#Eyebrow Waxing in Keeling

[ultralightpoe]

Maroon - Ethan Landry

Authors Note: I have been trying to find any sort of energy to post and get out of bed. Got so close to giving up on life itself and I'm barely back, please bare with me as I try to find my way out of my depression hole I have dug for myself everyone. I know it's been a minute but life has been kicking my ass. Be patient with me - Ultralight

Word Count: 4930

Warnings: stab, cussing and all that jazz.

Apart of my MIDNIGHTS EVENT. (Next Event is Sour by Olivia Rodrigo. Requests closed. Event following yet to be decided)

SOUR EVENT

MAIN MASTERLIST

Enjoy!

When the morning came we were cleaning incense off your vinyl shelf

'Cause we lost track of time again

Laughing with my feet in your lap

Like you were my closest friend

“Jesus, I didn’t even know how much incense you  had been burning.” Ethan laughs, admiring the stain on his shirt caused by the incense powder left. A blue contrast to the pure white. 

“Who wears a white cleaning shirt?!” You laugh, leaning over to pour him another glass of wine, your face heated from the alcohol and laughter. 

“How was I supposed to know that it would stain?” His face falls into one of confused shock that has you keeling over from laughing so hard. “What is so funny? You should be worried about your lungs! Sure you don’t smoke but -THAT- cannot be healthy.”

“Incense are calming.” You defend, shrugging off his pointing. “And sage helps clean out dark energies.”

“You are so stressed and filled with dark energy that you are risking your lungs?” He raises a skeptical eyebrow then, watching you closely. 

“I don’t know, lately there is something just…..off.” Your face falls then, your heartbeat slowing down as you blink at him. For a moment you can only stare, and he seems to get nervous under it, leaning forward to kiss your forehead. 

“Let’s get off the floor, yeah?” He reaches under your arms to draw you up, keeping a tight hold on your waist as he avoids eye contact. 

You sat, eyes casting all around the room in anxiety, as you waited for the class to start. You were having a really off day, and you just wanted it to be better but you were stuck attending class. The ringing in your ears seemed to get worse the more people stared, your pen tapping obnoxiously as you did your best to ignore everyone. 

“You okay?” Someone asks, a light touch at your shoulder that is immediately snatched away as you peer up to the person that had asked. Being met with the nervous face of Ethan Landry, your seat neighbor, as he tried to fix his hair. “You seem off today.”

“You would laugh if I told you.”

  “Try me.” He smiles, sitting next to you and pulling out his school work. 

“Well… the candle I lit this morning died out.” 

“Okay? You ran out of wax?”

“That’s the thing, it died right after I lit it. No breeze, still a lot of wick and wax. It just died out.” 

“So what does that mean?”

“I don’t know but it’s bad luck.”

“Well…..” He gets quiet for a moment before smiling and reaching into his bag and pulling out lighter before grabbing a sticky note. “Let’s try this.”

He scribbles down ‘bad luck’ on the sticky note, catching it on fire and smiling. “We are burning away the bad luck.”

“I don’t think that is how it works…” You smile. 

“Worth a shot, plus you smiled.” He turns to where the teacher is entering now, blowing out the fire on the sticky note and leaving you to smile to yourself the rest of the class. 

"How'd we end up on the floor anyway?" You say

"Your roommate's cheap-ass screw-top rosé, that's how"

I see you every day now

“How did we end up on the floor anyway?” You laugh, taking a moment to stretch your legs before breaking from his hold and shuffling to the other side where the glasses still sat.  You feel him shuffle closer as well, his hand finding your own .

“Your roommate’s cheap wine.”

“Do you have to get back?” You turn to lean your head on his chest, enjoying the feeling of his arms wrapping around you.  

You had met Ethan the first month of college, and the both of you had gotten attache way too quickly.  You were regarded as a ‘witch’ to your classmates, they mocked you as they passed, pretending they were scared of you casting spells upon them . You had always laughed, not really thinking it was big enough to defend yourself. 

Sure, you believed in auras and sage or candle magic, but you never tried to summon the devil. You just believed that there were ways of life, yours was praying to mother nature and leaving salt at your windows. 

Ethan was….. Sweet and wonderful. He never said mean things to anyone, and carried himself nervously. He was like sweet caramel in fall, and you fell hard.  

That being said, you were always fearing his departure, especially lately. 

“I do, Chad wanted help with his econ.” He mumbles, leaning down to press your foreheads together and breathe you in. “You’ll be okay here?”

“Oh, yes.” You sigh, smiling a bit as you know you are about to be dramatic. “I guess I will be fine here, all by myself with the dark energy that I am pretty sure is a demon latched onto my roommates childhood stuffy. Let the demons come to get me, I guess.”

“Oh…..sad.” He pretends to mourn  before smiling wide. “But I’m young, I’ll move on.” 

“You sucker!” You scoff, slapping his shoulder. “Now go, before I make you stay.”

He smiles, leaning down to kiss you deeply before pulling away to grab his sweater and backpack. “See you tomorrow morning?”

“Of course.” You sneak one more kiss in before allowing him to head out, the second he is gone you shuffle to the shelf you keep by your bed, smiling at the photo of you and Ethan as you drag your Tarot deck out. 

You wouldn’t ever admit it but you were sure something was going to happen soon, everytime you rolled a deck you ended up pulling the tower card. And that was never good. 

“Hmmmm, what is that smell?” Ethan asks, hugging you tightly and breathing you in. “Oranges and…”

“Frankincense with a hint of rosemary. My own brew.” You smile, giggling when he sticks his nose right on your neck. “You want some?”

“What does it do?”

“Good luck, safety.” You smile, grabbing the bottle you made that morning and rubbing some of the oil on his pressure points. He lets you, smiling like a dope as you work. “Some people believe that growing Rosemary at your gates is a harness of protection.”

“And you?”

“Believe it wholeheartedly.” You admit, trying not to laugh. “So in my class we have to interview someone that has ‘survived a trauma’, right?”

  “Yeah?”

“And everyone was talking about everyone they wanted to interview. But Jason Carvey..get this-” Just as he always does Ethan turns to give you his whole attention, something that makes your chest explode each time.  “He started talking about that Tara girl your roommate hangs out with. Then when I asked him about it he told me to go hide in a cave and curse myself.”

“Curse yourself?”

“Then flipped me off! Like he was in elementary school!” You laugh, putting the oil back in your bag before turning your attention to the board. “He’s such a child.”

“He’ll regret it one day. Karma is a pain.”

And I chose you

The one I was dancin' with

In New York, no shoes

Looked up at the sky and it was

“You decide on a costume yet?” Sam asks, side eyeing you a bit as you try to keep your cool in her hallway. You never really had a lot of female friends, and it always seemed that Ethan’s friends didn’t really like you, the only one that bothered to acknowledge you when you came over was Tara’s older sister who seemed to always pick up on your anxiety.

“Yes, actually. I am going to be Ted Lasso. My roommate is going as Beard.” 

“From a show?”

“Yeah, we watch it together every thursday. How about you?” 

“Not a Halloween person.” 

“Who is not a Halloween person?” Ethan asks, swinging around the corner with a slight smile as he reaches for you. Within moments you relax into his touch, smiling as he kisses your cheek. “Gave Chad and Tara the notes. We can go get lunch now.”

“Great, thank you so much for the water Sam.” You smile, setting the glass down as Ethan waves and drags you off. 

“You were actually talking to her.” Ethan points out, keeping an arm around you as you both walk down the sidewalk. “She nice to you?”

“As nice as she can be. I don’t think she likes me but she at least tries.” You shrug, smiling when he turns you both to your favorite place to eat. “None of your friends like me.”

“I barely think they like me, only Chad really.”  He laughs, doing his best to play off his own anger. You knew it well by now, he was one of the sweetest people you knew but he got angry and quiet sometimes. Normally he smiled it off, trying his best to pretend nothing was wrong.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” He lies, leaning down to kiss you. “Everything is fine.”

- - 

Your boyfriend looked around your room with curious eyes, a small smile playing on his lips. You stood in the doorway, fiddling with your nails as you watched him. This was the first time he had come to your apartments,  and you were more than nervous. 

“What’s this card mean?”

“Oh, that’s  bad card….well normally. It really depends, but tower means doom normally.” You mutter, watching him move closer to your record player.  “Ah, Stevie nicks…Taylor Swift… Abba?”

“I like upbeat sometimes.” “Wanna dance?”

You hesitate for a moment, watching him before shrugging, moving closer as he chooses a vinyl to play, the sound of Taylor Swift fills the room, his other hand flying out to grab you softly. The wine he was holding sloshes a bit when he slips, drawing a gasp from him and a laugh from you.  “I am so sorry-”

“I am fine. Just a dress.” You mumble, setting both your cups down before letting him pull you to the center of your room.  You both dance easily, giggling between each other whenever one of you trips. 

“I’m really glad I met you.” You whisper, hugging him tightly.

“Right back to you. You make life better.”

The burgundy on my T-shirt when you splashed your wine into me

And how the blood rushed into my cheeks, so scarlet, it was

The mark you saw on my collarbone, the rust that grew between telephones

The lips I used to call home, so scarlet, it was maroon

Ethan stuck close to your side Halloween morning, clinging to you as tried to get ready. Your roommate, who hated Halloween, sat on your couch in the living room trying to convince both of you not to go out. 

“And your cards?! What bout that tower card you keep pulling?!”  She cries, stuffing her face with grapes as you search for your heels. 

“Tower? That was the one that meant doom, right?” Ethan asks, dragging his attention between the two of you, the cardboard vest he wore duct taped tightly. 

“No!” Lie. “Nothing is wrong, we are all going to go out and have fun. Yeah?”

You were determined to have a good night, since Mindy had invited you to come with when he heard that your roommate bailed. “It’s going to be grand.” 

You just wanted to impress his friends, so you grabbed your eyelash glue and placed some on the mustache you had bought for the ted lasso costume, trying not to shake. “Do you think I should have dressed….”

“Your costume is amazing.” Ethan is quick to correct, peeling himself off of you to sneak over and see what your roommate was turning on the tv. “What is that?”

“Global warming.” Your roommate snaps, turning to glare at him before she hears something and snaps her head to see the window. 

“You going to be okay here?” You ask, waiting for the glue to dry as you watch her. 

“I am going to be great. Mind your own business.” She mumbles defensively, getting up to hug you and dash to her room. 

“Okay, ready?” You ask, sticking the mustache on your face and smiling at him. “Wait…. You ready?”

Your voice slips into a smooth southern accent like Ted Lasso, watching him smile. “Let’s go.”

“WAIT WAIT WAIT!” You laugh, snagging your phone from the table. “It’s Mindy!”

“What? Why?” Ethan asks, wing sauce all over his face as he stares at you in a panic, your shouting making his heart race. 

“She…. she is inviting me out with you guys tomorrow! To the party!” You squeal, leaning forward to kiss his cheek. “She wants me to come hang out.,...... she must think I’m kinda cool!”

“You are more than kinda cool, you know.” He laughs, watching you with a smile. “To me you are the coolest person I know.” 

“You have to say that, I kiss you.” You laugh, dashing to show your roommate the text.

When the silence came, we were shaking blind and hazy

How the hell did we lose sight of us again?

Sobbin' with your head in your hands

Ain't that the way shit always ends?

Things had not gone as you thought they would. Not in the slightest. 

You had gone from wearing a fake mustache to that same wine shirt you had once danced in with Ethan, the wine stain still covering the heart as you watched everyone around you. Your face was tear streaked, blood running down your face as Chad leans to snap you out of it. “You okay?”

“No.” You answer bluntly, doing your best not to throw up. “Anika….”

“Don’t look-” As if she knew you were turning to stare down the alley Sam appears and blocks your path. “Don’t.”

“Scarface dude was strong, and Quinn-”

“Ghostface.” Mindy laughs, drawing your attention to her bitter expression. “You were close though.”

“Does it matter, the prick-”

“Y/N!” Ethan calls, and you spot him dash through the crowd, hearing Chad mutter out a ‘hell no’ before turning to shove him back. 

They snap at each other for a moment, Ethan casting a look to you every once in a while as you go through the events of the night. Before you know it his hands are on your jaw, pulling your attention as he cradles your face. “Look at me, are you okay?”

“That was crazy, Ethan he just-”

“I know. Breathe.” He mumbles, pulling you in so you can sob. After a couple minutes he pulls back, reaching into his bag for the essential oil you had mixed together. “Safety and calmness….right?”

“Yeah.” You sniffle, hands shaking as you reach for it while he pulls out your ointment. 

“For the cut on your thigh.” He explains, setting it next to you before he moves back to Chad since his roommate couldn’t stop glaring. 

You smile, loving the fact that he remembered all the healing you explained to him before your heart drops and you slowly process. 

You were wearing a blanket over your lap, Ethan hadn’t been there. How the fuck did he know you were cut on your thigh?

- 

A scream tears through your throat when Quinns door bursts open, blood going everywhere as her body flies to you and Anika. 

Ethan had left you here with everyone while he went to class……well more of Anika demanded you stay so you would be safe rather than at your apartment. 

Her body hits you both as you look to her feet where she seems to catch her own fall on the floor, making you stop for a moment before the masked figure is after you. Another scream tears through your lungs and you snatch Anikas hand to move out of the way only for him to go for Mindy. 

A moment of chaos ensues as everyone fends for survival, you grabbing the lamp from the side table and throwing it as hard as you can as the assailant tears their knife through Anika. 

“OH MY GOD-” You scream, watching the blood pour from her as the figure slashes you back, hitting your thigh harshly while you struggle to get to Ani. Pain flashes through you as the figure grabs your arm and throws you to the side, your rib catching on the knife. 

Sam is quick to snatch you off the floor, keeping you close as she goes through Quinns room, only to find the body in the bath. 

“IMGONNAPUKE-” You call as Mindy pulls Anika in. 

“Hold it in.” Sam breathes out, trying to figure out what to do when someone across the way calls her. 

“I got you baby!” The man calls, pulling a ladder for them to climb across. “I GOT YOU!”

You push Sam to go first, trying not to be sick, then Mindy. You pull Ani to the ladder, trying to get her to go across. 

“No no no. You go.”

“Anika, I’m barely bleeding. If I am behind you then I can get you across. Come on.” You mutter, pushing her through the window so you can follow. Your heart is racing through your chest, and your hands are shaking so bad you think you are gonna fall anyways. 

“Y/n.” Anika sobs, and you look up to see her already staring behind you, when you turn you see the figure lurking at the window. 

The head tilts, and the hands grab the end of the ladder, before you know it the ladder starts shaking. It goes from side to side, and when you take a hand off to go help Ani you lean too far and find yourself slipping off, screaming out as you tighten your arm around, your shoulder burning out harshly. 

You can see as Ani falls, hanging from the ladder as everyone screams for you. For a moment you debate it, it would be better if you died like this right? Better than the knife.

But then Sam is reaching out, and you snap back in. 

You were standin' hollow-eyed in the hallway

Carnations you had thought were roses, that's us

I feel you no matter what

The rubies that I gave up

Three days ago you were dancing happily to Fleetwood Mac in your hallway, today you were staring at the history of Ghostface past, blinking at the old T.V. that looked completely fucked up, seeing Ethan approach from the reflection. 

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.” You answer, leaning forward to read the description. “Actually yeah, because I just want to think this all through.”

“Yeah-”

“You miss a day of class, I don’t hear from you and when I do you say you have been with this group the whole time, yeah?”

“Yeah?”

“Then you go to class and two people die…..three people. Naked guy in the bathtub was dead.”

“Okay?” He seems to get defensive then, straightening up a bit as he watches you and you catch on to that. 

“Just…. I thought for a second who would be told if I died. You know?” He nods then as you try to come up with the words. “Who would be notified for you? Your sister?”

“I don’t have a sister.” He laughs, a red tint climbing his neck. 

“Right…. yeah. “

“If you die, I will make sure the entire world knows about you. But I refuse to let you die.” He smiles, leaning to kiss you. 

“But you don’t really have a say… you know?” You smile, trying to play off the bile rising in your stomach. 

“Y/n….?” He asks, something crossing his face before the woman in the purple suit grabs your attention by snapping her fingers at you two. 

- 

“Do you have any siblings?” You ask, looking around the room for your bra as he lays in his dorm bed watching you with a wide smile. 

“I do. A sister.” He mumbles, leaning up to catch your hand and pull you in for a kiss. “Stay, please?”

“Chad will be back soon…..” You mumble, hugging him close. “You close with your parents?”

“My mom left about a year ago, but I’m close with my dad and sister. I can tell him you are here and make him sleep at his sisters dorm…” He is so warm, pulling you back into the bed as you giggle. 

“Pets.”

“No.”

“Do you miss your mom?”

“No.” 

“Do you love me?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” 

You wake up a couple hours later, wrapped tightly in the comforter as Ethan keeps you covered, Chad snoring loudly on the other side of the room. You don’t stay awake for long, the heat coming from Ethan pulling you back into another deep sleep. 

- 

And I lost you

The one I was dancin' with

In New York, no shoes

Looked up at the sky and it was maroon

“I can’t believe you would do this,” You sob, limping across the stage of the theater. You had more stab wounds than you ever thought possible, and now you stared at Ethan in a ghostface getup, tears streaming down your face. 

Kirbie laid odd on the floor not too far off, where Ethan's father had killed her. He smiles softly, shrugging a bit with a bashful ease. “Baby-”

“DON’T!”

It had been Quinn that stabbed you, three times, and you were sure you were going to die here but that didn’t matter. Not with the burning in your heart. 

“Just listen-” He pleas, moving to walk forward. 

“BACK THE FUCK UP!” You scream, holding the bat tighter, ready to hit him at any chance. “I swear to god Ethan-”

“You love me! You won’t hurt me because you love me-”

“LOVED!”

“You don’t mean that, baby, you don’t mean it.” He mutters, stepping forward only to step back when you swing the bat. 

“I mean it. I defin-” A scream rips through you as pain shoots from your side, Ethan screaming out and dashing for you as you fall to the stage floor. 

Quinn stands over you, a knife gleaming with blood……your blood. 

“We agreed not her-”

“WE HAVE TO- NO WITNESSES-” She screams as Ethan moves to cover you, your body relaxing under the pain, a warmth crossing you as tears fall from your cheeks. That’s when you spot her, coming to help you, covered in blood and tears streaks down her own face as Tara swings something at Quinn. 

But you are already slipping from reality. 

- 

“Witch.” One of your classmates coughs, laughing when you look his way. 

“It doesn’t even make sense.” Ethan sighs, watching your face fall at the diss. “Witches have always had a strong impact in history. They just think they have a good diss because……well I have no clue because it is stupid.”

You smile, looking over to the kid that has sat next to you the past week. 

“Ethan? Right?”

“Ethan Landry, yeah. And you are Y/n L/n.”

“Yeah,”

“It’s great to meet you.” He blushes, nodding his head.  “I’ve been wanting to talk to you since I saw you, I just haven’t found a good starter and-”

“It’s great to meet you too. You want to get coffee?”

The burgundy on my T-shirt when you splashed your wine into me

And how the blood rushed into my cheeks, so scarlet, it was (maroon)

The mark you saw on my collarbone, the rust that grew between telephones

The lips I used to call home, so scarlet, it was (maroon)

Suddenly it all seemed like a joke, right before his eyes Ethan can see everything his family has worked for crumble. He keeps his hands on your wounds, not that it would matter with the amount of blood you were losing. 

But he had to try. 

You meant way too much to him not to. 

This hadn’t been planned, he thought it would be easy to do this for his father. But then he met you and things began falling apart. He went from trying to take down the friend group to only being able to think about you. 

“Y/n, come on….. Come on please.” He cries, hearing screams and stabbing noises behind him. “Please please please.”

He was begging someone who couldn’t even hear him, but he needed you to hear him. He needed you to make it. 

“Please please please-”

“ETHAN!” His father calls, and his gaze snatches to where his father now stood. “LET’S GO!”

“Ican’tleaveher.” He breathes out, his breath snatching. “PLEASE!”

He doesn’t get to keep arguing, the flash of a knife filling his vision as a ghostface comes out and slashes at him. 

-

Ethan Landry could not believe his luck, watching the girl in front of him with wide eyes as she settles into the coffee shop seat, hands wrapped around the cup while she smiles at him. He can’t breathe but can’t seem to stop breathing in the wonderful scent she is wearing. 

He thinks of something to say, anything to say that would make him seem cool but he can’t seem to come up with anything. Please, he just needs something to impress you with, anything. 

“You like coffee then?” He asks, watching your face pull into a smile that has his heart melting. His phone rings in his back pocket and he knows it would be his father wondering where he was, but he can’t seem to care. 

He just wanted to make you smile. 

And I wake with your memory over me

That's a real fucking legacy, legacy (it was maroon)

And I wake with your memory over me

That's a real fucking legacy to leave

You wake up a couple months later to the sound of your class alarm, your heart racing as you lean up, tears still slipping down your cheeks from your dreams. Your daily routine doing nothing to stop the thoughts of him as you got ready. 

The scars reminded you of him, the songs and the oils and the sage. Everything reminded you of him, and if you had a day where he hadn’t snuck into your mind the world took it upon themselves to remind you of him. He was there, haunting you. 

You think back to the day he helped clean your vinyl collection of incense, talking to him about the dark energy that had led you to saging your apartment so many times. A bitter laugh creeps up your throat as you think how much you sage now, from the second you open your eyes to the second you fall asleep you cover yourself in Sage. 

No more messing around. 

You get dressed, limping to the living room of your new apartment where your roommate already stood. 

“You okay?” She asked every morning, and the answer never changed. 

“Fine.” You mumble, ignoring the look she gives you. 

Even dead he haunted you, and you couldn’t figure out how to move on. 

-

The hospital room smells like death, well at least to you. 

Peeking your eyes open, flinching from the light, as you try to look around the room and ignore the dark energy that surrounds it. 

“Y/n?” Your roommate calls, catching your attention to where she sat, leaning to check your forehead. “Hey, easy. It’s going to be okay.”

“Is he dead?” You ask, tears welling in your eyes as you watch her closely. 

“.......Yes.”

“Okay.” There isn’t much more to say after that, trying to keep contained as you turn to the wall in the room. “Okay..”

The burgundy on my T-shirt when you splashed your wine into me

And how the blood rushed into my cheeks, so scarlet (it was maroon)

The mark you saw on my collarbone, the rust that grew between telephones

The lips I used to call home, so scarlet (it was maroon)

The news channels called you a final girl, and tweets showed that hundreds of men thought you were perfect final girl material as ironic as it is. But you always thought it was a laugh in the face. 

You follow Chad through the hall, ignoring the whispers around you as you listen to the trial update, hearing Gale Weathers testimony. She had survived, barely, and now told the world everyone's stories so they could go back to living their own lives. 

Not that you had much of a life since…..him. 

You found yourself staring at the evidence shown, the bloody shirt you had worn that night. The wine stain was barely seen now, the rest of the shirt dark red.

  You had to stop yourself from getting sick, remembering the night with Ethan dancing in that shirt. 

Nothing would ever be the same now. 

It was maroon

It was maroon

6 months after the trial you find yourself sitting on your living room floor with Taylor Swift blasting in your phone speaker as your friends did her own makeup a couple steps away, humming as you focused on your gemstones. 

“I cannot believe we are about to see Taylor Swift in person!” She smiles, and you can’t help but smile as well. 

“I hope she plays You Belong with me- hey- knockit off!” You laugh, turning to see her stealing your liner. 

When she snatches it you have to reach into your makeup bag, pulling out a picture of you and Ethan that you had shoved in there awhile ago. 

Your heart stops at the photo, staring at it for a second before shoving it back in, not quite ready to throw it out and not ready to enjoy the memory. Forever haunted. 

(I have been trying to find any sort of energy to post and get out of bed. Got so close to giving up on life itself and I'm barely back, please bare with me as I try to find my way out of my depression hole I have dug for myself everyone. I know it's been a minute but life has been kicking my ass. Be patient with me - Ultralight)

[edward2507blog]

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[hargrove-mayfields]

A Password And A Promise

💕 Happy Valentine's Day!!! You guys are all my Valentines, thank you, thank you, thank you so much for all the positive reception! 💕

It’s day five of the week of love and today’s prompt that I chose was Snuggling for Warmth!! Read here or on ao3 at ej_writer !

Word Count: 3,649

Rating: T

First winter in the Midwest, and Billy’s been out in the snow for hours on end.

He’d like to say that he has no idea why he’s doing this, but he does. Chief Hopper asked him to.

As if his record wasn’t already bad enough, with the fights and the vandalism and all the other bad things he’d done since his arrival in Hawkins, he just had to go and get himself a DUI charge.

He’d been speeding off to some middle schoolers house, schnockered after a party to pick his sister up when he got pulled over. He’d begged the chief to let him off easy, promised he’d never pick up another bottle if it meant that the DUI didn’t make it on file.

And the chief, he understood that. He’d been the one to ask Billy a few questions when he was admitted to the hospital in mid-November and a nurse, recognizing the signs of abuse, asked him to come check it out. Despite Billy’s best efforts, the Hopper’d wormed it out of him that his father had been the one to land him there.

So when he made his plea, it didn’t take much convincing to get him to help him out.

Still, he couldn’t justifiably let Billy walk away unpunished for driving drunk, especially being that, with the new legislation Indiana was rolling out, he was now way under the age limit. To compromise, he opted to make him do community service instead.

Had Billy known how that would turn out for him, he might’ve rather just taken the beating for the DUI than doing three hours of shoveling sidewalks. A kick to the ribs or a punch to the jaw probably would’ve hurt less than the ache in his bones, feeling more and more like they were made out of heavy lead, or the sting of the cold air on his fingers and on his face.

For as many years as he had lived in California, he’d never seen snow stick to the ground for more than a few minutes, if at all, and he’d definitely never had to wear more than a jacket to protect himself from cold weather.

Now, having underestimated just how cold snow could actually get, he was freezing his ass off. He didn’t even have a stupid pair of gloves or anything, mouthing but a layer of thin denim to protect him from the record low temperatures.

Just because the universe hated him, the beating down snow wouldn’t slow down either. Not only were his clothes getting soaked completely through, his jacket a sopping mess and his boots more like rain barrels than shoes, but basically every time he cleared a sidewalk off, it'd be covered again before he reached the end.

Under all that snow, it was icy as all hell too, getting more so by the minute. Biker boots weren’t designed to walk on ice, and apparently nobody around these parts was decent enough to even sprinkle out a little ice melt before a storm, so more than a few times, he’d hit an icy patch and wipe the hell out. Thanks to a combination of the sun going down so early and the bitter freezing temperatures, there was nobody around to watch his feet go out from under him, but it still hurt like a son of a bitch.

He was worn down the bone by the time he finally reached Loch Nora, the first place where he could catch a damn break. Everyone up in that little neighborhood was rich enough to pay their lawn boys to scrape and salt the sidewalks for them, and didn't need some scraggly teenager avoiding a criminal record to do it for them.

Without doing any work it got even colder, and he was pretty sure he was going to get hypothermia and keel over in some hoity-toity’s lawn. His hair was frozen, his lungs burned from the cold air leaving him unable to catch his breath, and his teeth were chattering. He thought that shit only happened in the cartoons.

Billy's starting to realize that when Hopper had told him five hours, he probably hadn’t meant all at once. But nobody told him that the weather could be like this, he thought he would just be able to get it all out of the way now, when he could be certain there even was snow to shovel and no Boy Scouts giving him a run for his money.

Too bad he’d probably freeze to death before he finished.

But before that can happen, he’s intercepted by the double doors at 8253 swinging open, nearly jumping out of his skin when the wind catches it and hits it off the side of the house.

Were it literally anybody else shouting to him from their stoop, he’d have just kept walking. But the boy who lived in the mansion at 8253 was none other than Steve Harrington, who called out to him over the wind, “Billy? What the shit are you doin’ out here, man?”

Steve Harrington, who had apologized first for Billy kicking his ass, and started hanging out with him before the scars even healed. He apparently had the superpower to make friends with absolutely anybody, even difficult bullies who made every effort to keep him from doing exactly that.

Don’t get him wrong, being buddy-buddy with Steve Harrington was definitely something he was interested in, but he wasn’t a fan of the way he pretended absolutely nothing was wrong after they fought. He’d concussed him, had to be drugged before he’d stop beating him, and Steve still was the first to reach out.

There had to be some sort of a catch to that kindness, and Billy just wasn’t looking to get too attached.

And yet, Billy stopped for him, when he called out, so maybe it wouldn’t have been entirely truthful to say that he was particularly bothered by Steve’s persistence. If you pressed him hard enough, he might even admit he thought it was kind of endearing.

“Just doing my civic duty, Harrington.” He could kick himself for how weak his voice sounds.

“It’s below zero, Billy. Why don’t you come in?” There’s something like concern in the way he says it, and it makes Billy want to walk away.

“I’ll pass.”

But Steve’s not having it, puts a hand on his hip. “I think the fuck you won’t. Get in here man.”

Billy might be stubborn, but Steve won’t take no for an answer. He knows when he’s lost, so he shoves the handle of the snow shovel towards Steve, who rolls his eyes and takes it, leaves it lean beside the door, and shoulders past Steve into his mansion, instantly feeling like he was melting in the dry warmth that radiated from the house.

Steve shuts the door behind them and hangs his scarf on a coat rack by the door. His boots and coat follow, and he makes Billy do the same. They both grimace at the puddle of water that spills out of Billy’s boot when it tips over.

“Jesus dude, how long were you out there?”

Billy shrugs, winces at the movement of sore shoulders, and lies. He wouldn’t want Steve to make a fuss if he knew. “Dunno. Lost track of the time.”

“Wait here, I’ll be right back.” Steve plods up carpeted steps, leaving Billy to stand awkwardly on the door mat so he doesn’t drip all over the hardwood floors.

He takes the moment alone to take in his surroundings.

The Harringtons were more than well off, everybody knew that, but being inside of their house, their goddamned mansion, is nothing like Billy expected.

Just from where he’s standing at the door, he can see a living room furnished with big plush couches and a TV in an entertainment center the size of the whole wall. Across from it is the entrance to a dining room with more chairs than a family of three needed at a long table, chandelier overhead.

There were potted plants in every corner and paintings and family photos hung on every wall. Knick-knacks, probably all ordered from some magazine like his own step mom would day dream about shopping from, adorned every last unaided surface, from the huge console record player to every side table and wall shelf.

The longer he looked though, the more Billy noticed all the little things, like cobwebs in the high corners, and dust built up on the wax fruit, the 1979 time stamp on the most recent of their family photos. It wasn’t hard to piece together that this place was just a set.

Suddenly the obnoxiously high ceilings and the fancy decorations felt a lot less like grandeur, and a lot more suffocating. Billy felt bad knowing Steve was here all the time by himself, the sole pretender playing this part of the perfect family.

But then he’s brought out of his reflections by Steve hurrying back down the steps with a neatly folded stack of clothes in hand that he’s shoving towards him.

“The hell are these?”

“A change of clothes.” Billy just looks at him, scrunching his nose at the suggestion, and still won’t take them. “Dude you’re soaked to the bone, you’ll never get warm if you don’t get outta those clothes.”

Billy smirks, raises an eyebrow, but he takes the clothes.

Steve, realizing he could’ve worded that a little better blushes, just the faintest dusting of pink on his pale cheeks. “Shut up man. Bathroom’s down the hall to the right.”

Even the Harrington’s bathroom is the pinnacle of wealthy interior design. Not only is the room as big as Billy’s entire living room, but it’s just as overly designed as the rest of the house.

The walls are black and gold, marbled in the most gaudy flaunting of money Billy’d ever seen. A huge clawfoot tub was settled in the counter, framed by beige tile counters. There was a mirror surrounded by lights right above the sink that spanned almost the entire wall. It felt like something straight out of a magazine. Hell, it probably was.

Even the bathroom in this place makes Billy feel out of place, the luxury of it all so much unlike what he was used to.

It’s warm in the bathroom, the shut door and the smaller space collecting keeping the heat in, and it makes his clothes start to feel gross on his skin, way too cold in contrast. He swallows his pride and looks at what Steve gave him to change into.

There’s two shirts, a henley and a drug rug, a pair of fleece pajama pants, and some fuzzy hospital socks with the grips on the bottom.

Before he puts his shirt on, he notices there’s bruises on his shoulders, on his back and his elbows, from the many times the ice had sent his feet out from under him, but honestly, it gives him this strange sense of pride, knowing he put them there himself.

He was more than used to marks on his skin, put there by an angry father and his rage, so it was a welcome change to know he’d just gotten these ones just from being clumsy. He almost didn’t want to cover them up, but another shiver ran up his spine, causing goose pimples to pop up all over his body, and he elected to slip the two shirts Steve had picked for him over his head, just to keep himself from freezing.

Wearing Steve’s clothes makes him look soft in every way that was not like him. Without his usual denim and leather, he just looked like the boring version of himself. No longer the stereotypical image of high school bad boy he tries so hard for, he just plain old Billy.

He likes it. A lot. Stares at himself in that huge mirror for longer than is probably considered normal before deciding he should leave the bathroom.

Back in the living room, there’s a huge glass protected fireplace on the far wall, in front of which Steve’s on his knees currently trying, and failing, to start a fire up in. At home, all Billy had was a dinky plug in fireplace that stank like hot dust, but he knew how to start a fire regardless.

He’d been there when his father burnt all of his mother’s things she’d left behind.

“You need a starter.”

Steve jumps, apparently having not noticed Billy coming into the room. “What, like gas?”

“Jesus Christ, no, not like gas. We're inside, doofus.” He has to laugh at Steve’s incompetence, but he offers his help. “You have any of those bricks?”

“These?” Steve opens a drawer beside the fireplace full of fire starters, and Billy realizes this is just another piece of the set. He’d be the first person to actually use this fireplace in years, if anyone even ever had before him.

“Yeah, those.” He confirms, but Steve just sits there, doesn’t know what to do with it. “Just put it under the wood and light it.”

“Huh.” Steve looks at the fire he made, seemingly a little surprised that it worked, brushes his hands on his pants and turns to Billy. He looks him up and down, taking in how he looked in the change of clothes and grins as he says, “You look cozy.”

Billy, trying to make up for the way his heart starts pounding from the observation, bites back, “And you look like a gracious host who’s going to make me a hot coffee.”

Steve looks like he thinks for a second before he asks, “Would you settle for hot cocoa?”

“I don’t care, long as it’s warm.”

Billy waits until Steve disappears around the corner into the kitchen before he sits down cross legged on the floor in front of the fire place.

The warmth of the fire radiates over him in a way that brings feeling back to his body, is almost soothing.

When he was little, he could remember having bonfires on cool summer nights out back of their first house in California. The lick of the flames against wood, the way the bright tendrils of fire would dance used to be so calming. He’d always fall asleep outside in a canvas lawn chair, and wake up the next morning tucked into his bed.

But the heat is too much, makes his skin itch, burning from the inside out in a way that wasn’t so pleasant.

He remembers his father, drunk off his ass, dragging him out to that same fire pit by his arm, leaving welts on soft skin, forcing him to watch as he burned every memory they had of his mother. Every picture, every possession, every shred of clothing, burnt to ash until there was nothing left but her voice on the other end of a telephone, and even that stopped after a little while.

He doesn’t notice Steve come back from the kitchen, he’s too caught up in the flames, curling up around the wood and leaving burnt destruction in its wake.

Too entranced by the fire warming him up and freezing him over at the same time. The brightness of it leaves black and pink spots on his vision from how intensely he’d been staring.

“I didn’t have any marshmallows so I-” Steve stops talking when he sees Billy, sees that he’s crying, sitting stock still and just, staring into the fire place. “Oh.”

Billy startles from the sound of his voice, blinks too fast, trying to chase away the splotches of light burnt into his eyes. The action forces him to realize there are tears wetting cheeks, which he wipes at a little too aggressive with his sleeve, hoping Steve won’t say anything.

And he doesn’t, he just reaches down and hands him a mug, not letting go until Billy's got both hands on it and he’s sure he won’t drop it. Billy hadn’t noticed himself shaking until he saw the way the cocoa rippled in the red mug.

Steve clears his throat, trying to think of the right thing to say. “You still cold?”

“No shit. I was out there for three hours.” It’s harsh, overcompensating for sure.

Steve nods, but points out his inconsistency. “I thought you lost track of time?”

“My brain thawed out and I remembered.” He mumbles. It makes Steve laughs, and Billy’s heart feels like it could burst.

“Well, I have some extra blankets and stuff, if you’re still cold.” Steve offers, and Billy nods in response, as if to say that that sounded nice without out actually having to admit anything.

But Steve doesn’t make any moves to go get it, just stands there shuffling his feet and looking down into his cocoa. Billy can already tell he’s going to say something that he doesn’t want to hear.

Before Steve can embarrass him, Billy asks impatient, “You gonna go get it or you gonna let me freeze?”

“Right. Yeah.” Steve bends down and sets his mug down on the lip of the fireplace and pads off to some storage closet somewhere in the mansion. Billy rolls his eyes and promptly moves it to the coffee table to keep the ceramic from heating up and burning him when he picked it up next.

Initially, Billy thinks nothing of it when Steve comes back with only one blanket. It seems perfectly reasonable to him that Steve, who had been in this well heated house presumably all day, just isn’t cold.

But when he sits back down he’s close enough that their knees bump where they’re crossed, and he spreads just the one blanket out across the both of them.

Thank god for the fact that there was already a flush on his cheeks from the fire, because Billy definitely would’ve been blushing like a little schoolgirl at that.

They don’t talk about anything, because there’s nothing too talk about. It’s a comfortable silence that settles between them, broken up only by the crackling and popping of the fire.

But after a while with nothing to distract him, to keep him aware that this was Steve’s house, Steve’s Persian rug underneath him, Steve himself sitting next to him, Billy drifts back to smoke filled lungs straining with the effort of screaming for his mom, to the fist in his hair forcing him to watch.

Steve notices in an instant, those blue eyes going dull, his nostrils flaring and his jaw clenching, and the way his nails dig into his palms.

He sets his mug back down on the coffee table behind them, and gets up on his knees. He wraps the blanket they’d been sharing around Billy’s shoulders, and then his arms, linking his fingers together so he’s hugging Billy.

Except the slightest fluttering of his eyelashes, Billy shows no signs of a reaction. Steve takes that as his motivation to keep trying, and puts a hand on the back of his neck, says, “Hey, Billy.”

It makes his breath hitch, coming out in a cut off sigh. Billy asks, a little monotonous, “What’re you doin’?”

“Keeping you warm.”

Billy appreciates him not bringing up what’s obviously happening, but his head’s only partly coming back to him, and all he has the capacity to come up with as a response is, “Oh.”

Steve squeezes him a little tighter, his face pressing against his shoulder, to get him through the rest of it, to bring him back to earth.

It’s a while before he gets anything else from Billy. Long enough that he has to move so he doesn’t kill his knees sitting up on them, and he ends up with them thrown over top of Billy’s, so they can be as close as possible.

Because Billy wasn’t exactly back there anymore, but he wasn’t quite here either. He could hear Steve, feel his arm around his shoulders, his knuckles rubbing absently up his arm, he just couldn’t reach him yet.

When he gets back in his own head, he takes a moment to figure out where he is, and once he’s got it, he hooks his hands under Steve’s thighs, pulls him the rest of the way into his lap.

He doesn’t think about boundaries, about the fact that he should be more cautious, he just leans forward, presses their foreheads together and says, barely above a whisper, “Thank you.”

“Yeah. Anything for you.” Steve’s got a smile on his face, warm and genuine and blissful, and Billy can’t help the one that forms on his to match.

That’s where they stay until morning comes around. Billy just didn’t have the energy to get up and go home so late, and Steve didn’t have the heart to make him.

He got the throw pillows down off the couch, and they went to sleep the way they were, wrapped up in each other by the fire, well after it burns out and the last of the wood is gone.

Billy wakes up stiff from sleeping on the floor, but he couldn’t have been in any place more comfortable than Steve’s arms.

What Steve had done for him was practically unheard of. It was everything he was supposed to do, inviting someone in when they were cold, helping them out when they were feeling bad, but he’d never had that before. Not from anyone.

He’d hold the memory of Steve, holding him by the fire, equal parts concerned about getting him warm and getting him out of his head, in his heart forever.

That’s what he’s thinking about when he falls back asleep with a smile on his face, how this was just the start of making so many more memories to chase out the old.

Maybe Hawkins and it’s shitty winters wouldn’t be so bad, if he could spend them all like this.

[angelofthequeers]

Not a Good Look: Chapter 1

Summary: In which Marinette, Adrien, and their friends accidentally stumble on secret identities galore through the implications of a grown man making a deal with a teenage girl.

Aka Gabriel's deal with Lila comes back to bite him where it hurts.

Pairings: Adrigaminette, DJWiFi

Chapter 2 | AO3 link

Disclaimer: I don’t own ML.

“I swear to god, I can’t take another minute of her!” Adrien runs his fingers through his hair, resisting the urge to yank because his father will most certainly know if he’s missing so much as one hair on his head. ““Oh, Adrien and I work so well together! I’m his father’s new muse!” She doesn’t have a lick of talent for modelling!”

“That’s it,” Marinette says soothingly, for once not stammering like she usually does when he’s within ten feet of her. “Let it all out now, while you can.”

“Why do you even put up with her?” Kagami adds, depositing her fencing bag on the floor of the boys’ locker room so that she can sit next to Adrien on the bench. Marinette sits cross-legged on his other side, face flushing pink when their arms brush together. “Yes, she may be your father’s new “muse”, but you don’t have to tolerate her outside photoshoots.”

“I kind of do,” Adrien says. “Father told me that she’s the only friend he approves of and that he’ll restrict my freedoms if I don’t play nice with her. You know, that’s why I’m having this conversation in a locker room and only because fencing finished early. But it’s not just that; if I don’t put up with her, she’ll go after Marinette again. And after she got Marinette expelled, I’ll be damned if I let anything happen again.”

“What?” Marinette’s eyes bulge. “Adrien, no, this is my fight, you shouldn’t have to let her hang off you and make you uncomfortable for me!”

“Yeah. I do.” Adrien turns to grab her hands, wondering why this causes her to squeak and turn the colour of a ripe tomato. “You’re one of my best friends, Marinette. I couldn’t just stand by and let Lila ruin you like that when there was something I could do.”

“But see you don’t?” Marinette shakes her head and tries again. “Don’t you see? You’re rewarding her for it!”

“Marinette’s right,” Kagami says. “She still gets to lie to everyone, but so long as she doesn’t openly twist Marinette into the villain, she gets everything she wants.”

“Well, what else can I do?” Adrien throws his hands in the air. “If I tell her to shove off, she’ll go tattling! She must have, like, some kind of deal going on with my father, because he didn’t even know she existed before the Oni-Chan thing! Sorry,” he hurries to add. Kagami just shrugs, not visibly hurt by his reminder of her second akumatisation.

“Actually…that makes sense,” Marinette says slowly. When Adrien looks around at her, her brow is furrowed and she’s idly stroking her chin with her thumb, and for a split second, she resembles Ladybug so much that the breath is punched out of Adrien’s lungs. Then he blinks and she’s back to full-of-nervous-energy Marinette. “Something must have happened. She has no skill as a model – and I’m not saying that because I hate her – she just doesn’t have the stance and her face is all off and she’s so…robotic about it –”

“I’m definitely not disagreeing with you there,” Adrien chuckles despite himself. How does Marinette always manage to get a smile out of him even when he’s in the foulest of moods?

“Not to mention that there’s clearly no chemistry between you and her,” Marinette adds. “And everyone knows that you have to have chemistry between the models, or the shoot falls flat. Plus, there’s no reason for your father to approve of her but not everyone else. She’s a good liar, yeah, but your father doesn’t seem like someone who takes people at face value, and he must be able to recognise shifty people who are just lying to get ahead and use connections. It makes sense that she could’ve made a deal with him…but what?”

“Probably to spy on me,” Adrien mutters. Then he freezes, and on either side of him, Marinette and Kagami also stiffen.

“Of course,” Kagami says with a derisive snort. “That’s exactly the sort of thing your father would do.”

“But what can we do about it?” Marinette says. “That’s not right! And it doesn’t look right either! A grown man making a deal with a teenage girl for favours?” She wrinkles her nose. “Not a good look.”

“Maybe we can do something about it!” Adrien leaps to his feet and snaps his fingers, addressing his captive audience. “Evidence! We can find evidence that they’ve made a deal!”

“And what do you propose we do with that evidence?” Kagami says. Adrien jabs a finger at her.

“Prove that she’s a shifty snake!” he says. Kagami raises an eyebrow at that. “I know I told Marinette to take the high road, but that was when I thought she was just an attention seeker. You know, typical teenage, ‘ignore her and she’ll go away or realise that she needs to shape up’ brat. But this…she’s dangerous, you two. She got Nathalie and my bodyguard in trouble. She got Marinette expelled. And, uh…I was hiding nearby when you were Oni-Chan, Kagami. She deliberately distracted Chat Noir so that Oni-Chan could defeat Ladybug.”

“Well, what’s the plan?” Marinette says, while a dark storm crosses Kagami’s face. Adrien blinks at her.

“Sorry? The plan?”

“You don’t really think we’re going to let you charge off with a half-baked idea by yourself, do you?” Kagami says with a raised eyebrow, still scowling. It makes her look both adorable and terrifying at the same time…but is Adrien even allowed to think that when they’re having a temporary break from their relationship? “Marinette and I are with you, Adrien. What’s the plan to figure out if Lila and your father have made a deal?”

“I…actually didn’t think that far ahead,” Adrien admits. “I don’t know how we could get that evidence. Father would find out for sure if we were sneaking around, and there’s no way I could lead the conversation in that direction. I don’t even see him long enough to ask him how his day was.”

“Hmm.” Marinette chews her bottom lip. For some reason, the sight warms Adrien from the inside out, and he doesn’t realise that he’s physically leaning closer to drink in Marinette until Kagami tilts her head at him and he takes a step back with flushing cheeks. “I think I might have an idea. Leave it with me, okay?”

“Okay. I trust you, Marinette,” Adrien says, and he’s surprised to find just how firmly he believes those words.

.

The next day, once the final bell rings, Marinette catches up to Adrien with the single-minded focus of a heat-seeking missile before he can get out the school gates and she loses him. He jerks when she catches his arm, so she lets go with a mumbled apology, but he shakes his head and grabs her hand.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I thought you were Lila.”

“I still shouldn’t have touched you without asking,” Marinette says. Adrien shoots her a sunny smile that nearly makes her faceplant as her knees wobble under its force.

“You never touch me like other girls do,” he says. “You’re never…you know, rough and possessive about it. I like it when you touch me.”

“I like it when you touch me.” Oh. Oh dear. If Marinette hadn’t been about to fall two seconds ago, she’s definitely ready to keel over and die right now.

“Managed Ladybug!” she blurts out, then groans and ducks her head. “I managed. To catch Ladybug. God, I’m a mess.”

Adrien looks around, then mutters, “No Lila. Thank god,” and steers Marinette towards his waiting car. Thankfully, she manages to keep it together as he holds the back door open for her and then slides in after her with an explanation to his bodyguard about a study date with a friend – a date, a study date, but a date! – thanks to his cancelled fencing class. Not that his father needs to know that the friend he’s studying with isn’t Kagami or Lila, even if Marinette knows that he uses that term in the loosest possible way regarding the latter.

When Adrien turns to her with a small, hesitant smile that makes her stomach flutter with ladybugs, she opens her mouth to bring up the plan, but her one semi-functioning brain cell realises that it’s probably not a good idea to be spouting ideas of espionage against Gabriel Agreste in front of one of his employees, even if said employee is going behind his employer’s back right now, so she takes a deep breath to both swallow her words and calm herself down.

“Can I ask you something, Marinette?” Adrien says.

“Yure! Shes!” Marinette nods rapidly, then groans. “Sure! Yes!”

Adrien indicates her. “That. The stammering. The nerves. Do I…unsettle or intimidate you?”

“What? No! Of course not!” Well, he does unsettle her, but not for the reasons he thinks!

“Are you sure?” Adrien’s brow furrows. “Did I do something? I know I messed up on my first day and then with the wax museum thing, so if you still have hard feelings or something –”

“Nononono!” Marinette shakes her head so rapidly that her pigtails smack her in the face. “Trust me, I forgave you!”

“Then why are you so nervous around me?” Adrien says. “Is it because I’m Adrien Agreste? I know you want to be a fashion designer, but I swear, being friends with me won’t look like you’re using me or affect your chances –”

“It’s not that either.” Marinette slumps in her seat and closes her eyes, her heart racing so fast that it’s two seconds from beating out of her chest. After all her stress, all her frantic planning and failed attempts, is this how she finally confesses? “I…I l-lo – I can’t do this!” She tries to hide her face in her hands, but Adrien catches her wrists and gives her that sweet smile of his that melts her insides and is so not helping right now!

“Is it anything bad?” he says. Marinette wordlessly shakes her head. “Then it’s okay if you can’t tell me. As long as I know you don’t secretly hate me or something…”

“IloveyouAdrien!”

[slashermom]

How do the Sinclair bros celebrate their birthdays with their s/o? And what if there s/o is like super into birthdays and wants to make it special for them?

Bo

Truth be told, birthdays never really mattered to Bo.

Why should they when they were never truly about him? Attention was always fixated on Vincent and how it was Vincent’s special day.

He only kept track of them as he got older so he could know when he could legally buy his own smokes and beer.

But even now they’re not particularly a big deal to him.

You: It’s your birthday Bo! :D

Bo: *ducks head out from under the hood of his truck with a cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth* Well ain’t that sumthin’. You think I can get a free meal at Hooters?

He’s pretty adamant about keeping the celebration down to a minimum.

A drink and some birthday sex will suit him just fine.

But if you’re hellbent on giving him the birthday he deserves he’s not gonna stop you.

Not like he could if he tried.

Just as you suspected, Bo woke up completely forgetting that today was his birthday and went about his normal routine.

This gave you more than enough time to decorate the kitchen and part of the living room with birthday decorations and bake a good-sized cake.

You actually commissioned Vincent to make some little candles for the cake. You reminded yourself to make sure he came up and enjoyed himself and give him the gift you picked up for him. It was his birthday too after all.

You laid everything out neatly and triple checked all your little decorations and placements before the sound of the front door opening pulled your attention.

Bo went to let out a noise of question but you didn’t let him process the thought and shouted a joyful ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY!’

Raised eyebrows and wide eyes scan the Sinclair house with disbelief. You really went out of your way to do this for him?

Believe it or not, Bo may be prideful and confident but he also considers himself more trouble than he’s worth and knows he doesn’t deserve good things.

So this sentiment leaves the quick-witted man speechless for a moment.

You push him into the kitchen where all the gifts and cake are while you mention something about Lester stopping by.

You shove three presents toward him with a smile. You felt bad that you had to wrap them in old newspaper, completely forgetting about wrapping paper but it’s what in the wrapping right?

Bo will protest he doesn’t need anything. That you’re already making a man blush but you shake your head and tell him to open the damn presents already. So he does.

A pair of new work boots, a cap, and a shiny new lighter. Nothing too extravagant but all things he could use. Practical, you reasoned with yourself. You wanted to get him more but your budget was already stretched thin as it was and-

Bo didn’t allow much time for you to feel guilty about what you couldn’t give him. Quick to show his appreciation with a kiss and a genuine smile.

You make his heart feel so full.

You’ve done more for him in these few moments than anyone has his whole life and if this is how all birthdays are he’s gonna have to start paying attention to them more closely.

Vincent

Birthdays slipped away from Vincent after he left Ambrose.

With nobody there to wish him happy birthday or show any sort of appreciation for his day of birth he just let them slip away.

He knew how old he was or had a rough idea, but just hadn’t truly celebrated since he was a young boy.

Vincent wasn’t oblivious to his twin’s dismay at the day and wondered if he could ever make it up to him for all the years Bo was swept under the rug.

Most of the time, he spent his birthday hiding away in the basement from Bo. Vincent knew Bo probably didn’t know it was their birthday but he didn’t want to risk it and piss him off.

But you weren’t as weary about Bo as he was.

You were gonna give Vincent (and by extension Bo) a fantastic birthday!

You started off his birthday by waking up the sleeping artist with some breakfast in bed. A meal he often skipped or grabbed the bare minimum.

He was startled at first.

Didn’t know why you were being so generous to him before you explained that it was his birthday and he felt heat spread throughout his cheeks.

You remembered. You knew.

He wanted to jump right up and snatch ahold of you and never let go.

But Vincent settled on a lovely kiss.

You tried to convince him to take the day off but he reasoned that he had to get another wax figure in the museum. You eventually gave in and told him to take it easy today. It was his birthday after all.

It gave you some time to make sure you had everything.

As Vincent sat in his workshop long after your surprise this morning, he could still feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest. Vincent considers himself a very stoic person, but you are able to pull emotions from him almost effortlessly.

You checked on him multiple times that day.

Each time you would wish him a happy birthday and leave him with a kiss or a nice back/shoulder rub.

You did most of these things on a normal day but they felt more special today.

As the day came to a close and the night crept in, you began to get restless.

To kill some time, you ran down to the service station to drop off a piece of cake and Bo’s gift but he seemed to be preoccupied in the basement and there was no way in hell you were going down there.

Once you returned to the house and puttered around a bit more you grew tired of waiting and decided to bring the party down to Vincent.

Balancing his presents in one hand and his piece of cake in another you thumped your way down the stairs into his work space.

Vincent just stands there in shock for a few seconds as he asses the situation before him.

You mean to tell him you did more for him?

Vincent’s heart is beating so loud in his chest that he’s pretty sure he’s just gonna keel over.

Placing everything on a clean space on his workbench you usher him over to sit at the stool and open his gifts.

Vincent tells you that you didn’t have to do this, that he’s more than happy with the breakfast and all the birthday wishes.

You only shake your head and push the gifts closer.

He’s careful unwrapping each gift and each gift he pulls free of its wrapping he feels his breath gets caught in his throat.

A few sticks of charcoal, some nice new color pencils, two hardcover sketchbooks, and some paints.

A bunch of small items that made it seem bigger than it really was.

Vincent could only stare at the gifts.

He’s pretty sure that even if he was a big talker he would still have trouble finding the right words to express his appreciation and love for you.

He plucks your hand from his shoulder and presses it to the lips of his mask.

Vincent quickly decides that this contact is not nearly enough and stands from his seat to pull you closer.

You might not be able to tell but he’s got the biggest grin on his face. Even though it stings and aches he can’t help it. You make him so happy.

Lester

Much like the harsher of the two twins, birthdays were tricky for Lester.

He didn’t get to have too many at home before Trudy got sick and the ones he could remember were very brief and cold.

He had a few birthdays here and there in the system that were somewhat memorable but nothing special.

Lester did see other kids at birthday parties with their friends and family and did always wonder what that was like. But he knew better than to stare for too long.

As he got older, he would maybe treat himself to a meal out but besides that, it was just another day.

He spent many of them alone but that was gonna change this time around.

You knew Lester would get up early and be at work for most of the day if not till early evening.

Giving you the opportunity to go out and get everything. You had waited to pick up what you needed until now because you knew that Lester would be inclined to snoop. He always did during Christmas.

But you did make sure to slip his birthday card into the front seat of his truck for him to find sometime during the day.

You were left the rest of the just wait for the scrawny man to return and you couldn’t wait for him to see his reaction.

You had thrown up a few decorations but nothing too extravagant. You understood that simplicity was key.

After spending the day impatiently waiting for Lester to return, you finally heard the telltale squeak of the front door and his boots hitting the floor.

You rounded the corner to see Lester staring in awe at the decorations as well as the cake and gifts laid out in front of him.

He had the birthday card held tightly in his grasp.

“You do all this for me?”

You chuckled and nodded, going to pull him closer into the room but he instead pulled you closer and pressed a kiss to your cheek before grabbing your hand and tugging you toward the gifts.

Lester raised his eyebrows as if asking permission to open his own gifts. You told him to get on with it and he did frantically.

First, he unwrapped the new long sleeve shirts.

He definitely needed some new shirts. His old ones were forever stained with his work. Not to mention, they reeked even after you washed them more times you could count on both of your hands.

Lester was so excited he was already trying them all on.

Making comments about they’re so soft and you got just the right size and how he’ll never take them off.

But he was most excited about the new Bowie knife you had presented to him after he got done trying on all the shirts.

His old one was getting dull and although you found it comical watching him struggle against the hide of some poor dead critter it was time for a new one.

He cries.

Wraps his arms around you and whispers thank yous and I love yous into your neck. He really, truly, absolutely means it.

The moment was broken up by the sound of Bo kicking open the front door with a loud: “Happy Birthday you smelly son of a bitch!”

Lester pulled away to go meet his brothers and you laughed watching the three men converse in the entryway.

Lester spends the rest of the night glued to you. Every once and awhile turning to get a look at you and smiling to himself about how lucky he is.

[nimwallace]

Paradise Lost

Aziraphale felt that out of all things on Earth, his favorite by far, were the humans. What quaint and fascinating creatures, absorbed in themselves and material and others, obssessed with the holy and the sinful and the restless; humans are machines without function, and he loved them. He was, in all respects, quite human himself, however he didn't like to admit it. He was just as human as Adam, or Crowley. He was a Holy Being, but an Earthly Being also, with desires and selfish ambition and doubt. All the worlds a stage, as Shakespeare said, and Aziraphale certainly felt that the Almighty was watching Her plan play out like a Greek Tragedy. He wondered if, all along, She had planned for him to be friends with Cr0wley. If she put him near the Eatsern Gate on that day just so he could meet him. He didn't like to think too much of Her plans, though. Best not to question Her. Instead, he satsified himself with literature and music and art and the company of a certain wily serpent with a fondness for Queen. It was a lot easier to cope with all this if there was constantly a sarcastic yet lovely demon to talk to about it. Days went by, then weeks, and months. Soon, it had been a year since the Almost End of the World, and Aziraphale was tiring of fending off customors and and buying new shelves. Crowley was at the shop every day anyway, and that's where Aziraphale's next idea came to him. "Perhaps we should buy a house together." Crowley, who had been relaxing in an armchair, oblivious to the angel's fantasies of domestic bliss, looked up in surprise. "What?" "Buy a house together. Perhaps a little cottage, in the South Downs? I've been thinking, it might be nice." Crowley was still looking startled, but was now considering the idea. "I could have a library, and you could have your garden," Aziraphale pressed on. "Plenty of empty, county roads to race your Bentley down. Hooks on the ceiling to hang your vines." Crowley's eyebrows furrowed. He had been here every day since. . .well, since the end. It wasn't as if Hell would give him any trouble for it any longer. And he could pop over to London whenever he saw fit. "All right," he said. "Why not? Let's buy a house together."

Being roomates with Crowley came, unsurprisingly, easy to Aziraphale. He was already used to seeing the demon lazing about in the sun or yelling at his plants, so there was hardly any change of routine save the location of it. Aziraphale found that, more often, people were mistaking them for a couple, not that he minded it, nor corrected them. He was often referred to as "Mr Crowley" by people in the neighborehood who assumed that he was married to a particular Anthony J Crowley, who had an affinity for human names. Aziraphale still did not know what the "J" stood for. He did not call Crowley Anthony, purely because it was not the name he had always known him by, and found using his third name to be more intimate by far. He had tried Anthony once, and found it tasted completely bitter to his tongue, and Crowley looked digusted besides, so that was the end of that experiment. The longer they lived in the Downs, the easier they became with each other. They had a freedom they did not have before. The first time Aziraphale told Crowley he loved him, it was a mistake. Crowley was about to go out for a bit, there was a concert he wanted to see that Aziraphale had no particular interest in, and he was heading out the door. "I'll be back around 3, yeah? See you, Angel." "Goodbye, my dear. Love you." Crowley froze, and Aziraphale felt his hands go numb on his book. "What was that?" Crowley hissed quietly. "I-I said I love you," Aziraphale said firmly, face bright red and neck warm. "Do stay safe." Crowley, speechless, just nodded, looking a bit dazed, and left. He came home nearly two hours early, threw his jacket on the ground, and kissed Aziraphale fervently. "'Love you too," he explained, and left Aziraphale sitting there, stunned and flustered.

Aziraphale asked about Crowley's days as an angel for the first time in 6,000 years on a warm, rainy morning in August. "Crowley, what was it like before you Fell?" Crowley, who had been lazily tracing the lines of Aziraphale's hands, suddenly stiffened. "Before I was a demon?" he said, somewhat hollowly. "Yes, my dear. If--if it isn't too painful for you. I'd like to know more about it." Crowley was silent for some moments. It is inevitable, as in all things in life, that at some point, you are asked a question so complex and terrible your throat closes and your heart stops. Trauma feels like war, and questions feel like bullets. Crowley, in this moment, nearly keels over like a wounded soldier, he has been struck again. But he does not flinch. Love is a vicious and powerful thing. Love conquers war, always. "I made galaxies," he said quietly. "I--I was a healer, an archangel. One of the big three." "An archangel!" Aziraphale gasped softly. He did not know Crowley had been so important during his time in Heaven. "And a healer, nonetheless. Oh, Crowley." Crowley didn't look at him, but focused on the ceiling. "My name, I--I don't even know if I'm allowed to speak it anymore--my name was Raphael. I don't believe we ever knew each other, then." Aziraphale could've wept, and in that moment, he looked close. "You were Raphael?" he choked quietly. "My dear." "I know. I--I was told I had a lot of potential, you know. But I--I asked too many questions, and I didn't like the archangels, and then, I Fell--" He had to stop there, because he was too close to crying. Crying, for demons, felt a lot like getting burned does to a human. Demons are unforgivable, and their pain, therefore, is excrutiating in all ways. Tears are like wax to them, only hotter and fiercer. "Don't weep," Aziraphale warned, placing a comforting hand on his cheek. "You'll hurt yourself." Crowley swallowed, collecting himself. "When I Fell, I still wanted to be Good," he said. "I still wanted to Heal people. I still do." "I know, darling." Crowley leaned in to his touch. "Don't ever Fall, angel," he said softly. "Not for me. Not for anyone." Aziraphale looked worried, but wanted to comfort him. "I won't, Crowley. It's all right." He was lying.

When Aziraphale Fell, the Heavens didn't weep for his loss. Gabriel gave Uriel a look of "I knew this was going to happen" and Sandelphen only shrugged. When Aziraphale Fell, the only person who wept was Crowley, who bent over his angel's crippled and mangled form and wept harder than he had in his existance, so hard that he could feel his skin burning off and he was trembling all over. Aziraphale lay on the ground, unconscious, bloodied. His ichor had turned an inky black instead of gold, and dripped onto the ground like dew from a foxglove. He had known he was going to Fall, in a way, he knew it since he first guarded that Eastern Gate. He was too much for Heaven, he supposed. He loved too much, and all the wrong things. For a start, Crowley. The final straw, the one that landed him here, had been asking for Crowley's forgiveness. He didn't know quite what he expected to come from it. Maybe that somehow, Heaven would take him back. Instead, they threw Aziraphale out. "If you want him to be like you," they said, "go join him."

He first opened his eyes to meet Crowley's. "I'm sorry," Aziraphale said. And the stars trembled.

[fabermemorialrink]

some mistake, part 7

Last part of chapter two! Chowder’s back, and we meet some new friends!

Also, a quick PSA: if I ever screw up with regards to race/gender/sexuality (or anything else), please don’t hesitate to let me know so I can do better! I want everyone to have a positive reading experience. Thanks!!

Chowder’s reaction to Dex bleeding on his shoes was a complex cocktail of fascination and disturbed worry: the cherry on top of a very informative face journey that Derek studied like visual poetry as Dex caught him up to speed. Like Derek, Chowder emphatically refused to stop visiting, which they proved so often that Dex had to kick them out after they skipped a team game night.

More often than not, Derek and Chowder head over to see Dex together, though there are times when one of them is too busy with work to go. Derek loves being part of a trio, but he also appreciates the time he gets to spend with each of his friends individually. Chowder’s roomie is often out and about socializing, so Derek takes to setting up a base camp on C’s floor, where they study and philosophize together. Most questions are open-ended and profound (who would win in a fight, Mr. Rogers or Elmo? would you rather sleep on legos or have a splinter in your tongue?), but the most important question of all cycles back into rotation every few days:

What’s up with Dex and the forest?

Chowder thinks it’s better not to prod, but Derek can’t leave it alone. It’s a secret, but the kind that Dex is willing to entertain guesses about. He archly shoots down Derek’s suggestions that he might be a woodland nymph like the girls, and repeatedly insists that if he had any kind of therianthropy, he would have already shifted and eaten one of Derek’s limbs in annoyance.

It comes up again in conversation when Derek’s helping Dex cut up invasive vines again. Knowing that the forest is alive puts this activity in a new light; Dex tells him that he knows which plants belong to the woods, and which ones the forest considers a threat, so Derek just follows suit and rips out the roots he’s instructed to. There was a lingering uneasiness at the thought of touching the plants again at first, but they’re in the outer ring, where the light filters in, and Dex promises that if anything tries to grab Derek again, he’ll hatchet it right off. Maybe he should be more freaked out, but he can almost feel the truce between himself and the forest now. At the very least, Dex’s presence always makes him feel at ease.

“How’s it going? Not too tough for your delicate poet’s hands, is it?” Dex calls over across the grove. The sleeves of his plaid shirt have been rolled up, and his hatchet and lantern have been put aside next to Derek’s calc homework that Dex was looking over - dangling from the lantern’s wire handle are his crab keychain and a small bottle filled with a rainbow of miniscule origami lucky stars that Chowder gifted him. There’s dirt all over Dex’s knees and hands, but his posture is loose and he seems content. It's a good look for him.

Derek makes an obscene gesture in his direction. Dex wholeheartedly refuses to believe that Derek would ever drop his gloves during a game, citing Derek’s chill masquerade and elegant piano student fingers which would surely shatter on some goon’s cheekbones. Derek’s not big on fighting either, but he resents the implication that he couldn’t at least hold his own to defend his teammates.

“What, you wanna have a go at me?” Dex says with a grin, straightening up to his full height, which is still obnoxiously taller than Derek.

Derek snorts, kicking a clump of roots and dirt toward him. “Don’t go crying to Chowder when I whoop your ass, you skinny bastard.”

“Right, like you wouldn’t trip over your own head while trying to throw a punch. I’m not going to fight you, pretty boy.”

The way he says those words isn’t much different from the Wicked Witch of the West calling Dorothy ‘my pretty,’ but it causes a curl of embarrassment in Derek’s stomach anyway. Dex does this sometimes - calls Derek pretty in that wry tone of his. But it’s not pointedly sarcastic, like the way he gets when he’s intentionally needling Derek about rich people stuff, so Derek is left wondering what it’s supposed to mean. He knows he has nice eyes, and that he’ll hopefully grow into the good facial features he inherited from his parents, but currently, he’s just kind of plain, and full of teenage awkward. Nothing close to pretty.

Still, when Dex says it with a hint of smile Derek’s dumb guts do a strange twisting thing where he thinks they might turn inside out, accompanied by a tightness in his chest from being put on the spot. Not chill. But it's probably good for him to get it out of his system now, in preparation for the far future when someone really does compliment him so he doesn't look like a total loser.

Still, it always gives him a second of pause, throwing a hiccup into his thought process and leaving him scrambling for words, like now. “Are you a witch?” he winds up asking, apropos of nothing, still stuck on the thought of Dex zooming around on a broomstick and cursing young girls from Kansas.

“Am I a witch,” Dex repeats, raising an eyebrow. Derek almost goes to change the subject, then thinks on it a moment, and decides he actually does want to hear the answer to this.

“Yeah, or a wizard? Or whatever the preferred terminology is.”

Dex’s brow wrinkles, and he shakes his head like Derek is a particularly foolish child. “I’m not a witch, Nursey. Where’d you get that idea from?”

“Never mind. Are you a cryptid?”

“What-”

“Animals or creatures known only through anecdotal evidence, like the sasquatch, or-”

“I know what a fuckin’ cryptid is, you dope, but I’m not some kind of goat man-”

Derek chuckles at the expression Dex is sporting. He looks utterly offended. “I was thinking more like the Dover Demon? Glowing orange eyes, weird-ass hands…”

“You’re dead to me,” Dex laughs. And he pointedly ignores Derek for the next ten minutes until Derek literally jumps on him. He successfully catches him, arms wrapped tight around Derek’s middle, but keels over when his knees give out.

So, no progress on that end, but Derek isn’t going to forget about it anytime soon.

Winter is wild and blustery this year, and Dex decides they can’t meet his friends until after all the snow has passed. Derek tries asking a few times, but Dex always buries his face in Derek’s latest history essay and starts commenting loudly in order to ignore him. There finally comes a day in February where Derek and Chowder show up on Dex’s figurative doorstep bundled to the nines and freshly brewed bribery hot chocolate. The snow isn’t anything more than a crisp flatbread layer under their boots (which Dex has also bled all over) but he still glares crossly at them nonetheless, trying to shoo them back to the dorms until they force feed him some hot chocolate.

“Dex. Bro. French Vanilla Truffle. Extra marshmallows.”

“Alright, fine, fine, get in here.” Dex finally concedes after he swallows three boiling marshmallows whole.

They stop by a spring that begins in the inner ring, though the other end of the water seems to disappear into a haze of shade and foliage. The water is frosted over in shattered panes of ice; Dex crouches down at the embankment and cards his fingers through the weeds as he peers under the surface, but stands shortly after and waves them along.

“She’s not in right now. We’ll have to catch her another day,” he says, and switches on his lantern.

Derek and Chowder link arms when they enter the heart, taking care to follow Dex carefully. Today, the heart is less terrifying, giving off just an aura of general unwelcomeness, but Dex’s steps are sure as ever, like he’s walked this unmarked non-path over the roots and through the maze of trunks a thousand times. They have to readjust to the wildlife noises again, but what’s even weirder is the sound that Derek finally notices coming out of Dex.

It starts off as a kind of uneven hum, but builds up to faint words he can hear when he concentrates.

“Interplanet Janet, she's a galaxy girl…”

“Are you singing Schoolhouse Rock?” Derek asks, trying not to sound as horribly giddy as he feels. He can get Dex to sing with him sometimes: mostly classic rock and Beyonce and pop hits from the mid-aughts. But Dex rarely begins on his own, no matter how much Derek waxes lyrical about his nice voice, which aggrieves Derek to no end.

Dex freezes for a split second, then keeps walking like it never happened. “Uh. It’s been stuck in my head for a while.” Probably since Chowder first started complaining about his independent science paper about new planets, Derek guesses.

“Oh, the grammar ones are the best! I like the adverb song,” Chowder says, starting to hum the starting notes.

Derek can practically see the shock of discomfort running through Dex’s spine, like electricity through a live wire. “It’s catchy, but a little too barbershop for me…”

“Oh my god, they’re not even a quartet,” Derek says in exasperation.

“Still…”

“What about Conjunction Junction?” C suggests next, which Dex agrees easily too, and then they’re off, Dex in a pitchy falsetto and Chowder’s tenor lowered to a raspy growl. Derek holds his breath, not trusting himself not to say something dumb and provoke them into stopping. Chowder has a way of getting Dex to do things that Derek never could in a hundred lifetimes, probably because C has secret mutant powers of persuasiveness and friendship and undetectable bullshittery.

Their duet continues into “Do the Circulation,” complete with Chowder spinning Dex around on his arm in a sloppy swing-dance, and Derek curses the forest gods and anyone else listening for not letting his fucking phone work out here, because when else will he ever get the chance to record this masterpiece? They both just look so charmingly happy, and Derek’s heart swells with it.

He almost forgets where they are until the darkness lightens slightly and the smog of flora opens up into a tiny clearing with a cottage nestled right in the center. It’s the very picture of a stereotypical fairy-tale cottage, covered in climbing ivy and magenta blossoms, built of gray stonework and wooden accents, complete with curved roof tiles and wall mounted lanterns that light the area with a homey glow.

“Uh,” Chowder says, mouth falling open. “So how many houses are hidden in this pocket dimension forest?”

“Not as many as you think,” Dex says, releasing Chowder’s arm, and turning to make sure he doesn’t lose Derek before they enter the house. “Bits? You home? I brought my friends,” he calls, rapping his knuckles against the heavy wood door.

“Come on in!” comes the response, with a slight southern lilt.

Dex pushes the door open and lets the other two in first. The inside is just as adorably quaint as expected from the outside, with a fireplace in the den, cacti on the windowsills and bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, and an enormous kitchen where a very busy blond is hustling back and forth, his arms cradling a glass bowl. The scent of peaches and sugar fills the brightly lit room, and Dex directs Derek and C to sit on a plump gingham couch in front of the fire. Right after they sit, Derek catches sight of three strange objects bobbing their way through the air toward them.

“Um,” Derek says. “I’m not imagining that, right?” He elbows Chowder, who turns to gape at what is apparently a few glasses of iced tea floating their way.

“Y’all like tea, don’t you? And I don’t mean that gritty, bitter nonsense you serve up here-”

“Sweet tea sounds great,” Derek says automatically as a glass settles into his confused hands. Dex catches his own, and guides the last glass into Chowder’s grasp, the other boy being too dazed still to do anything but stare in the direction of the kitchen, where whisks and butter and sugar are spinning in a waltz around Bitty. On the counter, peaches fall neatly into segments, pits falling to the side. Flour begins threading through the air like a curtain of snowfall, obscuring their sight for a moment before it settles down into his bowl, the whisk still dancing.

“Thanks, Bitty,” Dex says, jolting Chowder back to reality. He calls out a thanks as well, before chugging half his glass in one go, and sinking deeper into the couch.

Derek sips slowly at the tea in silence as he starts to piece together the scene before them. Flying objects usually means magic. And magic means...

“Wait a second- Bitty’s a witch? Didn’t you say witches didn’t exist?” he asks, whirling on Dex, who’s leaning casually against the wall.

Dex and Bitty share a look, then a short laugh at Derek’s expense. “I just said I wasn’t a witch. You made your own inferences from that. Wrong ones.”

Bitty shakes his head, sending his bowl to settle gently on the counter with a wave of his hand. “Oh, Dex, you didn’t tell them? Wait just a second, I’ll be right over,” he says while hurrying to wash his hands at the sink.

“Nah, Bits, I thought maybe you’d wanna show ‘em yourself. Though, I think you kinda already have.”

Dex smiles briefly as Bitty dashes around his kitchen in a flurry, before turning back to Derek, who makes meaningful Eye Contact with him, but all he does is scrunch his mouth and shrug.

“What?” he mouths silently back, and Derek throws his hands in the air. Chowder continues to be slowly absorbed by the couch.

Bitty finally arrives, holding three pies in his arms. “Now, Dex never did tell me what your favorite pies are, so we’ll have to make do with these for today, but I promise I'll have something special for you boys next time you come around.” He places the pies - French silk, lemon meringue, and apple - on the table, then waves his hand absently toward the kitchen, summoning plates and silverware.

“I didn't want you flipping out and making a thousand pies. You know you always over-bake when you know guests are coming. Anyway, it's rhubarb for Nursey and honey walnut for Chowder.”

In short order, Derek and Chowder learn that Bitty is much, much older than looks, definitely a witch, and quite possibly the greatest piemaker in all of New England. Bitty preens under their compliments, and has no trouble answering the barrage of questions they pelt him with, or dodging them with practiced southern flair, but he’s much more interested in learning about “Dex’s darling little friends.”

Dex has to finally excuse them so they can leave the forest before it gets dark, but they don’t escape without each of them taking a pie for the road and the promise to return again soon. Bitty starts rattling off all the sweaters and birthday mini pies they’re going to get, and Dex has to physically drag Chowder out the door, since he’s too amiable and polite to know how to leave Bitty’s orbit.

Derek is stopped on his way out by a strong hand to his elbow, and he’s afraid (slash hopeful) that Bitty is going to try and unload another pie on him, but he only gives Derek a smile.

“I just wanted to thank you two for being such good friends to our Dex. I know he can be a bit cantankerous, but I think you’ve really brought him out of his shell, Nursey. All of us in here have noticed just how much he talks about the two of you. I’m glad we could finally meet.”

His approval feels significant, like Derek’s passed some sort of test. Derek swallows, and offers his sincerest smile back. “Thanks, Bitty. He’s- he’s one of us. He’s my best friend.” There’s more he wants to say, but from the way Bitty nods, it seems like he understands even without words.

Dex introduces them to The Falconer and her boys a few days later. She lives in a house on a small outcropping at the edge of the heart, her flock scattered in trees and small satellite houses nearby, except J, who resides with Bitty when he isn’t transformed.

She shakes Derek’s hand with a firm grip, and he trusts her instinctively. Something about her brown eyes and messy bun give her an aura of put-together trustworthiness, and from the way she handles Tater when he swoops down to land on her shoulder, it’s for good reason.

“Only J is actually a falcon,” Dex explains as they sit on her porch watching J and Tater circle each other in the air in the more open space of the inner ring. “Tater’s a white-tailed eagle. Snowy’s a snowy owl.”

“Wow, wonder where he got the nickname,” Chowder snorts, and Dex grins.

“Yeah. There used to be a few others - Thirdy, Marty -  but their curses ended, so they left. Marty, at least, was also a falcon, so that’s where she gets the title, I guess.”

“So they’re just cursed? For thirteen years? Because of some old family bullshit from like a zillion years ago?” Chowder tries to clarify, and Dex nods.

“Something like that. I never really got the specifics, but yeah, it’s like some primogeniture fairy curse thing. The Falconer’s been watching over them in here for decades now, so they always send the next in line back here to roost when he transforms for the first time.”

“And no one’s ever looked into breaking this curse?” Derek asks, raising an eyebrow when Dex just draws his knees up to his chest and makes a non-committal noise.

“Some curses can't be broken.”

“No way, dude. Every clause has a loophole. Every bad deal has a way out. And every curse should be breakable. Otherwise, how could we ever hold onto hope?”

“How could we,” Dex echoes, staring up at the loose feathers that flutter down like errant flakes of snow.

They meet the flock over the course of several days, since their human hours don’t always align with daylight. J, as a human, is reserved and broadly Canadian, but there’s a quiet warmth in his eyes that really comes out when he’s with Bitty. Tater is gregarious and friendly, Snowy more calm and settled, but none of them hesitate to gently chirp Dex when he makes introductions, spouting off things like “finally, we are meeting Dex’s frogs!” and “so this is who you’ve been skipping flight practice to hang out with, eh?”.

“I can’t even fly!” Dex exclaims, and J laughs, leaving the room to help Bits in the kitchen.

“That’s why you shouldn’t skip practice,” Snowy says through a bite of honey walnut pie, and Dex flings a fork at him. It stops in mid-air, accompanied by a “what did I tell you about throwing my good silverware?” from Bitty.

Dex mumbles an apology and sinks back into the couch between Derek and C.

“Hey, why are we your frogs?” Chowder asks, and Dex coughs awkwardly and takes a sip of his tea before explaining.

“Uh, there was a year I rescued some frog eggs and watched over them that spring.”

“Dex watches tadpoles like mother hen, every day sitting at Lardo’s pond,” Tater says, crouching on the rug to imitate Dex staring into the water.

Dex ignores Chowder’s “d’awwww” and mutters out, “Yeah, so now they call any of my rescues ‘frogs’. And you guys are, like, the frogs, I guess. The rest are just people I helped back out.”

“That’s mad adorable. Frogs, C, how about that?”

“It is adorable,” C agrees. Dex buries his face in his hands and they slide in toward him to sandwich him on the couch more securely.

“This was a terrible idea,” he mutters as Chowder rests his head on his shoulder and Derek steals the rest of his coconut cream pie.

Terrible idea or not, Dex does reluctantly bring them to meet the nymphs when winter starts to fade into spring. Camilla, an athletic blonde dryad with a wry sense of humor, shows them her tree: a towering, conical red spruce. Dex points out the nearby tree that J accidentally damaged that time he changed back to a human while perched on a thin branch.

April’s grove of yellow birches is located in the far end of Lardo’s spring, the bare grass underfoot dotted with translucent violet flowers. She regards them sternly as Dex introduces her as a nymph of groves, “not a dryad,” as she emphatically insists.

“Oh, like an alseid?” Derek asks.

“Yeah, actually,” April says, looking almost impressed, her pretty mouth curving with a hint of a smile.

“Of course you would know that,” Dex says.

And Lardo, she whose bro-itude holds no parallel, they finally meet on a slow afternoon after midterms. She emerges halfway from the water to meet them, resting her arms on the bank.

“Your old frogs were cuter,” she says brightly, leaning her cheek against one hand.

“They're plenty cute,” Dex tells her automatically, then pauses, squints, and changes his mind. “No, sorry, you were right. These two are...eh.” He makes an ambivalent motion with his hand, and Lardo nods sagely.

“Disrespectful to say that,” Chowder scoffs, “when you have two of Andover’s most eligible bachelors gracing you with their presence all the time.”

“He’s been over-exposed,” Derek says. “Kinda hurts my feelings, honestly.”

“Well, when you two dreamboats are done complaining, Lardo can give us a tour.” Dex rolls his eyes when Derek tries his best smolder on him and gives him a gentle shove.

Lardo is sweet and sharply funny, and much more knowledgeable about art and literature than Derek would’ve expected from a naiad. Dex explains after another visit that almost all of the forest’s denizens can leave, though whether they want to varies from person to person. The flock tends to travel together, just in case one of them transforms out of cycle. None of the nymphs can travel more than a few miles from their true bodies, but it’s enough to be able to go to the library or the movie theater. They never do meet Jenny or Mandy; all Dex will tell Derek is “they’re around somewhere” whenever he asks.

Over the remainder of sophomore year, they hang out with Dex’s friends several more times. Derek doesn’t know when he starts noticing it, but it feels like he understands Dex better now, after seeing who he is when he’s with the others. It’s not that Dex is a different person, but some of that always present distance that even Derek can’t close disappears when they’re in the heart with his friends.

It’s to be expected, he supposes. They’ve known him longer than Derek has, but still, he wonders when they’ll reach the day when Dex will feel as free around him. Not as long he feels he has secrets he needs to keep, but Derek won’t press it. As it is, he appreciates how much more open Dex already is, now that he and Chowder know about the woods. It feels like they've grown closer.

“What is it? My hair weird or something?” Dex asks when he catches Derek looking one day. He'd just been laughing about something April muttered under her breath as J walked by. Derek had been transfixed for a moment, watching the soft lamplight of Bitty’s porch lanterns casting bronze over Dex’s face while a wheezing cackle escaped his mouth. It's an extremely stupid noise, but it's endearingly free, and Derek feels for a moment like there are no more walls standing between them. Here he is, light-hearted and golden in the darkest part of the woods, and Derek can almost see all of him.

“Nah, just thought I saw a bug,” Derek lies, and Dex frowns.

“Ugh, mosquitoes,” he says, annoyed. “You might want to start wearing bug spray; they're relentless out here, and you have a scratching problem. Better to prepare now, or we’ll have to spend all summer slathering calamine lotion on you.”

Derek agrees absently, thinking about how odd it is that a flower can bloom in the darkness.

When the year ends, Derek returns to the city with a promise to come back with cotton candy, since Dex hasn't had any for well over a decade.

Over the summer, Derek finds himself missing them more than usual. He's overseas with mama for a good chunk of vacation, and doesn't have the chance this year to visit Chowder. August feels like it drags on, and though he loves hanging out with his New York friends, he can't help but wonder what Dex is up to for the summer. At least he can call and skype C, though their time zone difference and Chowder’s bizarre summer sleep schedule make it difficult sometimes.

But Dex could be doing anything. On the nights when no one else is in the apartment but himself, Derek wishes more than ever he could convince Dex to come see him. Maybe he could help cure that guilty brand of loneliness that afflicts Derek even when he's surrounded by people.

Maybe Dex will finally feel like he can be all of himself around Derek.

[necromaniackat]

Finders Keepers

This wasn't meant to happen. None of this was meant to happen. How could this have happened? I specifically went to St Therese to avoid this from happening. How could I have let this happen? My reputation of straight O student, prefect and library homebody was gone, all because of a kiss at the Yule Ball. Now I'm the most feared, least trusted student at St Therese. Now I'm known as the girl who fancies the Death Eater. But nobody knows the story like I do. Nobody knows his story like I do. 

Chapter 1: No Boys Allowed  

It was the first night of November, it was a full moon and cold. Luckily, I was sitting by the fire in the Ruttle House common room doing my herbology homework. I was surrounded by girlish chatter; especially from the sixth-year dorms. Girls were excitedly talking about the Yule Ball that was next month. I had no interest in joining Hogwarts for a single night of hormone ruled “fun". Sadly though, I had to go. Prefects from both schools were required to attend and seeing as I'm the prefect for the Ruttle House I have no choice but to attend.

‘It's just for one night.’ I thought to myself as I unclenched my jaw. I tried burying my head deeper into the text book rather than stewing over this damn Ball. St Therese is a girls' school, I came here to avoid the male population.

I smiled weakly to myself as my fingers traced the waxing quarter moon over my left breast. It reminded me of how much I actually love attending St Therese. My ma came here when she was a student, my dad attended Hogwarts. My dad wanted me to go to Hogwarts as well, especially after ma died, but it was destined that I came to St Therese. It breaks dad's heart to see me here.  

“Are you seriously still studying?!” Mackyla exclaimed as she plopped herself down at the table. I looked up at her through my dark bangs. I gave her a half smirk and nodded.  

“You see, there's lots to learn.” I retorted, jerking my eyebrows up slightly. Mackyla scoffed at me waving her hand effortlessly. I went back to my text book, shaking my head. Mackyla and I are from opposite sides of boarder; she's from Essex while I'm from Glasgow. That's the premise of our whole friendship, we're complete opposites. She's a ray of sunshine with her bright blonde hair and blue eyes and I'm a rain cloud with my dark brown hair and brown eyes. Mackyla was put into care as a kid while I remained in the care of my parents. Mackyla is street smart, I'm book smart. She's wild, I'm content. She's all about boys while I have no interest in them. But somehow, we're best friends.  

“Have you thought about the Yule Ball?” Mackyla asked after a moment of watching me study. I lifted my head to look at my starry eyed friend. I cocked an eyebrow at her.  

“No.” I replied shortly, but truthfully. Mackyla's eyes widened at me and she gave me a blankly stunned expression.  

“What do you mean you haven't thought about the Yule Ball?!” She exclaimed, looming over the table between us. “-Do you have your dress?” She quizzed with a low voice. I stared at her blankly making her creep over the table more. I had an inkling feeling that I was about to be bombarded with way more questions than I have answers to.  

“Do you have a date?” She questioned in a whisper. I damn near choked when she asked that. I felt my face heat up as I began to cackle at her. I couldn't believe she just asked me that, knowing how I feel about the opposite sex. Mackyla glared at me with pursed lips. Her round blue eyes moved away from me to glance behind me.  

“I told you she'd get a kick out of it.” Ella sang as she came prancing into the common room bare foot once again. How did I know those two would've talked about my date or lack thereof? Ella is optimistic but realistic. She's a good balance between Mackyla and I. Her appearance is ever changing. But she is usually seen sporting a pony tail and her thick black framed glasses.  

“You do realize you're going to be the only girl without a date?” Mackyla commented, reminding me for the hundredth time in exaggeration of course. For some reason my love life is very unsettling to Mackyla and she's willing to do anything to try and change that. I don't know why, I've told her before that I'm not interested in dating. Not yet. My education is my top priority. And I'd like to keep it that way.  

“I'm okay with that.” I admitted openly, giving my ray of sunshine of a friend a slight smirk and nod. Mackyla frowned at me as Ella sat down on the lumpy arm chair in the far corner of the room. Nobody liked sitting there but her. For the last six years it's been known as Ella's chair.  

“Anyways what do you care if I have a date or not? The last I checked neither did you.” I protested stubbornly. Mackyla scoffed at me and grinned from ear to ear as she lowered herself back into her chair.  

“I care because I'm your best friend and I want you to experience everything a normal 16 year old girl should experience. And for your information I do have a date.” Mackyla announced proudly as she crossed her arms over her chest and tilted her head back slightly. My eyebrow subconsciously arched in curiosity and confusion.  

“Really?” I quizzed in disbelief. There is no way she could've gotten a date already. This morning she complained about not having anyone to go with and now she magically had a date. Mackyla nodded happily.  

“Who? And when did this happen?” I asked unsure of if I actually wanted to know this information.  

“His name is Seamus Finnegan. And he asked me…” Mackyla trailed off as if the next piece of information was top secret. From the corner of my eye I saw Ella jump up from her chair and seemingly glide over to the table with a faint dreamy smile on her face.  

“Oh, have you forgotten already? Seamus and his friend Lee were just here.” Ella softly reminded. My eyebrows scrunched together confusedly. My gaze bounced between the two of them as if waiting for an answer.  

“How could they be here? It's after curfew, there are no boys allowed on these grounds after curfew.” I babbled on hopelessly. Mackyla and Ella looked at each other before turning their attention to me as if telling me otherwise. In that moment I jumped to my feet, nearly tossing the table over as I bounded across the cozy common room and up the stone stairs to the sixth year dorm room. Mackyla and Ella trailed behind me. The girlish chatter continued but now I could hear low male voices along with them. Just like I was afraid of, there were a couple of Hogwarts boys in the girl's dorm room, chatting away merrily. Once the girls caught sight of me their faces fell and became ghostly white. They knew they were in trouble. The small group of boys went to climb back out the window hastily. I drew my wand from its pocket in my robes and with an effortless swish of the wrist I confidently casted a spell.  

“Petrificus totalus.”  

And just like that the half dozen boys froze in their positions, most of them toppling over onto the floor. My gaze ran up from the boys to meet the girls' frightened expressions.  

“Oh, you lot are in trouble.” Mackyla teased from behind me as if she had no idea, she, too, was in trouble.

I made Mackyla and Ella watch the group of misfits while I went and got Ruttle House’s head teacher, Professor Fitzgerald. A feisty little Irish woman who was trapped in the 1800's mentality but meant well. There are few things she believes in and girls fraternising with boys after curfew is one of them.  

“Professor Fitzgerald has turned in for the evening! Come back tomorrow.” Said a painting of a cranky old man beside the Professor's door. I pursed my lips, knowing he was right, and she'd be less than pleased that I was knocking on her door at this time of night. But I knew what was right and what was wrong; those students need an appropriate punishment.  

Firmly, I knocked on the wooden door.  

“You little misfit! What did I just say?!” The painting crowed at me harshly before the Professor's door opened. The aging woman wore her purple house coat and rollers in her hair. She looked as though she was just about to go to bed when I disturbed her.  

“Miss. St Claire, what in heavens are you doing knocking at my door at this time of night?” The Irish woman questioned, obviously annoyed with me. I stiffened up and look at my head teacher sternly.  

“I apologize Professor, but there are some Hogwarts boys in the sixth year dorm room. I've apprehended them but you have to take them back to their school for proper punishment.” I informed her in a serious tone. Professor Fitzgerald’s green eyes widened as she staggered out of her room and followed me back to the sixth year dorm room.

“Oh dear, my poor girls.” She kept saying to herself as we walked. I bet she was under the assumption that the boys were testosterone fueled sex crazed beasts and the girls were sweet, innocent helpless maidens. I couldn't help but snigger at her beliefs. Poor Professor Fitzgerald, she'd keel over if she ever found out what goes on in Hogsmeade when she isn't looking.  

When Professor Fitzgerald and I finally made our way to the sixth year dorm room, the girls in question all bit at their nails and held their heads low. Professor Fitzgerald gasped when she saw the six boys frozen in place in the girl's dorm room. But her gasp was followed by a heavy sigh as she seemingly pulled her wand out of thin air and gave the empty space in front of her a tap.

“Regelo.” She clearly spoke, unfreezing the boys. They all fell flat on their faces with loud grunts. They quickly staggered to their feet in fear and shock. The six boys' faces paled when they saw Professor Fitzgerald standing there with her arms crossed over her chest.  

“Gentlemen gather your belongings. I will be escorting you back to Hogwarts.” She uttered to them, her green eyes never leaving them. I couldn't help the smirk that came across my face. These girls should know better than to have boys on school grounds after curfew.  

“Miss. St Claire, please go alert the other head teachers of the midnight stroll the Hogwarts boys have taken and meet us at the front of the castle.” Professor Fitzgerald ordered me with a tired but stern tone of voice. I jerked my head in one nodded then turned on my heel to go do what I was told, reluctantly. I just wanted to go back to studying but now I know that I'm going to have to go to Hogwarts as well to give my statement about the boys. It's going to be a long night for me. I went on to the other head teachers and told them to check the dorm rooms for boys. Professor Crilly found two in the seventh year dorm room for the Grantsmuir House. Professor Kingston couldn't find any in any of the Aurora House dorms and Professor Creature only found one boy in the girl's lavatory trying to comfort a hysterical sixth year from Seamus House.  

The dozen girls were escorted to the Head Mistress’s office to speak for themselves and their actions. And hopefully await punishment. Head Mistress Therese is good for being fair but stern. She's the daughter of the founder of this school. She prefers us to call her Madam Therese rather than Head Mistress.  

I watched, after standing at the front of the castle with Professor Fitzgerald and the ten boys being escorted back to Hogwarts, a straggle of girls coming from Madam Therese’s office with their heads hung low. Madam Therese was trailing behind them with her head held high.  

The trip to Hogwarts meant going through the vast hilly run-down foot paths that ran across the fields separating St Therese and Hogsmeade. Hogsmeade was practically a ghost town after dark, especially since He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named came back. It's very unnerving to know that the most powerful wizard of all time won't hesitate to kill me for no reason.  

This made me grip my wand a little tighter as we travelled through Hogsmeade. I knew the unforgettable curses and I won't hesitate to use them.  

Oddly enough, I was the only prefect to be ushered across Hogsmeade up to Hogwarts Castle. I found this very unfair. Just because the other prefects failed at their duties shouldn't mean I'm the only one to speak for myself.  

When we finally arrived at the castle there were a few people waiting patiently to greet us.  

“Madam Therese, it is a delight to see you as always.” Dumbledore greeted weakly. I could see something was wrong with his right hand, it was black and looked infected.  

“Yes, Professor Dumbledore, although it appears a few of your boys have taken a stroll and ended up in the girls’ dorm rooms.” Madam Therese said with a beautiful British accent. “-All the way over at my School.” She added for clarity sake. I stood tall beside my head mistress with my shoulders back and hands at my side. Although, I couldn't suppress the smirk that nudged at the corner of my mouth.  

“Well, why don't we go inside and sort this out.” Dumbledore offered as he gestured for us to go into the castle. I followed closely behind Madam Therese. A greasy haired man with a crooked nose intimidatingly strode behind the boys.  

We all managed to pile into Dumbledore’s office. There was tea ready and a fire warming the room. I hadn't realized how cold I was until my fingers, toes and cheeks began to burn with warmth. I sat by the fire with a cup of tea, sitting in the watchful eye of the greasy haired man who I found out was Professor Snape. The ten boys all gathered around the office with their heads hung down low.  

“As you know, my mother put in placed the terms that Hogwarts students, more keenly the boys, were not permitted to step foot onto St Therese grounds after 6 o'clock at night.” Madam Therese reminded Dumbledore in a strong tone. Madam Therese doesn't talk about her mother a whole lot. Nobody knows what happened to her. We know she died but not how she died.  

“Yes, I remember clearly having to negotiate with her as my first task as head master. She didn't want any of the Hogwarts students to interact with the girls of St Therese.” He smiled weakly at the memory.  

“I'm beginning to believe she was right to keep the girls secluded.” Madam Therese snapped coldly at the aging headmaster. This caused me to look over at the two heads of the schools. Dumbledore waved his frail hand at Madam Therese from behind his desk.  

“Now Ferox, there is no need to do that,”

“Is there?!” Madam Therese exclaimed hastily. “-This is the eighth time this year that Hogwarts boys have intruded on St Therese school grounds after curfew. How are they getting from Hogwarts to St Therese without being detected?” She angrily said to him. Dumbledore looked unsure of what to say or do. That's when something popped into my mind. I've heard whispers about secret tunnels leading from here to Hogsmeade. Why wouldn't there be a tunnel going from here to St Therese?  

“I have no idea either, Madam Therese. But we'll get to the bottom of this.” Dumbledore reassured calmly.  

“Sir,” Professor Snape interrupted. I nearly jumped at the sound of his voice. Everyone turned their attention to him.  

“Yes Professor Snape?” Dumbledore responded shortly. I looked up at the greasy haired man with a crooked nose and almost black eyes that danced with orange in the light of the fireplace.  

“Why don't we ask Miss. St Claire? If she's the one who found them then she must know about how they got there.” Professor Snape offered me as the sacrificial lamb. I felt ten pairs of eyes immediately fall onto me along with every adult in the room.  

“Yes, yes! Eliese speak up about your part in this.” Madam Therese agreed eagerly. I could feel my heart beating fast inside my chest. I was suddenly put in a very difficult position. I could blab about the secret tunnels and be the most hated student in both schools or I could say nothing and face potential punishment for lying.  

Madam Therese eyed me down strictly while Dumbledore keep a keen eye on me as if he was waiting for my response. I could tell the boys were silently praying that I don't say anything about the secret tunnels.  

I gulped down and straightened out on the comfy sofa in front of the fireplace.

“I…-I have no part in this. I was just studying in the common room when I heard boys' voices. I think they used the Projecto totalum charm and then climbed through the window.” I explained plainly, sparing all the details. I had a part to play as a prefect, but I was no snitch.  

[feynites]

♕: Holding hands and ♡: Accidentally falling asleep together for Squishvir (preferably cannon!Squishvir) if that's alright with you and if you're feeling inspired :D

Technically this is non-canonical (because their lives are not so kind in canon) but takes place in the canon setting rather than an established AU. Also, it came out NSFW, although all the platonic prompts are in there too. I hope that’s alright!

Uthvir’s hands do not invite holding.

Most of the time, they are covered. Scarlet gauntlets with claw-tipped fingers, sharp plating on the backs of their palms, edges that are liable to catch and scrape any unwary hands who do not know how to navigate their points. Even when they are not covered, however, they are still sharp. Narrow, with razor-edged nails, sometimes stained in the blood of their kills, or that of presumptuous rivals.

Uthvir’s hands hold weapons very well. But they do not need them to be dangerous. Their nails can tear through skin and sink into flesh, shred veins and gore eyeballs, rip throats or simply threaten too, as the corded strength of their muscles do the heavy lifting. Their hands can snap necks, catch swift-running prey, and summon up sparks of deadly dangerous magic.

They look as dangerous as they are.

Desire’s hands are plump. Soft flesh on each finger. Calloused from holding weapons of her own, and wider than Uthvir’s, but shorter, too. Her nails are round, more often than not. Her knuckles dimple, and her palms are paler than most of the rest of her. Wrinkling where they bend and curl and close around the stem of her goblet, or rest atop Uthvir’s own.

They can do damage. Ostensibly. Desire is a peacekeeper, after all. But Uthvir has never actually seen that. Only hints of it, in the surety of her hold on the haft of her hammers and axes, and the unwavering grip she can take on the ropes they like to wrap her in. When she wears gloves, they are usually fingerless. Soft and decorative, and sometimes she uses them to seal lotion against her palms, to keep her callouses from hurting.

Her nails are painted white, today.

She reaches for them, and easily laces her fingers through their own. Uthvir is not wearing their gauntlets. Their own dark nails stand out in contrast. Outside, the city is winding down the aftermath of a merchants’ ball. A celebration which lit up the market district, closed but to those influential enough to merit an invitation. Andruil had declined to make an appearance; Uthvir had only gone because they knew the peacekeepers would be there. Knew there would be a chance of finding a decent distraction, and possibly making a few good connections, too.

The daylight has long since fled, though. The revellers retreating to other forms of entertainment, making other kinds of ‘connections’. Though, all sorts can come in handy, especially for the merchants of the city.

Andruil keeps a rest house near the market district, for when her higher-ranking followers - or even she herself - need to do a lot of business there. It is not empty, but Uthvir can acquire a room there with little fuss. They walk with Desire, out of the shaded alleyway that they’d followed her to. Straightening the top of her outfit, a little, and some pins in her hair. Letting her hold their hand until they reach the street, and then they pull their own away again.

The Red Hunter does not hold hands, like a besotted lover taken in by a public bid for courtship.

They offer Desire their arm, instead.

She takes it. Easily navigating the points of their armour, unperturbed by the shift, as they make their way down the streets. Servants hurry to and fro through discreet paths, already working to clean up the aftermath of the celebration. The ball had been outdoors, spilling through the market square and the decorative gardens nearby, and there are discarded glasses and flickering runes, still fading across the streets. Not a well-planned event, Uthvir thought. There had been too little coordination, too much drink and not enough entertainment. Bored revellers had started spilling away from the party well before its end. 

Uthvir had watched them. Moving between points of contact. Veering close to the guards set up to ensure that poor planning did not result in vandalism or too much violence.

Desire sighs, and gives up the battle with her hairpins as they walk. She pulls them out, fluffing her hair with one hand, before sliding them into her belt. Her fingers tap against their arm. White nails on red armour.

“That was tedious,” she tells them.

“I am sure we can think of something more interesting to do,” they reply.

Her lips quirk.

“Of course we can,” she agrees. “But I am still dead on my feet. No acrobatics this time, hm? I lost count of how many circuits I had to do around the whole district. The managers came by the barracks to demand security before dawn.”

Uthvir raises their eyebrows.

“What for?” they ask. They have not heard anything particular about insurgents or unrest in the city of late.

“Thieves,” Desire explains, with a sigh. “Or imagined ones, anyway. The festivities got most of the merchants away from their storehouses at a predictable time, and for some mysterious reason, assuring them at all their officially recorded wares could be tracked did not seem to do much to assuage their concerns.”

Uthvir hums in understanding.

“One might imagine that some of them had unrecorded wares they were concerned might disappear without recourse, if they were feeling so bold as to make that accusation,” they muse.

Desire chuckles.

“Imagine being so bold as to ask peacekeepers to guard your illegal merchandise,” she agrees, lightly. “I am sure our merchants would know better. Still, Commander Victory has decided that the celebration was as good a time as any for a surprise inspection on several warehouses. To better guard the contents, you see.”

“Ah. And you were walking your circuits to make certain that the merchants and managers would see where ‘the peacekeepers’ were, I take it?” they surmise. Guards on the outside, and inspectors sneaking in through the back doors, no doubt. Tomorrow will be an interesting day.

Desire inclines her head.

“All down the main roads, in front of the big doors, chasing off would-be vandals and loiterers,” she agrees. “The last time I marched this much I was a foot soldier.”

Uthvir takes a moment to give her a more critical look-over. She does look tired, they concede. Some strain around the eyes, more visible now with her hair down, and her lipstick has faded somewhat - though they bare at least partial responsibility for that - and her steps are heavy. The weapon at her back seems to weigh on her more.

They veer up the path towards the market district’s housing segments, and head for the little stone-lined road that leads to Andruils’ property. Nestled next to a slightly larger building, where Falon’Din’s tradesmen keep their base of operations. Three of Andruil’s own merchants linger by the doorway, in varying states of intoxication.

“Hunter,” the least sauced of them greets Uthvir, with a nod.

“Try not to let anyone fall asleep on the lawn,” they advise. “I have a peacekeeper with me, and she will write up citations for public indecency.”

Desire snorts, and waves her free hand.

“Not if I do not see it,” she counters, and the merchants sag a little in visible relief. “Though if any of you feel like groping one another, at least take it to the bushes. Discretion is paramount to the city’s image, and so on and so forth.”

The merchant sighs.

“Mostly trying to work up the coordination to get in through the door,” he admits. “I doubt more misadventures are on the docket for today. Though, our lady should be pleased. We negotiated a new trade deal for iron from Lord Dirthamen’s lands. Much cheaper than what we had before, in exchange for first refusal of dragonbone from the northern hunting grounds. Heh.”

The merchant snickers, pleased, and one of his compatriots decides this is the height of humour, and keels over laughing. Uthvir recollects the distinct lack of dragons in the northern hunting grounds for the past three hundred years or so.

“Well done,” they permit, before at last drawing their soft, squishy peacekeeper inside with them.

Desire looks bemused.

“Merchants are bizarre,” she asserts.

“I take it you do not want to play a game of Bedroom Trade Negotiations?” they reply, heading down the carved halls, and checking the house’s records for an unoccupied room. Fortunately, there are some, which means they will not have to chase anyone else out tonight. 

Desire snorts at them.

“What? ‘Eat me out and I will pour hot wax on you’? That kind of a thing?”

“Hmm. Let me have at you, tied up, for an hour, and you can hold my hand again,” they counter, smirking.

“Oho,” Desire replies. Her grip shifts, sneaking down towards their wrist, as they make their way through the halls. They pause. The halls are not empty. Several doorways are still open, voices drifting up from occupied rooms, and there are a few merchants emulating their fellows over at the front door, only in the communal sitting areas instead. Desire’s hand moves to their wrist, and they wonder whether it would be more conspicuous to withdraw, or to simply let her have her way, and keep their countenance aloof enough to refute the image.

But they need not have worried, it seems. Because after a moment, she only drags her touch back up towards their elbow.

“I like holding your hand,” she whispers to them, with a wink.

“Easily pleased, aren’t you?” they drawl.

“Mm. In some respects,” she agrees, with a certain glint in her gaze that promises a little more challenge in the bedroom.

By the time they actually get there, however, she is leaning against Uthvir in a way that speaks more of exhaustion than arousal. They close and ward the door behind them, and let Desire rest her hammer at the door beside it, before moving to take stock of the chambers, and their supplies. The servants seem to have put everything in order. There is a bed, and a small resting couch. A carved hearth, and supplies in the supply cabinets, and water flowing from the small wash basin in an alcove by the door.

Desire eases off her armour, undoing the ties and sighing in relief as she frees herself from them. She strips without hesitation. Peeling off her boots and breastplate, shin and wrist guards, rounded pauldrons and shining thigh plates, belt, and then breeches, and tunic, until she is left in only a few small scraps of silvery cloth.

The sigh she makes is so profound in its relief, Uthvir can feel their own armour pressing a little uncomfortable against them in turn.

Not enough to strip naked, by any means. But after a moment, they take off some of the heavier pieces, and lay them next to Desire’s. Watching out of the corner of their eye as she heads for the bed, and flops onto it.

“I am not sure I can actually move again,” she admits.

They snort.

“I will move you, then,” they offer. Heading over, and taking a moment to admire the view, before they snake a hand beneath her and lift her up. She hums appreciatively as they settle her back down against the pillows, in a position more befitting of the bed.

Her fingers trail down the side of their cheek, and she spreads her legs a little further apart.

They accept the offer, and climb onto the bed, and settle between them. Respecting her obvious preference for little fanfare, this time, as they push aside her smallclothes, and tease their nails over her for a moment. They soften them in short order, though, and begin pressing their touch into her, as she stretches her arms up over her head, and sighs.

“Just head on in,” she tells them, wrapping her legs around them. “Go hard as you like, I only want to lie back and get fucked right now.”

She is wet already, at least, and not liable to be done much harm by it. Uthvir inclines their head, and undoes their own belt.

“As you like,” they agree.

She bites her lip, grinning, as they line themselves up and thrust into her. A little more resistance than usual, but the sound she makes is purely appreciative. Her hands move towards their shoulders, gripping their collar as they begin to rock in and out of her.

“Harder,” she tells them.

They slow down, smirking as she curses, and tightens her grip further.

“Contrary ass,” she accuses. And then gasps, as they take their time pulling out, only to thrust back into her hard enough to make the bed legs scrape on the floor. Her breasts sway. A few more thrusts like that, and they start to escape from their bindings altogether. Uthvir lets out a pleased purr, and reaches for the fabric; slicing the middle of it clean open with a flick of their thumbnail. Desire sighs appreciatively, and wriggles her way out of the scraps together. Clenching around them, the next time they thrust into her, and rocking her hips up to meet them.

They keep their pace slow and deliberate, though. Dragging their nails across her skin. Watching her flush and darken with their activities, as a few stray beads of sweat build up, and she breathes encouragements in between her moans. After a while her answering movements start to get less coordinated, though. Too tired. Uthvir takes her by the hips, claiming control over the whole moment, and angles her themselves. She comes not long after that. Tightening around them, pulling them downwards. They oblige her with a biting kiss to her lips, and accidentally slide out of her; and end up coming on the soft skin of her thighs, in turn.

She sags back against the pillows. Arms around their shoulders; and they find that they do not mind it, today. Her fingers trail into their hair, as she pulls them onto the bed beside her.

“Just give me a moment,” she asks. “Then we can really get to it.”

“If you would rather sleep, I can live with that,” they tell her. “There is always the morning, anyway.”

She laughs, breathlessly.

“I would rather never sleep,” she admits, oddly melancholic, for a moment. “I have no idea how so many people do it. Uthenera. Alone with your dreams for all eternity. I would rather just die, to be honest. At least there is a little mystery with that.”

Uthvir frowns, and pulls back a ways. Desire presses a hand over her eyes, and lets out another long breath.

“Death is no mystery,” they tell her. “Just a finish line.”

“Oh, and you are so sure, are you?” she counters, glancing at them from between her fingers.

They let out a breath of their own, and shrug.

“Perhaps not. But I would rather not gamble on it,” they decide. “The dead are gone, either way. The sleeping are not, but, most of them may as well be. Both fates are a kind of defeat.”

“I feel defeated,” Desire tells them. Quietly.

Not the kind of admission they think she means to make. They do not know how to respond. Sleep is more optional for them, but, they have never really known anyone to share their aversion to it. And they are not certain it is for the same reasons, either. Desire’s eyes look old, and she stills seems tired. For a moment, they are thrown by it. Unsure of how to proceed.

But then she runs her hand down her face, and turns towards them. Curling onto her side, as she presses into their chest, and inadvertently buries their nose in her hair.

“Just let me rest a bit,” she asks, again.

They settle a hand onto her back, and nod in easy agreement. She feels soft and warm against them, befitting the easy nickname they once bestowed on her; back before they knew her name. Desire. Like… the one they try not to think of, when they can. Old, stolen memories, of some things they would be glad to never experience firsthand, and one thing they know they never can.

They are not entirely surprised when Desire’s breaths even out, as she rests against them. Muscles going utterly slack, heart beating to an even tempo, as they close their own eyes, and let themselves rest a little, too. Desire smells like sweat and sex, and just faintly of vanilla. They shift, putting more of their back to the wall, and tucking themselves into their pants again. But she doesn’t wake, and after a while they drift a bit. Not quite dreaming. Not quite sleeping. Just listening to the world, and Fear’s whispers, and the living blood pumping through both of their bodies.

Their gaze catches on the golden detail work up at the top of the bedposts.

Owls hunting mice.

Desire sleeps until morning, and they are gone just before sunrise.

[forgedobsidian]

Off Beat

A MHA fanfiction. One-shot.

AO3

Summary:

Jirou knows what a normal heartbeat sounds like. She also knows that All Might’s heartbeat is wrong, and it’s a little scary.

Trigger warnings for: pain, medical stuff

Jirou can hear most everything if she puts her mind to it.

When her quirk had first manifested it had been difficult to sleep, her earjacks sensitive enough to pick up vibrations from the street outside her window. Everything had felt too close and too much and had given her nearly constant headaches.

With time, of course, she had learned how to block out what she didn’t want to hear. At first she had covered her earjacks in simple wax casings that she could remove whenever she wanted. Eventually she had worked her way out of the coverings, learning how to moderate and control her quirk. The sensitivity had dulled a bit with time, but she could still pick out familiar heartbeats in a room packed with people.

And ever since she had moved into the dorms with the rest of her class, their particular beats were becoming a sound for ‘home.’

Midoriya’s heartbeat was always slightly fast, unless he was sleeping. Tokoyami has a heartbeat and an echo, and for the longest time she thought she was picking up a heart murmur. She had asked about it, eventually, and learned that Dark Shadow had something of a heartbeat itself. Tsuyu’s beat was always calm and controlled, and Bakugou’s was strong. Kouda had a sturdy heartbeat, like Satou and Shouji.

She had memorized the heartbeats of her teachers, too. Mic’s was surprisingly slow for how energetic he was. Aizawa’s was always steady, while Midnight’s could go extremely fast. When it came to All Might . . . something was off with his heartbeat. It wasn’t as strong as it should have been, and it fluttered far too often for Jirou to be sure it was healthy. Still, he didn’t seem bothered by it, so she didn’t ask.

Jirou shook her head and cleared her thoughts.

She was sitting at one of the tables on the main floor of the dorms, working on homework and occasionally leaning over to help Kaminari in the seat next to her. Satou and Sero were both watching something on the television. All Might was sitting at a nearby table, looking over some papers with his reading glasses perched on his nose. A mug of tea rested by his elbow.

Jirou gave a sigh and looked over at Kaminari’s paper. The boy was clearly frustrated, and Jirou could see why. She pointed at his pencil and said, “You forgot to carry the nine.”

Kaminari groaned, but started erasing the problem back to his mistake. Jirou smiled. “Other than that, it looks good! You’ll have to talk to Yaoyorozu or someone to make sure, though.”

Kaminari shot her a thumbs up and hunched over his paper, eyes working nearly as fast as his pencil as he worked back through the problem.

Something clattered onto the table and Jirou looked up, her eyes falling to All Might’s face. He had gone pale, a pen slipping out of his suddenly slack hand. One of his eyebrows twitched.

Kaminari looked over, sympathy on his face. The students had grown accustomed to occasional increases in All Might’s chronic pain. He had told them about his old injury himself, and how it tended to get worse every now and again. To Kaminari everything seemed normal, and he turned back to his paper after concluding that All Might wasn’t about to keel over in his chair.

Jirou, though, could hear more. She knew it wasn’t the chronic pain. She tensed in her seat and gave All Might a frantic, questioning look, staring at his chest.

This was something else.

“Hey, Jirou. You okay?” Kaminari gently poked her shoulder.

Her breath was catching in her chest and she gripped the edge of her chair hard enough that the corners dug into her palm.

It’s his heart.

All Might’s heart was wrong. It was beating out of sync, either too hard or too light and it sounded fluttery and she could hear the blood churning through it too too quick and it was hurting him and . . .

. . . is this a heart attack? The thought was large in her mind even as her pencil snapped in her grip.

His heart gave a loud, shuddering thwump. All Might pulled in a shallow breath and rested his forehead on the table.

“All Might? What’s wrong?” Now Kaminari sounded worried, looking between her and their teacher.

Then, as quickly as it had started, his heartbeat evened out. All Might relaxed marginally, one hand coming up to rub at his chest. Some color came back into his face as he gave a wheezy sigh.

“All Might?” Sero looked over from the couch, his brows furrowed. Satou peered over his friend’s shoulder, eyes falling to their teacher.

All Might looked up and slowly leaned back in his chair. “I’m fine. Just tired, I think.” He winced and slowly shook out his left arm.

Jirou was trying to swallow the bile that had crawled up the back of her throat. His heart sounded tired and worn out, and while the beats had cleared up she could still hear the way the blood pushed itself through eddies and frayed tubes and -

Jirou quickly stood up and made a dash for the nearest bathroom, nausea churning in her gut.

Toshinori looked up as Jirou walked out into the commons, shuffling along in slippers and comfy clothing. Everyone else had left, worried about Jirou and wanting to give her some space. Toshinori had remained behind, wanting to stay close by just in case his student needed something. Her friends had brought a change of clothes to her, and she had taken a nap in one of the ground-floor rooms. “Feeling better?”

The girl gave a little jump when Toshinori spoke, and her hands fiddled with the edge of her t-shirt. “I . . . yeah, I’m better.”

He nodded. “That’s good. Do you know what was wrong?”

Jirou swallowed, and sat down across the table from her teacher. She seemed to be considering something, and eventually she looked up at him with a determined, if somewhat shaky, face. “I can hear heartbeats.”

Toshinori’s eyes widened, and he slipped his glasses up onto his forehead. “That’s quite the talent, young Jirou.”

She shifted in her seat, eyes skittering off to the side. “Yours is wrong.”

“. . . you’ll have to explain.”

She gave a look that seemed apologetic. “Remember a couple hours ago?”

“When you were sick?”

She nodded. “Your heart sounded weird, and I could tell that it hurt you. It really freaked me out. That’s why I threw up.”

“Ah, I’m sorry about that.” He leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful look on his face. “And what do you hear?”

“It’s . . .” Jirou frowned. “Your beat is all out of sync, and it doesn’t sound clear like everyone else’s.”

Toshinori nodded. “What you hear is called an arrhythmia, or an irregular heartbeat,” he said, gently moving the handle of his mug from one hand to the other. “On it’s own it’s a fairly common thing, actually. It’s just gets worse for me, sometimes.” He blinked and took a sip of tea.

Jirou nodded and looked down at the table. She frowned. “Why would it be worse? I can see how having a weird heartbeat could be bad, but shouldn’t it be fixed or something?”

“Well it certainly is something that should be fixed, but in my case there isn’t much to be done.” Toshinori kept his voice gentle, suddenly hyperaware of the beat he could feel in the inside of his wrist.

“. . . is it something you were born with?

He shook his head, and tried to keep his voice nonchalant. “I’ve been in a situation or two that actually stopped my heart, for a while.”

Jirou went pale and clenched her hands.

“When that happened my heart developed scar tissue, so that’s what causes my weird heartbeat.” Toshinori eyed what little tea was left in his mug. “For the most part it’s not a problem, young Jirou.” He shook his head and rested the cup on the table.

“That’s not what it sounded like.” Her voice quieted as she remembered the way his own heart had caused him pain.

Toshinori looked up, taking in her pinched face. With a sigh he reached across to her, resting one knuckly hand on her shoulder. “Thank you for being concerned. This isn’t like my old injury, though. It’s not something I have to consider everyday. Yesterday was weird, that’s all.”

Jirou hesitated, then nodded. Toshinori gave a smile and withdrew his hand. She was looking at the table, blinking slowly. She turned her head to the side. “. . . I thought you were having a heart attack.”

“Oh, young Jirou.” His voice was pinched with concern, and she heard him leave his seat to walk around to her. He pulled out the chair next to her and sat down, wrapping one arm around her back and giving her shoulder a gentle pat. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“I know,” she said, and gently hugged him back.

Jirou knocked on the infirmary door and walked into the room, a determined spring in her step.

Recovery Girl swiveled around in her chair, a kind look on her face. “Hello there! I heard you were sick earlier. Is everything alright?”

Jirou scuffed her feet on the ground. “I’m not sick or anything. I just . . . need to talk to you about something.”

Recovery Girl nodded and motioned Jirou to one of the beds. “How can I help?”

Jirou shifted on the bed, perched just on the edge. “It’s . . . about All Might.”

Recovery Girl raised an eyebrow. “What’s he gotten himself into now?”

Jirou gave a thin smile and shook her head. “Yesterday, when we were just hanging out in the commons, his heart started to sound funny.”

“His heart?”

“I can hear heartbeats.”

“Well, that’s certainly impressive.” Recovery Girl sighed and ran a hand down the head of her cane. “You said his pulse sounded funny. How so?”

“Well,” Jirou said, one hand idly playing with the edge of the bed sheet. “It started skipping really bad, and I could tell that it hurt him. I talked to him afterward, and he explained that his heart was messed up.”

Recovery Girl listened carefully, her expression neutral. When Jirou had finished she clasped her hands in thought. “Why did you come to me, if All Might already explained things?”

“I want to know if there’s some way I can help him. He said there wasn’t, but I just wanted to make sure.”

The healer blinked before an understanding smile bloomed across her face. “Good girl.” She dropped some gummies into Jirou’s surprised hand.

Recovery Girl leaned back in her chair, a thoughtful tilt to her brows. “Well, there isn’t much to be done, to tell you the truth. He’s already doing what he needs to in order to take care of himself. In terms of what you can do . . . I would recommend learning more about anatomy. Your quirk will come in handy in terms of medical emergencies, and my guess is that with enough knowledge and practice you’ll be able to identify problems very quickly in your future hero work.”

She pulled a small file from a nearby cabinet. “This is just a quick overview of what the heart does and how it works, but it’s really helpful in learning the basics. Doing research on your own will help too.”

Jirou took the file with a word of thanks.

“And you should talk to All Might about your project, too. He’ll be interested and eager to help, I’m sure.”

“. . . and then I came to find you.”

All Might looked at the file in his hands, one thumb catching on the edge of the folder. “Certainly sounds like you took matters into your own hands.”

Jirou jolted, worry growing between her eyes. “Is that okay? I mean, I know you can be pretty quiet about your health. I-if I overstepped, or something, I’m sorry.”

All Might laughed. “It’s the job of heroes to get involved in other people's business, even if it goes unasked for. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Jirou let out a relieved sigh.

“Though,” All Might continued, “I don’t know how much help I’ll be.”

Jirou started in her seat. “That’s okay. I just need to know, I think.”

He looked at her for a moment, his blue eyes staring into her face. After a moment he gave a satisfied nod. “You’ll be able to help a lot of people with this information, Jirou.”

She grinned. “Yeah, that’s why I so eager to figure it out.”

“Alright, then,” All Might said, a large grin on his face. He opened the file to the first page. “Let’s get started.”

Author’s Note: So this was inspired by @juustozzi‘s wonderful tags on my post here. Toshinori’s awful health will forever be something I’m interested in. 

I have a collection of one-shots that I work on whenever I need a break from my other projects. This is one I’ve had for a while, and I finally got it finished a few days ago. I don’t know when I’ll get the next chapter of ‘Aphelion’ done, but it’ll be a doozy ;)

Thanks for reading!!