corner. Tango has now joined the kitchen gathering. “He’s just watching a movie.”

“Oh, cool.” Ford nods. “I just didn’t know if he was in the Haus. I thought I saw him go down there, like, two hours ago.”

“Yeah,” Will says, “he’s with me.”

Tango waves. “Hi, Dex!”

“Hey, Tango.” Will opens the basement stairs door.

Chowder knows this version of Derek as well as Will does, but the rest of the team doesn’t. It’s what’s buried under the chill, what he could never stand to let people know about himself.

Derek’s brain is awful to him sometimes.

Back in his room, he finally takes off his winter jacket and closes the door behind him, then climbs up the steps to his bed again. Derek is still snuggling with Cromwell, but his laptop has moved; he’s pushed it to the pouch adjacent to Will’s headboard where he keeps his phone, occasional book, and other random stuff while he sleeps.

Will unfolds the scarf. It’s silky smooth. “Gave up on Moana ?” he hums.

Derek rolls over and nods. Will kicks his sneakers off, then crawls onto the mattress, which squeaks a little under both their weight. He slides a hand under his back— Derek is very, very warm, but that’s the way he likes to be when he’s like this— and eases him up into a sitting position. “Sit up for me, babe?”

Derek moves with his touch, nice and easy, and when Will has him sitting up, he slots himself against his back, lets Derek lean on him. “You want me to talk?” he asks as he pulls the hood off his head. “Or do you like the quiet?”

Derek hums a little. “Talk. Please.”

“Okay.” Will combs through his curls, then pulls the scarf tight around them. He learned this on YouTube, after his third time hearing post-funk Derek lament that his depression was ruining his hair. “It’s supposed to snow,” he tells him. “Five inches.”

Derek groans. “Fuck that.”

“I know,” Will mumbles. “But if classes get cancelled, I’ll make cookies.”

“Mm.” Derek hums again, as Will pulls the knot at the back of his neck tight. “What kind?”

“Still deciding.” He hooks his arms around his neck, pulls him close, and kisses his cheek. “You can file a request, if you want.”

“Snickerdoodle.”

“Done.”

“Thank you.” Derek pauses. “For tying my hair.”

Will noses into his neck, drops a kiss there, and then moves back up to his face. “Of course, Der.” He turns him a little, cups his face in one hand. Derek still looks gray, and he looks, God, he looks so tired ; he always does when he’s like this, but it pains Will every time.

He wants to take every ounce of hurt away from him.

“What can I do?” he asks.

Derek takes a long breath while he thinks about it. His words, on these days, come slowly. “Um.” He nods to himself, like he’s thinking about it. “Do you have homework?”

Will shakes his head. “I have plenty of time to do it.”

“Okay.” Derek pauses, then, “Lay with me?”

“Yeah.” Will nods. “Ayuh. Of course.”

They wind up curled into the blanket pile, with Derek pressed tight against Will’s chest, a little further down the bed than him so he can tuck his face into his shoulder. Will presses a kiss to the top of his scarf, holds him as close as he can. He knows the pressure helps him, eases his brain a little. Cromwell rests on the pillow, somewhere near the both of them. He’s a little extra moral support.

“Thank you, Will,” Derek says, with an exhale, as he nuzzles into his chest.

“You’re welcome,” Will replies. “Always.”

“Mmf.” Derek wraps himself around him, arms and legs and all. His voice is muffled when he speaks again, but Will knows the words anywhere. “You and me.”

Will nods. “You and me.”

It’s a mantra and a promise. Hell or high water. Good days and gray ones.

“I’ve got you,” he tells him, and he’ll never let go.

[bastillewolf]

Midnight In Sheffield (III)

Pairing: Alex Turner/Reader

Summary: When a soon-to-be-wedded insomniac author heads back home to visit her parents, she comes across the likes of a mysterious musician whilst on her sleepless escapade in the AM.

Notes: Took a bit longer to edit this chapter, and made it longer. Hope you enjoy!

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list!

@alexbandguy86​​​​​ @bettyschwallocksyee​​​​​ @fookingsummertime​​​​​ @juicebox-baby​​​@darksydork7​​​​ @edgythought​​​ @toolateformcrtooearlytoleaveemo​

Song recommendation: ‘Bistro Fada’ by Stephane Wrembel

Chapter III - No. 1 Party Anthem

It couldn’t be.

Surely, she hadn’t been that drunk.

If so, she would’ve felt more than embarrassed.

She was standing in the very street she had wandered through the night before, yet nothing seemed familiar. There were no vintage sales, or shops for that matter, or Ford Roadsters that were illuminated by the antique streetlights perched on cobblestone roads.

Instead, she was faced with boring old Sheffield; cracked and bruised asphalt. A few clothing stores and a newspaper office. There was one pub, but not the one she’d been looking for.

“Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Mark said.

“I- Uh, yeah. I could’ve- I could’ve sworn it was here,” she stuttered in response.

“The pub you went to?”

She nodded silently.

“Maybe you went in a different direction. You were tired, happens to the best of us.”

She shot him a look. “I grew up here, Mark. I know my way around this place like the back of my hand, yet that street I went into… I’d never seen it before in my entire life.”

“Hm, strange,” he noted. She knew he was mostly humouring her, and couldn’t shake off the feeling he had been judging her ever since they talked over what happened. It must look crazy, she realized, but to her that was no excuse to not be understanding. He was to be her husband, after all, and weren’t those things most important in a healthy relationship?

“Call me crazy if you want, but I’m telling you; I went to a different pub last night.”

“I know, I believe you.”

She gave a slight sigh of relief.

“Now, come on, let’s go find a restaurant, because we’re not going to that pub on an empty stomach.”

 They had searched all over town, with Mark generously tipping the cabby to take them everywhere they wanted. Not necessarily an odd request, but when she started to ask the driver about an old pub with the exact descriptions, - not failing to mention that smoking had been allowed - he gave her a strange look and told her he’d never heard of such a place before.

He must know, as he’d worked as a cabby for ages.

And so, she was currently sat at a random local bar Mark picked out, slumped in her seat, while her fiancée chatted on with Rachel and James. She couldn’t even bring herself to be annoyed with the pair, her mind too clouded to think of anything other than that very clear night.

She touched Mark’s shoulder, and muttered in his ear that she was going back to the hotel.

He nodded, “I’ll text you when I’m coming back. Don’t stay up too late.”

She smiled lightly, and kissed him on the cheek, before slipping out of the door, and leaving the musky scene behind her.

She didn’t really pay attention to where she was going. She was staring down at her feet, which kept their leisure pace on the tiled sidewalk.

She didn’t even bother giving the man in a tracksuit she nearly bumped into a second glance, or the dog that barked at her.

She walked up the few steps, through an alley, until she rounded a corner and was back at what appeared to be the main street. Only then did she actually bump into someone.

“You just keep appearing out of nowhere, don’t you?”

“Miles?”

She rubbed her tired eyes, until the flickering had disappeared, and she could look around again.

A cobblestone street, antique metal streetlights and shop windows filled with antique wear. The man that stood in front of her wore the same suit as yesterday, but without the tie and the top buttons of his shirt undone.

She couldn’t help but throw her arms around his neck in relief.

He huffed in surprise, “Good to see you again too, love. Hope that man of yours hasn’t been treating you poorly again, has he?”

“I’m just relieved to see you again,” she replied, avoiding his question, “I can’t believe I didn’t find this street earlier this afternoon! I went looking all over the place for it! Even asked a cabby, but he didn’t know what I was talking about. I’m so glad I found you.”

A mysterious glint flashed across his eyes. “Look for me, did ya? Worry not, love. You can always find me prancing about in the AM. I’ll most likely still be in bed in the afternoons. Best stay away from me then.”

She snorted as he linked her arm with hers and followed his lead into the pub, missing the way he’d given her a worried glance as she tried to memorize the name of the residence, which was painted in a neat cursive on the sign above it.

Mardy Bum.

 “Taken that bird with you again, Miles?” Alex asked from his seat at the wooden table, his foot sliding a chair out for each of them from underneath the table.

“Couldn’t help myself, Al. I just keep running into her. It’s like fate.”

“Call it fate or whatever you want, mate, but there’s no hiding you’ve always fancied the married girls.”

“Sorry, could you repeat that for me?” Miles held a hand to his ear facetiously. “I couldn’t hear you over the tune of ‘The Bad Thing’.”

Alex rolled his eyes. “Are you playing cards with us, or what?”

Miles looked back at her, waiting for her answer. She shrugged, “As long as it’s not strip poker.”

“Shame,” one of the other men at the table muttered, who she recognized from the previous night as Alex’s drummer.

“This is Matt, by the way,” Miles pointed at him, before turning to the other two band members. “And that’s Jamie, and Nick. You remember them from yesterday, no?”

“Of course, you put up a great show.”

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere in a game of cards, love,” Matt teased, as he shuffled the deck of cards like he’d do every evening.

 And so, the night went on, filled with light and pleasant conversation, and a few more antsy rounds of cards. The beer gradually switched to something stronger, which she identified as a very fine whiskey. Not wanting to think about their tab yet which was bound to arrive at the end of the night, she enjoyed the smooth liquid burning her throat, and beat Jamie once again at his own game.

“I don’t like her,” he grumbled.

“Don’t be petty, Jamie. It’s not her fault you’re shit at cards,” Matt said.

“I’m not shit! I won last time!”

“Last time we let you win because it was your birthday,” Alex smoothly chimed in.

“What?!”

Matt burst out laughing at the guitarist’s aghast facial expression, and she noted even Alex himself smirked along with the merriment. She had only known him for two evenings, but from the lack of lines around his mouth, he didn’t seem like he smiled often, so it was nice to be graced with one.

What she did want to be able to unsee was the way he kept looking at her over the deck in his hands with those dark brown eyes. It made her squirm a bit in her seat.

“So, if we asked you to write an autobiography on the band, would you do it?” Nick asked. She’d told them about her career path, and how she hadn’t been able to write anything for a long while.

“I mean, if that’s what you’d want.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Matt quickly intervened.

“Well, why not?”

“She’d never believe us,” Alex drawled.

She met his eyes once more, and they looked awfully calm.

“No offence, but unless you’re going to tell me you go to Hogwarts and practice magic, I’m afraid you can’t say much that makes me find the story of a band who plays in pubs unrealistic.”

“A band who plays in pubs?! You must be joking,” the bartender suddenly intervened, setting the glass down which he had been drying with a towel for the past half hour. “They’re the most famous band in England! Even have their records played in America, they do. I’m lucky they still play in here, or it wouldn’t be so packed every Friday night.”

“We’d never abandon this place, John. This is where we became men and had our first beverages as adults,” Jamie said, raising his glass.

“Don’t play the fool with me, Jamie. You’d had too many pints before you got drunk to be a first-time drinker, and I’ve seen you sneak through the back when you were younger.”

“I didn’t know there was a certain age you’re supposed to be,” Alex quipped.

“Cause nobody told me!” Miles suddenly shouted, rising from his chair and humming a tune to himself as he cradled his drink closer to his chest.

“For the last time, Miles, if you’re going to dance, please find yourself a partner that isn’t the alcohol.”

The man in question pursed his lips thoughtfully at Alex. “Great idea, mate. I’m gunna take a piss and when I get back, I’ll have found my partner.”

He stumbled off in the direction of the restroom, and the group shared a look, for the hour was growing late and they were the only ones left in the pub.

“Sorry about Miles. He gets awfully vague when he’s drunk,” Nick told her.

She smiled. “Don’t worry about it, I’m having a laugh. I wish I could spend the whole night here. Haven’t had this much fun in a while.”

She noticed Matt trying to subtly glance down at his watch, which was close to striking 3 AM. “Probably not the best idea, love. I think it’s time to go home.”

Alex gave him a look. “Why? She could stay a bit longer, wouldn’t hurt anyone,” he slurred.

“You know why.”

“My fair lady!”

Their heads turned towards the back of the bar, where Miles had gotten down on one knee in front of a mop perched in a dirty bucket. “Please, grace me with a dance.”

The silence that followed seemed to be the cue for Miles to think the mop had accepted his offer, and for Matt to definitely call it a night.

Nick and Jamie helped Miles across the street – after managing to pry the ‘fair lady’ from his arms –  while Matt chatted away with John as he was closing the bar, and she was suddenly left alone with the singer himself.

“May I walk you home?” He asked her. “No funny business, I promise.” Though he’d held his hands up in surrender, the action was contradicted by the mischievous glint in his orbs.

“Sure,” she replied, and a very small part of her wished she had just said ‘no’.

 “So, since you’re famous and all,” she started, her gaze trained upon the way her feet carefully stepped on the individual stones cemented into the street’s dirt. “Have I heard any of your songs before? What were you guys called again?”

“I don’t think you would have. And we’re called the Arctic Monkeys.”

She raised her brow, the name sounding vaguely familiar.

“Stupid name, I know.”

“No,” she quickly said, “Not at all, actually. It’s somehow… Very fitting.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

 She smiled at him, until her eyes turned up to the sky, which was filled with flickering lights in the darkest of blues. “It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?”

He hummed. “You must not be one to stay up late often, then. It’s beautiful, sure. But not the best sight I’ve ever seen.”

“What is the best sight you’ve ever seen?”

He studied her for a moment, and couldn’t tell if he was deciding on whether to answer her or not, or thinking of long-lost memories. “France. On the countryside. I’ve been all around the world, but that one night – probably caused by the empty bottles of tequila, might I add – was incomparable. Starry, with a really thin crescent moon in the sky, which Jamie described as ‘the moon’s side boob’. I thought that was quite profound. So, I wrote it down. Might even slip it into a song one day.”

The corners of her lips quirked up mischievously, the tingling sensation of the alcohol running through her system finally catching up with her. “Sing me a song, Alex.”

“A song?”

“Yesss,” she pleaded.

“Not sure your husband would agree with that.”

“He’s out and about with Mark and Rachel. Said he’d text me if he’d get back. I think we’ve got time.”

There was a quiver in his stride. “A text, you say?”

She nodded absentmindedly. “Anyways, he’s not my husband, so being serenaded isn’t illegal just yet.”

He let out a chuckle, but it was short-lived. “Could you humour me for a bit?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Could you tell me who’s the ruler of England right now?”

“What?”

“Just- Just answer the question, please.”

“The… the queen.”

“Ah.”

“I didn’t get that wrong, did I? I’m quite plastered, I’m afraid.”

“No, not at all. Perhaps we do have to save that serenade for another night, though.”

They’d halted, but the building in front of them was not one she recognized, and the route they’d taken too short to have been able to get to the hotel. “I don’t think this is-“

He kissed her on the cheek, more gently than she would’ve expected, which left her hanging with her mouth slightly open, numb from sudden surprise.

“Have a good night, love.”

He spared her one last glance, until he turned, and walked back through the dark and deserted street.

She sort of stumbled through the doors, and her eyes widened at the sight, for she was back in her hotel, and when she looked outside, she no longer met with the cobblestone street, but only the cracked asphalt of New Sheffield.

[coyotesongwriting]

Home - Ch. 3

Chapter 3 - Fresh Start

Chapter Summary: Bucky’s gone, and so are you. What happens when you find out some big news?

Word Count: 3222

Author’s Note: Thank you so much for reading this story and I hope you enjoy it. I’ve tried a new writing style for this fic and I can definitely say it’s not my cup of tea but I love the story anyways!

Disclaimer: I don’t own the characters so don’t sue me please. I just really like them haha

Previous Chapter              Series Masterlist

May You weren’t sure where you were headed when you left the compound, but you knew you had to go as far as you could. For the next two weeks, you wandered wherever the road took you in the Ford Explorer Fury had gifted you. At first, you traveled down to Florida and spent a few days on the coast. The smell of the fish that seemed to permeate the harbor areas left you feeling ill though, and you decided it was time to move. You slowly made your way along the southern coast, stopping in New Orleans for a few days to take in all the sights you’d always wanted to see. You even did a few of the cheesy ghost tours, a part of you hoping that maybe you would receive a sign from Bucky, but knowing you wouldn’t.

As you drove through Texas, you took the old two-lane roads through the middle of nowhere. On one hot summer day, you were driving when you saw a dog on the side of the road. The large German Shepherd mix was tied to a pole on the side of the road, a piece of paper that said ‘free’ taped to it above his lead. The dog had been tied out in the heat with no water for who knows how long, and without a second thought, you loaded him up into your car. Pouring some water into your hands, you gave him a bit before rushing him to the vet in San Antonio.

According to the vet, if you hadn’t come along when you did, someone would have found a dead dog in the summer sun. The vet scanned him for a microchip and was able to find out his name was Rex. His owner’s information was all outdated though, and when they asked what you wanted to do, you didn’t hesitate to say that he was staying with you. You found a hotel room nearby and stayed for the two days Rex spent at the vet, waiting for him to be given a clean bill of health. Every day, you went to visit him for as long as you could. He was always happy to see you and seemed to know you had saved him from a slow and horrible death. You constantly were texting the Avengers pictures of Rex, and Clint immediately claimed him as his godson.

When the day came that you finally got to pick him, you took him to the pet store where you bought him all the supplies he’d need, a nice collar, bed, leash, food bowls, treats, all of it. That night, Rex climbed onto the bed next to you and fell asleep with his head resting on your stomach. For the first time since losing Bucky, you finally slept through the night.

Back on the road, you drove until you reached Sedona, Arizona. There, you decided, was going to be your first stop. The beauty of the surrounding mountains and cliffs surrounded you, and it was completely unlike the forests and meadows you’d called home in upstate New York. The desert was never going to be the place you’d permanently settle down, but it was the perfect place to spend a few months, to heal before attempting to build a permanent life somewhere with Rex.

You found a small apartment on the outskirts of town with a balcony overlooking the cliffs and made it your own. It didn’t take long before you found a job at one of the diners in town working as a cook. You settled into the different lifestyle quickly and made a new routine, one that was reliable and without danger.

In the mornings, you’d take Rex for a jog on the hiking trail behind the apartments. By the time it started to heat up, you were back at the apartment, and Rex was relaxing. You’d go to the apartment’s gym where you’d do some basic exercises, even if you weren’t an Avenger anymore you wanted to be sure you were in shape just in case something happened. After that, you got ready for your shift and went to cook for the dinner rush.

Every day, you checked in with Nat and Sam, and usually one of the others. Everyone wanted to make sure you were doing alright and to be honest, you were. Things were hard of course, and you missed Bucky, you always would, but you were learning to live a new life. One that wasn’t haunted by the ghost of him. One where you didn’t have to worry every day about whether or not your friends would die in front of you.

June A month after getting settled into Sedona, you received a phone call from Steve. It was a late Tuesday night, and you’d just finished your shift at the diner, and you were walking back to your apartment down the quiet streets when you answered.

“[Y/N], we have to make the announcement” Steve’s voice was soft, careful as he spoke.

The warm night air seemed suddenly suffocating. You’d been so wrapped up in your own guilt that you forgot that to the rest of the world, Bucky was still alive somewhere, doing his job as an Avenger. When he first joined the team, he’d gotten mixed reviews from people on the street. Half the people they ran into feared him, blaming him for what he’d done as the winter soldier. The others seemed to understand and were more than willing to welcome him on as one of Earth’s Defenders. Over the years, he had managed to change the doubter’s minds and it wasn’t long before there was even fan merchandise being sold of him. Unlike Tony, he hadn’t relished the spotlight and tried to stand back whenever he could.

While you and Bucky had been more than happy to come out as a couple to the team, you’d decided to keep your relationship private. Since you always wore a photostatic veil when you were in public as one of the avengers, you didn’t want to make things awkward if someone saw him out with you when you weren’t wearing a disguise. He didn’t need the bad publicity if someone saw him kissing you with and without the veil. Besides, it was nice having something for just you and the team, one part of your life that didn’t belong to the world.

The realization struck you, the moment the world found out about his death? He’d be everywhere. You may have left the Avengers in the hope of avoiding his ghost, which still followed you, but the moment it was announced you’d see his face everywhere. The news coverage that would come was sure to run nonstop for days. There’d be a public funeral service.  Bucky’s death would surround you once again, and this time you’d have no choice but to wait it out.

“[Y/N]?” Steve’s voice drew you out of your thoughts, reminding you of his presence.

“Y-yeah. Can you give me a little bit? A few days. Please. I just need to be ready.”

“Saturday, we have to do it then. People are beginning to ask why they haven’t seen him around lately and we can’t keep hiding this. There’s going to be a lot of questions” he paused before continuing, “People have been asking about you too.”

“Okay. That’s fine, that’ll work” your voice was nervous, trying to reassure yourself it would be alright, “What are you going to tell them about me?”

“You can still come back, you know. We miss you. Even Tony misses you.”

“I know. But I’m not coming back. I can’t. I can’t do that. I can’t watch one of you die again. I can’t do it again.”

“I can’t say if you come back you’ll never be in that position again, but we need you. It’s not the same without both of you…”

“No. I know, I miss you guys, I get it. But I can’t - won’t - go through that again”

“I just worry about you. Bucky wouldn’t want you to do this.”

“Bucky’s dead, Steve. We don’t know what he’d want, but he’d want me to be happy and I can’t stay there and pretend everything’s fine, okay?”

“Come home, [Y/N].” Steve’s voice lost the softness, his stubbornness setting in.

You could feel the frustration in you rising as Steve’s attitude changed. You’d been more touchy lately, but who wouldn’t be after losing the person they were meant to spend the rest of their life with?

“I am home.” you slid your key into the lock of your front door and were greeted by Rex’s wagging tail.

“You know what I mean.” he sighed, frustrated.

“No. No, I don’t. Because the complex isn’t my home, not anymore.”

“[Y/N]-”

“Look. I have to go. I just got in and I’m exhausted. You’re making the announcement on Saturday. I get it.”

“Come home. Please.”

You didn’t answer him, merely hanging up the phone. You set your phone on the small entry table by the door and leaned back against the door behind you. Sliding down, you sat on the floor, back against the door as the tears overwhelmed you again. You were getting better, truly. You could usually get through the day without crying by this point, but sometimes things were just too hard.

Looking back all you could see were the mistakes that were made. The things you could have done to save him. And in your darkest times, when it seemed like dawn would never come, you blamed Steve. If he hadn’t made you wait, you could have gotten to him in time. You could have warned him. You could have gotten him out of there, and you wouldn’t be here today. Blaming Steve wasn’t fair, you knew that, but sometimes it was hard to forget that.

Rex nuzzled his way into your face, and your hands closed around him, pulling him close as you broke. While you may have saved him, he’d more than repaid you since you brought him home. On the days you felt alone, he was always by your side. When you didn’t even want to get out of bed, he was there nudging you and making sure you got things handled. When you broke down at night, he was happy to lay with you and offer you a listening ear.

The night passed slowly, seeming to creep by. You slept in fits, but Rex was there every time you woke up. His calm presence lured you back to sleep every time. In your dreams, Bucky was there by your side again and things were good, things were happy and you got to relive some of your favorite memories.

The next morning, you called your boss, asking for Saturday and Sunday off. You’d been working every night since they hired you on. Not having days off meant you could live in the same routine day in and out, no surprises or confusion. Your manager quickly approved the request, and you began to plan.

Saturday came, and in the early morning hours you packed up your car with some supplies and Rex and set off on the five-hour drive to Apache-Sitgreaves National Forest. The forest there would give you the perfect chance to ride out the worst of the news coverage, give the world a chance to get over the shock while you were away.

You shut off your phone, knowing that if you left it on you’d be too distracted by what’s happening to focus on getting on getting away. The drive was nice, and you kept the music soft, not in the mood for anything loud at the time. On your drive to Sedona after finding Rex, you’d learned he was one of those pups who truly loved car trips. His antics as you drove kept your mind off the reason for the trip.

The towering pines and cool mountain weather enveloped you as pulled into the campground. The campground was all but deserted, only one other camper nearby and for that you were grateful. When you planned the trip, you feared that the campground would be busy and you’d be surrounded by couples and families, unable to get the chance to escape. Instead, you were able to focus on the peace and quiet of the forest.

The weekend passed quickly, too quickly for your liking. You and Rex spent the time hiking throughout the forest. Rex was eager to see it all, his exuberance reminding you that he was only a year old. For that, you were grateful. The idea of losing him, your only anchor left in the world, left your breath stuttering. Watching him bound after a squirrel, stopped by the leash, brought a quick burst of laughter from your lips, and with that, you left fears of losing him behind.

During your hike on Sunday, you stumbled upon a herd of wild horses. When you’d first decided to camp here you’d heard they had wild horses here, but you figured you’d never be lucky enough to see one. They were off in the distance across the meadow from you and didn’t seem bothered by your presence. The band stallion watched you for a moment when you first left the trees but quickly turned his attention back to his family, his mares too busy keeping an eye on their roughhousing foals to worry about you. You watched them with Rex for an hour before the herd moved on.

Monday morning seemed to arrive in the blink of an eye, and the dread you’d managed to put out of your mind all weekend crawled back in. Packing up the car, you kept eyeing the phone in the center console, terrified of what you would see when you inevitably turned it back on. For a long moment, you considered just not. Just leaving the phone behind, taking Rex, and running back into the wilderness.

But you couldn’t. Bucky’s death lay heavy on your shoulders, and you couldn’t face yourself if you had run from what happened. No, you had to face the music. And so, you did. The drive back to Sedona was a much more somber trip than the drive away, and you found your mind constantly wandering back to your phone, to what you’d turn it back on to find.

It wasn’t until you were back at your apartment with Rex napping at your feet, that you turned on your phone. It began to flood with notifications, emails from news organizations, and companies chiming in on his death. Texts from the avengers trying to check in on you grew more worried as the days ticked on. Quickly you shot off a text to them, letting them know you were okay, that you’d taken the weekend to go camping and hadn’t had phone reception. Almost immediately, you got responses from Nat and Sam, telling you they’d been worried. Steve’s response was to yell at you for scaring him. You didn’t text him back.

July It wasn’t until you’d been settled in Sedona for two months that you realized something was wrong. At first, you’d chalked missing your period off to stress, who wouldn’t be stressed after losing someone like that? But after four missed periods, you knew it was time to take a test. After your jog that day, you came home with three different kinds of tests, unsure what you hoped the answer would be. Within 15 minutes, the results were in.

Calling around, you were able to get a doctor’s appointment the next day for an official pregnancy test. Nerves ate at you about the idea of being a single mom, and a big part of you contemplated packing up and going back to the Avengers. If you chose to stay away from the Avengers, you’d be denying your kid the chance to really know their family, and your friends turned family the chance to know their niece or nephew.

The next morning your blood was drawn and within a few hours, they had the official results. You were pregnant. It wasn’t just a batch of faulty tests, it was definite. While the idea of going home to the Avengers, of having that support system,  was a huge draw, you feared that going back would put you back in the same mental place you fled to get out of. With a baby on the way, could you really risk that?

You pulled out your phone, dialing Nat and before she could even say hello, you spoke, “Hey. Can you get everyone together?”

“Yeah, is everything okay?” she asked, before letting out a loud whistle. Clint loved to joke she’d trained them like dogs because they’d always come running when she whistled once.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’d just rather only tell this all once”  you let out a nervous breath as you waited.

Within a few seconds, everyone had gathered on Nat’s line and after a quick round of hellos, you took a deep breath before blurting out, “I’m pregnant. About four and a half months along.”

The silence that came across the line was deafening, and you waited anxiously to hear how they’d react. Steve was the first to speak, “Y-you’re pregnant? With Bucky’s kid?” his voice was unsure.

“Yeah. Went to the doctor today and got it confirmed. I’m due in early January” you bit your lip, pulling it between your teeth nervously.

“Congrats, kid” you could hear the smile in Clint’s voice, and you let out a nervous breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, “I guess I shouldn’t call you kid anymore though, huh?”

“Probably not” you chuckled softly.

“What are you going to do, [Y/N]?” Tony chimed in.

“What am I going to do?” you repeated back curiously, “I’m going to have my kid and raise them up the best I can.”

“Are you sure you’re up for that?” Steve’s voice was quiet.

“Yes I’m sure I’m up to raising my own child, Steve.” your voice was hard.

“That’s not what I meant. I just - I meant you could always come back. You don’t have to do it alone.”

“I know what you meant, Steve. And no, I’m not going to come back because I’m pregnant. If anything, this just tells me I made the right call. I don’t want to raise a kid in that world, always having to wonder if I’m coming home or if they’re going to lose someone they love too.”

“You don’t have to rejoin us, you can just come home, you don’t have to fight.”

“Steve, no. I’m finally doing alright out here. I’ve got Rex, and soon I’ll have my kid, and I’m moving on. I’m not going to just move back to the compound because I’m pregnant. Women do this on their own every year. Look, I just wanted to share my news I wasn’t looking for a fight. I’m going to do what’s right for me and my kid” by the end, your voice was a low growl.

For a long moment, no one spoke. When silence began to echo down the line, you hung up and began to go about your day, hoping to forget their apparent doubt in you and your ability to be a good mom. You didn’t.

Next Chapter -> 

Taglist OPEN:  @he-is-chaotic-she-is-psychotic @queenoftheunderdark @redfoxwritesstuff​ @brokenthelovely  @collinsstanharbour​  @samsgoddess​ @redhairedfeistynerd​ @winterisakiller​

[greenglasslov3]

Rewrite The Stars

A/N: This is my contribution to One Quote/One Shot Book 2! Many thanks to @balfeheughlywed and @notevenjokingfic for organizing this event yet again - you two are rock stars. My quote is included in the story below in bold.

As for the story, it’s been in my head for quite some time to write a very specific high school au - a One Tree Hill/Outlander crossover. While the idea of writing another full-fledge story with a complex plot seemed very daunting, writing a series of one shots felt a little less so. This fic is the first one shot in this crossover series, which I’ve titled Always & Forever.  Shout out to my awesome betas/cheerleaders @anoutlandishidea, @notameeksassenach, and @walkinginland for pushing me to get back in the saddle and write this story.  If you want some background music while reading, soundtracks for this fic include Style by Taylor Swift and Rewrite The Stars from The Greatest Showman. I hope you all enjoy it!

Rewrite The Stars

Midnight

Pebbles skip across the panes of my bedroom window, cracking like a whip, loud and sharp.  Once… then two more times… then once more.  The steady staccato of their barrage beats against glass, matching his persistence, his stubbornness.  He knows he could just text me - which would be far more discreet than pegging my house with tiny rocks - but he prefers the old-fashioned gesture, says it reminds him of simpler times and grand declarations made with boomboxes raised above one’s head.  He doesn’t worry about waking anyone with his racket because he knows I’m alone.  Uncle Lamb is gone once again on some fantastical adventure in search of ancient artifacts, and the rest of the street slumbers, blissfully unaware of any impending mischief.

He lobs another pebble, which ricochets off of a shutter and skitters across the roof line below my window.  Beneath the waves of bed linen, I roll onto my hip and flip on my bedside lamp, a shining beacon calling out to my lover below…

He’s not actually yours.

I chide myself, hissing at the pain that not only blossoms in my chest from my own cruel reality check but also from my big toe, which finds the corner of a forgotten textbook.  I’m a tangle of limbs, all sharp edges and knobby knees.  I shimmy into a pair of jeans and slip on my Keds in a completely uncoordinated ballet.  A blush creeps up my neck when I realize that he can see the shadows of my not-at-all graceful extremities behind my closed window curtains.  With no time for make-up, I bite my lip in hopes it stains the flesh just red enough to give the illusion of lipstick.

My heart hammers against my ribs, and I inhale deeply in a feeble attempt to calm my rattled nerves.  I’m shaken to my core before I even step outside.  My eyelids slide close as I swallow against the hard lump of self-doubt at the back of my throat.  

Buck up, Beauchamp.

With my chin held high, I dramatically toss back the drapes and flick open the locks.  The heels of my hands press into the wooden ledge.  Whispered curses pepper my tongue when a stray splinter catches the fleshy bit of my palm, but I carry on in spite of the pain.  I duck through the narrow opening and push the window sash back into place, all while balancing precariously on my tiptoes.  Half sitting, half crouching, I crab-walk down the angled porch roof.  When I reach the end, I slide onto my belly and catch the column below with my legs before scampering down the taper with the agile reflexes of a cat.  Swaying slightly as I steady myself against the porch railing, I find my footing in the grass below until a low chuckle catches me off guard.

“I didna ken ye were part wee cheetie, Sassenach.”

I swivel quickly on one heel, and the world continues to spin around me even though I’ve stopped moving.

Jamie.

He’s waiting for me, leaning against his black Ford Mustang with his arms folded across his chest and his cock-sure confidence tucked behind his stupid (yet horribly attractive) smirk.  His windswept curls are nearly black at night, but the streetlights tinge the tips rose gold, framing his in an angelic halo like some deity (though he’s definitely more devil than god at times).  Not one for high fashion, he’s dressed simply in his signature trainers, jeans, and a white T-shirt… the sleeves of which capped the bugle of his bicep just perfectly.

Damn him.

A breeze filters in and lifts the stray curls from my neck, but I still feel warm.

“Hi,” I say weakly.  My chin is tucked downward as I watch my own toes scuff the earth, but I peek through my eyelashes, hoping to catch Jamie’s eye.  My pulse thunders to life when I realize he hasn’t taken his eyes off of me.  Not once.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and I think I might faint.

“I didn’t see Lamb’s car…” he asks as he pushes himself off of his car.

“You wouldn’t,” I interrupt, taking three steps forward before I stop myself from seeming to eager. “He’s not here. Arizona.”

He glances up at my bedroom window and then back at me, his brow furrowing while his question takes form.  “But you...”

Pride floods my body, warming me to the tips of my fingers.  A small giggle bubbles from my lips as I trot towards him, shaking my head in slight disbelief that I’d actually pulled one over on him.  When we meet in the middle of the brick path in front of my house, we pause - a little awkward and mostly unsure of ourselves and the newness of whatever this is exactly.  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the fingers of his left hand twitch, fluttering against his thigh.  I press my hands to his chest and silence his nerves with a small peck on his cheek before I whisper in his ear.

“Gotta keep you on your toes somehow, Fraser.”

~*~

We speed off into the night with only the moon and the stars to light our way.  Hurtling down back roads in Jamie’s convertible reminds me of a rollercoaster as we peel around hairpin curves and crest mountainous hills before flying down the incline.  The radio plays music softly in the background, low enough for us to easily converse over the dulcet melodies but neither one of us speaks.  We ride along in silence, with Jamie’s hand resting on the seat mere inches from mine.  When he taps his fingers along to the beat, his pinky occasionally brushes mine, and each time, my belly clenches before melting into molten silver.

“Where to?” He asks, breaking through the quietness but keeping his eyes trained on the road in front of him.

His words reach my ears and my brain stutters to start and then suddenly launches ahead like a speeding train.  I hadn’t thought about where’d we go.  Jamie always randomly picked a place for us to meet - the River Court, Moira’s Cafe after my shift, or one of our houses depending on who’s legal guardian was around (a phrase in which we found both humor and sympathy).  Tonight, I blindly dressed and tossed myself out the window without a single question, let alone as where’d we go.

“Anywhere…” I sigh as I shrug my shoulders.  The leather beneath me squeaks loudly, emitting a sound that could dissolve only us into a fit of immature laughter.

“Laoghaire is throwing a party,” Jamie suggests casually.

Laoghaire MacKenzie.

The very mention of her name turns my stomach sour.  We whip around another turn, and I’m caught off guard.  My knuckles turn white from gripping the door handle as I try to swallow back the bile that’s flooded my mouth.  Memories flood my vision of the last party I attended with Laoghaire MacKenzie in attendance: special trinkets and secret letters revealed for all to see… Jamie and I further divided by the cruel hierarchy of the high school caste system… my tears masked by a steaming shower later that night while I sobbed from the embarrassment of it all.

I wouldn’t dare be caught in her presence unguarded again.

“Anywhere but there,” I request, my voice as sharp as the turn Jamie takes down a hidden, one lane road before I can even finish speaking.

~*~

“What is this place?” I ask as we roll to a stop, half afraid Jamie’s brought me up here to fulfill some psychopathic, horror movie fantasy, half in awe of the beautiful sight before me.

The thick forest gave way to a clearing, jagged branches breaking off to reveal a small, wooden structure and a sky of winking stars overhead.  As I slam the heavy metal car door behind me, a breeze rustles the leaves, making me shiver in its cool wake.  I know we are somewhere in the Blue Ridge Mountains from the way the once flat roads rose to startlingly steep hills, but I didn’t have the foresight to grab a jacket.  Completely unphased, Jamie jogs ahead of me and takes the steps at the front porch two at a time.

“My grandfather’s,” he explains as he jimmies open the first lock.  The screeching of ancient metal tumblers echoes throughout the clearing, disturbing the peaceful night and doing little to sway my mind from more macabre paranoia.

Rubbing warmth into my arms with my palms, I say through chattering teeth, “I didn’t realize you were so close with him that you’d have a key.”

Every shred of confidence I had before is gone, leaving me a shaking and stuttering nervous wreck.

“I doubt he’ll mind…” he grumbles as he negotiates the second lock to open and the heavy, timber door swings open on creaking hinges. “He’s dead.”

Well, that’s comforting.

“You know, this is how most scary movies start…” I rock back on my heels as I nervously ramble.  “Guy takes girl up to his cabin far from civilization… lulls her into a false sense of security… and BAM! He turns out to be a serial killer or a werewolf or...something!”

In the moonlight, Jamie’s blue eyes twinkle with mirth as the corners of his mouth tug upwards into a slight smirk.

“No werewolves here, Sassenach,” he promises as he wraps an arm around my shoulders and ushers me inside. “But I might just have to take a bite out of you.”

He tucks his head into the crook of neck and nips at the sensitive flesh there.  My half-delighted, half-terrified squeals peal through the night air, and suddenly, I’m not so cold anymore.

~*~

We’re not inside long.  Jamie quickly gathers supplies and deposits them into a basket for easy carrying: a thick, plaid blanket, a bottle of whisky, and a flashlight.  

While he’s preoccupied, I acquaint myself with my surroundings.  I take note of the wide, hand-scraped floor boards and the large boulders stacked tall to form the fireplace.  The entire space smells faintly of wood smoke from long forgotten fires and greasy lanolin from well loved sweaters.  Above the raw timber mantel rests a hand-carved sign, the words Fraser’s Ridge etched into the marker.  

As my hand lifts to trace the letters with my fingertips, Jamie materializes beside me and beckons me to join him outside.  We walk out into the night with his fingers intertwined with mine.

Fifty yards behind the cabin, the earth suddenly drops into oblivion.  I’m sure the views are spectacular in daylight, but tonight the night sky steals the breath from my lungs.  The inky shadows of the geography below layer the scenery in varying shades of purple.  Wine-stained hills roll down the ravine and eggplant colored silhouettes of tree tops dot the horizon.  Above us, the heavens explode with starlight, thousands sparkling crystals spattered across a velvety indigo canvas.

Lost in the beauty of this place, I hardly notice Jamie, who has brought a roaring fire to life with little else but his bare hands and some kindling.  The warmth of the flames draws me back from the cliff’s edge as I wander closer to the hearth.  Halved-logs surround the fire pit in a circle, the make-shift benches just wide enough for two to share.  I sink into the empty space besides Jamie, and he wraps us both in the thick, woolen tartan before offering me a tin cup.  In comfortable silence, we casually sip our whisky as we lose ourselves in the glistening nightscape above our heads.

“See that grouping of stars just to the west?” Jamie whispers.  His lips graze the outer shell of my ear, and my skin erupts into goosebumps at the sensation.  I nestle closer into the crook of his arm as he continues.

The low hum of his voice lulls me into sleepy complacency.  His Scottish burr rumbles deep in his chest and vibrates against my ribs like a purring kitten.  Despite the chill of the autumn air, warmth tingles throughout my entire body to the very tips of my toes.  My head is thick and fuzzy partially from the late hour, but mostly from the nearly empty cup in my lap (my third helping of whisky).

Jamie’s voice carries on steadily, never once wavering as he teaches me about the constellations - a twist on our normal tutor/student relationship.  With each formation, he explains the mythology behind them.  Canis Major and Canis Minor.  Hercules and Hydra.  Orion and Scorpius.  Like most Scots, he’s a born storyteller with a gift to color any tale with vivid language and dramatic pauses, and I’m completely captivated.  As he speaks of the lovers Perseus and Andromeda, his hand cups my cheek and tilts my face towards his.  I blink, my eyelids fluttering open and close as I lean towards him.  His lips hover inches from mine, when my brain decides to intervene.

What exactly are you doing, Beauchamp?!

I press my hands against Jamie’s chest, pushing him away and pressing myself backwards as I mumble “Not so fast, soldier.”

“What’s wrong?” Jamie asks, but I’m untangle my limbs from the blanket and stand up before I can stop to answer him.

Propelled by doubt, my legs stumble over the bench and march back towards the cabin.  Fear settles into a lead pit in my stomach.  Its icy fingers trace frost-laden trails down my spine, and before long I’m shaking… from the cold… from the bone-weary uneasiness that has never left the back of my mind.

What on earth does Jamie Fraser - the most popular guy in school - want with me?

“Claire!” He shouts over the crunching of leaves beneath his feet as he chases after me.  “Will ye even tell me what I did to offend ye?”

I spin on my heel and charge towards him, ignoring the loose curls that sharply smack against my face.

“What you did?” I scream back. “The rumor mill is churning with all sorts of stories about you, Fraser.”

I’m bluffing for the most part.  Sure, everyone talks about Jamie Fraser - star point guard and hottest boy in the junior class.  Who wouldn’t?  But no one is exactly sharing these stories with me.  I am now a part of these stories, a starring role at times even.  The clumsy nerd Jamie’s taken to his bed.  To most, I’m a charity case or the unfortunate consequence of a lost bet.  To all, I could never be worthy of the title girlfriend.

Jamie stops and sighs, his head dropping to his chest.  He clutches the blanket wrapped around his shoulders a little tighter as he asks, “What have ye heard?”

What had I heard?

Very little, truth be told.  I caught the tale end of a story when I was waiting for Jamie after practice one afternoon.  The cheerleaders never thought much of me anyway to consider stopping their mindless chatter as the exited the gym, though I’m certain they meant for me to hear this particular story.

I open my mouth to speak, but the words catch in my throat.

Do you really want to do this?

When our tutoring arrangement turned into something more, we allowed our relationship to develop naturally, albeit secretly.  We never once agreed on titles or labels; we never even stopped to have the conversation.  It crossed my mind plenty of times - when we’d search for a new secret spot to meet or when we passed each other in the halls without nothing more than a quick glance.  And yet, each time I stopped myself, my inner cheerleader chastising me for being less than cool.  It was easier this way… or so I thought.

“That you’ve been out with some other girl…” I admit quietly, my voice cracking along with my heart as I finally allow myself to feel the bitter sting of betrayal.

Jamie reaches for me, his own voice shaking as he speaks. “It’s no’ what ye think…”

“Oh it isn’t, is it?” I scoff as I shuffle backwards.  My heels collide with something solid and rough behind me as my palms find the lip of a concrete ledge.

“Damn it, Claire, d’ye have to do this all the time?” he demands.

“In a word - yes,” I say, sinking exhaustedly onto the rim of an ornamental fountain.

From my perch, I watch Jamie seethe before me.  Tempered rage boils beneath his flushed cheeks, and I imagine steam billowing from his ears.  The fingers of his left hand drum a steady tattoo against his thigh as he chews his bottom lip.  The tempo matches the beat of my racing heart.  

Squeeze.  Release.  Squeeze.  Release.

“Who?” He asks after an eternity passes.

“Laoghaire.”

Her name blooms on my tongue like poison, sickeningly sweet before turning to bitter ash.  The languid L coats my tongue with a thick, syrupy medicine for my own grand delusions; the long E whistles through my gritted teeth, the melody for my own funeral (cause of death - social suicide).  My eyelids narrow and I cross my arms over my chest as I wait - for the lie that will grant me sweet relief even if it’s just for one night… for the truth that will certainly destroy me…

Tracing some invisible path on the ground, Jamie’s gaze darts back and forth, but it doesn’t once meet mine.

“Oh…” I choke back a sob that bubbles at the back of my throat.  Pushing myself off to the ledge, I rise to leave - the back door to the cabin in my sites.

“It’s no like that!” He roars.  His hand wraps around my wrist and he pulls me back, drawing me close to him.  His strong arms clasp me tight to his chest, iron bands holding me firmly in place as I struggle to break free.

“Explain it to me then!” I loudly screech into his face, continuing to fight his embrace.  “What’s it like, hmm?”

Slowly, Jamie softens.  The muscles in his arms relax and his gripping fingers release until his hands are gently palming my hips.  The tension in his furrowed brow melts.  His shoulders sag, rounding gently inward until his curving around me like the delicate shell of a caterpillar’s cocoon, the tartan blanket protecting us both from the chilly night air.

“What you’ve heard is true,” he whispers, releasing his secret to the universe.  “I’ve been out wi’ the lass once or twice but it’s not… I can’t…”

His words stutter and stammer until his finally silent, rendered speechless by a myriad of emotions I watch flash across his eyes.  In his own face, I see my own fear and doubt mirrored back at me.  I hear a small cracking sound from deep within my chest - my own heart breaking for him… for us...

I brush a stray curl from his temple as I ask him, prompting him where he left off. “Can’t what?”

Suddenly, he looks up at me - eyes wild and bright.

“I can’t stop thinking about this.”

Jamie’s lips are on mine before my subconscious can put up a fight, allowing my heart to fully give in.  We are no longer shy or awkward.  We are hungry.  Dizzy with lust, I steady myself, gripping his shoulders as his tongue laps at my lower lip, begging entrance.  Arching into him, I moan against his mouth while my hands palm the muscular planes of his chest.  He hooks his thumbs into my belt loops and jerks me forward, our hips colliding in delicious friction.  As I press into him once more, our uncoordinated efforts to climb inside the other’s skin knock the tartan loose from our bodies.  Jamie shouts at the sudden shock to his system, and I whimper in the cold.

While he gathers the discarded blanket from the ground, I shyly whisper. “I can’t stop thinking about it either… us… I mean.”

Once he’s fully upright, Jamie pauses.  He stands before me.  He holds the blanket bunched in his palms, and the flesh of his low belly is bare, the hem of his shirt rucked up over his hip.  Perfectly disheveled, I don’t think I’ve ever seen something so beautiful in my whole life… and I think I could maybe love this boy.

Gently, he wraps the tartan around my shoulders.  When he steps towards me, I return the favor and nestle us both beneath the thick wool.  

He presses a kiss to my forehead as he mumbles into my hair.

“We best get ye inside, Sassenach. Yer shiverin.” 

~*~

Daylight catches us by surprise, even though we sleep well past noon.  Well, at least I do.  When I finally untangle myself from the mountains of bed sheets and stumble my way out into the land of the living, I find Jamie outside once more.  

“That looks like a nutritious breakfast,” I comment as I walk towards him, noting the red and blue box of Cracker Jack clutched in his fist.

“S’all I could find,” he mutters between bites.

I sit down next to him, and he tilts the box towards me, sharing his meager meal.  We sit quietly munching on the crispy snacks.  In the daylight, I can now see the brilliant shades of autumn across the valley below.  Deep burgundy, brilliant copper, and shining gold all merge together as one against the forget-me-not blue sky.  There’s not a cloud in sight, and the warm sun replaces the bitter chill from the night before.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Jamie as we eat.  He’s comfortable up here in the mountains, relaxed and naturally himself - for someone I thought of as a true city boy.  He’s at peace as the ruler of his own domain with no one for miles.

This is my Jamie - the real Jamie. 

It doesn’t take long to finish our breakfast.  A small box of Cracker Jack is no match for two hungry and hung-over teens.  Jamie’s fingers dive in once more, reaching for the bottom in search of crumbs.  Instead, he unearths a bracelet.  It’s clearly meant for a child with its mismatched, brightly colored beads strung along an elastic band.  He doesn’t hesitate.  He takes my hand and gently threads the bracelet onto my wrist before pressing a kiss to my knuckles.

“Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

Fin.