#also this is actually starting now this time! i made all the needed graphics yesterday

[fifty-ten]

WELCOME (AGAIN) TO

THE SLIGHTLY-REVISED BRACKET FOR THE FIRST ANNUAL (AND PROBABLY ONLY UNLESS THIS IS FUN) POLL TOURNAMENT WHERE YOU GUYS GET TO VOTE ON WHICH EXTRA SET OF OCS I ADD TO ART FIGHT THIS YEAR

DETERMINE THEIR FATES! PICK WHO SOUNDS THE COOLEST, OR WHO YOU THINK WOULD BE THE MOST FUN TO DRAW!

(participant information under the read more)

Magical Girl PA•RO•DI - A trio of magical girls who have been tasked with saving the world from darkness. Their story is a pretty by-the-book magical girl story, until someone suggests that the antagonist moves his plans from "covering the world in darkness" to "completely rewrite reality". Characters that would be entered into Art Fight would be Patty, Roxanne, Diane, the mascot, and the magic baby.

Mermaid Lights! Lovely Recovery - A duo of magical girls, one a normal human and one a mermaid, are tasked with protecting all life on earth from a group that is trying to haphazardly mine the earth for all of its resources. Characters that would be entered into Art Fight would be Amber (human), Wave (mermaid), and their mascots.

Midnight Tear - a dark magical girl (in her twenties) who has entered into a contract with a demon, and now must kill whatever it wishes or else face the consequences. Characters entered into Art Fight would be Midnight Tear (Nana) herself and her demon partner.

Phoenix Girl Ashley - a normal everyday girl discovers that she's the reincarnation of a legendary hero known simply as The Phoenix. Now, she finds herself at odds with all sorts of strange magicians from all over the world. Characters that would be entered include Ashley herself and the phoenix hatchling in her care, Phoebe.

AviBattler - A hit mobile game of the fighting genre based off a cult-classic arcade game that was released over 20 years ago. No one knows who developed this new mobile version. Anyways, Avis are the characters in the game, who grow and change based on the player's fighting style and how they train the Avi. Characters that would be entered are Alex (main protagonist) and his Avi (currently unnamed)

PROJECT★Athena - In the not-so-far future of 2030, corporations run the world and robots are commonplace. 15-year-old Tally finds that her aunt has mysteriously disappeared but left her with a USB drive, which Tally uploads into an android she was building for a school project. The USB drive contains an AI with no memory named Pallas. From there on out, the two of them work to solve the mystery of Tally's aunt's disappearance and the truth about Pallas, whose AI is more complex than it seems. Characters entered into Art Fight would be Tally and Pallas.

Sinnohan Coordinators - a set of 5 Pokémon Coordinators from the Sinnoh Region. The main protagonist, Lila, has dreamed of being a coordinator since she was little, and has planned her path to Top Coordinator down to the smallest detail. But from the moment she meets her Piplup and starts traveling, she begins to learn a lot about the world and about herself. Characters entered into Art Fight would be Lila, Theo (friend/sometimes traveling companion?), Junji (main rival), Kiyomi (friendly rival), Oswalda (rival with problems), and Perry (rich boy rival)

Splatoon OCs - Pretty self-explanatory, they're the player characters/Agents from my Splatoon files. Characters that would be entered include Candy (captain), Sorbet (4), Sweet (8), and Gelato (new3)

[cattlemons]

hi, if you're okay with writing for him, wanderer x reader hcs? (it can be short and brief!!) /nf

The Archivist and The Stubborn Scholar

TW: Not proofread and the punctuations on this might be kinda yikes (tried my best tho), this particular big boy is 1,7k words big (very short and super brief (❁´◡`❁))

Hope you like this, my first ever nonnie! (I wanna frame you like a first dollar)

I feel like the Wanderer is kind of a tough nut to crack because his trauma wall is 100 inches thick.

At the beginning, he’s really just huffing and puffing and being a total jerk to you (and everyone else). To be honest, you’re just trying your best to tough it out and not cuss him out every chance you get.

Technically, he isn’t a permanent student of the Vahumana; he only comes in to borrow research papers he needs for his own paper and then he’s off again. So, there's no reason for you to see him all that much.

But aside from being a student, you’re also the Akedemiya’s archivist, so you do meet him fairly often. Not that you enjoyed his prickly presence at first. It was quite the nuisance, if anything.

Every time he comes in to borrow something, it feels like he’s purposefully trying to get a rise out of you.

He’s also frustratingly accurate in pressing your buttons; like he knows exactly what makes you tick and explode.

You want to chop his head off.

Luckily for him, you’re closer to Celestia than he is because your patience for him is on par with that of a saint.

“I need a paper on Tatarasuna, but I want it as recent as possible. The closer to ‘yesterday’ it is published, the better.”

Looking away from your own paper, you looked at him like he grew five heads, each wearing a big ‘ol hat. To your defense, you’re only four beats off.

“Look, I know you’re an honored guest of the Archon and only recently started joining in on this research writing business, but you’ve got to learn how we do things here,” you huffed as you searched for a written guideline you have not needed for a while now.

Pulling the paper out of your bag, you pointed and explained the graphic drawn on it.

“First, you go and find out which collection of research papers you need and ask me politely if we have it here in the archives. Then, I tell you if we have it or not before asking if you want it copied and if you need more assistance—”

“Okay, fine. I want Tatarasuna papers and assistance.”

“Please let me finish.”

“Why’d you stop talking if you weren’t finished?”

“You interrupted me?!”

That’s basically how an average conversation with him goes.

But as time goes on, the hate turns into dislike and then into pretend hate and finally into secret like.

At the start of his research, the visits are few and far between, but as the research starts getting heavier, his visits get more frequent too.

He also likes to work on the tables right outside the archival building for “quicker access to papers.”

This is not for the public, but he also kind of maybe perhaps secretly likes looking at the archivist.

He just likes looking at you when you’re confused about why the journal you’re reading is spewing lies. He also likes looking at you when you huff at your paper because the wording is all messed up.

Yeah, his sadistic tendencies were not wiped away when he pulled his stunt on the Irminsul. You can’t win them all, I guess.

Anyway, it’s all totally because he likes seeing you suffer. You’re on top of his “pain in the ass” list, after all!

Not because you look adorable when you scrunch your eyebrows in confusion.

Definitely not because he knows you didn’t get enough sleep last night (he heard your friend chastise you about it) and you made a bunch of mistake on your paper.

He DEFINITELY DOES NOT find your tired eyes and sleepy yawns cute (like a very angry cat he DOES NOT want to take care of).

But really, he actually believes in this reasoning. He simply thinks it's schadenfreude.

Man’s smart when scheming but dumb bum when anything else.

He does not catch on to his feelings all that quick. In fact, it took him embarrassingly long.

He had to do a lot of soul searching and experience a ton of jealousy to finally realize that maybe he likes you more than he hates you.

Or rather, he likes you more than he originally allowed himself to like you.

Oh no! It’s the consequences of having a heart because a heart isn’t an object but the accumulation of interactions that build the psyche and emotion! Darn, life lesson! (Wanderer, probably)

The Wanderer decided that he’s going to work on his paper in the archive building today. He’s not in the mood to sit in some shitty cafe and listen to incessant chatter.

Wow, he wished he had chosen the cafe instead.

“Hey! Who told you, you can just take a paper out of the archive and waltz your merry way home? Give that back. Right now!”

“I thought we were friends,” Kaveh mumbled in faux hurt as he stretched his hands out to return the paper to you.

“Archivist first. Friend second,” you huffed out, snatching the scroll of paper out of his hands.

The blond proceeded to clutch his chest and make a scene.

Sometimes you wish you weren’t such good friends with the man. At least then, he’d act civil.

Meanwhile, the Wanderer was watching all this from the front row seat; absolutely soaked with friendly-banter-that-he-misunderstood-as-lovey-dovey-affection. Your interaction with Kaveh spilled over into the splash zone of his seat in the archival building and he hated it.

In his mind, he came up with the conclusion that the heat in his heart is coming from a place of annoyance.

Why are you so loud at 7 in the fucking morning?

Why is the blond one also so loud at 7 in the fucking morning?

Why are you even entertaining guests this early in the morning? Didn’t you refuse him any service when he came this early a few weeks ago?

Why is this guy any special?

Somewhere much deeper in his mind, he thought differently.

I thought you were only grumpy with me.

You said ‘friend’ to him, right?

Why does that ease me slightly?

But you treat me like that too… Am I a ‘friend’ as well?

Why does that hurt even more?

After that moment, his visits get less frequent. When he does visit, though, he keeps things brief and… polite?

You even tried to start up a banter; mentioning something you know (on a normal day) would get his veins popping and kick-start a back-and-forth and then some.

To no avail, he stayed silent and just looked mildly inconvenienced.

This confused you to Celestia and back and then to Celestia again and then back again.

He’s honestly not too sure why he distanced himself from you in the first place.

But hindsight is 20/20 because after a much-needed self-evaluation session (by ‘self’ I mean himself and Nahida) he knows it’s because he doesn’t want a fourth addition to his list of major betrayals.

Not that he’ll actually agree with that statement out loud. But inside, he gets it.

Of course, this understanding is between his own person. You, unfortunately, were completely out of the loop.

You thought you had somehow pissed him off beyond forgiveness or crossed some kind of line.

At one point, you thought that the banter was, in a very weird way, flirting.

But maybe you got it wrong. What if he never saw you as a friend at all, let alone someone he might like.

You decided that if a relationship(?) friendship(?) has to die, then it’s going out with a bang.

*(bang = mutual understanding on what went wrong and peacefully going back to being strangers).

So, you visited him one day. Out of work hours too (mmmm how bold).

The knock on his door broke the puppet out of his cluttered thoughts; thoughts of a certain archivist he misses. Grunting as he stood, he closed the book he pretended to read in favor of opening the door.

“Who is it?”

He opened the door just as the ‘intruder’ reached to knock on the door again. He doesn’t know why you thought that knocking needed that much force but he’s certain it’s way too much.

Anger poked at him as he yelled, “That’s going to bruise, idiot.”

It won’t.

“I’m sorry, okay?”

“You should be! That hurts.”

It did not.

“Not about that! I’m sorry for whatever happened between you and me to make you hate me…”

The fuck?

“You don’t have to forgive me or anything. I get that you have some sort of past to make you that way and I probably overstepped somewhere but… I thought we were friends. I thought if you were to revert back to us being enemies again, at least you’d tell me why…”

The Fuck?

“Is it because you know I like you? If that’s the case, you’re not fully wrong but I can just throw that away because I know you’re probably not looking for something like that and that’s probably the bit where I overstepped and you know I’m not even fully invested in it so really I can just stop!”

The FUCK?

So much for mutual understanding. With how things are going, it’s more of an individual understanding.

You got way too nervous and now things are spilling left and right and he’s not even saying anything?! He’s just staring at you like you grew five heads, each wearing a big ol' hat. You took a breath to continue your long-winded mess of a rant when he clutched your shoulders.

“Stop for a second, will you, motor-mouth.”

You clammed up right away, tears leaking out of your eyes.

“Listen, I’m not going to ever say this again but I like you too. It’s shit and I hate feeling it because… because I’ve never felt before, okay? So, stop talking all that crap about throwing important things away, it's pissing me off.”

You fully started sobbing now. He panicked and pulled you in for a very awkward, very stiff, but very loving hug. Snot got on his robe and cape as you cried your emotions out on him.

He found he didn’t quite mind. He could use less snot, sure, but he was glad you cared this much over him. He's never had anyone worry over him, let alone to the point of crying.

Soon, tears prickled his eyes but it's alright because relief found his heart.

By the way, he did say it again. He said it 1,000 times before your eventual marriage and 5,000 more times but with ‘love’ as a substitute for ‘like’.

What a liar.

a.n. My first ever request and I’m so incredibly chill about it (lies I jumped and screamed slightly). Anyway, I’m not sure what you’d like to see so I made this about how you came to be the wanderer's partner. Send in another one if you want something more specific (I’ll literally smile and break my cheek muscles if you do).

[lives-in-midgard]

Fake it till you make it

Pairing: Yelena Belova x reader

Summary: After you lied to someone about dating Yelena, you ask her to be your fake girlfriend for the Avengers party.

Word Count: 1180

Request: Reader asks that because she told the guy who wants to date her she already has a date and she knows he would find out during the party that it’s not true. [See full request here]

Prompt 10: “Can you please pretend to be my date? Just this time.”

A/N: Thank you for sending me this request! I hope you like it.

Divider made by @firefly-graphics

Masterlist

Yesterday you came back from a mission with the Avengers and were now standing outside of the compound, enjoying the good weather. In about an hour there will be a meeting about the mission that you all successfully completed. Your friend and crush Yelena Belova will also come here for the meeting, and you are looking forward to seeing her again.

“Hey, y/n.” You heard someone say behind you. You turned around and saw that it was Bryan, a shield agent you had worked with a few times. At first, he was very kind to you, but after a while he started flirting with you and didn’t want to leave you alone even though you said you weren’t interested in going on a date with him.

“Hey, Bryan.” You greeted him, trying to be friendly.

“You look really beautiful.” He suddenly said and you made a step away from him.

“You know there is this Stark party on Friday and I thought we could go there together as a date?”

“Oh, I actually have other plans.” You said.

“Come on, this will be fun. We can also have dinner before the party, and I can show you my apartment later.” He said with a smirk, and you started to feel uncomfortable.

“No, I already have a date.” You suddenly said without thinking it through.

“You have a date? Who? I thought you were single.” He asked, not believing what you just said.

“Well, no, I’m dating someone.” You paused for a moment as you noticed Yelena driving over with her motorcycle.

“I’m dating Yelena Belova…she’s my girlfriend.” You lied, surprised by your own answer.

“You’re dating Belova?” He asked and you nodded.

“Yeah, you can see it yourself on Friday.” You immediately regretted what you said because how can you ask Yelena to be your date?? You have to go there with Yelena, otherwise he wouldn’t believe you and probably won’t leave you alone.

“Okay, I’m curious.”

“I have to go.” You said and walked away. You went into the compound and searched for Yelena. You had to ask her as soon as possible. You quickly found her in the living room talking to Natasha.

“Hey, Yelena, can we talk?”

“Sure, what’s up?” She said with a smile.

“Can we talk in my room please?” You asked and Yelena looked at Natasha for a second and then went with you your room.

“Is everything okay?” Yelena asked nervously.

“You know that there is this Stark party on Friday, right?” You asked and Yelena nodded. Then you had to pause because you didn’t know what to say next or how to explain that you need her to pretend to be your girlfriend.

“I... I “ You started, but weren’t sure what to say.

“Hey, what’s wrong, you’re scaring me.”

“I need you to be my date on that party and pretend to be my girlfriend.” You quickly said and Yelena was confused.

“Could you please be my fake girlfriend?” You said and when Yelena didn’t say anything, you got nervous.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Can you please pretend to be my date? Just this time.” You said and Yelena thought about it.

“Okay, fine, but you have to tell me why.” She said and you told her everything, starting from the day that shield agent started making you uncomfortable. Yelena listened and got mad because of this Agent wouldn’t leave you alone. She promised to play your girlfriend, so he would believe it.

The time passed quickly and suddenly it was the day of the party. You and Yelena meet before the party to discuss the do’s and don’ts, so that neither of you would feel uncomfortable.

You walked down the stairs with Yelena next to you, feeling a little nervous. Before you went to join the others, she looked at you with a smile and reached for your hand. When Yelena took your hand, you were no longer nervous. You actually felt so safe next to her.

When you entered the room, everyone was already in party mode. Everyone was dancing, singing or had a drink at the bar. Everyone had fun and enjoyed the time. As you and Yelena walked to the bar where Natasha was, you saw Bryan looking at you and Yelena. Yelena noticed where you were looking and when she saw Bryan, she suddenly cupped your cheek and kissed you softly.

“I think he believes it now.” She said and you got a little sad because she only kissed you, so he would think you’re dating.

“Yeah” You said and walked over to Natasha.

“Wow, you two are taking this fake dating very serious.” Natasha said with a grin.

“Of course, we do.” Yelena said and Natasha chuckled. You sat next to Yelena, holding her hand and sometimes she kissed you on your cheek. After sitting there for a while, you started to feel sad because you and Yelena are only going to get so close tonight.

You asked for a drink, then for another one and after a while you were drunk. You were laughing and started singing along to the song that was playing.

“I love this song.” You shouted and Yelena chuckled.

“Let’s go dancing. “ You said to Yelena, but she shook her head.

“No, let’s stay here.”

“Why?” You asked, making a sad face. She wanted to answer, but then you saw Steve behind Yelena.

“Heyyyyyy Steve!” You shouted and waved at him. Steve smiled and waved back at you.

“Sestra, I think you should take your girlfriend to her room.” Natasha said as you rested your head on Yelena’s shoulder.

“Yeah, I think that’s a good idea.”

“Come on, let’s go to your room.” Yelena said to you, stood up from the chair and reached for your hand. You took her hand with a smile and walked to your room. Once you were in your room, you sat down on your bed and started to giggle.

“What’s so funny?” Yelena asked curiously, sitting next to you.

“Isn’t it funny how I asked you to be my fake date?” You said and Yelena looked confused.

“I think it’s funny, especially since I have a crush on you.” You said and then went quiet.

“What did you just say?”

“Oh no, did I really just say that?”

“I’m so sorry, I understand if we can’t be friends anymore.” You said and looked away.

“Of course, we can still be friends and maybe we could even be more than friends.” Yelena said and now it was your time to be shocked.

“What?”

“I’m in love with you.” Yelena confessed and you started to smile.

“How about we kiss again, but this time for real?” Yelena asked with a grin, and you nodded.

Looks like asking Yelena to be your fake date wasn’t such a bad idea. Otherwise you wouldn’t have confessed that you love each other. You’re glad that you finally know that she has the same feelings for you.

Taglist:

@marvelogic | @yelenasdiary | @youralphawolf72 | @buckys-wintersoldier

[allthingsfangirl101]

Cupid's Little Helper - Keys

I walked into the office, unfazed by the hearts and the cupids everywhere. Valentine's Day at a company like Soonami was a lot like Valentine's Day at an elementary school. Everyone wore pink and red and brought little valentines for everyone. There was also a huge party that started at 2 and didn't end until people went home.

Soonami takes holidays very seriously.

I laughed when I saw the look on Keys' face. I walked over and leaned on his cubicle.

"Why is my favorite coder so pouty?" I teased. I was one of the only people at our company who knew what Keys was actually good at. I often went to him for help fixing a coding issue.

"I'm fine," he said shifting in his seat.

"Keys," I elongated as I pulled a chair over and sat next to him. "Spill it."

"There's nothing to spill," he said very unsuccessfully. He turned back to his computer to look distracted.

"Is it Valentine's Day?" I suggested. "It's just a stupid holiday."

"A holiday that makes you feel like shit for not having anyone," he mumbled.

"You know," I started carefully, "it could also be seen as a great day for you to confess your feelings."

"My feelings?" He asked as his head snapped toward me.

"Yeah," I shrugged. "It's kinda obvious."

"Is it?" He asked, his voice dropping.

"Little bit," I teased. "You come into work already distracted. And every time you get a text, you jump. Is it that one girl? Your old partner?"

"Millie? You think she's the one. . ."

"Of course. I mean, who else could it be?"

I didn't give him a chance to answer me. I turned on my heels and headed to my desk. I sat down and instantly started going through the complaints Keys went through yesterday.

Before I knew it, the Valentine's Day party was in full swing. I ignored it and continued fixing the problem I'd spent the last three hours trying to get rid of. I continued ignoring my surroundings when someone knocked on my desk.

"Come on, Y/N," Keys chuckled. "The party started an hour ago."

"I'm aware," I said with little to no emotion.

"Y/N," he sighed. I pouted when my chair was dragged away from my desk.

"Keys!" I pouted. I spun around and crossed my arms over my chest. "I was still working on that complaint that you sent me. . ."

"I know. I know. I know," he chuckled. "You never stop working, but it's the Valentine's Day party."

"I thought you hated Valentine's Day," I chuckled as I stood up and walked over to the drink table.

"I do," Keys said as he followed me. "Doesn't mean I can't appreciate a party."

A little while later, I wasn't sure where Keys had disappeared. I made myself not care and focused on talking to some of the girls from the graphic design department.

I was in the middle of getting myself a drink when someone walked up to me. My heart felt weird when I turned around and realized it was Mouser instead of Keys.

"You know," he said, overly confident, "your nickname should be Smooth. . ."

"Don't finish that sentence," I cut him off. "Mouser, how many times have you asked me out?"

He opened his mouth to say something, but I didn't give him the chance. "And how many times have I rejected you? So add up those and use that number to help you figure out whether or not you should continue to ask me out."

I started to walk away but he grabbed my wrist. "Come on, Y/N," Mouser scoffed. "All I'm asking you for is one dance."

"I don't really feel like having you grope me to a Rhianna song," I said, trying to tear my hand out of his hold.

"But Y/N. . ."

"Hey, baby," I gasped when Keys wrapped his arm around my waist and kissed my cheek.

"Are you guys. . ." Mouser didn't finish his question.

"Yeah," Keys cut him off. "And you are still holding onto her."

Mouser jumped when Keys ripped his hand off my wrist. My heart felt weird again as Keys let go of me and slowly moved me behind him.

"You really need to work on understanding the word, 'no', Mouser. You hear it enough," Keys said.

"I didn't know. . ." Mouser stuttered.

"Walk away, Mouser. Now."

I held my breath, not letting out a sigh of relief until Mouser walked away. The second he was gone, Keys turned toward me.

"You okay?" He asked.

"Yeah," I said, my voice weirdly quiet. "Thank you, Keys. You didn't. . . You didn't have to do that."

"Of course I did," he shrugged. "What kind of guy would I be if I let Mouser hit on you?"

Awkward tension suddenly fell between us. I nervously started ringing my neck as Keys opened and closed his mouth.

"I should. . ." I started.

"I'm sorry," Keys laughed awkwardly. "I shouldn't have kissed you. I just. . . I saw Mouser not leaving you alone and then he grabbed you. . . I just thought. . . Maybe kissing you wasn't the right route."

"I think it was," I cut him off. That tension thickened even more between us.

"You do?" He stuttered.

"Yeah," I said, my voice dropping. "I mean. . . It worked, didn't it?"

"Yeah," Keys chuckled. "It worked."

I cleared my throat as I added, "You better stay by my side the rest of the party. Just in case, you know, in case Mouser sees me."

"He should think that we're together," Keys said, catching on.

After that, we hung out the rest of the night. The more we did, the harder it was to get rid of the weird feeling in my heart. Around nine o'clock, the party was finally starting to wind down.

"Well," I sighed. "I think I'm gonna head home. We still have work tomorrow."

We stared at each other for a minute before I finally broke the contest. I looked away and pretended to check my watch.

"Thanks again, Keys," I whispered. I sent him a smile before beginning to walk away. I didn't get very far away. I gasped when my elbow was grabbed and I was quickly spun around.

The second I was facing whoever grabbed me, they leaned down and smashed their lips onto mine. When I realized it was Keys, I closed my eyes and started kissing him back. The second I kissed him back, neither one of us held back anymore.

"Keys," I gasped when we broke the kiss.

"I'm sorry," he quickly started to explain. "The truth is, I have a really big crush on you, Y/N. I have for a really long time. And when I saw Mouser hitting on you. . . It was stupid. I know that. I guess you could say I got swept up in all the hearts and cupids and the party and. . ."

I cut him off by grabbing his face and pressing my lips back to his. He let out a small chuckle as he instantly started kissing me back. He wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me closer.

This time, Keys broke the kiss. When he did, he leaned back and looked deeply into my eyes.

"I know it's Valentine's Day and kinda late," he said, his voice soft, "but would you like to get a drink? Or maybe go to dinner sometime?"

"I'd love to," I said, my face burning. Keys smiled as he reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, his hand lingering on my face.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Y/N."

"Happy Valentine's Day, Keys."

[daydream-believin]

Like a Boiled Frog (you don't even scream) [Ch. 4]

[ start here!] + [next chapter]

Chapter summary: first day on the job. fazbear employees get free pizza. and here comes the boy

Warnings: if you didn't know what the word yiff meant im sorry, innuendo (unrelated to the yiff conversation), wait guys come back. i promise the yiff line is only like a "let me give you a tidbit of cursed knowledge" thing. just trust me. lmao

Word count: 4066

A/n: oopsie looks like i never properly put this up on tumblr lol sorry. ch 5 is basically done, just needs editing. it'll be out tomorrow maybe

Taglist: @spirit-of-the-hollow (sorry bout that wait, but hey, there won't be a wait for the next one if that helps)

“First off, you need to meet the band,”

“Okay…” you let Michael lead you into the dining room.

It’s now officially your first day here at Fazbear Entertainment. Strangely, those two other employees Mike mentioned were not here, just like they weren’t here yesterday. Thus, you were beginning to suspect he had been lying about their existence. Guess you’ll see tomorrow, when the restaurant officially opens to the public.

“The leading man is Bucket Bob,” he pointed to the mop bucket sculpture.

“Hello Bucket Bob.”

“Mr. Can-Do on the side,” he pointed to the garbage can with a balloon head.

“Hey I’m not sure I’m comfortable with him after what you said yesterday—“

“And my personal favorite, No. 1 Crate,” he waved to the sculpture with a flourish.

“Hello, No. 1 Crate,” you grinned.

“Together, they are ‘Trash and the Gang’.”

“Uh huh. Okay. Did you,” you tried your best not to giggle about this, “did you also make these all by yourself, Michael?”

“Yes, I did, thank you. I think they are a perfectly adequate placeholder for the band until Uncle Henry finishes the real animatronics,”

“These are trash sculptures,”

“They are fun and silly and great for children’s entertainment.”

“At least there’ll be Helpy,” you glanced towards the back room in which the little robot resided in for now.

“If he works…,” Michael grumbled as he left to go gather some papers from his office.

“He’ll work,” you fruitlessly called after him.

Sitting at the centermost table of the dining hall, you stared into the drawn-on eyes of Bucket Bob. You had the best seat in the house, after all. Perfect view of the entertainment.

You were warming up to them. They were silly and fun. Just not what you expected to be here at the infamous Freddy’s. And Mike made them, which was cute. Even if he obviously reserved his real talent for work on Helpy.

Still. Maybe y’all should put up a sign, a very big sign that’s hard to miss, that says “these characters will very soon be replaced with the real ones you actually associate with this place,” or maybe “Freddy’s gone on vacation, he’ll be back soon” so as to not ruin the magic. But seriously, that needed to be clearly stated if Mike had any hope at getting people to come back after the festival.

The kids might like No. 1 Crate, but you doubted the parents would…

Michael dumped an armful of promotional material on the table in front of you. You straightened your back,

“Like I said, Uncle Henry hasn’t finished the main four yet, but you’ll still need to know their names,”

He slapped down a poster onto the shiny surface of the table. There before you was a colorful lineup of four mechanical anthro characters and the slogan “Where fantasy and fun come to life” in a nicely shaped font. You could appreciate the retro design and artwork. Back when graphic design was good.

“That’s Freddy,” you pointed to the bear in a top hat nervously.

“That’s right Y/n, very good,”

At least you knew that.

“Do I get a Scooby Snack?”

“No, but I can go grab a handful of loose cheese real quick if you need that kind of incentive,” he snarked.

“That’s alright, I’m good…”

Looking down at the poster, you had this weird feeling in the pit of your stomach, but it was familiar, like an old friend. Didn’t make it a pleasant feeling in the slightest. It seemed like each time you came across this bear, the worse you felt.

Freddy’s smiling face was a beloved sight of many southwestern children, so you don’t know why his grin just made you feel like he wanted to hurt you. Must be Michael’s awful gory stories getting to your head.

Moving on, you sized up the rest of the half-body mascots, “now, who are these other bitches,”

Mike pointed to the blue— purple— blurple rabbit, “this is Bonnie,”

You clicked your tongue, shaking you head, “Oh, I’m going to slip up and call that thing Bunny all the time,”

“You just need to remember it for a couple days, it’ll be fine. Bonnie,”

“Bonnie,” you repeated.

“The chicken is Chica,”

“I see, because we have to make sure everyone knows she’s a girl to reassure them that whatever muppet relationship she has with one of the others is strictly heterosexual,”

Michael stuck a finger in the air, very excited at a chance to tell you that you were wrong, “Actually no! The only relationship we’ve established is in fact a loving gay partnership between Freddy and Bonnie,”

“WHAT,”

“See, because Freddy was Uncle Henry’s walk-around suit and Bonnie was Father’s. And those two were totally shagging,” he stage whispered this fact to you like it was hot gossip.

“Oh my god,” ah, the intrigue of old man yaoi, “so what, real messy divorce lead to your dad snapping?”

“No, the messy divorce was because of my dad ‘snapping’, as you put it,”

You placed your hand on his shoulder very seriously, “Okay, I need deets,”

“No,” he pointed towards the poster to bring your attention back to it, “We need to get back to work,”

“Come onnnn, you cannot just put out a hot steaming pot of tea and only let me have a sip.”

“Nope, work time,”

You put on the thematics, “Im dying of dehydration here, Mikey!”

He scoffed at the nickname, but didn’t tell you off this time, “Maybe later, okay?”

“Fine. Tell me about the pirate guy,” you crossed your arms, pouting.

Michael chuckled, “That’s my favorite. Foxy.”

“Oh, okay. That one should be easy to remember,” you tapped your finger on the face of the fox on the poster, “What makes him your favorite?”

“Because pirates are hella sick and foxes are objectively the coolest animal on the planet, with a range that spans the entire northern hemisphere, because the universe knows they’re totally righteous and deserve to be everywhere,”

“Wow,” so, an animal that’s both European and American, interesting, “It’s cute how you talk like Bill and Ted if they were a pleasure to have in class,”

He didn’t pay any attention to you and your bad flirting (if that’s what you call it), too busy having a staring match with the poster. He crossed his arms, holding them tighter against his chest. Some kind of comfort thing, you guessed.

“Foxes eat rabbits for breakfast, you know. They’re tough like that… Top of their food chain. Rabbits are nothing but weak, scared prey.”

Okay. Curious thing to say. Not sure what he meant by that. You followed his line of sight back to the poster. Was his dad the rabbit or the bear? You hoped it was the rabbit. Probably going to be a toxic work environment if he’s fighting with Henry.

Looks like things are getting a little introspective. While you’re at it, might as well get in some quality annoying Mike time. Because why be uncomfortable when you can be funny.

“…is Foxy also gay or?”

“No comment,”

Suspicious. Kay. Marking him down as possible bisexual disaster.

“Is he your fursona?”

“Is he my what?” his brows furrowed.

“Your fursona,”

“I— gesundheit?”

“… Do you have like, any concept at all of what a furry is?”

Micheal clenched his jaw, “No, I cant say I do?”

“Okay then. This can be a teaching moment,” you started grinning wide like a cheshire cat, and Mike just knew this was going give him the nastiest headache.

“Fine. Tell me while we hang the posters up,”he growled at you as he gathered up the papers from the table, along with handing you a roll of tape, “Come on, let’s figure put where we’re putting these.”

———-

Last night was a bit awkward, but at least you’ve got a roof over your head. You tried your best to be quiet on the ride to Michael’s apartment, but you could only keep your mouth shut for so long.

You tried not to annoy him, as he was currently opening up his home to you. For now anyway. You knew you weren’t the most pleasant person to be around, but at least that seemed the case for him as well. It was kind of comforting. You both seemed get along swimmingly but also easily push each other’s buttons at the same time.

In your defense, it’s not like the radio was playing anything good. The only non-mormon station was a top 40’s hits, so you were stuck with it. At least, that’s what Michael said when you started fiddling with the knob.

“So like, how does being a zombie work? Do you have to eat a bunch of chocolate so you don’t crave brains? Like Venom?”

“No. I don’t really have a stomach. But it’s fine. It’s not like I’m hungry or anything,”

“Hmmm. And you own a restaurant?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“You wouldn’t know if your food’s good,”

“Oh, it’s Not. I don’t need to eat it to know that,”

You chuckled, “Great. Love your confidence in your business. I should invest on ground floor,”

“Oh, trust me, Fazbear stock is totally going to go sky high soon. It would be smart to just put your whole life savings into it. You will surely not regret investing in Fazbear Entertainment,” he said sarcastically, with a sardonic grin to match.

The house was modest but actually really nice. Like. It was small and probably only had one bedroom, but that wouldn’t stop this thing from going for $600,000 nowadays. Maybe more, considering this was a tourist trap town.

“So like. I’m guessing you got this place before the housing crisis, huh?” you asked as he fumbled with the lock.

This was a pretty quiet neighborhood. There were scarecrows and pumpkins already up decorating stoops. You wondered if Michael knew any of them or if he avoided neighborhood barbecues like the plague.

“Oh yeah. Signed this mortgage in 2010,”

“Damn. That’s smart. And there I was stupidly doing my homework instead of becoming a real estate mogul,”

“Hindsight is 20/20,” he opened the door and ushered you inside.

Once inside, Mike flipped on a light that flooded the entire area in front of you.

“Wait,” he commanded.

He held up a hand, and you took your cue to stay behind him. The first thing you noticed about the interior of the house was how open it was. His focused glowing eyes scanned the room cautiously. And you guess he didn’t find whatever he was looking for, since he put the hand back down, and shuffled out of the hallway, expecting you to follow.

“So, here’s the couch,”

You nodded, taking in the piece of furniture in front of you that was to become your new bed. You weren’t expecting the green floral pattern, didn’t think Mike would be the type of guy to have an old lady’s sense of interior design. But this thing is probably ancient. Maybe he got it half-off at a Salvation Army in 1992 or something.

Michael removed the cushions, starting to transform it into a bed.

“Oh, it’s a pullout.“

“Comes in handy occasionally,”

“Co— OOF”

He had thrown a throw-pillow (pun not intended) at you, hitting you square in the stomach. But effectively shutting you up.

“Shut up,”

“You didn’t know what I was going to say,”

“Yeah I did.”

You let your eyes wander over the room, getting used to your latest temporary home, as you helped Michael set up the bed. His decor style was pretty mid century modern, beyond the couch, not that you were complaining. It matched the vibes of the place, clearly having been built in the 70’s. The wallpaper and shag carpet were charming and probably original to the house from the evident wear and tear.

He kept it tidy, by the looks of it, but the kitchen table was still covered in mechanical parts and a stack of books. Suppose he didn’t eat, so that was more his desk than anything. There definitely wasn’t any food in those cabinets, just books, which you could easily see because they had had their doors removed. Nothing could hide in those things. It reminded you of…

There was a glass door behind that table, letting blue moonlight shine through. But he had covered the thing in chicken wire, effectively barring anything from getting in or out if the glass was ever broken.

Off to the right was a hallway with three doors. One of those was probably the bathroom. You’ll ask Mike which it is once y’all are done with the bed. Because you needed a shower yesterday.

You looked over to Michael, who was staring at his kitchen. You followed his line of sight. There was no hum from the fridge, it probably wasn’t even turned on.

“We can go get some groceries tomorrow morning. So you don’t starve,” he looked apologetic, “I don’t really have anything here,”

“That’s okay. I wouldn’t expect you to, unless you had…” you fumbled for a non-offensive word because ‘normal’ definitely wasn’t it, “…not-dead people over all the time or something,”

Michael went and opened one of the doors in the hallway, revealing it as a closet. He had a substantial amount of bedding in there. Guess even zombies like to be comfy in cozy blankets.

“I don’t. Uncle Henry stops by every now and then but he brings his own food when he does,”

You fiddled with the quilt he had handed you as he dug around for a fitted sheet, “So… No partner? Or kids, or… anything?”

He laughed, “I’m a corpse, Y/n. Who in their right mind is going to be in a relationship with me,” finally having found the fitted sheet, he piled into onto the stack you were holding, “And if I had kids I’d be sending them to a boarding school as far away from here as possible.”

“That’s. Probably reasonable. The kids thing at least.”

“This door’s the loo, by the way,” he opened the door on the left to show you as y’all carried the blankets back to the couch-bed. Guess the one on the right’s his bedroom, through process of elimination. You wondered what a zombie’s bedroom would look like, but you got the feeling he wasn’t exactly going to give you a tour.

“All right, let’s finish this up, shall we? I didn’t get to sleep today since somebody was passed out on my floor,”

“Literally not my fault here, man,” you rebutted as you took the other end of the fitted sheet from him.

Not gonna lie, it was hard to fall asleep at first. New place, new spaces to feel uneasy about, new shadows to keep an eye on. Thankfully Mike seemed to be of a similar mind, and had eliminated a lot of points of worry. But despite this, you were still lying in a big open area with limited visibility. The darkness enveloped you like a thick blanket, tucking you in for the night, but being swaddled was never a good thing. A loss of motion, a loss of autonomy, sometimes suffocating.

Suffocating. That was the word. This darkness was oppressive.

You willed yourself to close your eyes and at least try to drift off. As uneasy as you felt, Michael had probably made it worse by demonstrating that he was sleeping with one eye open, so to say. At least he had obviously taken thorough steps to minimize danger in this space, the pale grid pattern shone onto the walls from the moonlight serving to remind you.

You took a deep lungful of air. This place smelled like a workshop, with motor oil, cigarette smoke, and gasoline being among the scents you could pick out. A comforting aroma then, almost like home. You tried your best to focus on that.

———

“And yeah, so fox furries are so common that the term ‘yiff’ just took off to mean any furry porn at all no matter what species. Anyone can yiff, theoretically. Which is kinda inspirational, when you think about it.”

Michael stared unblinking at the poster of Foxy y’all had just out up. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it. After looking at the floor for a few moments, he tried again,

“…I think we need to go take a little time to teach you how to make pizza. You’ll be working the kitchen as well as the dining room,”

And he marched off towards said kitchen. You followed like a puppy. While we’re in the spirit of talking about furries.

“So no comments, then?”

“I think I’m just going to pretend you didn’t say.. any of that to me. The whole conversation. Strike it from the record.”

“That’s. Completely fair,” you admitted as you ducked through the door he was holding for you.

“We’ve actually just been working in silence this whole time, didn’t you notice?”

“Must have spaced out,”

The kitchen door swung back and forth a little before closing. The hinge squeaked. That was going to get real annoying real fast.

“Okay, this is probably going to be the most exhausting part of either of our days, so let’s get this over with,” Michael grumbled.

You looked around the sparse little room. There was a refrigerated shelf stacked with dough balls in preparation for tomorrow’s grand opening. Hopefully you don’t ruin too many of them and have to spend all night here because Mike would have to make up for the lost dough.

“Start with dough, right?” you tentatively asked.

“Yeah, here, I set out one of the large ones earlier, since that’s the most common order,” he handed you the ball of dough he retrieved from the counter, after dipping it into a bowl of flour. You gingerly took it. Shit. How do you do this again?

“Um,”

“Here,” he took it back from you, placing it on the counter, “give me you hands,”

He opened his palms expectantly and you didn’t hesitate to place your hands in his. He turned his wrists, coming on top of your hands to hold them. It’s been a while since you’ve had skin contact, and you kinda hated how you couldn’t think about or feel anything else momentarily. Not now, brain.

“Now, first we’re going to divide the crust, like this,” you watched intently as he gently guided your fingers in a circular pattern, poking the dough ball.

“Your hands are cold,” you teased.

“Sorry,” he apologized but kept his hold on you, “now we’re going to stretch it out like this for a bit before “tossing” it,”

Michael guided your hands in an arcing pattern. He let go before gently picking up the dough to lay over a closed fist, stretching it out and moving it with the other.

“Like this, right?” you carefully watched Michael’s movements like there was going to be a test later, “now put up your dukes, it’s your turn,”

“Uhh,” you nervously did as Mike said, and he unceremoniously dropped the dough onto your hands.

You followed along, trying to replicate his actions. You actually weren’t half bad at this. Or at least you haven’t broken a huge hole in the disk yet. Thank god, because Michael watched you intently, and you were kinda feeling some performance anxiety with him over your shoulder like this.

“You’re a natural,” He continued to focus on the movement of your hands, relieved that this wasn’t going as bad it did with the last trainee, “Think we can try throwing it?

“Oh no. Unn-uhh. Do Not let me do that. It’ll be on the floor in record time.”

“Eh, this is Fazbear’s. You can just pick it back up.”

You looked a little disturbed, “That’s a joke, right?”

“Of course it is,” he patted the top of your head with his flour covered hand. Probably got a white handprint on there now. Gee thanks Mikey.

There on the counter were common food prep stainless steel containers with various pizza topping, and a big vat of sauce.

“What kind are we making?”

“Anything you want. It’s your lunch and dinner.”

“Do we have pineapple?”

“No,”

“I see,”

Michael took the ladle of that red stuff that was supposedly tomato sauce, pouring a few scoops onto the now properly sized dough disk, “So, we want about 4oz of sauce for a large, and thankfully the ladle is 1oz, so it’s easy to measure,”

Should you be taking notes…

Michael shifted the ladle to his other hand, grabbing your wrist with his now free dominant hand, and put the ladle in your grasp. And then he didn’t take his hand off of yours, guiding you to spread the sauce evenly. Completely unnecessary. You could spread things with a spoon just fine on your own, thanks. But your head felt fuzzy with him holding your hand, so you didn’t protest. Just how it be sometimes.

“And we want an even layer of cheese while also using as little of it as we can,”

You tried hard to mask the disappointment of him finally letting go of you in favor of grabbing a handful of cheese. Time to be jealous of (checks notes) some probably-fake shredded mozzarella.

“Man, this is a real classy joint, huh?”

“The classiest in town. Fuck Jeff,”

“I don’t personally know Jeff but yeah, fuck ‘im,”

You exaggeratedly held up your hand for a high five. Michael rolled his eyes but did indulge you. Even if it was the most half-hearted high five ever.

“So normally we put exactly fifteen pepperoni on a large pizza, but you can have one or two more this time,” he said with an inhumanly big fake smile.

“Wow, I feel soo special,”

“Very special, indeed,” he said sarcastically as he tapped his finger to your forehead. Asshole.

——-

You weren’t entirely sure about just leaving the pizza in the beat-up old pizza oven that Mike probably got from an unclaimed freight store, but he assured you it would be fine. And if you’re working both kitchen and floor then you have to leave them unsupervised anyway. Only a 20% chance of something catching on fire. It’s fine.

You watched as Michael tinkered with Helpy. It didn’t matter if he could get the robot working tonight or not, y’all needed to clear this table for customers to use.

The cutesy little white robot with his little pink cheeks still stared lifelessly on. Michael had wired and re-wired a bit for quite a while to no avail. It was actually getting kinda really frustrating, even as spectator.

Well, the pizza’s done anyway…

It was in fact mediocre at best! Good thing you like trash pizza because you got the feeling you were about to be eating a whole lot of it. Fazbear employees get free pizza, apparently. But Mike told you not to tell the others that. Maybe you are special after all.

“Oh good! Just in time, come here,” Michael called to you when you reappeared in the doorway, slice of pizza hanging from your mouth.

Guess he hit a breakthrough while you were gone?

“You ready? Moment of truth,” he rambled as he flipped a switch.

He held his hands frozen in the air, ready to put out any fires or catch any parts flying off. You both held your breath.

The robot came to life, the lights in his eyes quite literally lighting up.

Phew.

A curious one already, Helpy looked all around the room, taking in his surroundings. Guess he had an AI. Funny, you hadn’t taken Michael for a programmer. Maybe he was more tech-savvy than he let on.

Like a child, Helpy motioned for Mike to pick him up, which he gladly did. The little robot embraced him, and Michael awkwardly patted his back. Father and son. Adorable.

Reminded you of The Madonna, the way Michael gently held Helpy to his side. Hopefully that comparison stays with that.

The robot then turned his attention to you, and maybe it was scanning you. You had no clue the extent at which this thing was programed.

“Hi Helpy,” you waved to the bear, who waved back at you, “He works, Mike,”

“He works!” Michael’s grin was as wide as could be, “Welcome to the world, Helpy.”

[sunflowervolvimp3]

from eden: I

A/N: alright SO!! if you were around in summer 2020, then you know I started planning and writing a witchrry au that got pushed to the back burner when drea and I began collabing on you're someone I just want around. that fic quickly took over our entire lives, and every other story got put on pause, including this one. flash forward to present day, where after finishing one degree, moving, finishing ANOTHER degree, and beginning a career in my profession, I finally have a bit of time to write again!! I'm so excited to FINALLY be able to share witchrry with you, as well as my first OC on here. I haven't officially written in...a long time, so I apologize if I'm a bit rusty. but any and all feedback is greatly appreciated!! letting content creators know that you're enjoying their content helps motivate us to create more 💌 I really hope you enjoy this story and these characters, because I have a lot planned for them!! someone asked me yesterday if this story was going to be fluff or if it was going to get twisty, and the answer is always, ALWAYS twisty, so I hope you stick around to see it 💌 also!! i would like to give a big thank you to drea for creating this beautiful banner and story dividers (graphic design is not my passion)!! go give her a follow @adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy if you haven't already!!

masterlist : askbox : read on wattpad

word count: 15.7k

content/warnings: YOU get mommy issues!! and YOU get mommy issues!!! EVERYONE GETS MOMMY ISSUES!!!!, an overwhelming use of hand imagery, the normalization of talking to pets as if they can respond, Harry doesn't understand how to use figures of speech, drugs: just say no, time to meet the man of your dreams (literally), Rowan "well mark me down as scared AND horny!" Frances, and the beginning of a journey to see how many references to Practical Magic (1998) can be made in each chapter.

When Harry first stumbles through the door of the shop, the rain pounding on the roof is reaching biblical proportions, and Rowan is convinced that the universe is playing some sort of cosmic practical joke on her.

If the day, which had just entered it’s thirteenth hour, hadn’t already been bad enough—if she hadn’t already spilled coffee down her front, staining her favourite ivory shirt and forcing her to change; if she hadn’t already misplaced her favourite pen, the one with violet ink that glides so delightfully over the countless inventory forms she has to fill out; if she hadn’t already knocked over a flower arrangement that had taken two hours to construct and two seconds to destroy, shattering the sea-glass green vase that she had waited three weeks for in the mail; if none of that was enough—she had forgotten to flip the sign on the door to say that her floral shop was closed for lunch (which, because of her rush this morning, would be her first actual meal of the day), and now there is a soaking wet stranger standing in her doorway, who is shaking out his sopping hair with an urgent glance around the store, and his eyes settling on Rowan with unspoken need.

The moment she heard the bell of the door tinkle from his disturbance, Rowan had turned toward the entryway, a strained smile pasted to her face before she even made eye contact with the stranger. “I’m sorry, sir,” She says, her voice barely meeting sorry, and edging more on irritation with every passing moment. “But we’re actually closed for lunch. You can come back at two, if you’d like.”

The man—who is dripping all over her freshly cleaned hardwood floors, she notes wryly—looks up at her with a raised brow, as if he’s surprised to find that there’s someone inside the small shop. Perhaps he’s just flustered from being caught in the storm, Rowan thinks, because it’s clear that the rain has soaked straight through his thin army jacket and maroon knit sweater, and is coating his entire being in ice, right down to his bones. The rain had come on rather quickly; Rowan recalls hearing the sudden thundering outside just after she had shattered the beautiful vase. It makes sense that the man looks like he hadn’t been expecting it. In fact, he still looks rather unmoored as he runs his ring-covered hand through his sopping wet chestnut ringlets once more, his hunter eyes darting another round over the store before refocusing on Rowan.

“I’m very sorry to disturb,” Rowan is surprised to hear the silky British accent that slips from his raspberry mouth, the hue matching the ruddiness of his cheeks—a sure side-effect of the freezing weather in which he’d found himself caught. “But I’m in a bit of a hurry, and I was wondering if you had any yarrow flowers.”

Despite her mouth already open to inform the man that, once again, her shop is currently closed, his incredibly specific request makes Rowan pause. Yarrow flowers are hardly a popular arrangement choice for someone who’s annoyed their partner—which she assumes this man has, given the hurry that he says he’s in. Normally, when men show up in her shop with a desperate look on their faces and urgency in their voices, they’re searching for flowers such as roses, calla lilies, daisies—things known to bloom for love. Yarrow flowers, with their small clumps of pastel petals offset by long, wiry stems, hardly match that description. 

The curiosity peaking inside her chest, more than anything else, is what prompts Rowan to change the response that’s resting on the tip of her tongue. “I, um, may have some in the back,” She says slowly, as if feeling out the words as she utters them. “I use them as fillers, sometimes, in arrangements. I can…check for you, if you’d like.”

The man visibly breathes a sigh of relief, his face relaxing just the slightest bit as his shoulders slump beneath his soaked clothing. “That would be lovely, thank you. I’d really appreciate it.”

Rowan nods again, giving the man one last look of pensive confusion before stepping out from behind her (messy as usual) desk to make her way to the back of the store to the workshop. As her shoes echo against the wooden floor, she wonders if this is a smart idea; should she be leaving a strange man with even stranger requests unattended in her shop? Should she be turning her back on him while walking towards a private back room that contains multiple objects of the heavy and sharp variety? Objects that she’d hate to see catalogued by a forensics team when her body is eventually discovered with a pair of gardening shears protruding from her chest? 

Reaching the half-opened door of her workshop, Rowan pauses in the frame just long enough to glance back over her shoulder at the man. With her promise to check her inventory for his requested flowers, he’s allowed some of the tension to slip from his body, and is busying himself by extracting a leather journal from an inner pocket of his jacket to thumb through. No, Rowan decides as she studies his furrowed brow and focused gaze. The man, albeit a little strange, isn’t a potential 48 Hours suspect; he’s just a little frazzled by the unexpected events of the day, a feeling to which Rowan can relate. And perhaps, if she wasn’t as frazzled as she is, she would have noticed the peculiarity of the man’s entire person being soaked while the yellowed pages of his leather-bound journal remain completely dry. 

Or maybe she wouldn’t have. After all, she’d spent her entire life ignoring the irregularities around her. What’s one more anomaly to turn a blind eye to?

Rowan doesn’t bother to close the door behind her, knowing that she’ll only be spending a few minutes inside her slightly chaotic workshop. The long wooden table and decorating stations are just as she left them an hour ago—meaning they’re covered in tissue wrappings and loose, wilted petals, with clipped leaves and discarded stems littering the floor below her—and she bypasses the mess to pull open the heavy insulated door that leads to her freezer.

She shivers as she steps into the refrigerated room, pulling her cable-knit cardigan tighter around her shoulders as she begins to scan the alphabetized shelves. Rowan’s eyes quickly scan one label to the next until she finds the little label that says “yarrow” in her neat writing on the lower half of the second metal shelf, nestled neatly beside a pile of violets. There are only a few of the little white flowers left in her stock, enough for about two small bunches, so Rowan removes both from the shelf before stepping out of the freezer and shutting the door tightly behind her to preserve the other flowers that are stocked away.

Clutching the two miniature bouquets in her hands, Rowan nudges the door of her workshop open a bit more as she passes back under the frame, picking off a few browning petals from the blossoms. She wishes the blooms were fresher—it wouldn’t be easy for the man to make amends for whatever he had done if he showed up with wilted flowers. Still, Rowan thinks as she flicks the dried petals to the ground, it’s better than nothing, and hopes that the small bouquets will be enough to appease whoever the soaked stranger had managed to piss off. 

“I found a couple bunches, and I wasn’t sure how many you needed, so I brought both—” Rowan stops short as she enters the front of the shop again, expecting to find the man near the door where she had left him, but finds only a damp spot on the wood where he’d dripped after his entrance. “Hello?” Confusion settles into her voice as she tentatively steps forward again, her gaze sweeping the perimeter of her shop.

“Oh, thank you,” The voice emerges from around the corner and behind a shelf of succulents, making Rowan half jump in surprise, and a small and shocked gasp leaves her mouth as the curly haired man steps out from behind the greenery.

“Oh—!” She clutches the flowers to her chest, taking a deep breath and releasing a strained laugh at her own over the top reaction, the sound both an apology and a nervous tic that’s lingered from childhood. “You scared me.”

With his emerald eyes tinged with regret, the man offers a peacemaking smile that borders on a grimace as he peers at her from the aisle. “I’m sorry,” He says slowly, his voice accented with sincerity as he presses a tattooed hand to his soaked chest, as if needing to catch his own breath as well. While it’s the movement that originally catches Rowan’s eye, it’s the tattoo inked into his skin that keeps her attention—it’s a strange symbol, resembling nothing she’s ever seen before, and yet…something about the crossing of lines and gentle curves of ink seems familiar. 

Shaking herself out of her thoughts with a quick jerk of her head, Rowan offers a smile to the man in return for his apology. “It’s fine,” She eases her tone to match the tilt of her lips, holding out the previously requested flowers to him. “Will these be enough for you?”

The man’s strawberry lips rise to mirror Rowan’s smile as he gives a gentle nod, relief and gratitude dancing through his sea glass irises. “Yes, thank you. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Oh, it’s no problem,” Rowan waves off the praise with a casual flick of her hand before beckoning him back towards the counter, doing her best to ignore the strange spark of pleasure in her belly upon hearing the stranger’s praise. “C’mon, I’ll just ring you up at the front.”

The man follows her to the front of the store, his polished shoes squeaking against the floor with every step and keeping his presence in her peripheral thoughts—as if Rowan could forget it. Reaching the counter, however, provides her with a familiar sense of comfort that she didn’t realize she’d been craving until the mahogany bench is between their two bodies. It’s strange, though, she thinks as she curls her fingers around the edge of the counter, drumming them once against the wood before beginning to ring in the flowers on her tablet that’s housed on the front counter. Despite the distance bringing her comfort, there’s a distinct sense of lack that comes with the separation; her eyes flicker to the stranger in front of her once again as she sets the bouquet of flowers onto the tissue paper lying in front of her. The brunette man is searching for his wallet in his rain drenched pockets, extracting a misted phone and the surprisingly dry journal from his jacket in his vain efforts. His eyes flicker to hers in apology, his smile growing back into a sheepish lilt as he clutches the objects within one hand while still searching with the other.

“I know I have it—somewhere—” He mutters, his drenched locks curling into his eyes as his head drops back down to examine his clothing. “Sorry, I’m usually—a little more organized than this, I swear—”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Rowan offers the usual method of banter she employs with customers, in which she just agrees and relates to anything they say to put them at ease. It’s a little fake, to be sure, but what isn’t fake about customer service? It’s not like she can roll her eyes each time someone makes the “it must be free!” joke when her debit machine takes a moment to boot up. “It’s been a strange day for everyone, I think. I spilled coffee all over myself, knocked over arrangements…and then to top it all off, the weather began to act up, when it had been so nice for the last few days.”

Cocking his head to the side, the stranger considers her small talk for a moment—which is more than most customers have ever considered her in her life. The curiosity of his gaze ignites that unfamiliar feeling again, once more making her contrastingly thankful and remorseful for the mahogany barrier between them. “Yes, it has been strange,” Despite the lightness of his tone, Rowan doesn’t miss the way his eyes shift a hue darker as he speaks. “Certainly seemed to come out of no—got it!”

The florist watches as he triumphantly extracts a brown wallet embossed with a marking she doesn’t recognize (a brand logo, perhaps? For a company more luxurious than she’s used to?), tucking the rest of his items back into his jacket with one swift motion. 

“Wonderful,” Rowan means every syllable of the word as she begins to key in the purchase on her tablet, her expert fingers tapping away as relief flows through her body, both from having a new center of attention, and knowing that she’ll be able to really take her lunch break soon. “I’ll ring those in for you—” 

 “That’s an interesting marking,” The man interrupts her focus with the offhand comment, and when her gaze snaps up to him once more, she finds him nodding to the door of the shop as his ringed fingers open his wallet. “Do you know what it means?”

Rowan tears her eyes from his flushed skin to where his own gaze rests, settling her sights on the top of the door frame, where a black hand painted symbol sits in stark contrast with the white of the walls. “Oh, it’s just something my mom used to draw all the time,” She explains with a shrug, dismissing the symbol as her eyes turn back from the familiar six petal flower wrapped in a circle to the questioning man in front of her. “She used to say it was for protection of homes, so when I opened the shop, I figured…well,” Rowan offers a sheepish smile in return for her superstitious explanation. “New York can be a dangerous place. It can’t hurt to have extra protection, right?”

Not for the first time, an undecipherable response flits through the man’s hunter eyes, but it disappears just as quickly as it appears, before Rowan can make anything of it. “Right,” He agrees quickly, his nod more serious than it had been a moment before. “You can never have too much protection.”

Although his words echo the very phrase Rowan just spoke, something about his cadence of voice gives the simple saying a double meaning. The florist ponders it for a moment, her eyes searching the stranger’s as much as she dares, but decides it’s best not to pry. It’s not her place, really. She doesn’t know this man, and she doubts he’d bother to recommend her shop to anyone he knows if she tries to interrogate him over his expressions.

Clearing her throat, Rowan decides it’s time to change the subject, and refocuses her attention to the task at hand. “So, um—” She glances back down at her tablet, forcing herself to remember her usual spiel with her customers. “I’ll just need your name for records—your first name, if you don’t mind. It just helps me with counting and keeping track of stock.”

“That’s no problem,” The tone of his voice flips back to something more casual with ease as he rakes a hand through his damp curls once more. “My name is Harry.”

“Harry…” Rowan quickly types the simple name into her inventory logs before setting her tablet down on the counter. With nimble and practiced fingers, she begins to wrap the yarrow flowers in tissue, but Harry interrupts her with a shake of his head.

“Actually,” He gives an apologetic smile—something he seems to do a lot, she’s noticed (not that she’s noticed much about him, she tells herself). “I don’t need any wrapping for them; I’ll be using them right away, and I’d hate to waste the tissue.”

“Oh,” Rowan’s movements pause at his request, and she removes the flowers from the wrapping carefully before handing the bouquet to Harry. “Are you sure? It’s still pouring, and the rain will ruin them…”

The stranger—Harry, she reminds herself—waves away her concern with an unbothered flick of his hand. “Yeah, it’s alright. I’m going to be pulling apart the blossoms anyway.”

“You’re—” Despite the majority of this interaction being the strangest she’s had in a long time, this is the first comment of the man that’s made Rowan pause completely. Were these flowers not a gift for someone, like she’d originally assumed? “What?”

“I needed yarrow blossoms for a little…project of mine,” The molasses-like speed at which Harry utters the words gives Rowan the impression that he’s choosing them very carefully, and the florist can’t help but wonder what explanation pertaining to flowers would ever need to be so carefully considered. “Normally I keep a stock of them, but I ran out last month and forgot to order more, and I was in the middle of my project by the time I realized…” As if realizing he’s beginning to ramble, Harry offers another shy tilt of his lips before laughing lightly at his own antics. “Well, anyways, I don’t need the wrapper. But I really appreciate the help; I know I kept you open past your usual hours.”

The strange—albeit rambling—explanation leaves Rowan speechless for a moment as she debates whether or not it’s worth questioning Harry more about his project—what kind of project would so urgently need yarrow flowers? What kind of project would be worth running out into this increasingly raging storm, soaking oneself clean to the bone just to retrieve the small bouquet currently clenched in Harry’s hand?

A project that’s none of your business, Rowan tells herself firmly. None of your business. “It’s—don’t worry about it,” She straightens her spine in resolution, mimicking his earlier action of waving off concern as he sets a twenty dollar bill down on the counter. “Oh—no, it was only twelve dollars, actually—”

“Keep the change. As a thank you.” Harry tucks his wallet back into his pocket, as if his soaked jacket could do much to protect the object from the rain. “Oh, by the way—” His jade irises brighten once more as he extracts his tattooed hand from his pocket, holding out an object to Rowan in offering. “I found this on the floor—meant to give it to you…”

Grasped between his long, lithe fingers (that she is not staring at. Not in the slightest.) is Rowan’s favourite pen—the one with violet ink that glides so delightfully over the countless information forms she has to fill out. Her mouth drops open as realization lights up her face, and she retrieves the pen from him with a new and genuine smile painted on her lips. “Oh, I’ve been looking for this! It’s my favourite.” Clicking it once as if to test if it’s working, Rowan regards the soaked man with newly warmed eyes. “Thank you, Harry.”

Harry’s expression molds to match her own the moment their eyes meet, and he tucks the flowers under his arm before sheathing his hands within his pockets. “No need to thank me, Rowan. I’ll be seeing you soon.” His shoes click against the ground as he retreats back to the front door, casting one last glance at the floral symbol painted over his head before pushing the barrier open. “Stay dry, alright?”

Rowan nods automatically, repeating the phrase back to him as she waves goodbye with her pen still grasped between her fingers. The moment the door closes behind him, her previous hunger returns with more insistence than before, turning her stomach and effectively erasing all aspects of the strange meeting with the reminder that she needs to walk upstairs to her apartment to find something to eat.

It’s not until she’s sitting at her kitchen table, her cat sprawled languidly across her lap as she takes a bite of her cobb salad, that she realizes she had never told Harry her name.

…

“Oh, Christ—Butternut!”

The ginger cat scatters from underneath Rowan’s feet as the girl manages to catch herself on the edge of the kitchen counter, using the fern green cabinets to support her weight as she regains her balance. With one hand still holding the cat’s plastic food dish, Rowan uses the other to push herself away from the counter with a roll of her eyes, and resumes walking to the corner of the small kitchen to set the food dish down in its regular spot as Butternut watches from beneath a kitchen chair

“There you go,” Rowan sighs in exasperation as Butternut scurries from his hiding spot to the dish she’s just set down, and begins to feast on his wet and dry mix while Rowan brushes her fingers over his soft auburn fur. “You have to learn how to be patient, you know that?” She murmurs with a quirk of her brow. “You’d think after ten years, you’d have figured that out.”

The cat meows in response at her between bites of his food, and Rowan smiles softly as she gives one last stroke to his plush fur before straightening herself up and grabbing her mug of tea from the kitchen counter. It takes her the usual three steps to reach the small living room of her apartment, and she sets her mug on its usual spot on the coffee table as she grabs her journal from the couch, where she’d left it that morning, just as she always does when she realizes she’s running late for work. She’d hoped that owning her own flower shop would have cured her of her perpetual lateness that had plagued her childhood, but it seems that her lack of punctuality is just one of the many traits she’d inherited from her mother, in addition to being one of her least favourite traits she’d inherited from her mother.

“What did you get up to while I was at work today, Butternut? Anything interesting?” Rowan asks, only half-rhetorically as she picks up her mug again once settled into the couch. “Any important business I should know about?”

Rowan receives the usual meow in reply, and she hums thoughtfully in the back of her throat as she takes a small sip of tea. The boiling liquid scalds her tongue just the way she’s grown accustomed to—another trait she picked up from her mother, who had had a habit of setting down her teacups and promptly forgetting their existence for the better part of an hour. Drinking the piping hot liquid immediately, Rowan had learned the hard way, saves her the disgruntlement that comes with discovering ice-cold tea three hours after she’s made it. 

Blowing over the steaming mug, Rowan watches as Butternut continues to munch on his food. “I thought as much,” She replies to the cat seriously, giving Butternut a stern look as he continues to eat his food and pay her little regard. “I told you to stay away from Mrs. Piper’s cat, didn’t I? We both know Zipper is a bit of a heart breaker, and I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

Butternut squeaks out another meow, this one sounding more indignant than the last, which Rowan greatly appreciates. It’s easier to talk to the cat without sounding crazy, she rationalizes (as she has hundreds of times before), when the cat’s responses vary in tone, as if he can actually understand her.

“You’re a glutton for punishment, you know that?” Rowan clicks her tongue as she opens her journal, reading over her messily scrawled entry from that morning that she had barely managed to finish. “I’m just trying to look out for your best interests, and—”

A tapping sound from outside the living room window interrupts Rowan’s one-sided conversation, and she twists her head towards the source of noise with curiosity sparking across her face. When the tapping occurs again, sharper and more insistent this time around, Rowan stands up urgently, nearly spilling her tea in her haste to set down the mug and walk the short distance to the window. Although she can’t see anything that could have caused the noise when she arrives in front of the pane, Rowan’s curiosity is still unsatisfyingly unsatiated, and she quickly flips the latch on the window in order to push it open, the half-rusted mechanics squeaking in protest as they always do before she leans out towards her fire escape. 

With half her body now hanging out of her living room window, Rowan swiftly scans over the familiar view of Greenwich Village. Having lived in the Village her entire life, Rowan has to admit that there’s a satisfying, pleasurable comfort in her stomach every time she looks at the skyline of the neighbourhood. It’s a feeling of home, she thinks, as well as belonging, and she knows that she could never find anywhere else quite like it. There was a reason that her mother chose this as the place to settle down after moving from London; she had always told Rowan that the city called to her, even from across the Atlantic Ocean, like a siren stringing her towards her deepest desires. And when Rowan has the honour of watching the orange autumn sun sink down in the sky, staining the tops of buildings in a burnt glaze, she feels the same call. And, in a perhaps more easily explainable way, the Village reminds her of her mother. She’d never be able to leave it, even if she wanted to.

A now familiar tapping pulls Rowan from her admiration of the city she’s called home for her entire life, and the young woman cranes her neck to the left just in time to settle her eyes on the source of the sound, her brows creasing together in bemusement as she does so.

The crow perched on the edge of her fire escape has to have the blackest and shiniest feathers that Rowan has ever seen. The onyx tone of its wings is accented by the golden light of the setting sun, which sparkles in the creature’s knowledgeable eyes. Knowledgeable, Rowan observes, because the crows eyes seem to meet her own, both with purpose and some sort of recognition. 

Rowan cocks her head to the side as she engages in the staring contest with the bird, her state of mind growing more and more confused and unsettled with every passing moment. Were crows known to be the kind of bird that stared back at you? She wondered, her mouth opening and closing as she pondered the question without speaking it aloud. And were they not skittish? Rowan had made enough ruckus as she opened her window that she would have thought the bird would have long flown away by now, and yet, its piercing black eyes continue to stare back at her own. It’s ridiculous, and she knows this, but Rowan can’t make herself look away. Who loses a staring contest to a crow? She scoffs internally, leaning a little further over the ledge of her window. She refuses to be the first to blink. Surely it’s not that hard to outlast a bird; after all, she’s the one with a brain bigger than a ping bong ball. She can outlast a bird in a staring contest. Not that any sane person would ever actually challenge a bird to a staring contest, of course, but Rowan is sure stranger things have happened. And, furthermore, she’s not the one who started this. If anything, the bird challenged her—winning the imagined contest is a matter of honour.

And then Butternut jumps out the window, effectively breaking her perfect concentration, and sets all hell loose.

If Rowan hadn’t been so distracted by the crow’s strange behaviour, she would have remembered the dangers that come with leaving her window wide open as she had. Part of the reason the old mechanisms had squeaked so much when she yanked the fixture open was that she—save the few times she’d burned something while cooking and had to air out her apartment from the smoke of her failed dinner endeavors—very rarely opened the window more than a crack. Just as Rowan has a long list of troubling habits, so does Butternut, and one of those habits includes jumping out of open windows and giving Rowan a heart attack. 

The young florist had discovered this habit the first day she met him when she was twelve years old and found him wandering the streets of New York. His burnt orange coat had been speckled with mud and dirt, grown long from what seemed to be months of a lack of attention, but that hadn’t stopped her from scooping the surprisingly pliant cat into her arms and carrying him home to her mother. She’d been prepared to beg and plead on behalf of the animal and her right to keep him, but as it turned out, that hadn’t been necessary; all it took was one look at the poor creature, and Winnifred began to fill the copper sink with hot water and soap to bathe him. Rowan had been delighted at her mother’s acceptance of the new pet—until said pet jumped from the counter and out their kitchen window, which had been open to release steam from the soup Winnifred had been making. To this day, Rowan remembers peering out the window with horror as Butternut scurried along the ledge outside of their sixth floor apartment, and how she’d had to coax him back to safety with strings of shredded cheese. As terrifying as it had been, however, Rowan had learned her lesson—if Butternut is in the room, windows have to be closed. There had been a few close calls over the years, but never anything as bad as that first day, when she thought she would lose her new friend before she’d even had the chance to truly befriend him.

Until now.

The moment Butternut’s paws meet the rusted metal of the fire escape, he bounds after the crow, leaping for the ledge of the fire escape before Rowan can even absorb what’s happening. The crow, however, doesn’t have the same processing delay that she does, and flies away before the cat can sink a claw into his shiny feathers. Unfortunately, Butternut has always been determined, and by the time Rowan has scurried out through the window and onto the fire escape, Butternut has already begun bounding down the rusted metal steps and onto the street below.

“Fuck—” Rowan curses loudly, nearly tripping over herself in her hurry to clamber back from the window ledge and into her apartment. Grabbing only her keys from the catch-all table by her door, Rowan throws open the door of her apartment and slams it behind her, not bothering to check if it’s locked before hurling herself towards the stairwell of her building. 

Brushing her chestnut hair out of her eyes as she rounds the corner of the stairwell, Rowan has to give credit where credit is due; for a cat that’s over a decade old, Butternut moves fast, and that knowledge only incites more intensity in the girl as she tears through the stairwell and onto the street. Rowan pants as she surveys the bustling crowds, scouring the bottom of every black and grey raincoat until she just barely catches the yellowish hue of Butternut’s tail disappearing around the corner.

“Butternut!” She yells loudly, receiving a scoff and a dirty look from an old lady whose ear she’d just accidentally yelled in. “Sorry, ma’am, I just—sorry!” Rowan offers one more quick apology before dashing down the street towards Butternut. “Come back!”

Although she does her best to avoid pedestrians around her in her pursuit of her pet, Rowan still manages to ram her shoulders into four different people as she runs through the crowded Greenwich Village street. She spits out speedy apologies whenever she does so, her hickory eyes flashing with what she hopes is sincerity and not annoyance, but she doesn’t stop to say anything more; already, Butternut is disappearing in a sea of New Yorker ankles, and she’s worried that if she doesn’t grab him soon, someone else will.

After five blocks of pursuit—how does an aging cat have better stamina than she does?—Butternut seems to disappear completely, his fluffy tail nowhere in sight amongst the throngs of people. Rowan slows her pace to a light jog, her legs aching and lungs burning in protest as she pants so loud that passersby keep giving her concerned stares. There’s a feeling of dread beginning to coil itself around Rowan’s intestines, and she’s not sure if it’s the fear of losing Butternut, or the oncoming asthma attack, but it nearly doubles Rowan over as she struggles to move breath in and out of her lungs.

“I need—to work—out more—” Rowan puffs to herself, folding one hand over her stomach as she continues to push her way through the crowded sidewalk at a reduced pace. “I—” Her eyes widen as she spies an amber tail among the crowds. “Butternut!”

Although her loud exclamation once again startles an old lady (seriously, just how many old ladies are wandering around the village right now?), Rowan doesn’t stop to apologize this time, and instead simply offers a flash of an apologetic grimace before jogging after the fluff of golden fur that she just caught ducking into the open door of a shop.

Still wheezing loudly when she reaches the storefront, Rowan manages to crane her neck up to catch sight of the sign above her. The white washed wood plank with dark green letters reads Verbena & Birch Apothecary, and Rowan only takes a moment to admire the craftsmanship that must have gone into carving the plant sprigs next to the logo before she remembers the reason she’s here, and yanks the wooden door open to run inside.

“Butternut?” She calls out, still breathless from her impromptu marathon down the streets of Greenwich Village. “C’mon, stinky—” Her eyes scan over the countless shelves lined with delicate-looking glass bottles, and a feeling of dread grows in her stomach as she tucks her wild locks behind her ears. All it would take is one pounce from Butternut to destroy everything on these shelves, something she wouldn’t put past the mischievous cat that just scampered down five city blocks. “You can’t be in here! Let’s go!”

Rowan pauses for a moment and listens closely for the sound of familiar paws against the wooden floor, or the usual indignant meowed response when she calls Butternut stinky, or any sign that the cat is wandering the breakable-filled store, but hears nothing save for her own laboured breathing. Bracing her hand against her heaving stomach again, Rowan lets out a groan, hanging her head and letting her hair fall into her face as she bends over, submitting to another cramp that’s working its way through her insides.

“Does he belong to you?”

The lilting British accent that rings through the quiet shop pricks Rowan’s ears with familiarity as she snaps herself back into more appropriate posture, her palm still massaging her belly over her shirt. “What—?” Rowan whips her head around, searching for the source of the voice behind the towering shelves surrounding her. A flicker of movement from the corner of her eye catches her attention, and Rowan turns slowly towards a tower of white candles organized in glass jars as the owner of the disembodied voice emerges from behind it.

The first thing Rowan notices—to her immense relief—is Butternut happily situated in the man’s arms, purring contentedly as he stretches out languidly, seemingly pleased by the stranger’s body heat. This odd response is the second thing Rowan notes, as Butternut has never had an affinity for those he doesn’t know, and usually prefers to claw at strangers rather than flop over within their grasps. The third thing that Rowan notices, however, might be the oddest thing of all; the stranger in front of her is, in fact, no stranger at all.

Or, at the very least, she’s met him before.  Although his clothing isn’t soaked to the bone from a surprise thunder storm, his curls a bit lighter in colour and bouncier than ever when dry, and his cheeks displaying a tint of rosiness to them in the heat of the shop, Rowan recognizes Harry the moment she’s able to get a good look at him, even before noting the forest green apron with his name embroidered in the corner over his white t-shirt and tan cardigan. It’s his eyes, she thinks, cocking her head to the side as she appraises the familiar young man in front of her. The way his jade irises appear to swirl and shift in the light filtering through the storefront windows is so unmistakable that it’s branded into Rowan’s head from just their one brief meeting. And if the way those eyes are crinkling in the corners as his expression twists into a grin, Rowan can tell that Harry recognizes her, as well.

“Yes,” The florist finally replies to him, breathing a sigh of relief as she steps towards him. “Yes, that’s my cat. I’m so sorry, he just escaped from my apartment and ran all the way here, and I couldn’t stop him before he got inside—”

“It’s alright,” Harry assures her with a small smile that tugs at the corner of his reddened lips as he scratches Butternut behind his ears. “Worse things have stepped into this shop, I can assure you. And given how cute this particular intruder is, I can’t bring myself to mind it.”

Rowan’s upturned lips, while tentative, slowly lift to match the grin on his face as the full relief of knowing that Butternut is safe washes over her. “Thank you, really,” She reaches out and scoops Butternut into her arms, pressing the cat into her chest protectively while ignoring the burning feeling of Harry’s fingertips brushing over her own. “He didn’t break anything?”

“Oh, no, everything’s fine,” Harry says easily, waving one nail polished hand without an air of concern or notice of the contact. “No harm, no foul, and all that.”

“That’s a relief,” Rowan bounces Butternut in her arms absentmindedly as she glances around the shop, appraising the fragile wares more thoroughly than she had when she first entered. “His second worst habit after jumping out of windows is breaking things, and a lot of things here seem breakable.”

Rowan isn’t exaggerating for effect. Now that the relief of finding Butternut has uncoiled her stomach and she can take a moment to really look around the shop, she’s amazed that she managed to collect him without paying a small fortune for items destroyed in his wake. Every wall of the store is lined with a wooden built-in shelf, each one filled with an assortment of products, with the types of products varying from each wall. It’s much more organized than she’d thought at her first glance, and she allows herself a moment to sweep over each product with errant curiosity.

The wall to her left has shelves labeled with what she assumes are different kinds of teas, sorted by their uses, such as “awake and alive,” “blood pressure support,” and “happy tummy,” as well as sorted by flavour and blend. Another shelf is lined with small dropper bottles labeled with various types of oils, and the shelf to the right of that one is lined with small brown bottles labeled as various tinctures. The opposite wall to her right hosts a wide variety of salves and balms, also sorted by uses such as “super healing,” “anti-anxiety,” and “mood boost.” Along the back wall are rows of bulk bins usually found in the grocery store, except these bins are filled with large amounts of ground dried herbs, all labeled neatly to match everything else in the store. Despite the great quantities, however, there are also jars filled with unground herbs still attached to their host plants sitting neatly above the bins. The last wall, however, has the greatest variety of anything else in the store, and stocks row upon row of various crystals, stones, and minerals, all hosting neat labels with their properties and meanings underneath the names. And if all that product wasn’t enough—enough to pique her interest as well as her anxiety at the thought of Butternut roaming free in here—there’s stand-alone shelves throughout the store, displaying more tinctures, oils, and products, as well as candles, incense, and things that Rowan can’t even put a name to.

If Harry’s tone when he interrupts her observations is any indication, then her curiosity about the products is written clear across her face. “See anything interesting?” He asks conversationally, tucking his ringed hands into the pockets of his apron.

“I’d think it’s all interesting,” Rowan murmurs in reply, keeping a firm grasp on Butternut as she steps closer to a shelf of incense, squinting her eyes to read the—quite messy—handwritten labels. “What is all this stuff?”

“Well, they’re a wide variety of things, but to put it simply…they’re natural and organic products. I make them all here, in the back of my shop,” Harry untucks one hand to motion his thumb over his shoulder as he watches Rowan lean down to smell the incense, Buttercup meowing indignantly in her arms as she tightens her grip once more. “Well, except for the incense and candles. I have a supplier in Brooklyn that provides those for me, as well as some of the herbs. But all the oils and balms…I make those in house.”

Rowan doesn’t miss the hint of pride that lingers in the back of Harry’s voice, nor can she blame him for it. If she’d concocted all of this, she’d have more than just a hint of pride. “You make these?” Rowan repeats back in amazement, walking slowly to another shelf, this one housing a variety of creams and balms. Each row has a neatly labeled tester pot, and she runs her finger over the cool glass of the jars as she reads the labels out loud. 

“‘Patience’… ‘prosperity’… ‘protection’…” Rowan tilts her head towards Harry and raises a brow as the alphabetized names fall from her tongue. “How does a cream offer protection? Protection from what? Dry skin?”

The corner of Harry’s lips twitch. “Well, yes. Among other things,” He strides over to stand next to her, picking up the tester jar labeled “protection,” and dips a jewelled finger into the surface of the light cream. “May I?” He requests, extending his other hand to her.

“Oh, uh…” Rowan shifts Butternut’s weight to her left arm, freeing up her right arm for Harry to take between his fingers. “Yeah. Go ahead.”

Harry’s left hand grips her wrist with a warm and gentle touch, the curves of his fingers molding into the shape of her body easily. Despite feeling it a few moments earlier, Rowan isn’t prepared for the strange feeling that hums up and down her arm when Harry’s skin meets her own. Her walnut irises capture his own hunter pair, and the question that flashes through them quickly tells her that she’s not the only one noticing the buzz.

Harry, however, seems to be better at keeping his expression unreadable, because as soon as the question appears in his own eyes, it disappears again, his gaze returning to her hand. His fingers begin to dance over her wrist as he carefully rubs the cool balm into her skin, and Rowan watches the practiced motion for a moment before her attention slips to the strange tattoo that occupies the back of his hand, the one that she’d noticed in her own shop a few days before. It almost seems to dance over his skin, flexing and flowing with the movement of his muscles as he works the cream into her own palm. 

If the smell of sage and sandalwood filling the air hadn’t distracted her, Rowan might have begun to center her attention on the lithe movements of Harry’s calloused fingers over her hand, and how warm and welcoming his touch felt along her body, which would have led to her thinking about his hands traveling up her arm, following the natural line of her body to her collar bones, and then—  

 “That smells so good,” She says quickly, struggling to keep her voice balanced and even as she allows the fragrance to fill her senses, rather than her thoughts, which seem to be getting away from her at the moment. “Is that sage?”

Admittedly, the smell is quite distracting all on its own, even without Harry’s tantalizing touch working the scented balm into her skin, but Rowan can’t help but think that the relaxed and tranquil feeling flowing through her body has less to do with aromatherapy and more to do with the way Harry’s fingertips are pressing between her knuckles. Despite her brief encounters with him, there’s a familiar feeling in the way they interact; when he touches her, it doesn’t feel uncomfortable or unfamiliar, like the touch of a stranger should feel. Instead, the sensation that hums over her skin and settles inside her chest reminds her of the warm burn of a hearth, as if her body were a home that has been waiting for him to arrive and light the fire for the night that will keep the dark and damp away.

“I’m glad you think so,” Harry’s low and lilting voice cuts through Rowan’s trance as he rubs the last of the cream into her skin. Although his fingers cease their gentle massage, he still keeps her wrist clasped within his hand, the pad of his thumb brushing over her knuckles absentmindedly. 

“I make the oils for these myself. This one has some sage, angelica, clove, and sandalwood. I mix it with organic cocoa butter, organic coconut oil, and beeswax from my supplier in Brooklyn, and melt it all together while—” Harry stops talking abruptly, his poetry-like tone cutting off with a nervous glance and a sheepish smile. “Actually, I shouldn’t be telling you all this. S’a trade secret, you know. If I tell you, then you might tell someone else, and soon I’ll be boarding up my windows because everyone is cooking up their own balms in their kitchens. Won’t have any need for me anymore.”

Rowan, who had been more focused on the hypnotic cadence of Harry’s voice to process exactly what he’d been saying, offers a half-hearted laugh as she shifts Buttercup within her arm. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,” She does her best to reassure him, but it’s hard to sound convincing when Harry squeezes her hand within his own, because for some reason, Harry is still cradling her wrist, which only stokes the hearth within her chest. “I don’t really understand it, anyways. You said it…offers protection?” Rowan blinks at his simple nod of explanation. “Um…protection from what?” 

Harry loosely lifts his shoulders into a noncommittal shrug. “Anything, really. Whatever the wearer feels like they need protection from.”

“Okay, but…if I felt like I needed protection from…I don’t know, a robber…” Rowan spins an imaginary scenario as she speaks, shifting Butternut in her arm once more as the cat begins to fuss (she should extract her hand from Harry’s. It would make holding him a lot easier). “How would a cream protect me from that?”

“It’s not so much the cream as what it’s made from,” Picking up the jar again with his free hand (despite his eyes flickering to the increasingly annoyed cat within her grasp, he still hasn’t relented his own grasp on her), Harry twists the container so that the ingredient list faces Rowan, leaving him to speak from memory as he recites it. “Sage, angelica, clove, sandalwood…all of those things have protective properties. Their aromas bring comfort and tranquility to those who smell them. Using them in a cream allows their fragrance to go anywhere with the wearer, so it can bring continual comfort. Think about that symbol above your door, the one you said your mum used to draw. That was for protection, wasn’t it? It’s the same idea.”

“Oh…” Realization sparks in Rowan’s mind as she glances around the shop again, taking in every item with newly opened eyes. “Oh. Like in a metaphysical sense, right? Like how lavender is meant to bring luck?”

Harry’s brows arch up in surprise at the connection as he sets the jar back on the shelf. “Exactly like that, yes,” He says slowly, his emerald eyes watching Rowan’s renewed examination carefully as he finally relinquishes her wrist. “How did you know that?”

Rowan clutches Buttercup tighter to her chest, and while the movement is easier with both arms at her disposal, she can’t deny that she misses the sensations Harry’s touch provided her. “It’s another thing my mom told me when I was a kid. She always kept a little lavender plant in a window box.” Her eyes settle on the glass bottle filled with lavender sprigs on the shelf nearest to her, the sight jogging memories she hadn’t played in her mind in quite some time. “She used to make me lavender and chamomile tea when I was a kid, because I had trouble sleeping sometimes. It always knocked me right out,” The florist shrugs lightly. “You know, looking back, she probably mixed in some Nyquil too, but…”

Although Harry offers a small chuckle at her joke, the sound that falls from his mouth is strained, and when Rowan turns her attention back to the man again, his face has shifted into an expression she can’t read. His previously relaxed brow has furrowed and creased, and his cherry lips have transformed from an easygoing grin to a thin pursed line. The dimples that had adorned his rosy cheeks have all but disappeared, and without them, Harry looks ten years older, and ten times more intimidating.

Rowan clears her throat in an attempt to ease the newfound tension. “That—that was a joke,” She mumbles with a weak laugh, stroking the amber fur of Butternut’s back as he fusses once more. “She, uh, she didn’t do that.” Turning back to the shelf of teas, Rowan scans over the labels swiftly to find one like she’d described. “You sell one too, huh? A bedtime tea?”

Harry gives a terse nod of his head as his eyes follow the gesture of Rowan’s chin, his gaze seemingly glued to every one of her actions. “I do, yeah. Would you—?” Although he cuts off the question before he can even ask it, he only pauses to run his tongue over his darkened lips once before beginning again. “Would you like to try some? I can make a little sample tin for you. Or…” When his irises meet her own, Rowan finds they’ve shifted once more, moving further and further from the brightness she’d first seen upon their initial meeting. “If there’s nothing here you’d like to try…I live above the shop, in the flat upstairs,” He jerks his chin upwards, as if the motion is supposed to convince her he’s telling the truth. “I’ve been testing out some new blends that you might like, if you want to try them…?”

The sudden invitation to come up to his apartment isn’t exactly unwanted, but still leaves Rowan taken aback nevertheless. It’s not so much the invitation itself, Rowan reasons, her fingers massaging down Butternut’s back lightly, but the way it was delivered. Every interaction she’s had with Harry so far has felt organic, as natural and easy as breathing. This, however…this request feels anything but. “Oh. Uh—”

“You’re under no obligation, of course,” Harry clarifies, straightening the jars on the shelf while his cheeks stain a darker shade of crimson. “I just thought—you may like to see more of—of some things I’ve made, or—”

“No, I would!” Rowan’s heart hammers in her chest as Harry stumbles over his words, the apparent anxiety in his strained explanation endearing him in a way she hadn’t expected. “I would, and it sounds wonderful, but…” She raises Butternut in her arms in lieu of an explanation. She’s not exactly sure what’s bothering him, but from the way he’s been fussing throughout their entire conversation—especially when he’d behaved so well while in Harry’s arms—it’s clear that there’s somewhere he wants to run to. Or something he wants to run from. “I should be getting this guy home.”

A sheepish look paints itself onto Harry’s features, dragging down his eyes and creased brow, and before Rowan can say anything else, an apology tumbles from his downturned lips. “Right, of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—to make you uncomfortable—”

“I’m not uncomfortable!” Rowan assures him just as quickly, giving a firm shake of her head as reinforcement. “I—actually, I’m very comfortable with you, which is strange, given we just met—” Her own cheeks flush at the candid admission, growing to match Harry’s in hue. “But I just—I have to get Butternut home, but—”

“You don’t owe me an explanation, it’s fine—”

“But if you’re free tomorrow afternoon, I’d love to come over for tea.”

Harry’s hasty apologies cut off before they can echo out of his throat, the unspoken words practically visible as they hang on the tip of his tongue. “You would?”

“I would,” Rowan confirms, the corners of her lips tugging up at the endearingly dumbfounded expression that sweeps over Harry’s entire face. “Maybe 2 o’clock, if that works for you?”

Tugging on his chestnut curls as his grin begins to grow once more, Harry gives a sharp nod of agreement. “That would be wonderful, yeah. I’ll see you here at 2 o’clock.”

…

At 1:59PM the next day, Rowan stands beneath the cream and hunter sign reading Verbena and Birch Apothecary, and re-evaluates her life choices. 

She’d like to consider herself a smart girl. Her mother had raised her to be thoughtful, introspective, and aware of her surroundings, as well as the people in them. If she had a bad vibe from Harry, or believed him to be dangerous in any way, she would turn on her heel and march back down the streets of the Village until she reached her own apartment. Or, even more, she probably wouldn’t have left her apartment in the first place, and would have let 2 o’clock come and go without a second guess. But Harry hasn’t given her any reason to think that he could hurt her; if he’d wanted to hurt her, it would’ve been much easier to have dragged her upstairs the day before. No one had seen her quickly ducking into his shop, and she’d been so busy chasing Butternut that she hadn’t told anyone where she was going. Their meeting today, however, has been pre-planned, meaning that Harry could assume that she’s told someone where she’s gone, or at the very least, left a note in her apartment in case police search it after she goes missing. There’s no reason for her to be concerned.

Then again, Rowan remembers the stranger danger lessons given to her in elementary school by New York police officers, and is reminded once more that the decision she’s making is probably a stupid one.

It’s just… Rowan touches the stone pendant hanging around her neck. The shining tiger’s eye had belonged to her mother before she passed, and Rowan could remember her rubbing a worried thumb over the smooth surface any time something was troubling her. Rowan herself thumbs over the honey-streaked stone, her own brow furrowing. Just.

It’s just Harry. It’s just something about him, something coded within his emerald eyes that makes her question everything she’d been taught. Of course she shouldn’t be having tea with a strange man she’s spoken to for barely fifteen minutes over the course of two encounters. Of course she shouldn’t accept an invitation into his home as if she was a lamb volunteering for her own slaughter. But Harry doesn’t feel like a stranger. At least, he feels unlike any stranger she’s ever encountered before.

The minute hand of the watch on her wrist slips past the twelve, leaving Rowan with no more time to dwell on the matter. Taking a deep breath as she tucks her shoulder length waves behind her ears, she pulls open the front door of the shop and steps inside.

Harry is standing behind the counter, writing in the leatherbound journal she’d noticed on his person the day he stumbled into her own shop. Upon hearing the tinkle of the chime above the door, his head turns up, and his emerald gaze meets her own.

“Rowan, hi,” Harry smiles easily at her as he shuts the journal, looping the leather tie around the bindings with practiced ease. “Right on time.”

“For once in my life,” Rowan jokes in an attempt to hide her nerves. She slips her hands into the pockets of the worn trench coat she’d found at an estate sale the previous year, trying to curb her habit of twisting her rings around her fingers when she’s nervous. “Sorry, am I interrupting your work?”

Tucking the leather bound journal underneath the counter in one smooth motion, Harry shakes his head. “No, not at all. It’s been a fairly slow afternoon. Not much to interrupt.”

“Really? No stray cats have run into your shop today?”

The small laugh that falls from Harry’s lips is light and easy, and lodges itself somewhere deep within Rowan’s chest in a way she doesn’t quite understand. “No, but the day is still young.”

Harry steps out from behind the counter, and for the first time, Rowan notices that his outfit is devoid of the hunter apron he’d worn the day before. Instead, Harry is dressed in a chunky knit chestnut coloured sweater with green detailing around the cuffs and hem. His pants are olive toned, baggy in their fit, and pool just above his black vans. He looks comfy. Cozy, Rowan thinks. Like he could laze back on a couch in the evening, his hands a bit sooty from stoking the fire, but that doesn’t matter, because he’ll laugh and try to swipe a charcoal covered finger over her cheek, and leave fingerprints along her skin when he—

“So you said you live upstairs?” Rowan’s voice is breathless when she pulls herself from her daydream, and she fidgets with the tiger’s eye around her neck in an attempt to calm herself with the familiar motion.

“Uh, yeah, I do. I—sorry, is that…” Harry’s gaze drops from her eyes to her fingers, watching as she twists the pendant up and down the old chain. “Is that tiger’s eye?”

Rowan glances down at the pendant caught between her fingers. The honey-streaked stone is cut in the shape of an oval and set into a metal backing, worn smooth from two generations of Frances women habitually rubbing it. It’s pretty, to be sure, but it’s never drawn anyone’s attention so quickly. But then again, Rowan’s sure the stone is stocked on the shelves behind her; it’s no wonder Harry’s noticed it.

“It is, yeah. My mom gave it to me,” Rowan says, letting the pendant fall back against her navy turtleneck. Technically, her mother didn’t give it to her. In all actuality, Rowan had claimed it after her mother passed away five years ago. However, now didn’t seem the time to dump all her mommy issues onto a virtual stranger, no matter how familiar he felt. The death of your only parental figure is more of a second date conversation, she thinks.

Not that they’ve had a first date. This is tea. She’s just here to try tea that Harry’s made. This rendezvous probably falls more under the category of a sales pitch than a date, and Rowan’s not sure why that fact makes her stomach churn in discontent, but she’s determined to ignore it.

“It’s lovely,” Harry says, seemingly unaware of the debate that’s playing out in Rowan’s mind. “May I?”

He reaches his right hand towards her, and Rowan’s eyes once again focus on the strange symbol inked into his smooth skin. A shiver runs up her spine as the uncomfortably familiar feeling of deja vu settles over her. His words are identical to yesterday, when he offered her a sample of the protection balm he made. But underneath that memory, there’s something else, something that settles at the very edge of her mind’s eye, just out of reach of clarity. That same phrase— “May I?”— echoed in a lilting British accent, a flash of a ringed, tattooed hand tugging at blush coloured sheets, the dangle of her tiger’s eye pendant over a flushed chest that’s inked with tattoos she can’t quite place…

The hand in front of her pauses, and its owner’s eyes find her own. Harry flicks his eyebrows up as if to repeat his question, and Rowan realizes he’s waiting for her to give him permission to examine her necklace.

“Yeah, sorry—” She hastily reaches behind her neck to undo the clasp, brushing her bobbed hair out of her way. “Let me just—”

She cuts off her speech with a stuttered gasp as Harry’s nimble fingers find the pendant that hangs over her turtleneck, carefully securing the stone between his digits without touching her.

It’s not until this moment that Rowan realizes that Harry is standing close enough to her that she can see the flecks of gold in his emerald eyes, which are trained on the pendant in a focused manner. The tip of his nose is flushed the same shade as the strawberry of his mouth, and the hue also skirts along the apples of his cheeks, barely visible with the concentrated expression that’s painted on his face.

Rowan doesn’t know much about Harry, but she stocks this new knowledge—how he’s careful to ask for her permission to move towards her, but merges his personal space bubble with her own once that permission is given—in the back of her mind. It’s so familiar that it produces an ache deep within her chest that confounds her.

“It’s a beautiful necklace,” Harry keeps his eyes on the pendant as he twists it between his fingers. “You said it was your mother’s?”

Rowan forces herself to sound calm and collected when she answers. “I did, yeah. She used to call it her lucky charm.”

“Tiger’s eye provides protection,” Harry murmurs the words quietly as he lets go of the necklace. It falls lightly back onto Rowan’s chest. “It’s a lovely piece. She was very kind to give it to you.”

“She was, yes,” Rowan fidgets with the necklace, fixing its position around her neck. “She’s—she’s a very kind person.”

Rowan’s not exactly sure why she slips into the present tense to describe her mother. Sure, she’s already decided that the death of a parent is a second date topic, but she’s also already decided that this isn’t a date. From past experience, she knows it’s better to rip off the “my mother passed unexpectedly when I was twenty years old and it tore apart my life” bandaid sooner rather than later, but she also knows that most men tend to stray away from the topic of mothers when they invite women up to their apartments for tea.

Then again, Rowan thinks ruefully as she follows Harry behind the counter a moment later at his request, Harry hasn’t acted like most men she’s ever met before.

The small corridor that leads towards the back of the shop is dark, lacking the sunlight that illuminates the front of the store. Instead, the floor creaks under Rowan’s feet, accented by the click of the heeled boots she may or may not have worn to bring herself closer to Harry’s height.

Harry pauses before an open doorway, and Rowan can smell the room before she sees it— lavender and sage, lemon and cloves, cinnamon and rosehips, and a thousand other scent combinations that Rowan can’t name. She peers over Harry’s shoulder to see a cluttered workbench, not unlike her own, covered in little glass bottles, bunches of greenery, and the familiar petals of yarrow flowers that she’d sold to Harry previously. Along the back wall, under a small window, is a row of bottles with different oils inside, and to the left is a gas range with two separate pots set on top. One of the pots is still steaming, the vapor coiling lazily above its contents, despite the range being off (Rowan checks with a flick of her eyes).

“This is where I make most of my inventory,” Harry says with a motion of his hand. “I had to add the range myself when I bought the place, but the butcher’s block and the work spaces were already here. I got pretty lucky.”

“It’s gorgeous,” Rowan replies, and she pauses a moment, waiting for the invitation to step inside and explore. When the invitation doesn’t come, and Harry turns his attention to the door to the left of the corridor, just before the entrance to the back room, Rowan can’t deny that she’s disappointed. However, part of her understands; she hates when anyone steps into her backroom. The organized chaos is always just one stray hand away from descending into madness, and what she stores in her workroom isn’t nearly as breakable as what’s inside Harry’s.

Instead, Rowan turns her gaze to the door that Harry’s unlocking with a key from his pocket. The key itself is small and brass, with a tarnished, well-worn handle and a detailed head. The object resembles something Rowan would expect to see in a movie set in the early 1900s rather than on the keyring of someone around her age, but it fits perfectly into the lock on the inconspicuous door. As Harry slips the weathered key back into his pocket, Rowan notes that it’s the only key on the keyring. She can’t say she’s surprised that there’s no car key present— hardly anyone she knows in New York has a car, much less their license. She’s one of the few of her friends that does, and that’s only because her mother had insisted she learn when she was eighteen. However, she is surprised to see no key to the shop on the ring. Rowan has three separate locks on the door to her own store, and keeps all the keys jumbled together with her apartment set.

“Like I mentioned, I live just above the shop,” Harry interrupts her pondering as he nods up the steep set of dark stairs. “Follow me, and try to watch your step. These stairs tend to trip people the first time they climb them.”

“Right, okay,” Rowan does as Harry says, following his practiced steps at the pace he sets. She lasts about three stairs before stumbling, and grabs hold of the worn railing to catch herself before she falls forward.

Harry turns around as much as the small space lets him, and the look on his face is concerned, but not surprised. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just regretting my choice of shoes right now,” Rowan laughs airily, hoping the darkness of the stairwell hides the blush she’s sure is working its way over her cheeks. “You really weren’t kidding, huh?”

“No, I wasn’t,” A set of fingers brushes over her hand that clings to the railing, and there’s a moment of hesitation before Harry tugs her hand away from the railing and grasps it gently within his own. “Here, just go a little slower. I’ll help you.”

It’s clear that Harry’s dashed up and down these stairs hundreds of times, because he has no trouble navigating the steep flight with his body turned sideways to guide Rowan to the top. His hand stays locked around hers, comforting without being controlling, until he pulls her onto the cramped landing at the top of the stairs.

“There we go,” He grins at her, his dimples barely visible in the dim light as he releases her hand. “You made it.”

“I did,” Rowan hopes the embarrassment isn’t detectable in her voice. “Only almost died once.”

Harry laughs, low and melodic, as he fishes in his pocket for something, and pulls his ringed hand back out with the same key he used to unlock the door to the stairwell. He presses the key into the silver lock on the door, and Rowan is surprised to hear the click of the lock two seconds later.

With a quick twist of the squeaky doorknob, Harry pushes open the door and leads Rowan into his apartment.

Although she’s only known Harry for a short time, she can’t really say she’s surprised by anything she sees in front of her. Harry’s apartment is big by New York standards, with exposed brick walls and greenery draped along every shelf. There’s a large set of windows along the far wall that sends a spark of jealousy down Rowan’s spine, and a velvet emerald-coloured couch that turns the spark into a flame. The scent of incense floats through the air, evidenced by the multiple holders she sees scattered along the living room, and pressed against the left wall is a bookshelf that holds multiple aged books set in leather and embossed with gold.

Harry’s apartment is earthy, and centered, and quite possibly the most beautiful space Rowan has ever seen.

“This is gorgeous, Harry,” She says breathlessly, her hand rising of its own accord to touch the frame of a print hung in the hallway by the door. “How long have you lived here?”

“God, about…eight years now, maybe? To tell you the truth, I think I’ve lost count,” Harry toes off his vans, and Rowan follows suit, tugging off her own boots and thanking her past self for deciding to spend the extra time to find matching socks this morning. “Can I take your coat?”

“Sure, thank you,” Rowan begins to slip the trench coat over her shoulders, unsurprised when she feels a second set of hands help slide the fabric down her arms. She’s adjusting to Harry’s easy way with touch— revels in it, actually, which is new for her.

Harry hangs her coat on the stand just beside the door, and that same dimpled smile is on his face when he turns back around. “The kitchen is just through here, I’ll show— Jesus—”

Rowan nearly slams into Harry’s back as he comes to a quick stop in front of her, his arms braced against either wall in the small front hallway. Before she can stumble more from the sudden pause, his hand reaches behind him, finding her waist and steadying her.

“Harry?” Rowan’s skin feels as if it’s burning underneath her sweater, the sensation warmest at her core where Harry is touching her. “Is everything—?”

“Yes, sorry, it’s just—” Harry lets go of her with a sigh, stepping over what appears to be a large smoke coloured furry pillow in the middle of the hallway. “It’s just Clint.”

Rowan regards him with confusion, her chestnut eyes searching his own emerald for an explanation. “Clint? Who’s Clint?”

“That’s Clint,” He nods down to the furry pillow and nudges it with his sock covered foot. The pillow twitches, stretches when provoked, and Rowan suddenly realizes it’s not a pillow at all, but in fact—

“You have a rabbit named Clint?”

Harry’s already walking towards the kitchen, unconcerned about Clint’s nap spot that blocks the entryway of his apartment. “I do.”

A million questions flood through Rowan’s head, a million different things she could say about this new tidbit of Harry trivia. But instead of asking how owning a rabbit works in a New York City apartment, why said rabbit seems to have an infinity for inconvenient nap locations, or if tripping over him is an everyday occurrence (which, based on Harry’s exasperated sighs, she thinks it might be), the comment that leaves her mouth is, “Clint is kind of a weird name for a rabbit.”

Harry pauses his movements in the kitchen, one hand frozen on a mahogany cabinet while the other holds a jar of a dried tea blend. “You think so?”

Rowan flinches inwardly, still stuck frozen behind the rabbit in the hallway. “I— shit, sorry, that was rude. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay. It is weird, I know,” Harry laughs, and the sound immediately drains the tension that had seized Rowan’s entire body. “But he likes it, and refuses to change it, so…yeah. Clint the rabbit. You can just step over him, by the way,” Harry says as he notices Rowan has yet to leave the entryway. “He’s pretty used to it, because he’s also stubborn about where he takes his fifteen daily naps, the lazy bugger…”

Stepping carefully over the rabbit as instructed, a smile plays on Rowan’s lips as she makes her way to the kitchen. “Damn. Sounds like Clint really needs to start pulling his weight around here.”

Harry snorts as he picks up the copper kettle located on his stovetop and fills it with water. “Try telling him that,” He says, flicking the gas range onto high and setting the kettle on the burner. “Even Atticus contributes more to the household, and I hardly have to feed him.”

Rowan leans over the stonetop counter, her eyebrow raised in curiosity. “Who’s Atticus? Another pet?”

“No, not a pet. More like a…friend…” Harry’s voice is barely above a murmur as he looks between the jar of tea in his hand, and the multiple jars lined up in his open cupboard. “Sorry, just…trying to choose what blend to give you.”

Tapping her index finger against the knuckle of her other hand, Rowan watches as a crease of concentration forms between Harry’s stern brow. “I can try any blend,” She offers, hoping to help with the indecision that seems to be plaguing him. “I’m really not picky.”

“No, but I am. I don’t want to give you the wrong one.”

“The wrong…?” Rowan tilts her head to the side, her own forehead creasing identical to Harry’s. “How can a tea blend be—?”

“This one,” Harry says triumphantly, swapping the jar in his hand with another stored at the very back of the cabinet. “I’ve been tweaking this recipe lately. I think you’ll like it.”

Harry opens another cabinet full of dishware, and grabs a midnight blue teapot with white detailing along the sides. After he sets the teapot on the counter, he pulls out two teacups with the same white detailing over midnight paint. 

It’s fascinating to watch the practiced ease with which Harry brews the tea. He’s added a few scoops of the blend into the diffuser that’s set inside the teapot by the time the kettle starts to whistle, and once he’s taken the kettle off the heat and poured the boiling water into the teapot to steep, he immediately reaches for a glass container that’s set on the counter. From her vantage point, Rowan can tell that it’s filled with honey.

Harry doesn’t ask her if she takes cream or sugar in her tea, and Rowan doesn’t interject to say she prefers one scoop of sugar and a dash of milk. Instead, she lets Harry dictate exactly how she’ll test out his own blend, observes carefully how he fills each teacup almost to the brim, but leaves enough room to add a few drops of honey with the glass wand that he keeps inside the matching jar. It’s clear that all of this is a science to him, from the amount of golden liquid added, all the way down to how he carefully stirs each cup before setting the drink down in front of her with a shy smile.

“Keeping with yesterday’s theme…” He says quietly, turning the cup so the handle faces Rowan for an easy grip. “Tea for protection.”

Rowan slowly lifts the delicate china to her mouth, blowing over the boiling liquid before inhaling the steam. “I smell…cinnamon, I think? And a little bit of lemon?”

Harry’s smile grows until his dimples flash at her. He’s still leaning over the countertop, mimicking Rowan’s curved posture. When she inhales again, she can smell the light scent of Harry’s cologne mixing in with the vapours of the tea.

“Good catch,” Harry praises her easily, tapping his ringed fingers against the countertop. “The base of the tea is a black tea blend, but there’s cinnamon and lemon balm in it, along with a few other things. A little cardamom, clove, nutmeg, ginger…a couple other spices. But they all do a really good job of keeping away things that could hurt you.”

Rowan doesn’t bother to inquire about how lemon balm can keep away something that could hurt her again; she doubts she’d get an answer that she really understands. Instead, she just blows over the surface of the tea one more time before taking a small sip. The flavours Harry listed rush over her tongue at a just below scalding temperature, swirling in her mouth before running down her throat and leaving a pleasant warmth behind.

Harry watches intently, his body still leaning across the countertop towards her. “What do you think?”

Rowan takes another small gulp of tea, more mindful of the heat this time. “It’s really good, Harry. The honey in it, too…adds just the right amount of sweetness.”

Rowan hadn’t realized the amount of tension that had strung itself between Harry’s shoulders until she watches it roll out of him. “Thank you. I’m glad you like it,” He says, straightening up before grasping his own teacup to take a sip. 

“Were you nervous I wouldn’t?”

Harry’s answering shrug is just on the edge of sheepish. “Maybe a little. I’m always a bit nervous when someone tries one of my products for the first time. I want them to like it, you know?”

“I get the same way when I design custom arrangements for clients,” Rowan confesses, swirling the tea in her cup. “There’s this moment, right before I show them their arrangements, when I swear I can feel my heart in my throat. I used to get so nervous that I felt like I was going to pass out.”

“Really?” Harry raises an inquisitive brow. “How did you stop it?”

“I started using this trick my mom taught me. Right before I show the arrangement to a client, like right before, when I’m getting it from the fridge, I picture what I hope their reaction will be. Excitement, surprise, happiness, things like that. More often than not, clients usually react the way I imagine they will. It helps keep me calm.”

That crease appears between Harry’s brow again, but smooths out a moment after Rowan takes notice of it. “Your mother is a smart lady.”

“She…yeah,” Rowan clears her throat and takes another sip of tea, the temperature more comfortable now. “And she keeps coming up in conversation, which is probably pretty annoying. Sorry.”

It takes all of Rowan’s self control to stop herself from pressing her thumb between Harry’s brows as that damn crease comes back. “Why are you sorry? I like hearing about your past. It makes it easier to understand you in the present.”

The sincerity in his tone brings a flush to Rowan’s cheeks. “Is that something you’re having difficulty with? Understanding me?”

Harry hums in consideration as he brings his teacup to his lips. One of his rings, the one set with a red stone— a garnet?— flashes under the light. “It’s becoming progressively easier the more I’m around you. But there’s still so much that seems…clouded.”

Rowan can’t suppress the shiver that runs down her spine at his words, but tries to disguise it under a humorous tone. “Well, we only just met. I’d be a bit concerned if you knew everything about me.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to know everything about you; I said I wanted to understand. You don’t have to know every facet of someone’s life to understand who they are,” Harry argues in a tone that borders on defensive. 

“And is…understanding people something you’re good at?” Rowan asks after a moment, fighting to keep her own tone light.

“Usually. It’s easier to understand some people than others.”

“Where do I place on that scale?”  Rowan pitches her voice lower than she means it to be, as if she’s whispering something in the dead of night. As if she’s afraid to be heard. “In, like, terms of difficulty…if one was the least difficult person to understand, and ten was the most difficult. Where do I sit?”

“The difficulty of understanding you…” Harry trails off, and for the first time, Rowan realizes that understanding is a placeholder word for Harry. It’s a word that’s almost synonymous with what he means, but doesn’t carry the same intention. It’s a verbal facade, disguising what he’s really trying to say behind a half truth.

But the thing about half truths? They’re always half lies, as well.

“I don’t know,” Harry says after a weighty moment, his tongue swiping over his lips. “I can’t quite place you yet.”

This time, Rowan detects the half lie right away. But she doesn’t push it. In all honesty, she’s a little afraid of the answer. There’s something in the way Harry’s jade eyes regard her, the way he leans into her space, both mentally and physically…she’s almost convinced that if Harry were to tell a whole truth instead of a half, the answer may break her.

Which is dramatic, and unfathomable, and even as Rowan repeats that to herself over and over internally, she knows that only half of what she’s repeating is true. A half lie, born of her own mind.

“Well,” Rowan drops her eyes to the contents of her teacup as she lifts the drink to her lips. “Let me know when you do.”

If Harry’s aware of the charged nature of her words, he doesn’t say anything. The two of them finish their tea with casual small talk, rather than more evaluations of the other’s character. Rowan reveals that she’s a born and raised New Yorker, while Harry tells her about growing up in London (Rowan mentally pats herself on the back for restraining her instinct to tell Harry that’s where her mother grew up). Harry talks little about his family, mentioning an older sister who’s married, a mother who passed away when he was a boy, and a father who still lives in his childhood home. When Rowan asks when Harry last visited the country of his birth, his eyes drift a shade darker, and his tattooed hand drifts upwards to his chest, rubbing the area with the same subconscious movement that drives Rowan to fidget with her necklace. The tone of his voice when he says that he hasn’t been back since his move brings her to drop the subject altogether. 

The two of them learn that they both share the same love of the first snowfall of the season, and a sense of melancholy when it rains. Both Harry and Rowan experience deja vu frequently, as well as knock on wood to prevent themselves from indirectly jinxing things they say. They both record their dreams in a journal, both sleep better with the sounds of the city as a lullaby. And by the time Rowan stands up to leave, they’ve both agreed to see each other again.

 As per Harry’s request, Rowan types her number into Harry’s cell phone as he carries their used teacups to the sink. When she hands him back his phone (her number is saved under the name Flower Shop Girl, which Harry had confessed he thought of her as before he knew her name, and the admittance brings so much warmth to her chest that Rowan forgets again to ask how he knew her name during their first meeting), Harry has a small satchel in his hands, which he gives to her in exchange.

“This is another new blend I’m working on,” Harry’s fingers just barely brush over hers as he slips the satchel into her hands. “It has chamomile and lavender in it, so I recommend drinking it before bed.”

Rowan brings the satchel to her nose, inhaling deeply at the pleasant scent. “I can smell the lavender, and…cinnamon?”

A small smile plays on the corners of Harry’s lips as he walks her to the door (he takes Rowan’s hand to help her step over Clint, who’s still asleep in the entryway). “You’re good at that.”

“Thanks. I guess spending pretty much all my time around flowers is useful for…scent identification,” Rowan flinches internally as she slips her boots back onto her feet. Who the hell says shit like scent identification? She switches the topic back to the satchel in her hand, hoping she doesn’t sound as awkward as she feels. “Is it meant to help with sleep? The tea, I mean.”

“It can, yeah. It’s, uh…well, it’s meant to help with clairvoyance,” Harry slides Rowan’s trench coat off the coat rack and holds it open for her to slip on.

Goosebumps prick up along Rowan’s skin as she slides on her jacket. “Clairvoyance? What do you mean?”

“Just…someone’s perception of things,” Harry shrugs nonchalantly, tucking his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “It helps clear the mind, keep it open, that sort of thing.”

Rowan looks down at the unassuming satchel still clutched in her hand. “There’s not, like, magic mushrooms in here, is there? Because I had a really bad experience once in university, and I’d rather not—”

Harry’s laugh is loud and rolling, echoing enough through the entryway that Clint’s ears prick up. “No, no psychedelics. Not in this blend, anyways. But I’d love to hear about your experience with shrooms, if you’d like to share.”

“Maybe some other time,” Rowan rolls her eyes as she tucks the satchel into her pocket. “We can swap embarrassing intoxication stories another day.”

“We could, yeah. Maybe over dinner?”

There’s a note of hopefulness in Harry’s voice that fans that flame inside her chest. “Yeah. Maybe over dinner.”

Harry’s shoulder brushes against hers as he reaches past her to open the door. “It’s a date.”

…

In her dreams, Rowan is in Central Park.

At least, she thinks it’s Central Park. It’s pitch black, with the only light to illuminate her path being the shine of the full moon above her head. Rowan knows the trail through the park like the back of her hand, having walked them most of her life. However, she’s never traversed through the park in the dead of night, let alone by herself, and there’s a sense of uneasiness resting over her.

She wants to turn around. She wants to find her way back to the busy streets, and hail a taxi that’s surely still cruising through the city that never sleeps. She wants to make her way out of the freezing cold of the night, and retreat back into the comfort of her tiny apartment. She wants to be anywhere but here.

And yet, her feet keep taking measured steps forward, further and further into the only forest in the middle of a suburban sprawl. When she was a child, she’d been fascinated with photos of the park from above, by the stark contrast of nature and industrialization. She’d often dreamt of being a bird, and flying over the city so she could make the comparison for herself.

Dream, Rowan thinks, and her steps pause. This is a dream. She doesn’t need a taxi; all she needs to do is close her eyes, and think about being back home, and then—

A hand wraps around her waist from behind, and before Rowan can scream out in surprise, another clasps itself over her mouth. Fear courses through her body, freezing her limbs more than the bitter winter air ever could, and she shudders as a pair of lips brush over her ear.

“It’s okay,” A voice says in her ear, and the low British lilt is familiar to her now, as easy to place as her own. “It’s alright, love. S’just me.”

Rowan relaxes in Harry’s arms, but only by a fraction. She tries to mumble against his hand, but he keeps it pressed tight over her mouth, careful not to obstruct her nose as well.

“You need to listen to me, okay?” Harry’s breath is hot on her neck. While Rowan typically finds sensations to be dampened during dreams, the feeling of his breath rolling over her skin is so pleasurable that her knees almost buckle. “Nod if you’re listening.”

Rowan nods, the urgency in Harry’s words being just enough to keep her from succumbing to the newfound desperation supplied by his proximity.

“Good, that’s good. I don’t have long, so you need to listen carefully.”

Humming against his hand, Rowan knows that Harry senses her meaning: get on with it. 

“When you get to this night— this night, this specific night— you need to pause when you reach the fork in the path, alright?” Harry’s thumb strokes over her cheek as he murmurs the instructions in her ear. “Look up to the sky. Do you see the moon?”

Rowan’s chocolate eyes tilt up to the sky as she hums her understanding. It would be so much easier to communicate if he would uncover her mouth. Why won’t he uncover her mouth? She could talk to him if he did, tell him she understands, tell him what the feeling of him pressed so tightly against her back is doing to her, tell him to bring his lips just a bit closer to her skin…

“It’s a full moon. Memorize what the cold feels like against your skin,” Harry’s voice reaches hypnotic levels as he commands her. “The smell of pine in the air. You need to remember this moment, okay? Remember this night, remember this dream, and remember to pause when you get to the fork in the path.”

“Harry…” Rowan tries to whisper his name from underneath his hand, but the plea comes out muffled, barely audible over the whistling of wind through the trees. 

The hand over her mouth tightens reflexively, rings pressing so hard into her skin that Rowan thinks it’ll leave an imprint of the metal band once she’s released. The thought sends a ripple through her body.

“You need to be quiet, love. It’s almost time, and it’ll hear you,” Harry squeezes her body tighter against his, almost like an apology. “I have to go in a moment, before it knows I’m here.”

The sound that falls from Rowan’s lips is involuntary, and strays so close to being considered a whine that she’s glad Harry’s grasp on her is muffling her words.

“I’m sorry,” There’s a new note in Harry’s voice, a tone of distress just barely straining his normally soothing speech. “I wish I could tell you more. I wish I could explain, but I can’t. Not yet. Just— just remember what I said. Pause when you reach the fork in the path. Promise me you’ll do that.”

Rather than try to speak incoherent words behind Harry’s hand, Rowan raises her own and brings it to her mouth. With her index finger, she draws two lines over the back of his hand, hoping he gets the message. 

Cross my heart.

The sigh that Harry heaves blows the hair around her neck in separate directions, and Rowan’s eyes flutter closed for a moment as the sensation rolls over her.

“Good girl,” Harry breathes the words into her ear, and the breath that Rowan pulls into her chest is shakier than ever. “I have to go. And you need to wake up.”

Rowan shakes her head as her hand settles on top of Harry’s, keeping his palm pressed over her mouth. It feels so good, so much better than she ever could have imagined. It’s been so long since someone’s touch has made her feel like this, like she’s falling into their heat without a second thought. She doesn’t want to leave this moment. 

“You need to wake up, Rowan,” Harry’s voice grows more persistent in her ear, more urgent. The wind picks up around them, whipping her hair around her face as she leans into him more. “Wake up!”

…

It’s still dark outside when Rowan jolts upright in her bed.

For a moment, she thinks she’s still in her dream. She reaches behind her for Harry, but instead of finding the warmth of his body, she encounters the smooth cotton of her pillow. There’s a movement to her left, and she whips her head around, almost expecting to see Harry there, his emerald eyes intent on her. Instead of emerald, she finds ochre, and sees that Buttercup is watching her, clearly awoken by her own abrupt start.

Finally accepting that she’s in her bedroom, Rowan flops back into her pillows, ignoring Buttercup’s meow of indignation at being jostled. She pulls the cat into her arms, and the familiarity of his fur against her skin calms her racing heart. 

It was a dream, she tells herself. It was an incredibly vivid dream, one that brought to life desires that she didn’t even know she had, but a dream nonetheless. With a sigh, Rowan glances at the mug of tea on her bedside table, still containing liquid that’s turned icy cold while she’s slumbered. She hadn’t even finished half of the brew before it knocked her out. Rowan wonders if it’s possible to ask Harry if the tea contains anything that could cause strangely vivid and…Christ, she can’t deny it— arousing— dreams without giving away the fact that he was the star of them.

Buttercup purrs against her chest, and Rowan sighs again, gently moving him back to his preferred spot next to her before curling onto her side. She can worry about her weirdly touch-centered dreams in the morning, she decides, when she’s more fully awake to process them. It’s been a long day, and Rowan is tired. She needs some rest, proper rest. She’s too exhausted to think right now.

And too exhausted to notice the imprint on her lip that resembles the band of a ring.

[girlsgoneplague]

Cramps

Spock x reader

Warnings: period talk (not graphic) cursing, depression

Promt: pain/comfort, you have the day off however your period has kept you in bed all day so your boyfriend Spock comes to check on you

Part 1 of 2 or 3, I plan on in the second part it gets worse

Waking up that morning you knew something was wrong whenever you rolled over, the cool wetness of your ass made it obvious your pad just couldn't take it last night. After groaning into your pillow for a solid minute you decide to get up and get cleaned up. When you get in the bathroom its obvious the pad never stood a chance, so you take off all your clothes and put them in the laundry hamper

So much for having a relaxing off day...

Before taking a shower you also removed all of your bedding, as well the pillow case since it won't match your other bedsheets. The pale blue of your former bedsheets start to irritate you and instead of putting them in the hamper you decide to throw the fitted sheet away. A ringing on your PADD goes off so you make your way to your bedside table and pick it up to see Spock is calling.

"Hey babe, I was just about to hop into the shower" you keep the screen aimed at your face in case he's with someone else.

"Hello, I trust you slept well?"

You sigh, "not really, I ruined my light blue bedsheets and I didn't even fall asleep until pretty late last night"

He tilts his head slightly, "I see, well the duration of my shift will end in a few hours, I will come to check on you."

You smile as you nod, "I'd love that, bring me something to eat too will you?"

"I shall, please continue your morning, I will see you soon"

"See you soon Spock" you end the call and make your way to the shower. Your cramps are starting to act up and a nice hot shower will ~hopefully~ help it.

After 30 minutes you've given up on the prospect of easing your pain. They haven't gotten worse but since its been so long its started to irritate you.

I swear they've just been getting worse these past few months....maybe I need to see McCoy.

After thinking it over you decide its not serious enough for that, if it gets worse then you'll have a good enough excuse to waste an entire day in sick bay. The worst part about it so far was the damper it put on your mood. Its only been about an hour since you've woken up but crawling back into bed is the only appealing thing to you right now. You look at the clock and see it's only 11:03.

You haven't changed your bedsheets yet but decide to lay on it bare anyway, the only thing touching your skin is the robe you were gifted last Christmas. It's dark blue and goes all the way down to your shins so it acts like your blanket for now.

After a few minutes you decide to try and watch something before you get too caught up in your own head. After picking an old cartoon movie you've never seen called Treasure Planet, you decide during the opening scenes you'll actually eat something.

I'm sure spock won't be back for another couple hours I think he mentioned around 4pm the last time we talked-

Suddenly your PADD starts to light up again, wondering if it was the man himself you leaned over to find it was actually Uhura.

"Hey whats up?" You ask somewhat confused

"You forgot about lunch didnt you?" She said with a small smirk

"Ohhhhhh shit im so sorry! I forgot this was the only day this week we both had free, my period came yesterday and its been kicking my ass"

She raises her eyebrows, "Oh my, that sounds like you've been busy dealing with the worst time of the month I understand. Its kind of weird that you're having issues though, you don't usually have cramps that bad right?"

"Right!! I have no idea why they're so bad this time around, I haven't even gotten around to changing my bedsheets-of which I RUINED last night" you shake your head and move the screen to show you laying down on your bare bed

"Yikes, well to be honest I actually called because I'm already in the mess hall but Sulu wants to join me for lunch, would you be offended if I visited you tomorrow after my shift?"

"Not at all, im not really in the mood to socialize....or get dressed haha. I only really want to see Spock so we can cuddle"

She rolls her eyes, "yeah yeah I'm sure your hot boyfriend will help melt the pain away. But if you need anything at all before he shows up then call me"

"Sure thing, you have fun with Sulu and tell him I said hi" I waved bye as she said she would and then hung up.

I put the device back down and roll over on my back, the cramps are getting bad enough I decide to take some Tylenol and grab my medicine bag to fill up with hot water.

I'm so glad I bought this damn thing, take that you stupid uterus

After gettin settled on the bed you realize you didnt actually grab something to eat, but maybe that's a good thing because your stomach also starts to act up.

It be your own body, your own treacherous body

At least the movie still has an hour left before you paused it, so you hit resume and make a wall of pillows on your bed to protect your back from the hard headboard.

After about 30 minutes you decide to send Spock a message asking how long he will be on duty. After a few minutes he responds

Unfortunately I have to stay slightly longer than planned, so far we belive the problem will be taken care of by 5 at the latest. My apologies

You frown but don't want to make a big deal about it, especially since its not his fault so you respond quickly

Thats fine! Just don't forget to bring me some dinner, I want pizza, you know how I like it. I hope the ship isn't giving you too many issues i know we had a rough day yesterday

Rough is an understatement, however it comes with the job and you both understand most things are out of your control when it comes to repairs and maintenance.

Indeed. I shall update you at 4 about my arrival.

You smile at the screen and think about how happy you'll be when he gets here

In the meantime I can ask Uhura for some chicken noodle soup. Thank you:)

You look up and realize you didn't pause the movie but luckily there's not been anything super crazy that happened. Its actually grabbed your attention quite well. However you do pause it to message Uhura because you're not sure if you can call her.

You free? I've got a craving for some chicken noodles or maybe even some chicken and dumplings, either way something warm with chicken

As you wait for a reply you get up to change the water in your medicine bag again, after you get up however you realize you have to use the bathroom.....immediately.

When you get in there you cuss loudly

How the fuck did my pad manage to slip off, I swear today is not my day

After you finish up, you change your underwear again and rub your sore breasts.

This is possibly the worst off day I've ever had, including when we were all turned into those rocks or cubes or whatever they were*

Looking at the clock you quickly realize its only a little after 12. And since Uhura hasn't responded its starting to look a lot like you'll be alone for quite some time.

The movie ended after some time, it was really good but you frequently clenched your whole body due to the waves of cramps. And thankfully Uhura had let you know she would bring you food around 1. So you searched around for another movie to keep your mind off of things and settled on Asteroid City. After a few minutes you hear a knock so you get pause it to open the door.

After it slides open you smile at the sight of your friend with some much needed soup, "so whatd you bring me?"

She hands you the tray and follows you into the room, "just some chicken and dumplings, I remember last time you had noodles so I thought I'd take the liberty of switching things up for you"

"I love it when you make our relationship spicy" you chuckle and sit down on your bed gesturing her to join you.

She looks at your screen, "oh you'll like this one, but after this you should watch that horror movie that came out in the same year"

In between spoonfuls you ask her to send you the title in case you forget.

You and her chat for some time until she gets up to stretch, "well I think I'll leave you to it, I have the holo deck reserved for 3 and I'd hate to be late. See you later"

"Sure thing, see you!" You wave to her as she leaves and start your movie again.

2 hours later you decided this Wes Anderson was definitely worth checking out. Then you look at your PADD to see the title Uhura sent you and also notice Spock has sent you a message as well

Excellent news, I shall be done in less than an hour. Is there anything else you need me to bring?

Yes please! I need new bedsheets I can't find any clean ones. I like yours so maybe you could bring those?

Clicking on Talk To Me, you lean back again and wait for him to respond.

Roughly 20 minutes later you hear a knock on your door, so you pause the movie and practically run to see if its Spock

Once the door slides open you grin at the sight of him with a pair of sheets underneath a tray with an entire pizza.

"I missed you so much, here let me take the tray"

He lets you grab the tray while he starts to unfold the sheets, "I have missed you as well T'hy'la, I trust you were not disappointed with my tardiness"

You set the food down at the small table you usually eat dinner at, that is when you're not suffering, and turn to face him. "Its not your fault T'hy'la, besides im sure you can make it up to me"

The ghost of a smile is on his face as he walks over to you to hold your hand and lean his forhead against yours, "I will try"

You give him a kiss and tell him to start eating so you can finish your movie.

As you eat your pizza, and he eats his soup you discuss his day as well as how awful you've been feeling, "I mean I seriously have no idea why its been so bad this time around" you notice a frown on his face and raise an eyebrow

"If you are truly having issues why did you not see McCoy?" Concern all over his face makes you feel like you've said the wrong thing.

"Its just that I didn't think it mattered that much" you look away from him and at the floor, "I just didn't want to spend the day in sick bay or worse taking some disgusting medicine that makes me lose my appetite"

He considers this for a moment and reaches across the table to hold his two fingers out to you for a Vulcan kiss. "While I do not understand the human response of hating the doctors i understand you would have gone if you felt that the pain was too much, but please mention it the next time you have a check up"

You smile softly and nod your head, "deal, so long as you spend the night with me?"

His eyes light up and the corners of his mouth slightly turn upwards, "I believe those terms are acceptable"

You both finish up your meal and he excuses himself to grab a change of clothes while you head to the bathroom to change your pad yet again.

One of these days maybe he'll just keep a change of clothes here

You ponder to yourself about the future for a moment until you start to have an awful pain shoot through your abdomen.

You leave the bathroom and immediately lay down to curl yourself into a ball, its not clear how long you stay in that position but when Spock returns he knocks and let's himself in after you tell him its fine. He immediately walks over to your bed at the sight of you, "is the pain becoming too much?"

You nod slightly and roll over to face him, "is it alright if we just lay here together for awhile"

"Of course, just allow me to change into my robes"

You feebly nod and go to turn the movie back on, you might as well finish it before bed considering its not even 6 yet. After he gets changed he looks at the screen, then at you, and raises an eyebrow.

"A recommendation from Uhura" you respond to his wordless question

"I see, well you'll forgive me if I do not watch it with you"

"All I need is you, I know you don't like this sort of thing but I'm glad you indulge my human tendancies"

"There are many qualities of yours i admire, and as you are well aware I do not require silence in order to think about how to improve my work efficiency"

You shake your head slightly as he climbs into bed, "well as long as you're holding me i couldn't care less what you're thinking about i just enjoy your company"

A light green blush comes across his features, "I too enjoy being with you" he grabs your face and kisses you for a few moments until you break the kiss to groan about your lower abdomen. He places his hand on your forehead and looks in your eyes to silently ask permission to ease your pain. You nod and his presence fills your brain, the pain starts to leave your mind as you finally relax for the first time that day.

"I don't know what I would do without you" you tell him as he lowers his hand and once again wraps his arms around you.

"I am sure you would-"

"That was rhetorical, and I don't think I could love anyone like how I love you" the light green blush returns to his face and he puts his forehead to yours again.

"I love you as well" he tells the computer to turn the lights off and you fall asleep despite the horror movie still on in the background. He watches you for a few moments to be sure you've fallen asleep and then turns off the movie and allows himself to drift off alongside you.

End of part one

Authors Notes, in the original series theres an episode where only 5 of the essential crew weren't turned into these blocks so if you're curious this is what I was referencing in the paragraph that talks about being turned into rocks lol

[finn-m-corvex]

Trust

Started this yesterday, only got a hundred words in and wrote the rest today in the span of an hour and a half. Me and Whumptober could never.

My first fic in the Dad Jay AU! Featuring best sis duo Tessa and Kaida (from @taddymason) because I'm having brainrot and it's great. Will probably be making more of these but I need to finish Whumptober stuff first (pray for me guys)

Words: 1.8k

TWs: child abuse mentions (kinda graphic but also kinda not), scars n stuff like that

“Again!”

Tessa quickly threw up her arms to block Kaida’s incoming strike, well-placed but still too slow. Kaida tried to catch her around the back of her knee but Tessa anticipated it, buckling just before Kaida made contact so that the hit did nothing. Whipping around, Tessa caught the other girl’s arm and twisted, sweeping Kaida’s leg out and doing her best to make sure that the other girl didn’t crash onto the stone floor as hard as Dad would’ve let Tessa go down. She ignored the scowl sent her way as she pulled back, instead fixing her gloves and giving Kaida a second to recompose herself.

Kaida ran her hands through her hair, frustrated. “This is fucking pointless!”

“Not pointless,” Tessa said, taking her hair down and tying it back up. She was pretty sure that Kaida was about to quit for the day, “that time was better. You just need to be a bit quicker, but your techniques are spot-on.”

Kaida was actually adapting to Ninja techniques pretty well, all things considered. Tessa knew that it would only be strengthened by her previous experience with combat.

“Stop trying to make me feel better,” Kaida snarled, and if Tessa wasn’t already accustomed to the younger’s outbursts she may have felt offended. “I don’t want your pity. I suck, you’re better than me, and that’s that. Nothing more and nothing less.”

“I’m not better, I just had a harsher teacher,” Tessa plopped herself down on the Monastery steps, watching as Kaida threw her own gloves on the ground in frustration.

“Then be harsher or whatever! I need to get better!”

Something crawled under Tessa’s skin at the thought of being more strict with Kaida then she was now. It wasn’t something that she was ever going to let happen. There was no way in hell she was going to start taking cues from Dad, even if Kaida might technically improve quicker. No improvement was worth what Dad had done to her and Noah, and Tessa was old enough now to understand that. “No.”

“So you think I’m weak? That I couldn’t handle it? Is that it?”

“No,” Tessa said, and she waited until Kaida was sitting next to her. There was still a good foot of distance between them, and she wasn’t going to try and close it, “the opposite, actually. You’re too stubborn and you have a good head on your shoulders, Kaida. You wouldn’t grow if I was too harsh with you.”

It took her and Noah starting to spar together for both of them to show improvement, mostly because Dad just treated their spars as life or death fights rather than practice. When she was younger, Jay always said that she was going to be putting her life on the line, that she would have to be ready to face death at any moment, that every battle could end in tragedy.

And yet, the only life or death situation she found herself in at the time was training. So where was the justification?

“I hate this,” Kaida said, hugging her knees and refusing the water bottle that Tessa had passed over. And Tessa knew the feeling.

“I know.”

“I hate that you and Noah keep treating me like I’m made of glass,” Kaida growled, “you do the same thing to Jenna and Ethan. And then you’re going to go and look at Jay like he did something to you when you didn’t even meet him until recently. That’s fucked up.”

There weren’t a lot of things that could get Tessa riled up (it just came with being an older sister) but she could feel herself starting to bristle. Kaida was stepping too close to her toes. “You don’t understand anything about my relationship with Da—Jay.”

“And I don’t want to if you’re going to treat my dad like he’s the fucking devil!”

Logically, she knew that Kaida was lashing out the same way she would’ve done when she was younger, because there was a point in time when she would’ve defended her dad. Cole or one of her other uncles would say something and Tessa would growl in response; but she knew better now. And she knew what she would’ve wanted to hear from anyone listening to her vent, but Tessa was surprised by the burning anger that flared up inside. “Good! Becaise he was never a dad to me!”

Everything went quiet. Tessa looked away, focusing on the small cracks between the stones, noticing the shadows bending as the sun went down over the horizon. She was mulling over what she had said, lost in her head, when Kaida whispered, “you’re not lying.”

Tessa turned her head, and Kaida was staring at her with wide eyes. “You’re not lying,” she repeated, almost as if she couldn’t believe it. “You haven’t been lying this whole time. Why aren’t you lying?”

“Jay was…different,” Tessa started. Patience. Patience was key here. Kaida had grown up with a version of her father that only wanted the best for her, so it was hard to understand that there was a version with only ill intent against his children. “In my timeline, Jay wasn’t the same person he is here. He was distant, and cruel, and I-I don’t think he wanted me and Noah. I’m pretty sure that if he had an option to trade us for Nya, he would’ve done it in a heartbeat.”

Kaida’s face twisted into an expression that Tessa couldn’t quite place. “Jay isn’t like that. He would never do that.”

“Yours wouldn’t,” Tessa agreed, “but mine would, without a second thought. My dad was broken, Kaida, and the only person that could’ve fixed him was gone.”

Broken like the beer bottles that she and Noah would find on the floor after Jay had a bad night. Even as a small child she could see the cracks spider webbing through her father, and he made less and less of an effort to hide them as the twins gew older. Dad turned colder, nastier, more violent with every birthday candle that the two blew out, because it was a reminder of how much time had passed since he was whole.

Time was supposed to heal all wounds, but it only wounded Jay’s heels as he kept stepping over the shattered glass time and time again.

She shrugged her t-shirt off, for once uncaring of who saw the small red scars snaking up and down her arms and across her shoulders. It was just her and Kaida, and she trusted her younger sister more than she probably should considering they had only known each other for a couple weeks. Kaida stared, unsure of what to make of the situation and the fact that the girl she was supposed to be looking up to as an older sister wasn’t lying about Jay. Her dad.

“C-Can I—”

“Yeah,” Tessa said quickly, before she could overthink it, “go ahead. Just be gentle.”

Tessa didn’t even know if it was in Kaida’s nature to be gentle, and yet that was the only way she could describe the way Kaida’s hand touched her arm. The younger girl’s fingers traced along the scars’ paths, and Tessa waited for her to say anything about the ones that clearly weren’t from the lightning.

“Some of these are like Dad’s,” Kaida said, and Tessa hummed in response, “but the others…did someone hurt you?”

“My dad did, Kaida,” Tessa said gently, “I got those during training, and that’s why I don’t want to be more harsh with you. I wouldn’t trust myself not to turn into him.”

“But Dad would never. And you would never—”

“I know, trust me, and I’m so grateful that he doesn’t. The last thing I want is for any of you to grow up like how me and Noah did. But me? I don’t exactly trust me, so I’m not surprised that you don’t either.”

“He did this to Noah too?” Kaida said disbelievingly, but Tessa was telling the truth, and she hated it. She hated it. Biting her lip, Kaida took a deep breath. “W-When I was younger, someone hurt me, and didn’t treat me the way that I should’ve been treated.”

Her head whipped around with the speed of lightning, and Kaida was surprised to see a snarl on Tessa’s face. “Was it Jay? I swear to the First Master—”

“No! No,” Kaida said quickly, “he’s the one who got me away from the people who were hurting me. He’s never laid a hand on me, I promise.”

Tessa relaxed, and she smiled a bit when Kaida scooted closer, finally taking the water bottle and hiding it in her lap. Even if she wasn’t drinking out of it, it was still nice to see the younger girl take something that Tessa had given her; maybe they could make this work. “I’m sorry I’ve been treating you like that, and that it’s been upsetting you—”

“I’m not upset over it!”

“Sure, kiddo. But yeah, I’m sorry. Having three new siblings, and they’re all younger than me, and my dad who isn't an absolute asshole and the mom who I never got to meet…it’s a lot. For me and Noah. And I’m sure it’s a lot for you too.”

“I, uh,” Kaida paused, and Tessa watched as she started to twist her fingers, a nervous habit that she probably picked up from Jay. “Shit, I’m not good at these. I’m sorry too. And Tessa?”

“Yeah?”

Looking away, Kaida bit her lip again. “I-I do trust you. I don’t think that you would hurt me, and I know that Jay wouldn’t hurt you. He’s always been a good dad to me, and I know he wants to be one for you too.”

Grinning, Tessa bumped shoulders with her younger sister, making sure that Kaida saw it coming and that she could pull away if she wanted to. But to her surprise, Kaida didn’t, instead taking it as a challenge and shoving back even harder. “Thank you, Kaida. But let me tell you now: you’ll have to learn how to apologize pretty quick when you have siblings. And you’ll learn that approximately seventy percent of the time you don’t mean a damn thing when you do say sorry.”

“You say that like I’m going to start apologizing for anything,” Kaida said, and Tessa laughed.

“You’re right, you wouldn’t be you if you started apologizing,” Tessa stood up off of the monastery stairs, dusting her pants off and noting the sun setting. “Come on, we should be getting inside. I think I still have some chocolate stashed away somewhere.”

Kaida gasped, scrambling up and after her older sister. “You have a candy stash and didn’t tell me?!”

“How else do you think I keep it hidden from Noah?”

[infinitesimaldna]

The Giving Season

It was the annual gift exchange for the friend group, but something was up. Janus could tell.

And no, it didn't have to do with his feelings towards the other two in the room, that'd be ridiculous.

What was going down this holiday season?

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Ao3 Link

(Not currently posted but I'll edit it when Ao3 comes back online)

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Tw: Mention of sex (just Remus being Remus, not graphic whatsoever)

Ships: Intruloceit, background Prinxiety

Word Count: 3,456

Notes: This is my gift in the @sanderssidesgiftxchange for @edupunkn00b! I had a super fun time making it, and I really hope you enjoy <3

Also, all the love to my beta, @quillienvii. They were with me through every step of this journey, and I cannot be more thankful for them

Without further ado, fic under the cut!

The get-together was meant to start 20 minutes ago, which meant everything was going according to plan. 

Currently, the only ones present were Logan, Janus, and Remus. Logan had been there at exactly noon, Janus dragging Remus through the door a few minutes later. The gathering was taking place at Patton’s, so he should be here currently, but he had gone out to pick up Roman after he apparently had been having issues with his car. Since Roman had also intended to pick Virgil up and bring him to the festivities, that meant they were also short one emo until Patton made his way back with the other two in tow. 

Either way, Janus was getting impatient. That also meant if he was starting to feel impatient, Remus was practically jumping from anticipation already. Logan was probably doing fine, he always plotted extra time in their hangouts for the purposes of one or more of them being late. And he was always less uptight around the holidays.

Janus really enjoyed the season for that reason.

That, and how Remus would share the same facts every year without fail. Like right now.

“Did you guys know that in Belgium, Santa has a cannibal manservant slave that eats the bad children for him instead of just giving them coal?”

“Oh good, Remus is already starting the facts. I can cross that one off my bingo card.”  Janus hadn’t actually made a bingo card, but it was certainly an idea for next year.

“Shame. I had his fact about people breaking into noble’s houses while caroling on my own.” Logan’s comment was accompanied by a look sent his way, just a hint of a smile there, one that made his own face attempt to betray him and give a genuine smile back. He was able to work it down to a smirk, and thankfully Logan didn’t seem to notice. 

“If you guys are gonna keep teaming up on me, I’m just gonna go outside and strip in the snow.”

“No! I mean,” Logan took his glasses off, wiping them on the edge of his shirt before replacing them on his nose. “We can desist, Remus. There’s no need for our gathering to end up taking place in a police station holding cell.”

“Well, we gotta find something to do. Everyone else is taking so long, and I don’t know why.”

“If I recall, Roman is late because his car tire was punctured.” Janus punctuated his own addition to the conversation with a sip from his eggnog. “Weren’t you just saying to me yesterday that you punctured his wheel before you left for my place? And that’s why you needed to stay the night, to lay low until he calmed down?”

“I bought him a new pair of wheels for Christmas! It’s not like he didn’t need them, the old ones were losing their traction. I just…”

“Forgot he would need the car to get here for you to give him his gift?” The judgment was palpable in Logan’s voice, and Janus would be lying if he said he didn’t get some enjoyment out of it. How did he manage to fall for both the smartest and dumbest members of their group?

Not that either of the party’s present currently knew of his feelings. No, there was no need for that. His little crushes would pass soon enough, and the group dynamic would go back to normal. One couple in their friend group was already enough, and polyamory was complicated. Both Logan and Remus did tend to want to keep things rather simplistic, in their own ways. It was better if they stayed separate.

“Janie, back me up here!” The nasally call of Remus pulled him out of his thoughts, but he was quick to recover. 

“I wasn’t listening, and I’m sure you’re wrong anyway.” 

Remus huffed, jumping back to curl up on the couch, legs pulled up and arms crossed against his chest. “I get no respect around here.”

“You would be upset if either of us ever claimed to respect you unconditionally.” Logan’s claim seemed to bring Remus right back out of his pretend pouty episode, as he was shooting up from the couch a second later. 

“You’re right there, Nerdy Wolverine! Now come on, surely, we don’t have to wait for the others. We can just, start, you know? I’m sure no one’s thaaaaat interested in what we all got each other, I know Roman just cares about Virgil’s reaction to whatever he got him.”

Janus rolled his eyes, all too happy to let Logan take this one. It was always a team effort in managing their friend.

“I… suppose there’s not too much of an issue with that. So long as everyone here acquiesced and we got confirmation from the other’s before opening anything.”

See, now Janus was puzzled. Logan, willingly going against the schedule, agreeing with Remus in one of his ideas? And not just in some theoretical debate the two commonly had over body decomposition and the like. No, this was just going along with one of Remus’ tamer ideas. What was Logan up to?

“Perfect! I’ll text Robro and let him know.” Remus was typing and practically had the text typed before Logan could even remind him to ask, not tell. Well, this was the chaos Janus had signed up for when he hadn’t fallen for one moron and one genius who was always a little too indulgent. 

It didn’t take long for the three of them to get settled around the living area, their usual spots working well. Logan was on the far right of the couch, Remus leaning against that same arm, and Janus in the armchair closest to Logan’s seat. The other half of the couch and the loveseat were left empty, but the space felt filled enough, especially with the presents located next to each person. Plenty more were still in their place beneath the tree, but these were the only important ones right now.

“Well, I propose Remus starts, as I’m surprised he even managed to go this long without blurting out what he got each of us.” Logan’s suggestion was probably smart. The ratman was already bouncing on his heels, his body rocking back and forth as small giggles emerged from his crooked smile. The fact that his mouth was still shut was astounding. 

“Oh goody!” Within seconds, Janus had a larger wrapped box in his lap, and a quick glance told him Logan had received a similar package, albeit with different wrapping. Logan’s had little test tubes, although there did seem to be some hand-drawn explosions surrounding the chemistry equipment. Janus’ own paper had snakes all over it, but the one right next to the tag had a hat very similar to Janus’ own drawn atop its head. 

He would have to open this carefully to keep from ripping that particular scrap of paper. It definitely wouldn’t be making its way into his secret scrapbook collection that none of the others knew about.

“Open ‘em, open ‘em!” Janus didn’t fight the smile so much this time, if only because his gaze was down towards his gift. And… oh. 

“Remus, what is this?” The paper wasn’t fully removed, but he had peeled the edge enough to get a glimpse and he wasn’t sure about what he saw. At least, he shouldn’t be seeing this, if his previous statement was correct.

“I found your hidden scrapbook supplies! I didn’t look through any of the albums you’ve made, but I figured you could always use more stuff. Plus, it didn’t like you had a pair of crafting scissors in there, and those things are crazy sharp and good for stabbing things. I figured you could use a pair.”

“But how did you—”

“Jan, I’ve stayed the night at your house how many times? Me digging through your cabinets had to be something you expected.” 

Well, it definitely wasn’t out of character, but still. He was known among all of them as being the best with secrets. For Remus to know… 

“I suppose it isn’t the worst thing in the world.” Janus’ words triggered a small stim noise from Remus, the smallest sound before he rounded onto Logan, fully turning around and almost hitting the coffee table in his effort to face the other.

“And Logan? Whatcha think?”

Logan’s gift was smaller from what Janus could see, but that wasn’t much from the way it was carefully cupped in the nerd’s hands. 

“Is this a tie pin?”

“Yup! I figured you could use a new one, your old one was starting to rust a little bit.”

“And it’s shaped like a tiny tie.”

“Uh huh! That way you can be a nerd squared. Double ties!”

It was silent for a minute, Janus holding back his own comments as he examined Logan’s face. His own opinion on the quality of the gift was inconsequential until Logan’s reaction could be judged. And he had always been hard to read. 

The next noise to fill the space was a small chuckle, the volume of which slowly rose as Logan lifted his head. “It is an adequate gift, Remus. Thank you.”

“Aw, no problem! All I ask for in return is that my own gift is a pet squid.”

“You do not have the space at your and Roman’s townhouse to accommodate such an animal.”

“Life finds a way.”

“No, we are not having another discussion on Jurassic Park, at least not while I’m the only one who has to suffer through it.” Janus took a moment to mourn the fact that his eggnog cup was empty, and that the alcohol content was not nearly as high as he would appreciate. 

It was only 12:30 but it was never too early to be drinking if Remus and Logan were discussing their theories again. 

“Well then, I suppose it’s your turn to pass out gifts?” Again, Janus was left off-put by Logan’s contribution. He normally insisted (or at least suggested) they go clockwise when moving around the circle for their gift exchange; here he was suggesting the opposite. Still, Janus would avoid voicing his notice of the suspicious behavior until after the gift exchange, hopefully when Remus was being distracted bothering someone else.

There was little fanfare to the way Janus took the gifts from his side, passing Logan his while throwing Remus’ down towards him, fairly certain he would catch it. They were both decent in size, but nothing so over-the-top as to arouse suspicion. Just normal gifts for normal friends that mean nothing more in hidden messages.

“Janus, this is very kind. I hadn’t even had time to think about purchasing them myself.” In his hand were the discs for the Ace Attorney trilogy. The two of them had a conversation, months ago now, about the games and the fascinating introspective look into the Japanese court system they provided. When Logan had admitted to never actually playing the games himself, simply watching video essays about them online, Janus had been quick to suggest they could go through them together one day. In all seriousness the comment hadn’t been something he intended to come back to, but as the holiday season rolled around, he found himself compelled. It was a fun experience that incorporated learning new information, all of which was right up Logan’s alley. And if he happened to be allowed to watch and use it as an excuse to spend more time around the other, then that was nobody’s business but his own. 

“Oh Jannie, you shouldn’t have!” Remus, coincidentally, had also been given something video game related. His old DDR mat had been torn to all hell—Janus was pretty sure Remus had been stepping on live wires the last time the two had played. So, a new mat.

“I definitely didn’t make it slip-proof either so it would be sturdier and last longer.” 

“Oh, Roman’s gonna kill you for this one.” It was true, Roman hated their DDR sessions. 

“Not my fault he’s not great at the game. He really needs to stop being a sore loser every time he fails a level we can both full combo with ease.”

“To be fair, you both are able to full combo level 15’s on that game.”

“Oh, I actually got my first full combo on a level 16 the other day!” Remus spoke with such an enthused grin, and Janus allowed himself a smile as well. It had taken nearly 30 minutes of trying the same song over and over before Remus had gotten it, with Janus sitting on the sideline for moral support after the first attempt or two. He had been so happy when he succeeded.

“Well, hopefully this helps you even more, I can’t wait to see your brother’s face when you really start showing him up.” Of course, Janus had nothing but good will towards his other friend, but right now the grin on Remus’ face was just a tad more important. He wasn’t around to hear, anyway.

“Oh, he’s gonna be—”

The rest of Remus’ statement was cut off by a loud thud, attracting all of their attention yet only making Logan jump. 

“What in the world was—”

“Ah, it seems it’s my turn to deliver your gifts.” Logan straightened his tie as he readjusted in his seat, and Janus could have sworn he heard him say “although they could’ve just texted” under his breath.

It seemed Janus wouldn’t be waiting to ask about his suspicious behavior, then. “Logan, what are you up to?”

“And what was the thud?” Remus chimed in.

“Please, just indulge me a moment longer.” He was quick to pass Remus and Janus small packages then, identical in their traditional Christmas blue and silver wrapping from what he could tell. “Go ahead, open them.”

Janus cast a glance in Remus’ direction, not entirely surprised to see him shrug and then move to open his gift, spurring himself to do the same. If his theory was right, whatever he and Remus had was the same thing, and he’d rather not have his gift spoiled because he was watching someone else.

He wasn’t as careful with the paper this time, wrapping it a bit recklessly and pulling the box from beneath. It looked like a box one would use to hold a gift card, but pulling off the lid revealed no such thing. Instead, the words “look outside” were neatly written in Logan’s compact handwriting. 

There was a moment of eye contact between Janus and Remus before the latter raced to the window the sound had come from earlier. Janus wasn’t too far behind, if more civilized in his refusal to hop over the couch. 

The curtains were pulled back quickly, and very prominently, there was a message splayed out on the lawn, pressed into the fallen snow and definitely large enough for them both to read.

‘Will you both go out with me?’

“I… apologize for the untraditional nature of my gift, if one can even call it that, but I thought this would be the best way for me to ask.”

The attention was back on Logan before he even finished talking, Janus’ face for once not hiding any of his expression, his jaw open and eyes wide in surprise. He…?

“Both of us?” Remus normally had a nasally tone when he spoke, but this wasn’t that. No, there was a tremor in his voice, the same one Janus was sure he would have if he tried to speak right now. 

“Yes. I’ve come to develop feelings for both of you, and if I recall properly, you have both expressed that you’re okay with polyamory in the past.”

“That wasn’t your answer, though.” Janus felt the words leave his throat, no accusatory tone behind them. Not really any tone behind them. He was just speaking.

“Not at the time. I didn’t believe polyamory was for me, until I started to develop feelings for both of you. I came to realize that in dating only one of you, it would feel incomplete without the other. When it comes to—ugh—feelings, we all know I’m hardly a master on the subject. But I know what I feel for each of you, and I would like to know if this is something you’d be inclined to explore further.”

“And I thought hiding my feelings was the best answer.”

That came from Remus, somehow. Not himself. Huh.

“Have we all been harboring secret feelings for one another and just not said anything this whole time?”

“Well, I was kinda obvious. I did suggest having sex to both of you multiple times.”

“And we took you very seriously in that offer, Remus, truly.”

“As for myself, I only realized my feelings in their entirety a month or so ago,” Logan said. “Then, I started planning this, so I wasn’t hiding my own, per say.”

“Well then Jannie, what’s your excuse?” Remus was leaning against his shoulder when he asked, face inches away from his own. Just the kind of pressure he needed at that moment.

“Some things are better kept in secret until the time is right.”

“And for you that ‘right time’ would’ve been never. Right, Logan, I think it’s clear enough we both return your feelings and wanna go for polyamory. We can work out all the juicy stuff later.” 

“That is acceptable to me. Janus?” 

Both sets of eyes were now on him, Remus looking with a mischievous grin and Logan, a soft and hopeful smile. 

He nodded.

Remus whooped, and Logan breathed a sigh of relief. “You have no idea how hard it was coordinating with the other three to make this happen.”

“Wait, they were in on it?” He was so glad Remus had backed up before he spoke, because that yell was loud.

“Of course, I needed someone to make the sign while I kept you distracted inside. They’re out there right now waiting for me to text them about your answers. Speaking of which…” Logan was quick to pull his phone out, presumably sending the aforementioned text. 

“But how were you planning to get them all here late? It’s Patton’s house, and you couldn’t have known Remus would puncture Roman’s tire.”

“It was for his gift!”

“Yes, well, the original plan was for Roman to just fake having car troubles, requiring Paton to go and pick him up.” As he spoke, Logan adjusted his glasses, the pretty pink that had been coloring his cheeks finally dulling a bit. Shame. “Remus’ pranks just added another level of realism to the whole thing, if annoying Roman in the process. I do find it humorous that he unknowingly contributed to a plan he wasn’t even aware of.”

“I’m right here, you know!”

“Well, we can never be sure what that one will do,” Janus said with a smirk, all too agreeable with continuing the bit.

“You guys are so rude. I deserve cuddles and kisses for this behavior.” The pout on Remus’ face was absolutely adorable.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to hold off on that for now,” Logan said, and Janus noticed he was checking a text on his phone. “It appears our presence is being requested outside as ‘Roman really wants to hit Remus upside the head with a snowball as payback.’”

“Oh, he really thinks he can win a snowball fight? I have a whole harem on my side.”

“Debatable,” Janus chimed in, making his way towards the staircase so he could get to the first floor and into the inevitable snow day they were all about to have.

“The us being a harem thing or you guys being on my side?”

“Both,” answered Logan, and Janus felt he could kiss him right there.

“Hey!”

They made their way outside after only one attempt from Remus to steal Janus’ coat, quickly being enveloped in hugs and congratulations from Patton. Roman and Virgil, it seemed, would be sending their congratulations over later, as they were currently hidden behind a snow wall which Janus was sure had plenty of ammo waiting behind it.

And he never was one to go for the side with a disadvantage now, was he?

Sure, the first acts of his new relationship were now making fun of one of his partners and then abandoning them for the other side in a snowball fight, and he definitely hit Remus right on his mustache with one of them, but honestly, this was who he was. This was the manipulative liar that apparently, both of his crushes had fallen for.

So no, Janus had no problems with his actions. He very much doubted his boyfriends did, either.

[ellethespaceunicorn]

Bright Like The Moon: Chapter 8

Chapter 8: I Was So Much Younger Yesterday

Rating: Explicit, 18+, Minors - DNI

Fandom: Night Hunter

Pairing: Walter Marshall x Black!OFC

Word count: 3K

Summary: Kamaria Mansfield is hired at the Minnesota Police Department as an intern. Detective Walter Marshall is overworked and unsatisfied. Takes place post-film.

Chapter Summary: It’s time to celebrate Faye’s 16th birthday. Also, Walter works out a way for Kam to practice expressing her needs. 

Chapter warnings: crying, Daddy kink(if you don’t like this, turn back now because damn), slight dumbification kink, oral (f receiving), vaginal fingering, p in v sex, creampie, creampie tasting, the term ‘cumslut’ used lovingly

A/N: New Story Art! *cheering and applause* Now, it’s time to get to serious business. Um, I like Angie. And I wrote her like I see her. Also, this chapter gets quite kinky so heed those warnings, please. Un-beta’d, we die like people who tried their best.

Dividers: @firefly-graphics

Support/Reblog banner by me

Cover Art by me, model for Cover Art credits

Cross-posted on AO3

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Kamaria’s POV

Three Months Later

“...Happy Birthday dear Faye, Happy Birthday to You!”

We all cheer as Faye blows out her sixteen candles. Her parents stand by and film their child celebrating with her friends. Angie starts to cut the cake and gives Walter slices to hand out. They work so well together. You’d never know they went through such a rough separation.

Sweet Faye with her curls and her chubby cheeks, looking for all the world like the baby she was. Her purple cocktail dress matches the flower in her hair that I helped her with. 

It was nice to feel like a part of the team, working with Walter and Angie on organizing the party for Faye. But, let’s face it, it was mostly me and Angie doing the planning and Walter nodding along. Angie and I got along well enough, I think she just appreciated that I cared about Faye and that meant more than anything.

Angie says goodbye to the last guests leaving while I finish tidying up Faye’s gift haul. She dozes on the couch curled up on Walter who is snoozing as well. Angie moves a blanket over both of them and comes to help me clear away dishes and any lingering trash.

“I have to thank you for helping out with Faye earlier. She’s in that stage where everything I say is just not ‘cool’ enough,” Angie wipes her hands on a dish towel and looks from Faye’s sleeping form to me, “I remember this time in my life where my little girl valued my opinion above all else. And now it’s like she chooses the exact opposite of what I suggest.”

“Don’t worry. She’ll realize one day that she is so lucky to have a mother who actually wanted her,” I squeeze my eyes closed, deciding to open this old wound, “My mom never wanted to be a mother and she made that abundantly clear by leaving me and my Dad when I was a kid. He was never emotionally available so I had some interesting times in life, to say the least. But, just know that I’m sure she’ll come around. It may be in a year or two, but for now, you have a Daddy’s girl on your hands.” I laugh, trying to lighten the mood. 

I don’t notice Angie coming to my side until she puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder. Having a loving mother next to me offering me comfort is suddenly too much to handle and my eyes start to blur from unshed tears. I begin to protest my emotional reaction but then Angie speaks.

“It doesn’t make you weak to cry when you’re upset.” 

Her hushed words are like a soothing balm on a decades-old burn. One shaky breath is all I take before the tears are streaming down my face. Angie’s face crumbles as well and she wraps her arms around me. I realize that it has been a long time since I’ve had a “Mom hug” and I cling to that warmth as I quietly weep. 

When my sobs turn into sniffles, Angie rubs my back in calming circles. We separate and she cups my cheek in a display of affection. I nod and smile in appreciation before taking a deep breath to collect myself.

Walter and Faye pick this moment to finally wake up. Thank goodness for small favors, they missed my little moment. I wipe my eyes and face quickly before smiling at my boyfriend and his daughter. While Faye is none the wiser, I can see the gears working behind Walter’s eyes. He can always see right through me, but he won’t make his suspicions known until we’re alone. Something I truly love about him, he is not a scene-maker.

I walk over to Faye and give her a big hug before sitting down next to Walter and holding his hand. “How did we do on your big day, sweetheart? I’ll take you falling asleep as you had quite a time.”

“It was perfect. It was everything I wanted. Thanks, Mom and Dad. Thank you, Kam.” The grin never left her sweet face. It is all worth it to see her happiness. 

“You’re welcome, love,” Walter cupped Faye’s face and she beamed back at him. Truly a Daddy’s girl.

“Alright, birthday girl. You are welcome to stay up as long as you like. Just for tonight, that is,” Angie walks over to us and kisses the top of Faye’s head before smiling at Walter and me, “I am going to bed. Thank you both for your help today. Goodnight.” She pats my shoulder before heading upstairs.

If Walter notices our non-verbal exchange, he doesn’t mention it.

“Alright, girlfriend. Who was that adorable kid with the curls? He was cute.” I can’t help but make Faye blush and make Walter roll his eyes. It’s like my talent. 

“That was Albert. He’s in my English class. He likes Federico García Lorca and Mission: Impossible movies. That’s all I needed to know.”

“Which means he either knows enough to seem intelligent or enough to actually be intelligent,” I smile and yawn before stretching.

“On that note, I think it’s time for us to get home and for you to get to bed.” Walter ends the conversation without adding his two cents about this Albert kid. Faye gets the hint and follows suit.

“Yeah, I’m tired anyway. Thanks again, you guys.” Faye yawns sympathetically.

Walter and I leave after hugs and final birthday wishes. On the car ride back to his place, Walter decides to bring up his worries. 

“So, did something happen while Faye and I were out?” He broaches the topic carefully.

“Angie was feeling a bit left out of her daughter’s life. I simply told her that she has a Daddy’s girl on her hands.” I smile at the side of Walter’s face and look back at the road.

Walter surprises me by pulling the car over and turning to face me. “You want to try that again, Princess?” The pet name is enough to put my brain in gear and answer fully.

“I told Angie about how my Mom never wanted me. And then I cried. A lot.” I hated how he was so good at getting me to say what I didn’t want to say. But I had to respect his abilities.

“Why do I always have to work so hard at getting the truth out of you, Princess?” He reaches over to hold my chin between his thumb and forefinger, “You’ll work on that tonight, do you understand?”

“Yes, Daddy. I understand.” Suddenly out of breath, I slip into subspace with ease.

Walter’s POV

I love this woman, I do. But there is nothing harder than getting her to face her emotions. Getting her to tell me when she’s dealing with sadness or anxiety is like pulling teeth. I have literally been in the line of fire before. But getting her to admit when she has cried is harder than any S.W.A.T. mission I have ever been on.

We get back to my place and after her shower, I instruct her to stay undressed. I have her sit on the bed against the headboard. While I undress, I deny her the ability to touch herself. I watch her squirm while I slowly remove my last piece of clothing.

My dick throbs between my legs as I lock eyes with her. She licks her lips and fights the urge to reach out and touch. I settle on her punishment and a little piece of me actually feels sorry for her. This one might wreck her.

“Since it’s so hard for you to be honest about your feelings, we’re going to work on that tonight. You have to express when you have needs. All you have to do is tell me what you need when you need it. You must use your words, Princess. Is that clear?” I cross my arms and look down at her.

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Good girl,” I smile as the praise washes over her, “How do you feel about restraints, baby?”

She shifts on the bed a bit and plays with her hands. “I like being restrained.”

“Good,” I reach into my nightstand and pull out a silk sash before beckoning her to sit at the edge of the bed, “Put your hands together for me, palm to palm,” She does as she’s told and I tie her hands together. “How does that feel? Not too tight?”

“Feels fine,” She scrunches up her nose and looks up at me, “I won’t be able to touch you, though.”

“Yeah. That’s kind of the point, Princess,” I push lightly on her shoulder so she lays down flat and her hands stretch above her head, “Just lie back and let me work. And you tell me when you need more or less, alright?”

She nods and I raise my eyebrows. “Yes, I’ll tell you what I need.”

“Good girl.” I lean down and capture her lips in my own. I poke at the seam of her mouth until she lets me enter. I lick into her mouth, tasting and sucking on her tongue. Moving my kisses to her jaw then to her neck, I suck and bite at her sweet spot until she lets out that precious little moan of hers.

Trailing my tongue across her clavicle, I kiss down her chest and lavish attention on her breasts. These perfect fucking tits I love so much. I kiss both nipples and knead the soft flesh but don’t go any further until I hear a whine. “Use your words, Princess. What do you need?”

“Your tongue…can you suck on my nipples, please?” Her breathing speeds up.

“That’s my good girl.” I swirl my tongue around one nipple while running my thumb over the other. I suck the pebbled peak into my mouth and tease it with my tongue. Suckling at her for a few moments more, I switch to the other side to give just as much attention. I feel her thighs rubbing together in search of friction, so I kiss down her soft belly, stopping to nip at her hips. 

Pulling her legs apart, I can finally see my prize. I want to dive right in, but this is an exercise to have Kamaria tell me what she needs so instead I kiss at her inner thighs for far longer than I normally would have to prove a point.

“Daddy, please eat my pussy.” She pleads, moving her hips closer to my face. Such a good girl for me, and I tell her as much before I kiss her mound and then slide my tongue up and down her wet slit.

“Fuck! You taste amazing, Princess.” My hands grip her thighs tight before I begin to lap at her like a man starved. Her sweet nectar is more than enough to satisfy me and I want to drink her in and never look back. Her whimpers only make me work that much harder. Sucking on her clit, I let my tongue dance against the swollen bud and am rewarded with a squeal. 

“Need your fingers, please.” Such a polite little thing, isn’t she?

“Yes, baby.” I reward her good manners with two fingers straightaway. She’s soaked and they slide in easily. We both groan and I massage that inner bundle of nerves before returning my attention to her clit. I flick my tongue on her button before working my fingers in and out of her core.

“Just like that, don’t stop!” Her words go straight to my dick and I curve my fingers. Before long, I can feel her channel clamp down on my fingers but I keep working at her as her juices coat my hand.

“Too much, too sensitive!” She cries, her body shaking under me. I lift off her clit and still my fingers before licking them clean and wiping them on the comforter.

“You did so good, Princess,” I kiss up her body and nibble at her neck, “But I’m not done with you yet, baby.” I get up from my spot between her legs and move her to the center of the bed. Maneuvering her on her side, I slide up behind her and lift her leg. I enter her swiftly and we moan in tandem.

I pull back out until just the tip is inside then I slam back in. Gripping her hip, I start a punishing pace inside her walls. The way her cunt squeezes me is like paradise. She was made to take my dick. I was made to claim her pussy.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” All she can utter is a string of curses and I feel triumphant that I fucked language right out of her brain.

“That’s right, Princess. Let this dick fuck you stupid, baby,” No sooner do I finish that sentence do I feel her walls flutter around me, “Oh does my baby like being fucked dumb on Daddy’s dick?” The answering whine tells me all I need to know. Adding ‘dumbification’ to the list of kinks my baby girl has.

Pulling out and moving Kam onto her back, I get to my knees and push her legs open, Entering her again, I reach up and hold her bound hands in one fist. From this angle, I can slam into her and stimulate her clit at the same time.

“Need to…touch you. Please…Daddy?” Her words are punctuated by thrusts, the look of yearning in her eyes.

I pull the knot free on the sash. Her hands immediately go to my hair to tug me down for a kiss. I can taste her desire and hunger for closeness. I growl into her mouth and she whimpers back. Her legs wrap around my waist and pull me in deeper. We pull apart from the kiss and rest our foreheads together.

“Tell me what you need, baby girl.” At this point, I am panting. So close to release. I just need to hear her say she needs it.

“Look at me while you cum inside me, Daddy,” This little brat actually smiles up at me as she shatters me.

“Fuck!” The dam breaks and my hold on reality fucks all the way off. My eyes search hers while I empty my balls into her waiting cunt. I keep stroking inside her and the sensation is heightened once I feel her come around me. She could gonna be the death of me, and I’d love every minute of it.

I lean down and slot our mouths together as I pull out. I swallow her whimper at the feeling of emptiness before I look down to see her thoroughly ruined snatch. My cum still leaks out and I can’t help but feel proud to see her so full. I smile down at her before getting up from the bed.

I clean up a bit in the bathroom before fetching a damp washcloth. Entering the room again, I find Kam lazily playing with herself. “Enjoying yourself, Princess?” I reach down and clean her gently.

“I love how sensitive I am right now. It feels so good.” Her eyes roll back in her head as my hand moves over her folds.

“Do you think you can give me one more orgasm, Princess?” I know I might be pushing it, but seeing her so aroused is making it worth asking.

“Yes, please, Daddy. I wanna cum again for you.” 

That was all I needed to hear before I’m between her legs again. I lean down to lap at her slit. Tasting my spend and her juices mixed together is heavenly. Can’t believe I’ve never done this before. By the surprised moans coming from Kam, I’d say she was enjoying this as well. 

After making out with her pussy for a while, my fingers find their way inside her tight wet heat. Curving my fingers as I move them in and out, I’m rewarded soon after with a strangled moan and her walls fluttering around my fingers. I wait until the convulsing stops to remove my fingers. A dirty thought enters my head and I run with it.

“Open your mouth, Princess,” As she follows direction, I lock eyes with her as I put my slick-coated fingers in her mouth until they disappear, “Such a good girl for me. Sucking our cum off my fingers like the hungry little cumslut you are.”

She moans around my fingers and if I didn’t literally just cum a liter, I’d be balls-deep in her again. When I remove my fingers from her mouth, she actually whines in protest. I can’t help but kiss that adorable pout before grabbing the washcloth again to wipe away the evidence of her arousal.

I throw the cloth in the hamper and lay down next to my love. I check her wrists to make sure the sash didn’t dig in too deep before kissing her forehead. “How’s my baby feeling?”

“I feel amazing. Spectacular,” She stretches and cuddles into my chest as I wrap an arm around her, “I think that was the best sex I’ve ever had.”

“I’m right there with you. I probably fried a few brain cells but it was so worth it,” I hold her chin and bring her gaze up, “I’m also proud of you for saying what you needed. Now, we just have to get you to do that out of the bedroom.”

“Practice makes perfect, right?” There’s my little brat.

“Cheeky. But not wrong. We’ll work on it together, yeah?” I say, pulling the comforter over both of us as Kam’s eyes start to close, “Love you, Princess.”

“Mhm,” Her short answer lets me know that she is absolutely fucked out and I’m chuffed, “Love you, Daddy.”

Her fingers work their way through my chest hair, something I’ve noticed as a comfort activity for her. If I was a cat, I’d be purring every time she does it. But if she ever found out how much I liked it, she’d probably use it against me somehow. Little minx.

I listen as her breathing evens out and I’m not far behind. I can safely say today was a good day. Nothing can ruin this feeling.

Can it?

Chapter 9

A/N: Ehehehe, that ending sounded menacing at all, did it…? Well, anyway. This chapter’s song was “Starving” by Hailee Steinfeld & Grey. “Starving” is about a relationship that’s getting more adventurous in and outside of the bedroom. I really enjoy writing in Walter’s POV, especially the kinky stuff. Hopefully, you enjoyed it too. 

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Let me know if you wanna be added (or removed) 😁

[bbygrldaemon]

Mommy

Chapter 8: stupid boys

warnings - suicidal thoughts, mentions of child abuse, and extremely dubious consent. The dubious consent goes into play in the last scene after Harwin and Daemon go into the guest room.

ao3 link | masterlist

Daemon reached for his phone on the bedside table, wanting to turn off the alarm. He groaned, rubbing his eyes to shake off the sleepiness. He sat up in bed but lay back down when pain shot from his ass to his lower back.

“Fuck me,” he growled, lying on his side and rubbing his lower back.

He and Rhaenyra had gone at it for four days straight after Christmas. His aunt had put him in positions he didn’t even know were possible, and he had cum more times than he thought he could in one go. He returned to the city on the fifth day after Christmas but slept all day; now it was the 31st, New Year’s Eve.

Harwin had invited him to a party. He wanted to go, but for some reason, it felt like he would be cheating on Rhaenyra. He knew, in theory, he wouldn’t be—since they weren’t actually dating and it wasn’t like he was going to do anything with Harwin—but Harwin was still his ex. It almost made him want to invite his aunt, even if it would seem weird to an outsider. Eventually, he accepted his invitation and didn’t ask Rhaenyra to come with him since he didn't want to seem clingy. 

His whole body hurt and his ass was still sore. Rhaenyra was going to be the death of him. After completely ruining him, his aunt made a deposit and paid the first four months of rent for a one-bedroom apartment close to his college campus.

That wasn’t the only thing. Rhaenyra had also sat him down and made him choose a whole new set of furniture for his apartment. He had opposed the idea at first, arguing that the apartment was enough, but his aunt shut him down quickly, saying it was the least she could do after the four days they had. She also insisted that she wouldn’t have her sugar baby living in a big apartment with no furniture. Ultimately, he gave in; it was their deal, after all.

His lease started in January, she had made him ask his cousin Laenor to help him move everything to the new apartment, and he also thought to ask Harwin to help with the heavy stuff; he wasn’t foolish enough to believe he and Laenor could carry them alone.

He really didn’t want to get up; he just wanted to stay in bed all day like yesterday, but it was already midday. He had made plans with Luthor, a high school friend, to go out for lunch, and Harwin had told him he’d pick him up for the party, so he couldn’t get out of it.

Eventually, he got out of bed and took a hot shower to relax his muscles. He dressed quickly in a black graphic t-shirt and black ripped jeans. After closing the front door behind him, Daemon walked toward his favorite coffee shop. When he arrived and sat down to wait for his friend, he felt his phone vibrate in his back pocket. Taking it out, he saw a message from Rhaenyra.

From Nyra <3 :

Hope you have fun with your friends today, my love!Sent you a little something to hold you up for tonight, let me know if you need more.

Just then, he got a notification from his bank, informing him that a transfer had been made to his account. Checking it, he realized his aunt had sent him a thousand dollars.

To Nyra <3 :

I think you sent me more than enough.Thank you, babe!

He hit send before he could fully think through the message. As soon as he realized what he’d called his aunt, he started to panic. Sure, they used terms of endearment with each other, but he felt like ‘babe’ was a bit too relationship-like for casual conversation. Before he could try to take it back, Rhaenyra was already typing. He felt like throwing up.

From Nyra <3 :

No problem, pretty boy <3

He sighed in relief, though his heart was still pounding. Finally putting his phone away, he noticed Luthor approaching the table. He looked so different, yet so similar at the same time. He was much taller now and had a beard. His hair was still on the longer side and tied up in a bun, giving him a Viking-like appearance. Daemon smiled at him and stood up to greet his friend.

“Daemon!” Luthor exclaimed excitedly, engulfing him in a bear hug. “How have you been, short stuff?” he teased, rubbing Daemon’s head like he was a kid.

“I’ve been okay,” Daemon replied, swatting Luthor’s hand away. “And I’m not short, you’re just huge.”

“Oh, I’m huge, alright,” Luthor teased, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Oh, shut up, Luthor,” Daemon rolled his eyes as his friend laughed.

They went up to the counter, ordered their food and drinks, and sat back down at the same table Daemon had been waiting at. Once the food arrived, they were deep in conversation, immediately digging in.

“I didn’t want to say anything, but you look terrible, man,” Luthor said with his mouth full. “You’ve got huge bags under your eyes, and I can kinda see bruising around your neck. You’re terrible at makeup, by the way.”

“I see your honesty hasn’t gone away,” Daemon sighed.

“Hey! You always said my honesty was what you liked about me,” Luthor protested dramatically, placing a hand over his chest.

“I know, and I do. It’s just… I had to go back home for Christmas,” Daemon admitted, looking away, not wanting to see the pity in Luthor’s eyes.

“You’re kidding me. You went back to that asshole?”

“That asshole is my father, Luthor,” Daemon replied, his gaze shifting to the coffee shop’s entrance.

“He barely qualifies as a father, more like a sperm donor,” Luthor said, sounding annoyed. Daemon couldn’t blame him. If one of his friends kept going back to an abusive parent after repeatedly saying it was the last time, he’d be tired too.

“I know, it’s just… you know I can’t say no to him.”

“You can. You just have to say no. What’s he gonna do? Take away your allowance? Kick you out of college?” Luthor challenged. “You’re almost completely independent from him. The only thing tying you to him is that stupid obligation you’ve convinced yourself you owe him.”

“I didn’t convince myself of anything. I do have an obligation to him,” Daemon argued, but Luthor just rolled his eyes. “If I cut him off completely, he won’t let me see my siblings.”

Luthor gave him an incredulous look.

“Look, I don’t expect you to understand. I know you think I’m an idiot, but I have my reasons,” Daemon explained.

“Whatever, Daemon,” Luthor said, clearly frustrated with his stubbornness.

Daemon wasn’t stupid—at least not completely. He knew his father didn’t deserve forgiveness, not after all the years of physical and mental abuse. Not after all the trauma he had endured, trauma that still haunted him and required medication. And certainly not after all the times he had nearly died, either at his father’s hands or by his own. Daemon knew it wasn’t normal to respond to his father’s calls, but he still couldn’t shake the part of him that craved his father’s approval, even after everything.

“So... did you hear who’s pregnant?” Luthor asked, changing the subject to lighten the mood. He raised an eyebrow at Daemon.

“No… who?” Daemon asked, leaning in with curiosity.

“Mysaria.”

“No way! What? I thought she was a lesbian. Wasn’t she dating an older woman not too long ago?” Daemon asked, confused.

“I mean, you two did date, so…” Luthor trailed off.

“That was ages ago, we had just entered high school. It barely counted,” Daemon said. It was true; their relationship had been brief—just a few kisses and nothing more. If he was honest, he had been in love with her at the time and was heartbroken when she ended it, especially since Mysaria had told him she had been with someone else multiple times but didn’t know how to tell him. His ex-girlfriend had been three years older than him—he was fourteen, and she was almost eighteen—and whoever she had been with was already out of school. She eventually admitted that it was an older woman, and she had lied about her age. At the time, Daemon had consoled himself by believing she was simply a lesbian, but he had long since moved on.

“Well, yeah, she was ‘going out’ with an older woman, remember?” Luthor said, making air quotes.

“Why the air quotes?” Daemon asked.

“Well, it wasn’t exactly a relationship, if you know what I mean… more of a ‘financially beneficial’ arrangement,” Luthor said suggestively.

“What? Like money for sex? Like a prostitute?” Daemon asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Some might see it that way,” Luthor shrugged. “She had a sugar mommy.”

Daemon choked on his coffee, coughing violently. Luthor patted his back to help.

“Easy, short stuff! Damn, I didn’t think that news would shock you so much,” Luthor said, still rubbing Daemon’s back.

“It’s not—I just—wasn’t expecting it, that’s all,” Daemon stammered, his eyes darting around, avoiding Luthor’s gaze. He felt like if he made eye contact, Luthor would see right through him and figure everything out.

“Okay, man, calm down,” Luthor laughed, then his eyes lit up. “So, Harwin... you’re going out with him tonight,” he teased, wiggling his eyebrows.

“I’m not ‘going out with him,’ it’s just a party,” Daemon said, returning the air quotes.

“Yeah, well, we both know how those nights end up with you two,” Luthor smirked. “Hope you’ll be able to walk tomorrow.”

“Shut up!” Daemon exclaimed, but couldn’t help laughing. “Nothing is happening tonight, or ever, for that matter. I’ve decided to end it for good. We’re truly just friends now.”

“Hm... sure, that’s what you said last time. And the time before that. Oh, and also the time after you had just broken up,” Luthor said, looking at him incredulously.

“Okay, I get it.” Daemon looked around. “Look, the sex was good, but we can’t just keep going like that forever, you know? What if one of us wants a real relationship?”

“So, there’s someone else, huh?”

“What? No! There’s no one.”

“Sure, so who is it? Do I know them? Is it a girl?” Luthor paused, then grinned. “Or is it another guy? Damn, Daemon, I didn’t know you liked cock so much.”

Daemon blushed. “Luthor! There is no one,” he finally said.

Luthor stared at him with a smug smile. “Okay, whatever you say. I guess the hickeys on your neck are just mosquito bites, then?”

“What?” Daemon instinctively touched his neck. “No, I made sure to cover them, they shouldn’t—” He stopped, realizing what just happened. He sighed and looked at Luthor with an incredulous expression.

“Got you,” Luthor said, laughing loudly and drawing attention to their table. “You don’t have to tell me now, but I hope I’ll meet the lucky fellow one day.”

God, if only he knew.

They spent the rest of their time catching up. Around four, Daemon said goodbye to Luthor and headed back to his flat to get ready for the party. Once in his room, he threw himself onto his bed with a deep sigh. He didn’t know why he had reacted so strongly to Luthor insinuating he was seeing someone—because, in a way, he kind of was.

After all, he was sort of with his aunt, which sounded really messed up. It was complicated. He didn’t know the nature of their relationship, or if they were exclusive. Sure, Rhaenyra would constantly say things like “You’re mine” and “I want to ruin you for everyone else,” but that could just be a kink. They hadn’t had a real conversation about what they were. And honestly, there hadn’t been much talking between them at all lately.

It didn’t help that he wanted it to be a proper, serious, exclusive relationship. He didn’t want Rhaenyra to be with or touch anyone else like she did him. The mere thought of it made his stomach twist into knots.

He missed his aunt, while lying down he could still feel her hands all around him, how she had fucked him, how good it felt, and all the praises she had whispered into his ear while doing it. Just thinking about it made him hard, he started feeling hot and couldn’t help but bring his hand down to his member. He rubbed himself over his trousers, letting out a moan. He heard his phone go off but he ignored it, he kept rubbing his clothed cock and brought his other hand under and up his shirt, onto his chest, and rubbed one of his nipples. He closed his eyes trying to imagine Rhaenyra was the one doing it. He quickly unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans sneaking his hand inside and taking his dick into his hand, taking it out. He stroked himself slowly, trying to simulate his aunt’s ministrations.

His phone went off again, and he groaned irritated. He took his left hand from under his shirt and grabbed his phone from next to him. He unblocked it and saw he had two messages from Rhaenyra, he pulled his other hand from under his pants and sat up on his bed, cock still out. Just when he had opened their chat another text came in.

From Nyra <3 :

Hello, my pretty boy. How was lunch?

God, I miss you so much

Look what I found

She sent a photo of him after one of all the orgasms his aunt had given him, that made his dick jump. He was sprawled on the bed naked, mouth ajar, eyes squeezed shut with his left arm slightly trying to cover his face, and drops of cum on his chest.

To Nyra <3 :

Fuck

I miss you tooI wish you were here with me

His phone started ringing, his aunt’s name flashing on his screen. He straightened up before answering the call.

“Hey, Aunt Nyra,” he said, putting his phone up to his ear, feeling his heart still pounding.

“Hello, sweet nephew,” his aunt responded; he could hear phones ringing and faint footsteps in the background. “How was lunch with Luthor?”

“It was okay; it felt good to see him again,” Daemon answered with a small smile on his face. He looked down at himself and remembered his cock was out; he quickly tried to cover himself, as if Rhaenyra could see him right now.

“Hm, that’s good,” she hummed. He heard a door close, and the background noises all ceased. “I’ve been in the office all day, working. But you know, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. Your cute moans, your body, your perky ass, that pretty cock, and then I just came across that picture of you, looking so delicious.”

“Fuck,” he breathed out, grabbing his hard cock once again. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you either; I can still feel your hands all over me,” a small moan left his lips after he started rubbing himself slowly.

“I bet you can still feel me inside you; I bet your insides are already carved in the shape of that toy,” Rhaenyra whispered, a shiver running down his spine. He continued moving his hand up and down his member, letting little sighs out.

“Nyra,” he whined, picking up his pace and squirming on the bed.

“Are you touching yourself, Daemon?” Rhaenyra asked him with a teasing tone and let out a quiet sigh herself.

“Yes,” he breathed out.

“You’re so needy, so perfect and pretty for me,” his aunt praised him in a breathy tone. “I’m so wet just imagining you in this moment,” she let out a slight growl. “You should take responsibility for seducing me; I should be working, and instead I have a problem in my pants.”

“What should I do to make it up to you?” Daemon questioned, getting excited and rubbing his dick a little faster.

“You should let me hear you while you jerk off, and then send me a picture so I can see how good you look,” she commanded. “Tell me, little nephew, what would you do if I was there with you? How would you make it up to your mommy, my love?” she asked with a seductive tone.

“I would get on my knees and I would use my mouth,” he let out a breathy response. He felt his stomach tighten at the excitement he felt over the image he was creating in his head.

"How, my sweet boy?” she asked, sounding out of breath. He could imagine her touching herself, rubbing her fingers on her cunt, and fantasizing about it being him instead. He let a loud moan out at the prospect.

“With my tongue, I’ll lick in between your folds just how you like it,” he described, wanting to excite her further. He was stoking his cock faster now; he could feel his orgasm building up.

“Fuck!” Rhaenyra exclaimed. 

“I would eat you out the way you taught me,” he said out of breath, “and then you’ll sit on my face and take your pleasure yourself.” He rubbed himself faster, clutching his phone tighter on his left hand, feeling his orgasm approaching.

“And then you’ll let me fuck you; I’d use the pink one and fuck you till you can’t walk anymore until your insides are carved into the toy’s shape,” explained in detail. Going into a higher pitch, he could tell she was close too.

“Yes—fuck,” he choked out. “Nyra… I’m—I think I’m—” 

“Cum for me, my boy, let me hear you,” his aunt ordered, sounding like she was also cumming.

“Mom…Mo-Mommy,” he sobbed loudly when he felt himself come all over himself, ropes of cum coming out of his dick and landing on his shirt and some drops on his face. He lay there gasping for air, waiting to come down from his high while listening to Rhaenyra panting on the other side of the line.

“Did you come, my love?” his aunt asked, trying to catch her breath.

“Yes,” he sighed with a smile on his face. “Thank you, babe,” he tried testing the waters.

She let out a breathless laugh. “You don’t have to thank me, darling.” There was a pause before she continued, “It’s getting late; you should go shower and get ready for your party.”

“Okay, I’ll do that,” he hesitated. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Oh yes, you’ll see me very soon; don’t worry, but now you must go out and have fun. Have fun tonight, my darling.”

“Okay, bye Aunt Nyra, I’ll see you soon,” he said before ending the call. He let out a long sigh, letting his phone fall next to him on the bed. He willed his heart to stop pounding so hard in his chest and then got up to quickly take a shower and get ready for the party. It was already 5:30, and Harwin had told him he’d be there to pick him up at around 6.

He undressed and got into the shower. He made sure to clean all of the cum on his body and took the opportunity to wash his hair with the new shampoo Rhaenyra had gotten him. He sat down in front of his closet, staring at his clothes, trying to decide what to wear. He didn’t have much left since he had moved out of his father’s house. Viserys had thrown out all the clothes he hadn’t managed to bring with him. Daemon had planned to go back for them, but after finding out what his dad had done, he decided it wasn’t worth the trip.

Finally, he chose a dark brown button-down short-sleeve shirt and loose khaki trousers. He added some rings, including the infinity ring Viserys had given him—the one time his father had acted like a real dad—and wore it on his pinky finger. He also put on his favorite skeleton necklace and the one Rhaenyra had brought him from Spain a few years ago. After spraying on some cologne, he decided to complete the outfit with a dark brown wool sweater vest his aunt had gifted him. He hadn’t worn it yet, but he thought it would pair nicely.

He checked his phone—it was 6:15. Harwin would probably arrive any minute. As if on cue, he received a text from his ex, saying he was waiting outside. Daemon took one last look in the mirror, grabbed his phone and keys, and quietly left his room. He tiptoed downstairs, careful not to wake Mr. and Mrs. Massey, and slipped out of the house to meet Harwin, who was parked at the curb.

Harwin let out a low whistle as he looked Daemon up and down. “I thought we were going to a party. If I’d known you wanted a date, I would’ve dressed nicer,” he teased, eyes still lingering on Daemon even as he got into the car.

“What? Am I overdressed?” Daemon asked, glancing down at his outfit. He had aimed for something nice but still casual enough for a New Year’s house party. Maybe he’d misjudged.

“Nah, you look great,” Harwin said, adding with a grin, “I just feel underdressed.”

Daemon took a moment to check out Harwin’s outfit—black, slightly loose trousers paired with a simple black button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to show off his forearms. “You look good too.”

“Oh, flirting already? We haven’t even taken a shot yet,” Harwin quipped, leaning in playfully.

“Shut up, Harwin,” Daemon laughed, giving his shoulder a shove. “Just drive—we’ll miss New Year's at this rate.”

Harwin chuckled and started the car, pulling away from the curb. They arrived around 7:30 after a long drive; the party was at one of Harwin’s rich friends' houses on the outskirts of the city. They parked in front of a massive house, and Daemon noticed all the sleek, expensive cars already lined up. A shiver ran down his spine as a chill hit him.

Harwin noticed and quickly grabbed a white hoodie from the car. “Here, take this,” he said, holding it out.

“No, it’s fine,” Daemon tried to refuse.

“Nah, you’re taking it. Can’t let someone so pretty freeze to death,” Harwin insisted, shoving the hoodie into Daemon’s hands. Rolling his eyes at Harwin’s choice of words, Daemon reluctantly put it on.

They headed inside, finding the door already open. The house felt even larger on the inside. The air was thick with the smell of alcohol, tobacco, and weed, and the music blared from every corner. Daemon scanned the scene—people grinding on each other in the middle of the room, groups smoking in corners, friends chatting in clusters. A DJ booth was set up near the glass doors that led out to a pool, which was also crowded with people. The flashing lights and the chaotic atmosphere made him feel out of place.

“Stop overthinking. I can see the gears turning in your head,” Harwin whispered in his ear, pressing close due to the crowded room. His arm snaked around Daemon’s waist, guiding him toward another room. “Come on, I know how to help you relax.”

Daemon allowed himself to be led into the kitchen, where they found a group of guys he didn’t recognize.

“Harwin!” one of the guys called out loudly, clearly already out of it. “Where have you been? The party started over an hour ago.” The man hugged Harwin, patting his back.

“You know me, I always like to show up a little late,” Harwin shrugged. “Besides, I had to pick up Daemon.”

“Oh, Daemon?” the guy asked suggestively, turning to him. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Finally meet me? Do I know you from somewhere?” Daemon asked, confused. He was certain he had never seen this guy before.

“You don’t know me, but I know a lot about you,” the guy replied, wiggling his eyebrows with a huge grin. Harwin punched the guy’s arm hard.

“Ow, damn, you’ve got a strong punch,” the man complained, rubbing the spot where Harwin had hit him.

“Hey, who’s this?” another guy chimed in, approaching them. He looked exactly like the man they were just talking to.

“Daemon, these are the twins, Erryk and Arryk Cargyll. Guys, this is Daemon, my best friend,” Harwin introduced them, putting a hand on Daemon’s back and pointing to each of the twins as he said their names.

“So this is Daemon. I get it, man,” Arryk said with a smirk, looking Daemon up and down. He squirmed a little uncomfortable. Harwin then introduced him to the rest of the group, and vice versa.

Daemon frowned, feeling a bit weird. They all seemed to know him somehow, but he didn’t recognize any of them. One of the guys, Steffon, offered them both a shot of tequila to start the night. As the evening wore on, Harwin’s friends kept offering Daemon drinks and shots, and he found it hard to refuse. Before long, he could barely keep still. He turned to his ex, who was more sober, and told him he was going to dance.

Harwin laughed at his drunken friend and decided to follow him, making sure Daemon didn’t do anything too reckless. He watched as Daemon plunged into the crowd with a huge smile on his face, his body swaying to the beat of the music. Harwin couldn’t help but admire him. Truthfully, he wasn’t over Daemon. When Daemon had approached him a while back, telling him he didn’t love him romantically but only as a friend, it had stung deeply—because Harwin had been in love with him. He lied and said he felt the same, and they broke up but stayed friends. At first, it was just that—friends—but Harwin could never truly resist Daemon, and they eventually started hooking up again, no strings attached.

Just then, someone approached Daemon and offered him what looked like a joint. Before Harwin could intervene, Daemon took a drag, his eyes closing as he inhaled. He took a few more hits before handing it back and smiling at Harwin.

“Stop staring like a creep and come dance with me,” Daemon laughed, grabbing Harwin’s hands and pulling him into the crowd.

Whatever Daemon had smoked hit him quickly. He seemed more relaxed, more smiley. As Daemon turned around, Harwin couldn’t help but get closer, pressing himself against Daemon’s body. He slid an arm around Daemon’s waist from behind and started grinding on him. Daemon, the slightly shorter of the two, threw his head back onto Harwin’s shoulder, laughing.

Daemon’s head felt heavy, and he couldn’t think straight. As he ground back against Harwin, he could feel him getting hard. Daemon smiled faintly, his mind drifting. He missed Rhaenyra. He wished she were there behind him instead of Harwin. She’d probably grope him without a care, knowing no one here would suspect they were related. Then, they’d sneak away into a room and kiss and fuck when the clock struck twelve, starting the new year just right. He felt someone kissing his exposed neck from behind and let out a moan, reaching back to grab the person’s head and pull them closer.

“Maybe we should go somewhere more private,” a deep voice whispered in his ear. Daemon frowned—he didn’t remember his aunt’s voice being that deep. His mind was foggy, but he nodded in agreement, his body was already heating up with desire.

With an arm around his waist, Harwin pulled slightly away from Daemon and led him to the stairs. When they were climbing the stairs, he heard a loud whopping from behind him. He turned his head and saw his friends applauding and giving him a thumbs-up. He laughed, shaking his head, and continued behind his ex. When they reach upstairs, Harwin leads Daemon to one of the doors he knew was a guest bedroom; it was the furthest away from the crowd.

When he opened the door, his ex immediately threw himself at him, kissing him deeply. Harwin pushed them into the room, slamming the door behind them. He hungrily kissed Daemon back, wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him closer. His ex had his arms around his neck.

“I need you to fuck me now,” Daemon said, detaching his lips from him. 

Harwin groaned, sliding his hands down and grabbing his ex’s plump ass, reconnecting their lips. Daemon moaned loudly and started unbuttoning Harwin’s shirt and pushing it off his shoulders. Harwin led the shorter man on top of the bed in the center of the room. He hovered over Daemon, admiring him with hungry eyes. The strong man pulled the other’s vest and quickly unbuttoned his shirt but did not take it off completely. He hungrily devoured his lips, shoving his tongue inside and deepening the kiss. He stroked his naked hip while Daemon’s hands were on either side of his neck.

He pulled away with a growl, trailing kisses down the other boy’s neck and continuing down onto his chest, where he took one of his nipples into his mouth. Daemon moaned loudly, stroking the hair on the back of his head. His ex’s noises were going straight to his dick. Harwin kissed down his flat stomach to the hem of his trousers; he pulled them down along with his boxers, leaving Daemon completely naked for him to admire.

The bigger man observed him better, noticing the faint bruises on his hips and the inside of his thighs. That made him pause; he didn’t know Daemon was seeing someone else; it made jealousy bubble up inside him. 

“Fuck, nyr—just do it already,” Daemon choked out, getting impatient. He spread his legs slightly, wrapping them around his hips and pulling him closer.

“So fucking needy, you want my cock that bad?” Harwin took the small bottle of lube he had brought in his back pocket and coated four of his fingers with the cherry-scented substance. He instantly plunged two of his fingers inside Daemon’s hole. His ex moaned loudly, moving his hips forward to get them in deeper. “Just look at yourself. You’re such a slut, Daemon, so needy for someone to fill you up.”

“Please...ny-” he interrupted himself with a whine when Harwin started making scissoring motions with the fingers inside him. “Go faster; I can take it,” he urged him, getting impatient.

Harwin put another finger inside, making Daemon hiss. He moved them around a little, stretching him, before putting the fourth finger inside and start fucking him faster. The shorter man moaned desperately; he knew the instruction stung, but Daemon liked it when it hurt a little.

“Yes! Yes! Please!” He groaned, “Put it in, I’m ready!”

Harwin’s dick jumped at Daemon’s enthusiasm. He desperately took one of the condoms he had brought from inside his back pocket. He quickly unzipped his pants and took his hard cock out. He ripped the foil packet and took the slippery condom out, rolling it onto his member.

Daemon watched his ex’s actions with a dazed look. He found it weird that they were using a condom since it was only a toy but wasn’t going to question his aunt's desires. When the slippery rubber was securely in its place, Harwin grabbed his dick and pressed it up to Daemon’s hole. He slowly pushed in, moving his hands to hold onto the other’s hips, earning a painful scream from his partner. The smaller man threw his head back and gripped the pillow on his head. He arched his back as Harwin pushed in deeper. When was in, he stopped, letting Daemon adjust to the size.

“Just move already,” he rolled his hips, trying to get some friction. “Just fuck me already, Jesu,” he choked when Harwin pulled almost completely out and slammed back in.

The bigger man continued fucking into Daemon, setting a fast pace. His partner could only moan and whine loudly. Harwin had a tight, almost painful grip on his hips, which allowed him to fuck the other harder. He changed the angle slightly so he could reach deeper; he was trying to find that spot inside that would drive the man under him insane.

“Yes! Yes! Right there! Yes! Fuck–” Daemon screamed, reaching out and wrapping his arms around Harwin’s neck. “Go faster, please..." He couldn’t hear the last part, but he fastened the pace. He felt the other’s blunt nails scratch his back as he kept fucking him. 

Daemon’s brain was a mess; all the alcohol he had drunk and whatever it was that he had smoked had finally hit him. He couldn’t form a coherent thought, and his vision was blurry. All he could really make out was the other person’s groans; he was pretty sure it was his aunt, but the voice didn’t really match hers. He could feel their rough hands on his hips and the toy she loved so much coming in and out of him. All he could do was moan and scratch their backs, trying to ground himself from the immense pleasure he was feeling.

Daemon was so tight; it felt so good. Just then he heard the crowd of people downstairs loudly counting down from ten. Hawrin kept fucking into him, and when he heard the crowd scream the last three numbers, he leaned closer and captured his ex’s lips in a deep kiss. He heard fireworks going on outside of the house, but he paid them no mind and continued fucking his partner.

“Happy New Year, pretty boy,” he whispered to Daemon while pulling away; all he got was a groan in response. “You should ride me; I remember how you would tell me how much you like how deep my cock gets.” Harwin stopped his thrusts and quickly turned them around without pulling out.

Now Daemon was on top, and he didn’t waste time before starting to bounce on his ex’s cock. Harwin caressed his partner's torso and slipped his hands onto his hips to help the other ride his dick. Daemon felt that familiar feeling of his balls tightening; he was so close. 

He fastened his pace, rolling his hips and using the person’s shoulders to help himself move faster. 

“Please, I’m going to co-”

“Beg. Beg your daddy to let you come.” Harwin pressed the other's hips down, stopping his movement and making Daemone whine.

“Please…” Daemon opened his eyes, and his eyes widened when they made eye contact. “Please, Daddy, let me come,” he begged, using a whiny voice to appeal to Harwin.

“Fuck. I’ll make you come so hard you’ll see stars, baby,” the bigger man turned them around again and immediately started fucking into Daemon faster and harder than before.

Daemon was a moaning mess, and all of a sudden, ropes of creamy white cum started coming out the tip of his dick. He was trembling under him, but Harwin didn’t stop chasing his orgasm; he felt his balls tighten, and not long after he spent himself in the condom inside Daemon. 

They stayed like that for a while, coming down from their orgasms. Harwin eventually pulled out of his partner, taking off the condom and tossing it in the trashcan. He adjusted his jeans, putting his dickey back into his underwear. He turned around to look at Daemon, but he was already passed out. Harwin panicked a little going up to the bed and making sure he was still breathing. He shook him a little, hoping he would wake up, but he didn’t. Checking his breathing and heartbeat, he was alive. That scare had sobered him up, and it downed on him what he had done. He had just had sex with a really drunk and probably drugged Daemon who was barely conscious the whole time and was already passed out on the bed, naked.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. Daemon, fuck. Fuck! I fucked up,” he quickly cleaned him up and put on his clothes as best he could. 

Making sure he had both their phones, he picked Daemon up bridal style and carried him downstairs. He had been panicking so much that he didn’t even notice the camera on top of the small wardrobe that was pointed directly at the bed. He also didn’t pay any mind to the guy he had almost bumped into when exiting the room or noticed when that same guy went into the room they had just been in. He completely ignored his friends’ calls while he made his way through the crowd and out the door of the huge house. 

When he reached his car, he laid Daemon down on the back seat, quickly going into the driver's seat and starting the car. He pulled away from the driveway and drove in the direction of his apartment. He decided against taking his friend to his own apartment to not wake the old couple up, and he didn’t really want to leave Daemon alone.

Harwin carried his ex all the way up to his apartment and into his room, where he laid him down on his bed. He took off his shoes and tucked him in. He left the room, closed the door going into the living room, and threw himself onto the big couch in the center. A part of him wanted to go back into the room and sleep in the bed with Daemon, but he thought his friend wouldn’t want him near him after what he had done. He didn’t even bother to change; he just pulled the throw-away blanket to cover himself and quickly fell asleep.

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[late-to-the-party-81]

The Look - Chapter Three

AN: Here we are for week three of @Buckybarnesevents Hot Bucky Summer and we’re having a little trip back in time to find out how it all started between Joaquin and Bucky. Catch up on Ch1 and Ch2 if you haven't read them yet.

All the love to @kingofsorrow20 for beta-ing.

Likes are loved, reblogs are golden.

Mood board by me and dividers by @firefly-graphics

Join my tag list here

Master list | HBS Master list | BaBB Master List

Summary: Nine months ago, Bucky can’t help but notice the way the new Falcon looks at him. He wants to do more than just look back…

Relationship: Bucky Barnes x Joaquín Torres

Word Count: 2.6k

CW: Mean Dom Bucky Barnes, Sweet Sub Joaquín Torres, First time, undernegotiated kink, D/S dynamic, verbal degradation, manhandling, face fucking, oral sex, anal sex, Enthusiastic consent.

Bingos and Challenges:

HBS - Week 3 - "Really? Here?"

BaBB June prompt - Face Fucking

9 months ago

Bucky could feel eyes on him, and his lips twitched. The baby Falcon - Joaquin - wasn’t as stealthy as he thought he was, well off the field at least. Bucky could easily admit that the young lieutenant had some good moves, both on the ground and in the air, but hiding his lingering looks was not one of them.. Although, if somehow Quín did manage to stop his face from showing how much he wanted Bucky, he wouldn’t be able to hide the way his heart rate and breathing picked up whenever Bucky looked his way. 

It wasn’t as though Bucky was upset by the attention. Quite the opposite. Not only did it feel good to be desired, Quín was also very pretty, with his big doe eyes, smooth skin and dark hair that looked as though it was made to be tugged on. Yes, Bucky had indulged in some day dreams about the things he’d love to do to the young man - things he hoped the young man would love having done to him, but sue him - he was only human, and he had needs.

Bucky had also been trying to make his reciprocal interest known too, with extra praise for a job well done, and clapping Joaquín on the shoulder. He wasn’t sure if the younger man had actually identified it as flirting, but he had blushed prettily enough each time to let Bucky know he had a praise kink. Bucky had filed that away for future use. 

He’d also tried being less subtle, squeezing past Quín in tight spaces as well as posing in doorways, hanging off the top of the frame and giving the lieutenant lingering looks of his own. However, it had become obvious that Quín wasn’t going to make the first move, which meant it was now down to him. He didn’t know why, but he’d decided there was no time like the present, which is why he was sitting in a post mission briefing, planning to seduce the young man sitting opposite him.

They’d gotten back from the mission yesterday, sore and tired, so Director Fury had delayed the debrief until this morning, although it was now almost midday. It wasn’t much of a reprieve, as they were being made to go over everything that had happened, every enemy agent engaged and damn near every bullet spent. Bucky stretched his legs out under the table, keeping his smile inside himself when Quín jolted at the unexpected contact, and glanced over the table from under his lashes. Bucky didn’t play ‘footsie’ with him though - he wasn’t that gauche - but he did let his leg just press up against the other man’s as much as possible, and then tried to keep his attention on Sam, who was busily explaining some of the issues they’d faced as Fury looked on, that ever enigmatic look on his face.

Eventually the meeting came to a close, and Bucky hung back, letting Fury and Sam get up first. He then took a few long-legged strides around to Quín’s side of the table, and placed his hand on his team-mate’s shoulder, keeping him pressed into his chair. “If I could just have a word, Lieutenant?” Quín looked up at him, his expression showing that he was a little puzzled and possibly a lot scared. Bucky tried not to grin as he moved over to the door the others had just left through and locked it. He then turned to the security console and tapped in the code to turn the room into secrecy mode. No audio or visual recording. No-one able to get in without permission. Total privacy.

He stalked back over to Joaquín, noting the way the younger man was fidgeting in his seat, and placed his hands on the back of the conference chair, looming over him as though he was prey. Quín slid down in his seat and tipped his head back, to keep Bucky’s face in view, and Bucky could see the beads of sweat breaking out on his brow and upper lip, and hear the wild beating of the younger man’s heart.

“You got something you wanna say to me, Quín?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. “Because I’ve seen you looking - watching me. I’ve seen the way you blush when I tell you that you’ve been a ‘good boy’. I hear you stutter when you talk to me, and the way your heart pitter-patters in your chest. I’ve also seen you have difficulty walking sometimes - when you’ve been watching me fight. I’m beginning to suspect you’ve got a little crush.”

He knew he was being mean, teasing the Lieutenant like this, but the way Quín’s mouth opened and closed as he tried to come up with something to say, was beautiful. ”Aww, pretty boy gone all stupid now he’s been caught?” He hoped that he hadn’t read this wrong and that Joaquín really did have a bit of a degradation kink. All doubts disappeared in the next moment as he saw the way those brown eyes dilated, and how Quín’s cheeks started to change colour. However, it was Quín’s mumbled reply that had a feral grin spread over Bucky’s face.

”I… err… Sargeant, I have the utmost respect I assure you.”

“Is that right?” Bucky replied with a drawl “What if I said that, with the right word from you, I wouldn’t show you any respect at all? Just used you for my own debased pleasure?”

There was a heartbeat of silence, and Bucky wondered if the young man would take what was on offer, or turn him down and run. However, Quín’s gaze flicked down to Bucky’s crotch before he looked back up at his face from under those long, dark lashes, a sly smile on his face. “Would that word be ‘Green’, Sargeant? As in Green for go, Amber for slow down and Red for stop?”

”Smart boy,” Bucky couldn’t keep the amusement from his voice. “But I can guarantee you’re gonna be fucked dumb by the time I’ve finished with you.” The tent in Joaquín’s pants was obvious, and Bucky could even smell his arousal, but when Bucky’s hand went back to his shoulder and tried to steer him from his seat to kneel on the floor, Quín suddenly looked confused again.

”Really?” he said, brows drawn together. “Here?”

”Here,” Bucky confirmed, finding the look of consternation on Quín’s face endearing. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about anything other than getting my dick all wet and messy.” To drive home his point, Bucky pulled down his zipper and withdrew his own erect cock from his briefs, giving it a few firm strokes. Quín’s eyes went wide, but then immediately glazed over, as he leant forward and gave a tentative lick to the head of Bucky’s cock.

With Herculean effort, Bucky held himself still until Quín wrapped his hand around him, and then moved his right hand to cup the back of his new lover’s head, applying a bit of pressure to encourage him to open up.

”You can do better than that,” he encouraged gently. “Bet you’ve been waiting for this moment, dreaming of it. Stroking yourself to it. Suck my cock like you mean it, baby.” He didn’t have to say anything more because with a low moan, Quín leant forward and all but impaled his own throat on Bucky’s length. Bucky let out a hiss as he felt his tip bump against Quín’s soft palate. “Shit, sweetheart! That’s the ticket. Knew you’d be perfect at sucking cock. Born for it.” 

He started to move Quín’s head back and forth, fucking his face, and Quín just let him, his long fingers curled into the fabric of Bucky’s slacks. When Joaquín started to gurgle and splutter, Bucky drew back for a few seconds to allow him to draw in ragged breaths, before plunging back down his throat. ”Fuck. I could just keep going like this. Fuck your face until I bust down your throat. And you’d take it all, wouldn’t you, sweetheart? I bet you’d love my cum.” Quín peered up at him with wet eyes and tried to nod around his mouthful and just that visual sent a shiver of pleasure through Bucky. ”Such a good fuck toy. However, right now I wanna break you in. Get you squirming as I split you open and fill you to the brim.” Quín closed his eyes and whined, shifting on his knees, and Bucky knew this definitely wasn’t going to be a one time thing.

Needing a reprieve before he got carried away and ruined his own plan, Bucky pulled Quín from his cock, watching the way the strings of mixed saliva and pre-cum attached them together, before snapping and trailing down Quín’s chin. Then Bucky pinched either side of Quín’s jaw with his left hand and he opened his mouth as wide as possible. With a dark smile,  Bucky bent down and spat into his mouth, it seemed as though Quín’s eyes had rolled all the way into the back of his head. ”You’re mine to play with now, baby. Now get up and turn around.”

He helped Quín to stand and watched, amused, as the young man wobbled on his legs like a new-born foal, before bending him roughly over the conference table. A quick yank and Quín’s pants and briefs were around his ankles. Letting out a whistle, Bucky allowed his hands to roam over Quín’s naked ass, before giving the right cheek a light slap.

”This fucking peach. I swear you’ve been trying to distract me with this thing.” Bucky grabbed a globe in each hand, lifting and squeezing them, and the whimper that came from Quín made his cock dance in front of him. Holding the cheeks apart again, he spat again, a big glob of saliva running down Quín’s crack and over his sweet little hole. With his right index finger, Bucky smeared it around, watching the muscle twitch. “Can’t wait to eat this peach until you’re crying, sweetheart, but for now, I’ll just have to settle for splitting you apart.”

He pressed against Quín’s rim a little harder until his finger popped in up to the first knuckle. Quín tensed below him and tried to speak. “I’m…I think…D-don’t take this the wrong way….”

“Shhhhh,” Bucky cooed. “Don’t worry, I’ve got lube. There’s no way in hell you could take me dry, not unless you really like it to hurt and don’t want to be able to walk straight for a few days.”

”Oh, thank god.” Joaquín’s response was laden with relief.

Bucky curled over Quín’s back and chuckled darkly into his ear. “There’s no god here, only me, baby.”

He let go of Quín briefly to pull a sachet of lube from his pocket. He ripped it open with his teeth and squirted half the content over Quín’s hole, before getting right back to it. He started to massage the ring of muscle with his fingers, his left hand dropping down to stroke at Quín’s balls and the base of his cock. Quín’s breathing picked up and he started to roll his hips, submitting to the pleasure Bucky was giving him. In no time, Bucky had worked his first finger back in, trying to stuff as much lube into Quín’s channel with each in and out stroke. One finger quickly turned to two and he twisted and scissored his two digits to stretch Quín out and also to search for his sweet spot.

He knew he’d found it when the young man let out a shout and went up on his toes, before bearing back down. ”There it is,” he cooed. “One touch and you go all dumb, dontcha? Just focussed on how good it feels.” He peered around Quín’s body to see that he was pulling his lower lip between his teeth. Adding some more lube, Bucky pulled his two fingers almost all the way out, so he could tuck his third against them and add that too.

Quín threw his head back with a long, deep moan and his cock pumped out a spurt of pre-cum, that landed on the carpet between his feet. ”Bucky! Please!” he cried out, his hands scrabbling on the conference table surface.

”You think you’re ready for this? You had it in your mouth, tried to get your hands around it. You think you’re gonna fit me inside you?”

”Yes! Yes! Fuck! Please!” Quín nodded his head, his cheek pressed to the table top and his eyes screwed shut. Bucky just smiled to himself.

“Let’s find out then.”

Bucky pulled his fingers from the clutch of Joaquín’s body, briefly wiping them on his pants, and squeezed the last of the lube onto his cock. Then, with his left hand on the back of Quín’s neck, holding him still, he notched his tip at Quín’s fluttering hole and started to push inside.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, the warmth and the squeeze of Quín around his cock, threatening to unravel him. However, his attention was quickly back on his lover as he continued to press even deeper and Quín started to moan and writhe under him. He halted his movements, concerned. “Are you okay, baby? What’s your colour?”

He needn’t have worried though. ”Green,” Quín shouted out. “So green. I wanna feel it. I want you to wreck me. Fuuuuuuuck.”

With that enthusiastic consent given, Bucky’s grin slid back into place and he jerked his hips in short movements as he carved a space inside Quín until he was fully seated. He let out a moan of his own as he felt Quín’s hole flutter around him, gently pulsing, clutching him, until the younger man’s legs started to shake and he cried out “Move, please. I need you to move!”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart.” He drew back slowly feeling the rippling shudders of the man beneath him, and then slid forward again, smoothly, but firmly. Another rush of power - of pleasure - sparked through him as Joaquín howled once more, and Bucky shifted his left hand to grip the short hairs on the top of Quín’s head and tug it back.

”You like that? You like it hard?”

”’So good. Madre de Dios. Again, please. Just fuck me.”

“As you’ve asked so nicely…”

Bucky pushed Quín’s face back down onto the table top and started to move at a brisk pace, and all the while, he couldn’t work out what his favourite thing was. Was it the way his cock just slid right inside Quín, as though the young man was just made to be his personal cock sleeve? Was it the way Quín’s ass cheeks bounced under each sharp thrust from his hips? Or was it the debauched noises and ramblings of Spanish that spilled from Quín’s lips like a prayer? As he pondered all these things, Bucky reached around and took Quín’s cock in his right hand, thumbing the tip of it, before jerking it in time to his thrusts.

“Come on now, baby. Come for me and I’ll fill you up. Leave you dripping into your pants all the way back to your quarters. You’re gonna feel me for days, you hear? Just come for me. Come for me now!”

At his command, Quín’s back arched, pressing back against the hand on his neck, and with a shout, he spilled into Bucky’s hand as his body rocked with spasms. Bucky couldn’t hold back any longer. With his own roar, he came, his movements becoming uncoordinated as he tried to milk every ounce of pleasure from Quín’s body while filling him with spurt after spurt of his own cum.

As he collapsed over his lover’s back, both of them sticky with sweat, t-shirts clinging to their skin, he knew that he could easily become addicted to this.

Chapter 4

Tag list: @km-ffluv, @wheezy-stucky, @kmc1989, @kombatfather1796

@christywrites, @doasyoudesireandlive, @endlesstwanted

[cagedchoices]

About using AI to write replies... Why does it matter if people do or not? Maybe they don't have time to come up with a reply on their own but still wanna be active on tumblr. I just don't see why everyone paniced the minute this came up and jumped to banning anyone who might use it.

It matters because as of now, there's not really very many restrictions on what writing AI language models are allowed to pull from or not.

OpenAI is being sued in California because reportedly their AI was found using material protected by copyright from two best-selling authors. The authors were hosting both published and unpublished work on SmashWords. This means that the artists who created the work that the AI used and Frankensteined together, weren't paid or credited for their contribution to its dataset. This is currently a HUGE concern being observed with AI art and AI voiceover capabilities as well, with the fear being that if you can just use an AI to make a painting or replicate a voice for free or otherwise at only a small cost, then why would you pay an artist or actor for their time and effort? And I believe it is a valid concern.

I saw a thumbnail for an AI cover of A.rthur M.organ singing on YouTube just yesterday. I didn't even click on it. I blocked the channel, which was called "Made With A.I." or something like that. Because what this means is that R.oger C.lark, the actual artist who portrays the character of A.rthur M.organ, is most likely not getting paid for his work even though the AI is pulling from audio/video clips of dialogue he recorded and then emulating the voice by cutting together and simulating all the different sounds it needs to process to make it sound like A.rthur singing. Thus, now YouTube is profiting from the site traffic and ad revenue that video is creating for them (because they put ads everywhere now regardless of if the video is monetized or not), and the company that built the AI voice program is profiting from its use, and possibly the channel creator is profiting off of posting these kinds of videos. The actor is not getting paid even though it's his voice on the line.

When it comes to fan works such as fanart, fanfiction, tumblr roleplay, we are in a different boat. We legally cannot claim copyright infringement or make a profit off of our work in any way. Everything we do and everything we make falls under a social contract.

Most of us believe that stealing is stealing. When people repost art and other graphics or writing and claim that they made these things when they didn't or they trace over or repaint someone else's fanart, we call them out for it and tell them to reblog from the source, give credit to the original poster and stop being an art thief. That's generally what the social contract is. AI as it stands right now, violates our social contract. It doesn't give credit to anything it finds on the internet. It assumes that everything it finds is fair game.

Now all of that said, I have not personally picked out anybody using AI in the rpc yet. What I have seen is a confession blog in which somebody stated in one confession post that people were starting to use AI chat bots to write positivity for them and they hated the idea of that. I found some evidence that something like this has been happening on ao3. Bots are allegedly using the usernames of existing ao3 members to leave anonymous comments, most likely after datascraping fics so that the number of hits don't look as suspicious in proportion to the number of comments and kudos.

There have also been more than a few comments on anti-AI posts in which other users admit to using AI language models to continue unfinished fics they stumble across, with some feeling entitled to do so because "well if you leave a fic unfinished for a year i'm gonna assume you're never coming back and take matters into my own hands to get the ending i deserve" Which is an insanely entitled cold take.

And for another thing, we can't trust the companies who are developing all of these AI programs, because they could be lying to us. Currently there's a bit of a panic going around concerning Google's new beta AI assistant. There have been several conflicting reports. Some have been saying that the AI scans all of the Google Docs you've saved, public and private. Others claim that it only looks at documents you have set to public, and still other claim that it doesn't scan or save anything that it scanned without your permission. The problem is that Google as a company has shown us repeatedly through past experiences that they cannot be fucking trusted. Remember when they said they would never sell your data without permission? And then they got caught and 'apologized' for selling everyone's data without permission? Yeah. It's that lack of transparency surrounding how the AI actually works that truly makes it unethical.

I'll admit that yeah it may have been a little hasty of some of us rpers to start adding rules against using AI to write as quickly as we did and with only a minimal 'wait are people actually doing this?' mentality, but the way I see it is, I would rather outline my stance on it now before it becomes a huge problem, than risk leaving it alone until it's effectively too late to matter.

And as for being a roleplayer in a hurry to get replies done... I think we should address the root of the problem there. People are so anxious and afraid that their writing partners will ditch them and move on or that they won't seem interested enough in writing if they aren't pumping out replies all day every day and honestly, that's sad and it's really reflective of how transactional fandom spaces have become in the modern day, I think.

Using an AI to poop out a reply so that you don't have to feel anxious about not replying fast enough is not going to help us get out of that situation. It's just gonna make it worse. What we should be doing instead is encouraging people to go at their own pace. Not driving them right into the arms of AI authoring by stressing and pressuring them to respond within [x] amount of hours/days.

[pbandjesse]

I am bone deep tired. I hate it because I just want to be able to accomplish stuff. I haven't made anything this week. And that upsets me. Like I get it. I have a ton going on right now. I am just so busy all of the time and while work is great I am also just a little sick of being so tired.

I had trouble falling asleep again last night but it wasn't as bad as it has been. It was just to warm. Waking up was terrible. When my alarm went off I told James I just couldn't do it. And reset my alarm for 740.

I woke up right before it went off. I was still not feeling great but I got myself together. I got dressed. I grabbed a few snacks. I couldn't handle figuring out an actual breakfast or lunch. I grabbed my cup. And I left.

It was raining a little. And that's when I remembered I left my sweater in the council ring yesterday! It's gonna be all wet. Terrible.

So once I got to work I drove right up to the amphitheater but my sweater wasn't there. I was so sad. I figured it got taken by the feild trip ground yesterday by mistake. Disappointing.

I went back to the office to unlock the doors. And then drove up to Yukon.

I was looking forward to the organization of the basement. And it would be good but it was a little overwhelming at first. I put on a podcast and worked through almost 10 just moving things. Pulling out any material I thought we could repurpose or use up in arts and crafts. Or for any of the other specialty programs. But I was frustrated. One by the sheer amount of stuff. And two by the casual appropriative nature of so much of what's stored down there. I am jokingly (not jokingly) referring to it as the racism corner. War bonnets and questionable masks and costumes.

A little before 10 Sarah joined me. She asked if she could help or would she be in my way. And I asked if she could work on refolding and organizing all the bedding we have down there. And she did such a good job! It's also a shocking amount of stuff. We had to throw some of it away because it was just damp or to dirty to salvage. But she did an amazing job.

And while she worked on that I tackled the tipi kitchen stuff. I found about 8 boxes of stuff that I think they keep creating every year. So I emptied them. I sorted everything with like things. We have an embarrassing amount of silverware. Specifically forks and knives. Very few spoons. But at least it's all together now and hopefully more easily accessible for next summer.

Once that was done I moved all the empty boxes into the corner and sorted that to make it nicer. And then we moved the bedding boxes. The space is so much nicer now. You can actually walk around. I can't wait til everyone sees how good it looks.

Sarah loaded up her car with the materials I pulled. And we drove up to the art building. We stopped and talked to Joe and he said thank you for organizing Yukon and that made me feel good. He asked if we could add cleaning the tipi mattresses to the list so I will get that done soon.

After we unloaded everything we went and got the gator and started our next adventure. We had a package of frozen coffee concentrate to deliver to the dining hall. Then trash to be tossed. And mattresses to be counted.

We went to every building and counted all the mattresses and made notes about the covers and what would need to be replaced. We had to throw out some. But it was fun looking in every building. And we also got to see all the finished work from our projects. And saw some more we wanted to add.

We would head back to the office and took a half hour break. I ate some of my snacks. And read the graphic novel I brought. Which was really sad. But I'm glad I read it.

It was around 1 and we still had upper camp to count. We would also grab the trash from up there. We counted everything pretty quickly. And we were able to toss the trash and the. Go to the art building and start putting away materials and resetting my fibers boxes. I also told Sarah some stories about drama and it was fun. I like her company. She's a quiet spirit and I like that about her.

It was just about 2 when we were supposed to go to the office to wait for the wedding party to come and check in. But then they did not until like 3. It's fine. I worked on some stuff on my laptop. We chatted. And eventually Rachel and Dachelle joined us.

Dachelle coaches a lacrosse team and her students are going to a college game and were tasked with making posters. But they didn't get to finish. So Dachelle brought them to finish and we all helped.

We did get some pretty great laughs about some misspelling (hornts instead of hornets) and weird spacing and layouts. It was very silly. I was pretty proud of how I fixed the one I was given. Rachel always makes a big fuss when I make art but she does it like she's mad at me. So when I came out to show them she put her head in her hands and went "Jesus Jesse, you should look into being an art teacher." And then everyone was like you are going to make a children fight over your poster. High praise. I am glad they think the kids will like it. I did only give 4 legs to the one hornet so it's fine.

I said goodbye after that. And drove to taco bell. I thought it would be nice to get a taco or a crunch wrap. I got two potato tacos and nacho fries. Which were fine but I probably won't get again. I really liked the cinnamon bites the best though. Not shocked.

I went home and was surprised that I beat James. I would get a shower and try to not feel so tired. It was hitting me hard.

I thought I would take a nap and get some thing done. But then James got home and they seemed so sad that I got a spike of adrenaline and couldnt rest in any way that mattered. Instead I just laid in bed and watched videos. James would get cleaned up and joined me.

And that's how we spent our evening. Resting together. Painting our nails. I am really tired and struggling to get this all written so I can stop thinking. I really hope I can fall asleep quicker tonight.

Tomorrow is going to be very busy. I am back at the market for the first time in forever!! And then we have to rush to a wedding!! I love a wedding so I hope getting there goes smoothly. It's all the way in PA so we need to get on the road ASAP. James is taking a half day but it will still be a close one getting there on time.

So wish us luck. I love you all. Sleep good and be safe! Until next time

[girltomboy]

I've been meaning to write another post, but I kept forgetting or putting it off or not having time. My parents left on Monday. I was starting to get used to early mornings and breakfast with my mom, so I was quite sad that she was leaving, and my apartment felt so different without her. Ofc I'm all good now, got back into my usual routine, with a positive spin on it thanks to my mom - getting up right away instead of snoozing some more in the morning. I mean I've never been the kind of person who sets several alarms and snoozes most of them. I wake up after the first one and that's it. But lately I'd gotten into the habit of lingering in bed, and my mom fixed that for me. It's actually quite nice to start my morning right away, it makes me feel like I've unlocked Time+ and I'm like generating more time. And I can actually eat breakfast, drink a warm beverage, I work better.

Anyway, my bf and I reunited yesterday (and had sex twice in a row for the 1st time ever lol - I mean we've had sex multiple times in a day before, but not in a row... it was kinda crazy good too) and had some quick dinner, then went for a short grocery trip to the supermarket. We actually didn't spend that much time together, and today he didn't want to meet up bc he had some chores to do at his apartment. And tomorrow is his bday but I think the gifts I got him are kinda lame 😓 I didn't find anything I planned on getting him. He needs a new backpack, but I haven't been able to find one that is spacious, sturdy, and nice looking. I've also considered buying him a winter coat, but I'm not too sure about his size. And I've been looking for like a sweater or a sweatshirt, but there are absolutely no options in men's sections. Like, anywhere. It's either navy, gray, beige, or white (if you're lucky), OR ugly graphic tees and hoodies. That is pretty much all men's fashion nowadays. I'm BORED. I keep telling my bf he needs more than just some graphic tees and hoodies, but he's like I don't really like anything else. And with the current options I can't even blame him. We need to go thrift shopping together. God damn I'm taking him to the thrift store in the city center. I found some really high quality and cool looking things there a while back.

So my stepdad needs to do a check-up on Friday, and my parents are gonna bring me some stuff. My mom told me that my stepdad's sister gave her a "camel hair blanket" for me a while ago, and she never got around to giving it to me. I had no idea they made BLANKETS - or anything else tbh - from camel hair, but now I'm super curious and excited about it lol. I have plenty of plans for this week: bf's bday tomorrow, parents coming here Friday (they won't be staying though), date night with my bf on Friday? We HAVE to go thrifting and then have dinner somewhere, haven't decided where yet 😬 Saturday I'm going to my work friend's roommate's birthday which is EXCITING because I haven't been in a social setting like this in ages (I mean with ppl I don't know) but I'm also nervous bc I don't know if she'll like the gift I got her... (the book Snowglobe and a cat shaped metal bookmark). And then on Sunday my work friend and I are gonna watch some movies.

[chipped-chimera]

Okay. Gamedev nerd here gonna throw in some inputs. Also neuroscience nerd because it's actually relevant here, believe it or not. (This is long so buckle up)

No game needs to run faster than 30 fps

So this one is a funky one. Whether frames are 'detectable' or not to the human brain, comes down to exposure. Human brains are amazingly efficient at sifting out what I'll call 'junk inputs' - floaters in your eyes (that everyone develops eventually), the phone you chronically keep in your back left pocket to the point you're slapping your body going 'where's my phone?' only to find it exactly where you left it - the same pocket as always. Your brain got so used to those inputs, it's filtered them out because they're deemed 'not important' to be constantly shoved in your experience of reality.

Up until maybe the past 10ish years, most media that we've been exposed to has run at about 30fps. Our brain is used to this and makes it indecernable. As tech has improved, allowing for higher fps rates, you can now be more exposed to 60fps - in fact 60fps has been the broadcast standard for quite some time. If you get used to the higher frame rate, your brain grows to EXPECT this frame rate in order to efficiently throw out the junk information (the pauses between frames) so anything below that threshold becomes noticeable.

I run a pretty beefy PC with a high quality monitor, and it's gotten to the point where I can now distinguish whether something is running less than 60fps to the point I start fucking around in graphics options because I feel like my game is lagging slightly. Sometimes I will consciously run at 30fps if it's more stable for various reasons, but I do notice. 60fps comes across much smoother to me now, whereas 30 has this barely perceptible jitter - that's because my brain is no longer used to filtering out those junk signals.

So with regard to this - it is true that games COULD only run at 30fps, but it would have to be literally EVERY GAME to stay imperceptible to the user. It'd also have to be every video, every film, every piece of media we ever consume in order to REMAIN imperceptible.

Studies have been done on this and while 60fps has been accepted as the 'upper limit', it's uncertain if that will hold. Current data suggests 75fps might be the last noticeable threshold before diminishing returns. Ultimately this comes down to the user and what kind of monitor they have available, and what that refresh rate is capable of. After all, we don't see reality in FPS. End of the day, more frames = closer experience to a frameless reality = smoother experience. Now since I'm talking about the tech component, that brings me to -

No texture should be bigger than 2k

While for the most part this would have been a yes ... the fact is tech is changing. Or honestly has changed. Like yesterday. 1080p, once known as your 'HD' has not been 'High Definition' since maybe the mid 2010s. Your average phone screen - arguably the thing that most of us are exposed to on the daily - if it has been built later than 2014 is likely to be running a 2k to 4k definition screen. If you ever wondered why text looks so damn crisp on your teeny tiny mobile phone, but not on your monitor - this is why.

I upgraded to a 2k monitor last year after my ancient, literally pre-hd Cintiq drawing tablet of 15 kilos made the death knell of glitchy buttons. She had dead pixels. She was 12 years old. She was my beloved, glass topped art workhorse I had gotten as a high school graduation present that I'd slap the side of and say 'don't make em like her anymore'. But as good as she was, the difference between her and even my basic 1080p monitor was noticeable. After doing some reading, and a lot of that reading was saying '4k is now the standard' which sounded INSANE but now they're putting out 6k/8k resolution screens, I decided it'd be more cost effective to just get a screenless drawing tablet and a better monitor. I could always upgrade the screen, therefore keeping my tablet in action longer.

Hooking up that 2k monitor for the first time, last year, when this was considered literally the 'lower end' of the current market? It was like I'd put on my glasses. But I was already wearing them. Everything was so much clearer and crisp to work on. It was VERY noticeable.

But what happens when you have a 2k monitor? Well now 2k is the baseline. A 2k texture on a model, displayed on your screen where it is close enough to be at full resolution is now noticeable if it's NOT 2k. You know when a character is talking on your screen and you're getting distracted by the pixellated quality of their armour texture? That's because the texture is no longer matching your monitor resolution. It has more pixels to fill, and if the information isn't there ... well that's how you get pixellated looking textures.

So what is a Gamedev to do? 2k resolution textures are NOT SMALL. Ballpark average for a single image might be around 2MB for 2k resolution with standard channels. If you need MORE channels embedded in the image, like an alpha channel for example - well that's more information for the image to hold, therefore more file size. Crank that up to hundreds of images - diffuse textures, normal maps are a bare minimum, add on other stuff like alpha masking, tintmaps - if you want a custom character creation system that's actually decent? Multiple armor options? Recolouring options? Textures? That's a lot of images already + a lot of file size and you haven't even put in the actual game yet.

So you've now got to get creative with it. This actually brings me to what made me want to write this post:

There’s zero excuse for Baldur’s Gate 3 to be 150 GB when Skyrim is 6 GB

I'm a recent modder, but I've had the privilege of messing with Baldur's Gate 3 and I intimately know exactly how their textures are formatted and used at this point - and they are the epitome of 'get creative with it'. So I mean it when I say you're lucky BG3 is JUST 150gb.

Anyone following me knows I have gone on about it before, but as someone who was trying to rebuild models in blender post launch, you'd know that BG3 uses a very unique texture system for character models to basically stretch these textures to the absolute limit while maintaining a high fidelity resolution.

This horrendous flow-chart-from-hell is me attempting to reconstruct this system (and this is maybe only half of it). While it's likely since been cracked by someone else since I last looked at it, the best I could do was get close.

Here's how BG3 textures work: they are not your typical 'baked into one diffuse texture' image thing we're used to for most games up until this point, where you've basically flattened the skin out into a 2D picture with all the colour information.

What Larian has done is make everything grayscale, and most of them work like layering masks. For those familiar with digital art, this would be your transparent layers layered on top of each other, with or without effects. For an even more basic analogy - think of stencils, on top of each other, until you have made a composite image. This means, instead of making a texture for every single skin colour available in the game it's now only three pictures -

These three pictures contain stupid amounts of information however, because while we see a composite image, actually you're looking at 3-4 images PER IMAGE. Because in reality, this is what it looks like -

This is my reconstruction folder of separated images to reconstruct in blender. Each contains a layer of information - how much freckles to put in the face, where the ambient occlusion goes, the vein amount yadda yadda. Remember what I said about 2k images being big? Larian managed to reduce that to three out of a potential seventeen. And while an absolute pain in the ass to reverse engineer in Blender shaders, honestly I was kind of giddy at the genius of this.

It's actually what makes the entire game really flexible and modder friendly, because once you understand how it works the engine is SUPER versatile when it comes to being able to recolour things. You can share these textures across multiple models and make them look completely different by altering the value of each colour, per layer, per texture.

So if we were to extrapolate this onto the old 'flat diffuse texture model', I'll be generous here and say it's three images (eyebrow/makeup masks + flat diffuse + normal map a.k.a. the thing that adds microdetails like pores and shit) at a very modest estimate of 2MB x the 350 skintones available in the character creator?

That's 700 Megabytes - because to get the colour for each one, you now need a separate image for each one. Sure that sounds 'small' but that's just faces, and only ONE face! For the character creator. Then you have your multiple face options with different textures. And multiple races. Then there's hair. Tattoos. Armor. NPCs. World textures etc. It adds up and it adds up quick. Instead this means they can use just 3 images, for one face in the character creator for all 350 skin tones. That comes down to a measly 6 Megabytes.

Even then they cut corners where they can. There's a reason there's so many upscaling mods available for BG3 - some textures aren't 2k. So to say that they're somehow at fault for not making their game smaller while maintaining the current visual fidelity is honestly doing Larian a major disservice. These Devs scrimped and scraped for EVERY inch of room they could possibly get out of their textures, and I've seen it. I'll say it again for emphasis -

We are lucky it's ONLY 150gb.

lower poly counts > high poly counts

Okay so as a Gamedev-student-turned-modder, I agree. Most gamedevs will agree too - because they're likely already using the smallest polycounts they can within the restrictions of current generation consoles (which are always less powerful than PC) and while maintaining the baseline fidelity of likely at minimum 2k textures. I spent 3 months learning how to make 'Real Time Hair' for games a.k.a. hair that can be rendered real time as you play the game, as opposed to engine heavy simulated hair you see in CG film. If you don't want your game to turn into a frame-sink slideshow you have to keep the polygons as low as possible. And it is actually really, really hard to get nice looking hair with volume while sticking to this. If you wondered why so many hairs in game tend to be super straight and flat - this is why. It's easier to obscure a lack of volume when you're basically constructing a cardboard cube. Once you start distorting layers, like with curls for example, you're more at risk of exposing that this is just a really thin mesh.

This is the hair I built. It looks great - but it's about double to triple the standard polygon count for most of Cyberpunk 2077's in-game hairdos. I only went with it because it was a personal mod and I knew my PC could handle it. (And even then, it's still more modest than some mods out there - I've checked).

Super low poly can work too! But it often affects style in turn. There's no point putting a 2k texture on what we associate with 'low poly' models, but that's a completely different game at this point like Zelda: Wind Waker. The unfortunate reality is, if you're going for realism in your game, the faster the frame rates, the bigger the textures = the closer to literal reality it feels, and the more current your tech needs to be.

There's a bit of a psychological phenomenon around this. I vividly remember sitting cross legged on the carpet of the library as a mere 10 year old listening to my computer science teacher go off topic to gush about the 'realistic graphics' of a game that'd just come out with the boys in the class.

For context, I am 31 this year. That game? Halo. The first one. No not the remaster, the literal, first, potato-ass looking Halo.

Also remasters are a fiddly metric to measure by - often what can be done to improve the game is limited by the engine, which is also probably a dated engine. But also using a tiny resolution image to compare larger resolution improvements in textures is not going to make a discernible difference. (And also arguably the technical skill of the Game Developer and given I call Bethesda 'Bugthesda' my bar ain't very high for them but that's my personal opinion.)

End of the day, the fact is this:

Whether a 150GB game looks any different from a 20GB game comes down to a lot of factors, and the majority of them come down to what you're running. For some people yeah! Below 1080p at 30fps will run absolutely fine and look great! And there are plenty of low-poly games with smaller graphics that do really well - a good game is a good game!

But as tech evolves, things change - and so do industry standards. The current 'standard' definition television? 4k. So what might not be noticeable to you, might be very noticeable to someone else.

And Gamedevs are aware of that. They are also keenly aware of the fact people complain about filesize, and you bet whatever size you are presented with (unless you know that company to be notorously incompetent coughs loudly in Bethesda and arguably whatever the fuck the sims 4 team is doing atm) that is the smallest size physically possible that they can present you with on launch day after way too many crunch hours.

Be nice to your Gamedevs guys. The majority of developers are out there just wanting to give you a fun experience and tell a story. And I think that should be appreciated.

here are my biggest gaming hot takes:

- no game actually needs to run faster than 30 FPS

- no texture needs to be bigger than 2k, and most don’t need to be bigger than 1k (save for megatextures). A good chunk should actually be smaller than 1k

- lower poly counts > high poly counts

Once you pass a certain threshold, it doesn’t even affect the style of the game that much, and you’re just using exponentially more power to get exponentially smaller results

Like, for example, the original Skyrim was 4 GB. The remaster is 22 GB. That’s five-and-a-half times more space for the exact same content! The graphical improvements are honestly negligible, especially when you consider the massive leap in storage and RAM used.

These sorts of things just hit diminishing returns so quickly— My eyes can’t tell the difference between 1k and 4k textures.

We have so many fun ways to get the maximum mileage out of every pixel and every polygon. It’s sad to see those techniques slowly trickle away from big-budget games!

Even as storage space becomes less and less of a concern, there’s something satisfying about keeping everything as small and tidy as possible