#and they had a rack of postcards by the door

[jolapeno]

it means something

joel miller x f!reader | masterlist

summary: compliments don’t fall from his tongue, but they drip from his eyes. They land on your skin, healing scars that don’t show; they make you glow, and feel like something worth choosing.

to @joelsflannel, i took aspects of all your prompts. i tried to make it fluffy, her a little romantic, i tried to give you a quote that i hope you adore, with a man i know you already love. and i sprinkled in a hard day for you, but with some stress-easing fun to unwind with. merry christmas <;3

wordcount: 3.2k warnings: softer!joel, soft sex (p in v), talks of love, jackson era joel, mentions of ellie, joel in a towel (like damn). written for @pedrostories secret santa event.

You’re tired, drained.

Somehow, you find yourself able to drag your feet from the livelier part of Jackson to the quieter, almost more peaceful part. The soles of your boots draw lines behind you, all of which will likely be covered by the newly settling snow within the hour.

It's picturesque, this place. The kind of location you expect would have once been on postcards that people would be sent to loved ones saying 'wish you were here'.

You don't have to wish.

If your eyes weren’t like pinholes, you’d take a second to admire it.

Stamp your boots in one spot, and enjoy the crunch of it under your feet. A thing you’d do on any other day, if not for the fact, that you were so ready to be in the warmth, to be with him—to curl into him and breathe in his scent.

The kind of scent which buries itself into your nose, to your soul. It wraps its fingers around you and digs its clutches into you. Not that you complain. You'd bathe in it if you could, happily letting him smear it over your skin whenever the two of you have the chance.

It’s why you continue to move. It's why you force one leg in front of the other, muscles begging for reprieve.

By the time you’re up the steps, fingers wrapping around the handle of the front door, you realise how badly you wish to shed your layers. Desiring nothing more than to slide out of your coat, unwrap your scarf, remove the hat, gloves and second pair of socks.

Twisting the handle, the door doesn't fight letting you inside. Instead, it welcomes you. Allowing you to move quickly inside, more than anyone would expect from someone so fatigued—removing the layers, hanging each in turn on the rack beside his.

A sight which tugs at something inside you. It loops its fingers around that feeling within, gently pulling—it is all warm, unexplainable; all hard to describe, but the closest word is lovely, nice—welcomed.

That feeling had been born before the end of days, but it had been nothing but an ember then. Now, it was a roaring fire, all lit by him.

You're sure he knows. Not that either of you talk about it. It added to the long list of things you never speak, not for his sake, but for yours.

Even when you first began your… thing with him, you’d found it as difficult as him to know what to call it. Especially, when it had all happened so randomly, with no explanation or sight that it would occur. It just did.

Smiling, you allow yourself a moment to think back to it. How warm it was. How the setting sun smudged an array of shades across the sky, how you'd been bitter about something, mumbling under your breath until a noise cut through your dismay. His laughter. All gruff and born from his throat. It had expelled into the space between the two of you, cut through your bad mood.

Because it had been louder than you’d ever heard it as the two of you walked back, as you did on so many other nights. But that night had felt so different—and it was.

One moment you were staring, and the next his lips found yours, all chapped, but soft. His fingers around your cheek, whispering your name so gently. Stroking your skin, all worn, a bit rough.

Now, the two of you are a habit. A routine.

Nothing has ever been discussed, nothing ever exchanged. Just some nights you ate dinner with him—knee pressed against his. Sometimes your things sat along his in his home, bobby pins and whatever book you were reading.

Some days Ellie let herself into your house, had made a bedroom out of one of your spares, and sometimes she asked if you wanted to come round to theirs.

The only constant thing is that at least once every week, your limbs found themselves tangled with his. His mouth latched itself onto your neck, hand grasping at your breast, fingers pinching the peak of your nipple as he gruffly told you how hard you’d gotten him.

You liked it. Craved it.

Enjoyed the way you took him apart as he focused on making you a mess.

You liked seeing his salt and pepper curls cling to his forehead, liked running your nails through the hair on the back of his neck—back arched into him, feeling fuller than you’d ever imagined you could. Hearing his gruff voice in your ear, saying words he'd never say if he wasn't buried to the hilt inside of you.

But then, you only call him Joel when he's between your thighs too.

"Miller?"

His name rings around the first floor of the house.

Checking the package in your pocket, you sigh as the day drips from your tight muscles. Hand moving to rub the back of your neck, staring at Ellie's half-open comic and the pencils you'd lent her over the table.

You knew she wouldn't reply, not when tonight was movie night. A Christmas one, she'd told you. She had already let it slip she was going, told you as she kept watch on the door so you could continue your surprise for him.

Her request for you to join her faded when you looked up at her, likely seeing the same look which now greets you in the dust-covered mirror.

Kicking off your boots, and removing one layer of socks, you sigh at the way your feet can all of a sudden breathe—even inside his thick socks. Wiggling your toes, you smile as you begin to curl and unfurl them, before your hand finds the bannister, dragging yourself up the stairs until you reach his room.

His empty room.

Heart falling, you consider calling out again. Using his first name this time—letting each of the four letters carry around the house.

But, his bed looks comfortable. It calling to you. Somehow finding yourself lying on it, your face pressed into his sheets, your bones and muscles sighing in relief that you're in a bed.

Eyes wishing to flutter shut, body unwinding against the mattress, the sheets. It’s on the third heavy exhale, do you realise you hear water. It falls in pitters and patters, distantly, likely from the bathroom across the hall.

That’s when a smile curls across your face because you’ve always found comfort in the sound of running water.

Whether it’s rivers or rain, and showers or leaks. It reminds you of calmness, of things fading from reach—washing away, starting anew. Memories of times trying to colour themselves in your mind, fading before they do as sleep tries to coax you away.

The only thing which displaces the grip sleep has on you, is the comforting sight that comes to a stop at the foot of the bed.

Steam swirling around him, all broad shoulders and still damp skin—the hair on his chest, arms, and stomach, clinging in half-swirled curls and straight lines, the towel clutched at his hip.

The first time you saw Joel Miller naked, you’d almost lost the function to speak. All man—all soft and muscle simultaneously. Something constructed from fantasies, made in real life, carved and moulded by hands you think never thought he’d be real. You were close to not being able to speak all over again now.

Eyes tracing, outlining and shading—squirrelling away a sketch of him you’ll think about when the other side of the bed is cold and not filled with him.

“Didn’t hear you come in.”

You hum, lifting up onto your elbows, admiring him, finding him doing the same—even if you suspect you’re not half as good-looking right now as he is.

Least of all when he takes your ankle in hand, moving you sideways with him as steps between your legs now hanging off the bed, the fabric of his towel brushing over your jeans, his palms coming down on the mattress on either side of your neck, staring at you with a look of concern.

“Y’not been sleepin’?”

“Just been busy,” you reply, arms looping around his neck. “Not lots of time to rest.”

You suppose at some point between summer and winter, things became soft—less about need and company, and something along the lines of real.

In another world, one not ridden with fungi and death, you suppose it would have been labelled, added something which tied the two of you together—something meaning more to others than it likely would do to you.

Smiling, you force your eyes to open properly. Watching that look of hunger slowly bleed out over the concern, vanishing entirely when you smirk. If the two of you were different, you suspect you'd tell him you miss him. Tell him you've thought about him.

Instead, you whisper, “Want you, Joel.”

Even more so when you trace the words over his mouth. Aware of his hands on your jeans, and how he's popped open the button, how he's dragging down the zipper. The fabric freely slides from your skin as your hands slide down, dropping to the towel at his waist—thumb digging over it, all ready to pull, unravel it. “Need you.”

His eyes narrow swallowed in darkness. “Yeah?”

Nodding, you roll your lips, dragging your fingers to the tuck, undoing it, not taking your eyes off him. Seeing something in his eyes that is more than just reciprocation of the words spoken, but the ones left unsaid.

“You want me?”

However, you’ll have me.

You’re not sure you speak it, but you're sure he hears it all the same.

For how aloof people think he is, he’s a man who listens—not just to the crunch of branches and the rustle of trees, but to the things people don’t say. He hears their secrets and pulls away their lies. Skills he told you one night he levelled up in when the world tried to keep taking more than it had already.

You suppose it’s how he knows you, your body, what you want and what you crave.

More so as he tangles his tongue with yours, all heady—gripping him firm, tightly as his fingers snake between the two of you. Desperation thrumming through your fingers as you push them into his skin, into his muscles—feeling the coil tighten as he moves his fingers with nothing short of precision. Knowing you, having mapped you out, learnt your cues—it’s why you don’t fight it, the incoming wave ready to drench your taut muscles, let him undo you, unravel you out so you’re nothing but spread out for him.

He likes it like that, you can tell. Likes how you surrender to him, how you lay out for him, letting him move you how he needs you.

It used to be rough, desperate—pure carnal. But, it’s been replaced by something else, something not soft or romantic, but you’re sure it’s a distant relative.

Once you’d gotten a bruise on your hip that pulsed, shifted in shades from being nudged against your kitchen table. Now when he leaves them, he traces them with his thumb, hoping to suck out the sting. Because now you’re treated to comfort—too recently washed bedding and his fingers inside your cunt as your body bends into him, practically curls, sings, hums.

“Always so fuckin’ tight for me.”

Compliments don’t fall from his tongue, but they drip from his eyes. They land on your skin, healing scars that don’t show. Each lick of his gaze makes you glow, and feel like something worth choosing, having been picked, plucked—and placed on some mantle you don’t even mind being perched on.

Wrapping your fingers around his wrist, breathing a struggle, practically gasping, you mumble his name—murmur it, almost a whine. “Fuck me now, Joel. Want you inside of me.”

Then, you’re overwhelmed.

Bathed in both the scent of fresh soap, dewy skin and absolute fullness. Your legs wrapping, crossing at the ankles as he slides into the hilt—pausing, just as he always does, fingers brushing over your jaw until he’s tilting your chin.

That same look—the one you first witnessed after the kiss under the dusk.

It doesn’t vanish until you show him, either in a whisper of the magic words or a movement he can read as a spell. Your hips rolling, rocking—please, please.

Your hands take in the feel of him breathing, the way his chest expands, fills with the knowledge, the realisation, nails digging, almost all in order. One he answers, delivers, fucking stamps.

Joel makes your toes curl, makes white noise appear in your ears, and makes you forget every important thing you’ve ever filed away. All hot, scorching against your skin as you grasp him closer, hoping you’ll be smothered in burns—hoping the same when you swallow his grunts, his hisses off your name. His hips pistoning, aiming to send you over the edge before him, hands—riddled with the evidence of his survival and his new hobby keep you rooted, don’t allow you to wander off into bliss without him.

“Too good f’me, sweetheart.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” he grunts, right against your pulse, before he licks against what beats under your skin.

You snort amidst your whine, clutching all the strings which keep you whole as you close your eyes—banish him from looking into your soul. He’s seen all there is there, let him in before, provided flashes, evidence of your shattered soul and broken mentality. It comes to the surface easier here, when your walls suck him in, and your body calls for him in a chorus of pleading and begging.

Because you’re close—not needing too much from him tonight, the sight of him is enough. The knowledge of his existence, knowing he’s yours without confirmation.

“There, right there,” you moan, heels digging into the base of his back, feeling the jostle of him, the way he rears and fucks.

He smirks, shifting, just enough to make the head of his cock hit the spot which makes your thighs shake, tremble, fucking quake. His mouth still split open, words there on his tongue, all ready to drape over your skin—

But, you just feel it’s incoming arrival. All white-hot, blinding—too much pressure, yet needing just a little bit more. Your body is not yours, mind empty, gone, faded. You want to sink your teeth into him, bite down, cut into him and leave a mark like the ones he leaves inside you each time the two of you do this.

Because it means something. This. The two of you in this little house in fucking Jackson. Doesn’t it? Doesn’t it?

“Yea’,” he grunts, palm on your face, tilting you up roughly, forcing your eyes to open.

And you swear he smiles when they flash open. You swear it.

“Means somethin’, sweetheart. This—fuck—us.”

The words grind into you. As though he's the pestle and your mortar. Your breath is lost, unable to be grasped, your body hanging, pleasure a bigger force—swallowing the room, casting you in shadows and misting over you—until you cry out. Squeezing, fluttering.

Not able to see anything but his face, the look on his face—the twisted expression of his lips and the deepness of his eyes. More black, than brown—but they’re somehow still soft, still full of something you hope is pleasant and full of emotions.

It only vanishes briefly when he spills inside of you.

When he collapses on top of you—his heart hammering against your ribs. And, even if it isn’t the first time, you feel yourself still—pause, no rash movements, because this is nice, this is something you want without asking for it.

“Can’t believe I can hear y’brain already.”

Snorting, you roll your eyes, glancing over—finding his lips have slid into his cheek.

It gnaws at you, the reason for your lack of sleep. The thing which you've traded hours of rest for. That dormant part pushed to the edge by exhaustion, now awake and very much worrying.

“Got you something,” you whisper, biting your lip, watching his brows furrow and lines appear between them.

Standing up, you steal the dressing gown from the back of his door—the one you’d traded for months ago. The one which is far too big, even for him, making it only cosier when you borrow it. Shooting him a smile, you almost disguise it, worried it's far too soft, too normal, before you mumble about being right back.

It's a hurry to the front door, all feet hammering down on wooden steps before your hand digs in your coat pocket, retrieving the wrapped thing you’ve lost shuteye over.

When you enter, he’s under the sheets—hair at odd angles, looking both a mixture of energised and fucked out that you wish you could paint with your fingers, so you'd forever have it.

“Didn’t wanna give this to you on the 25th—just in case you popped a vein trying to figure out what it means.”

Kneeling on the bed, you take a levelling breath, before handing it to him. His eyes travelling from you to it, fingers taking it—all delicate, measured. Before he unpeels the ribbon, undressing it with more care than he often shows you, before it rolls free of the paper you managed to find. It catches the ceiling light, glinting, gleaming, the handle looking even more detailed in this light than under the candles you’d had to use to remain discreet.

In your hand, the knife had appeared large, and menacing. In his, it looked right.

Yet, his face looked as though it was anything but.

Enough for you to prod, needle. To nudge closer on your knees, to smooth out the sheets and then flick your lashes up, finding him already staring, weighing it up—whatever coated his tongue, had been written in his mind.

“Sweetheart… I don’t… I don’t deserve this—”

More words fall in silence, not quite spoken, yet somehow loud.

Enough for you to say his name, to rest your knee on the bed and deeply sigh.

“You…’m not a good man.”

You almost laugh, but you don’t. Crawling up, placing your hand on his chest, you take a shaky breath. “I’m not sure I care.”

And you don't.

Because it's easy to feel something for him, to love him. It's natural, there one day and the day after. It wasn't hard or difficult, but very fucking easy.

Your mouth even opens to say as much, but you close it again before a syllable is muttered.

Wrapping the gift, he moves it from between the two of you, to the bedside table. His fingers linger, hovering over the carved wood—the one which caused splinters and made your eyes almost cross over. “Y’should. M’not an easy man to love.”

“I disagree,” you whisper, fingers having slid up to the base of his neck, your fingers teasing his curls. “Since I’m pretty sure I already feel those things for you.”

His brows lift, and you smile—letting it speak the words you can’t say, and you’re sure he’s not willing to hear.

“Don’t sweat it, alright? You’re mine, I’m yours. Yeah?”

Nodding, he bites his cheek, placing the knife back into the packaging—moving it, replacing what he’d been holding with your wrist as he pulls you close.

“Got you somethin’ too.”

Nose bumping his, you shift closer, thighs finding themselves on either side of him—his hands finding a place on them, sliding up, callouses grazing on your skin, before squeezing.

“But y’gotta wait until the 25th. Like a good girl.”

Smirking, you cup his cheeks. "Okay, Miller. I'll wait."

an: merry christmas, i hope you love this <3

[kthsbelle]

SECOND CHANCES

pairings : tattooed eren jaeger x fem!reader

sypnosis : written from eren’s pov . a couple trying to find themselves and meaning in their relationship after eren cheated .

a/n : this is a small / short gift to y’all because my first fic reached 10k !!! this is huge for me. i write because I love it and wanted to share an idea . the attention was something special to me . this is an excerpt from a fun roleplay i had . i thought it told am interested story . enjoy !

the day dissolved into dusk, a canopy of brooding clouds hovered over eren's head, foretelling a sense of impending doom.

        ominous. foreboding.

        as the sun set over the bustling city , the brunette sat at the small kitchen table in his apartment, gazing blankly at his plate of untouched food. the fluorescent light overhead cast a harsh glow on the scene, highlighting the cracks in the yellowing linoleum and the smudges on the walls . the traffic outside was steady hum , punctuated by the occasional honk or screech of brakes that indicated a slightly heavy afternoon jam . the lighting in the small kitchen was dim, casting long shadows across the room . the only source of light were a few overhead bulbs that hung from the ceiling , one of them flickering slightly as if on the verge of burning out . it was almost ironic ; the lighting seemed to be synchronized with the weight of the atmosphere as eren sat , left to face his own demise ; the threatening and inauspicious fact that he was guilty of his own misfortune .



        across from him sat yourself , his girlfriend- well, seemingly ‘ex’- girlfriend , just as absent-minded , who seemed to have taken profound interest in the food on your plate , having looked at anything but him this whole dinner . he understood , though - he wasn’t able to look at his reflection in the mirror either . the man shifted in his seat , fork now moving to pick at the fluffy scoop of mashed potatoes in his plate . eren's obsidian gaze fell on you for another moment , the slight rouge on your cheek being visible as well as the delicate lines of the side of your face . for a woman of small stature , you always made a prodigious impact . a delicate snub of nose , sun-lit strands and eyes that pulled on something deep in his chest .


        he swept his gaze about the room . his place seemed nothing but the empty of shell that nursed memories of what once was . the walls painted a cool shade of gray licked by the orangeade shade of the sun streaming through , the hardwood floors and the clean lines of the furniture that gave this space an uncluttered feel which eren always sought when it came to the comfort of his apartment. the polaroid photos on the shelf under the television caught his eyes ; both of you sunkissed , glowing at his favorite band’s concert . his piercing eyes shifted towards the kitchen , the red vintage coffee maker you had bought at a thrift store during one of your weekend adventures sat at the top of a shelf collecting dust . the spice rack that you had helped him organize so meticulously still sat untouched , and the refrigerator door was nothing more than a pit of bittersweet, scattered memories , adorned with postcards, unchecked bucket list items that served as a reminder of your memories together.

        he exhaled a lungful of sorrow as his fork finally pierced through a branch of asparagus which he hesitantly brought to his mouth . the man who usually enjoyed his greens found himself hardly able to pull his lips apart to welcome the vegetable . he chewed carefully and swallowed , the piece of food sitting at the pit of his stomach like a pile of rocks . eren cleared his wry throat gently before attempting to chase the dryness with a sip of the , now, watered down coke . he placed the glass back down , the signet ring around his little finger shooting gold through the glass' stem . the tattoo on his finger was exposed for a brief second . ‘333’ written in italic wrapped around his pinky as the time at which he first confessed his feelings to you . he had mapped many others . the black , and occasionally , red ink traced an endless pattern on his skin that kept a record of his most prized moments with you . if you had done something special , it would end up immortalized on his skin - somewhere , within the drawings on his chest or sleeves . with his gaping collar , sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his forearms and windblown dark hair , he seemed quite more at ease than he truly was .


his aquamarine eyes lifted towards you again , this time , a bit more urgently . his calm expression betrayed his inner turmoil . strong currents rose in his irises . he seemed to be deep in thought , stare lost in something he couldn't explain . was all of this truly lost ?

        oh , he was so wrong .
        

the memories of his cheating were nothing he could recall with a calm mind . they made his stomach churn with the acidic burn of guilt and disappointment . he couldn't help but feel that a deep part of him craved to have his actions be justified - he wanted to feel something . and though he didn't search for it ; it - she came to him and he simply let it happen . he couldn’t deny , he wanted the sense of intimacy that only physical contact and desire with another human could provide . quite selfish , he knew . but he truly thought there was nothing left for him in his relationship that had been slowly nibbled away by their own issues .

  " you’re always alone…ever want company ?" he remembered the red head's words as he picked up his skateboard , roguish green eyes piercing through his soul . it was such a formulaic thing to say that it almost broke a lopsided smile out of him . " what if i was ?" the words tipped over his lips faster than he could think and before he knew it , he was tangled under a pair of limbs.

        he spared her the details when recounting the ordeals of his affair . it was an especially hard conversation to have . it had to be paced . between the pauses to breathe and the glossiness that coated her eyes every few seconds , he was forced to watch the damage he'd caused . but were they forced to relive this over and over ?

        still now , as they sat to eat their dinner , the air in the room was thick with tension and unspoken words . he wanted to say something, anything to break the silence, to ease the tension.

        he fidgeted with his fork , drumming it against the table as he tried to find something to say , but the words wouldn't come . he wanted this crushing reality disappear , for the fog to dissipate - maybe there was still a chance that none of this was lost , that a remaining spark could be ignited for the depths of your eyes . you were , and still remained , as mesmerizing as a raging ocean, with depths and currents that no one could fully comprehend . but he did .

      eren cleared his throat , embarrassment seared him from inside out .

      a sheen of sweat broke out on his curved brow .

     his tongue was a sailor's knot but he finally mustered the courage to speak.

     a hard swallow , an intense searching gaze ,

        " babe..."

        the husky whisper of a confession ,

        '' i know i messed up . but i just-this is the truest thing i've known . can we talk again ?"

[jo-harrington]

loch ness monster pls

Mouse. Good morning. Happy Monday. You are...the love of my life and for that I bring you a little gift of angst...I'm sorry...

TW: Difficult relationships with families on both Eddie and the little Knight's part

Haven't ready Heaven yet? Find it here.

And find the Master List for As Above, So Below here.

Christmas Eve 1984

He hadn't meant to do it.

He was only trying to help.

You'd been working as many shifts as you could get your hands on at Bradley's. Tim, the manager, approved overtime for everyone and you jumped at the chance. Eddie couldn't blame you; Wayne did the same thing at the plant and, if he had a job, he probably would too.

You had your little date nights planned throughout the month, but aside from that...you both agreed that Christmas wouldn't be anything special.

Wayne was working, like he did most holidays, but the grocery store would be closed after 5pm. That meant the two of you would post up on your couch, watch It's a Wonderful Life, and eat a shit ton of Bagel Bites until one of you (probably Eddie) puked.

And then tomorrow you’d drive across town to spend the morning with Wayne after he came home from work before doing it all over again.

It was the perfect Christmas.

The simple act of luxuriating in the indulgent laziness of a holiday without actually celebrating anything. Because Christmas was not just a time of festivities and joy; it was a reminder of everything you didn't have.

Eddie had a key to your place, so he figured he would get everything started while you wrapped up your shift.

He just wanted to surprise you.

Wanted to make you smile.

It was the least he could do.

As he unlocked the door, he noticed your mailbox was stuffed. Overflowing with letters and envelopes.

He shuffled the handful of plastic bags filled with gas station treats into one hand as he emptied the box with the other. And right as he thought he had a hold on everything, one letter--a postcard--fluttered to the floor.

"Fuck," Eddie hissed, and decided he was better off running everything upstairs and then coming back for it, than trying to grab it and drop everything.

Truthfully, he forgot about it for a minute. Got too distracted.

Your cozy little apartment above the deli was a mess. You didn't really have a lot--it's why you always insisted that nights in were spent at the trailer, it felt more like a home--but what you did have was in disarray. So he tidied it a little, did the ol' Munson 5 Minute Clean Up. Dishes out of the drying rack and into the cupboard, wrappers and random bits of paper into the garbage, half folded laundry in the basket shoved into drawers.

He got the snacks all set up on your little coffee table, grabbed pillows and a quilt from your bed to set up a nice little nest for the two of you on the couch. He turned your shitty second-hand television on to NBC so it would be all ready when you got home.

And just as Eddie slid the trays of Bagel Bites, he remembered the postcard.

The intention was to run down, grab it, and then toss it into the pile with the rest of the bills and flyers and holiday cards from neighbors around town.

But the colorful picture was too enticing not to take a closer look.

Beautiful, cool watercolors. A large and imposing draconic figure gliding through, each scale inked in detail. Block letters spelling "Greetings from Loch Ness."

Eddie, curious, turned the card over and looked at the handful of stamps, all unfamiliar and from various countries, that overlapped each other in the corner. Your name and address were practically carved into the cardboard, the sender's hand obviously too heavy with anger or stress or regret.

And on the opposite side...

Merry Christmas. From, Dad.

He was suddenly overcome with the feeling that he made a mistake.

It was the one line he had yet to cross with you.

Eddie could talk about his family until he was blue in the face. His anger towards his dad that he used humor to cope with. The hole in his heart that formed when his mother died. His unending gratitude and respect for his Uncle. The worry he felt and the responsibility he had towards Rick, a man who couldn't claim him by name or by blood, but still did his best.

But you?

He knew you had an elderly grandma who lived in Chicago; you lived with her right up until you left. You...had a mother. And your father...forbid you from dropping out of school and you did so anyway.

Now he was sending you a postcard from Scotland. Carried with him all over Europe, it seemed, if the stamps were any indicator.

Eddie was a typical, hyperactive young adult who considered himself in love with you. And because of that, he wanted to know everything about you, just as you were eager to learn everything you could about him. It was a mutual agreement not to push one another...

But you'd been together for months...

Suddenly the doorknob jiggled and Eddie jumped. He fumbled to look casual since he knew he was nowhere near athletic enough to make it up the stairs and into the apartment before someone walked in.

It was his luck, or lack thereof, that you walked in.

Your weary eyes brightened when you saw him--it took you a second to realize why he was there but it wasn’t the first time he had done something like this--and then they immediately darted down to the postcard in his hands.

You scrunched your nose and reached a gloved hand out to take it from him. There was enough force in it that Eddie immediately thought it was annoyance directed at him.

You flipped the postcard over once, twice, and then you folded it in half and tucked it into the pocket of your coat.

You opened your mouth to say something and his heart practically stopped in his chest. He thought you might yell, tell him that he was invading your privacy, that he should just go home. Instead you shook your head and stepped closer to engulf him in a hug.

He asked you about your day, you asked if he had done any of the homework that had been assigned over holiday break.

It was warm, it was familiar, it was everything he wanted--to be fully consumed with each other--if only it wasn't for...

"Don’t worry about it,” you muttered into the fabric of his shirt, face still squished against him. “It’s just a postcard.”

Eddie could only assume that you felt the turmoil within him and felt the need to soothe it.

He wondered whether those words brought you any comfort at all.

Hours later, as the two of you tidied the mess away before going to bed, he saw the postcard in the trash. Ripped to bits. The beautiful watercolor eyes of the Loch Ness monster staring up at him woefully.

And he knew that the answer was no.

[littlebosslady7]

what does fearne, ashton, orym, and dorian's cabin look like in your story? you had details ideas about gray hunt manor, what's their place?

For Stay With Me, (please read the tags)

These details weren't pertinent to the story, but I love this question, nonny.

Green front door. There's bits of ivy growing up the walls. Front porch with a black rocking chair that's cushioned and a yellow rocking horse where Ashton and FCG can smoke their pain/stress relievers Orym has his own little garden out front. Fearne has patches of poisonous flowers in the back garden. Dorian and Orym set up stone reminders with the Ashari symbol as reminders of Orym's family.

Open concept kitchen and living room. Lots of used furniture from Nell. In the kitchen Fearne has different teas -- ones of sleeping, one to cool down, one to relax, and maybe one to have visions on purpose.

Fearne and Ashton's bedroom is downstairs because titan. It's goes straight out to the living room. Glass wall with plaid sunbleached curtains -- nobody else wanted. FCG patched up the holes and Fearne painted over them.

They have a nice four poster bed that's what I like to call Grog proof. Keyleth probably knows a guy. Their bed, if this can be done, because fantasy is the Exandrian version of a Tempur-Pedic. Fearne runs hot. Ash runs cold. She likes soft. They like firm. So they know their sides.

They have hidden treasures in ficus pots, a climbing area like a cat tree for Mister. They have dents in the wall and oddly enough scorched hoof marks on the back wall ;)

They have a writing desk when Fearne wants to send postcards to Nana. Also, Ashton may have a message tube straight to Fanny Z's because titans need a lot of new clothes. It's kinda messy but they like mess.

Orym and Dorian's room is extremely neat -- spotless. Their clothes are hung with care. They have a pull up bar at their bedroom door. Yoga mats always put away on a shelf, a weight rack, and a bed like sleeping on a cloud.

FCG keeps a sleep pod at a charging station behind the outer kitchen counter.

Oh, and a map room across from Orym and Dorian's bedroom

[lcs-library]

Ignore that this is a day late ok?🫶

Safeshiptember Day 13: Beach

Taglist: @dango-daydreams

Sakuya wiped a layer of sweat off of his brow as he entered the kitchen, shouting another order. Omi gave him a thumbs-up, starting work on the dish immediately.

Today marked Mankai’s now-annual tradition of helping out at a small beach cafe run by one of Omi’s friends. Of course, not everyone could make it given the time constraints, meaning the company would have to rely on some of the ensemble cast, as well as outside help from some of the members’ partners and friends.

Lu decided to spend her limited break time lounging on the place’s deck, staring off into the glittering sea, soaking in the salty air as she turned over a small keychain, inspecting it, taking in every detail of the gaudy flower charm, hoping it would be good enough for her plan. Sneaking away long enough to buy it was already a challenge, let alone picking it out from the mess of other items in the store.

“Lu! You’ve gotta come in soon!” Omi called from the door, wielding a spatula in one hand and a pair of tongs in the other. The poor man really deserved a break, but, knowing him, it was unlikely he’d take the opportunity.

“Coming!” She replied, adjusting her uniform as she entered the sweltering kitchen, making the midday heat feel like a tundra.

As she entered, Sakuya burst in the kitchen’s door, taking a few dishes to immediately rush back out again.

Lu couldn’t help cracking a smile at the sight, even if only for a brief moment. He was too hardworking for his own good, which in turn, served as her motivation as she set out to help serve a few customers.

Right as she did, Sakuya returned to the kitchen, giving her a wink in passing, before clocking out for the day, even if he would have liked the extra time with Lu.

Even then, it didn’t matter. He had a mission.

Along the boardwalk laid about a million little stores, each specializing in some of the worst food you’ve ever had, trinkets, and all sorts of nonsense. He and Lu had visited earlier that morning to take a gander at what they had in store, the two not surprised when they were met with shops made specifically to waste their money. And yet, Sakuya felt it would still be nice for her to have a keepsake to remember their time here, regardless of if they would return or not.

He pulled down on the hem of his shirt, stretching it out a bit as he walked, glancing back to get a glimpse of the cafe, stealing a look at Lu taking orders with a clearly forced smile. He giggled to himself, turning to find the shop he had his eyes on.

He entered, straightening himself up as he looked around the tacky gift shop. Sure, everything was overpriced, and, yes, he knew that Lu wasn’t necessarily the trinket-collecting type, but he was sure he would be able to find something suitable for even someone like her and her “if it doesn’t serve a purpose, dump it” attitude.

Sakuya browsed the shelves, inspecting every item carefully, from jewelry to postcards to something he wasn’t even sure how to describe, nothing seemed like something she would like, much less keep.

That was, until something caught his eye.

On a large rack sat a lone keychain, with the store having sold out of the rest of them. It was simple, a tropical flower, in a sweet purple color, Lu’s favorite. It must have been fate.

Sakuya quickly swept it off of the display, taking it to the register.

“A paopu flower? Nice choice! Do you know the story behind them?” The cashier asked, bagging the small trinket.

“There’s a story?” Sakuya replied, eyes wide.

“Yep. They say that if you share the petals, your destinies become intertwined. Sucks that they stopped growing around here, though.”

“Agreed! It would’ve been cool to do it! Thank you!”

“Of course!”

With that, Sakuya left the shop, somehow even more pep in his step than usual.

~

Lu sighed as she peeled off her uniform, revealing a loose floral tank top. The sun was setting, the day was done, and she was exhausted.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a vibration from her phone.

“Meet me on the big cliff by the cafe! I’ve got something to show you<3,” read a DM from Sakuya.

Which one was that?, she wondered, only to find a shock of pinkish-red the moment she looked up, and not from the sunset. That must have been it.

After retrieving her things and a short hike, she was met with a bright smile and a sweet voice.

“Hi!” Sakuya greeted, beckoning her closer.

“Heya. What did you need?’

“I have something for you.”

“Oh?”

If this was what she thought it was…

Sakuya reached inside his pocket, holding something in his clenched fist. When he opened it to reveal his gift, Lu had to stifle a giggle. He looked a little hurt, cowering back slightly.

“Do you not like it?”

“No, no! I love it, it’s just that…”

She reached inside her bag to reveal an identical keychain, though only in a shade of pink.

Now it was Sakuya’s turn to laugh.

“There’s no way!”

“Yeah, I’m honestly shocked. Do you still want it?”

“Of course. Do you still want mine?”

“Yep.”

The two exchanged gifts, dopey grins on their faces as their hands barely brushed across each other. Lu immediately put hers on the string of her tote bag, Sakuya clipping his to a loop on his shorts.

“So I’m assuming the cashier told you that weird petal-destiny thing too?” Lu asked playfully.

“They did! I managed to get the last one, too, so they must have done that at least, what, twenty times?”

“Maybe. Maybe more.”

They laughed at the nearly nonsensical scenario, Sakuya’s hand reaching out to take Lu’s as if on instinct.

The two locked eyes for merely a moment before turning to the scenery before them, drinking it in. Lu sighed. They would see this sky every day, and had for all their lives, but there was always something about viewing it together. Maybe it was the human nature of finding beauty in sunsets, maybe it was their company.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was the desire to buy into superstition. The belief that they’d be able to spend the rest of their lives together, that even if or when they part, they would find each other again through the power of destiny and fate.

Whatever it was, it was cut just a little too short by Sakyo’s yell from below for the two to get moving, for the company was leaving.

They sighed, managed a giggle, then set down the small hill to meet up with the others, each making sure to remember to keep the flowers on themselves, just in case.

[shoshiwrites]

while spring is making promises outside — a flower shop AU featuring my OC Jo. Chapter 1/9. Later chapters a little NSFW. Title from "Little Numbers" by BOY.

"Well," says Frankie, as she surveys the store floor with a degree of serenity that Jo can only puzzle at this early in the morning, "you can clean buckets or you can work the machine."

The machine is a temperamental De'Longhi that Frankie got off Craigslist a few years ago for three hundred dollars flat and a not-zero amount of sweet talk. According to Frankie, Jo is the only one who can read its many moods. They don't even technically serve food; Jo is sure that a health inspector would have something to say about the de facto café set up in the back corner of the store, the trays of cookies and espresso cups carefully camouflaged behind a fiddle-leaf fig.

She's less sure where Frankie got the idea that she's a coffee whisperer. Maybe it was the twenty months bouncing between barista jobs in Berlin, she notes, too tired to be acidic about it. She'd spent more time there mopping up beverages than pouring them. That's what you got for trying to escape your life, right? Kreuzberg hipsters arguing with you about oat milk and avocado toast. If she takes the machine, then Clara is stuck on clean-up. And Clara's too nice to be stuck on clean-up.

"Buckets," Jo says.

"Your choice."

"Buckets." Maybe if she says the word buckets enough times it will become a substitute for speech.

Frankie shrugs, and goes to unlock the back door for the morning delivery. "Don't forget an apron," she throws over her shoulder.

Jo hums, conceding, and promptly passes the rack without grabbing one.

The rest of the morning proceeds without comment. Although by this point Jo might well consider Clara's raised eyebrows at her t-shirt a comment soaked with faucet water and dabbed with bleach.

Clara just sips her coffee, which Jo knows by the half-empty honey bear on the counter is unbearably sweet, and gets to rearranging the small pots of rosemary and mint by the register. It's too cold by the door now to keep many flowers, despite the thermostat that Frankie keeps at a luxuriously warm temperature compared to how any of them were raised. Blooms for winter wedding bouquets crowd the back half of the store, white camellias and anemones and dusky pink hellebores. Somewhere in a corner Italian pop music twinkles from a small speaker.

It's a little wild, Jo thinks, this thing that Frankie's built here. She's always been into plants, ever since Jo's known her. There was a relative once, or maybe Frankie only called him uncle, who'd taught her how to care for the flowers, told her she had an eye for arranging. And then there was the couple whose shop she now owned, who she'd worked for for years and took over the place when they retired south. They still sent postcards and called, even asked about Jo too. God knows Jo had spent enough time hanging out in the shop sketching back in high school. Trying, she can admit now, now that she and Frankie have cycled through A Relationship to the other side, to get Frankie's attention with her careful sketches of herbs and blossoms. Their first kiss had been behind sunflowers in the back corner. 

The previous owners had once offered to make cards from her drawings and let her sell them, but it hadn't gone anywhere. Which meant she'd been too scared, preoccupied. Something that feels shapeless now.

Eventually her shirt starts to dry — it's already stained with paint anyway — and she warms to the air. She spends most of the hour before lunch processing the shipment that came in the morning, slicing stems off roses and filler flowers with a satisfying chop of the blade. They move between noise and quiet, the small lulls of the store between customers and phone calls and Clara talking up the newest arrivals to their display of potted succulents. As a testament to her skill, they've sold fifteen in the past three days. Frankie's voice on the phone is patient or conversational or no-nonsense, usually all three at once. 

The sharp green smell of the flowers and greens fights with the coffee in the corner, and almost wins. Evie drops by to pick up her weekly bunch for the jar at the front table of her tattoo parlor; this week it's dahlias in a sunset ombré of purple and orange. They're the kind Jo would have once died to paint, to use watercolor for or maybe some kind of brush marker.

She's about to see if Clara wants anything from the shawarma place at the end of the block when the buzz of the back doorbell echoes through the store.

Bill, Frankie's delivery guy, acts like he's known all of them all of their lives, and Jo would never admit it but it's probably her favorite part of the day, listening to their rapid-fire logistics about who's getting what, and then in the next minute his voice as he's talking about his fiancée, the baby they're awaiting together. Frankie takes care of her people — Bill doesn't make it out of the back dock without a container of at least two kinds of dessert and leftovers from a giant platter of something, and a plate of ginger chews. Sometimes she threatens to cut him in off, when they're jabbing back and forth in English and Italian and Sicilian, and he pretends not to know what she's saying, but she never does.

She's been back almost two months already, but she hasn't gotten used to the climb up to Frankie's apartment, above the store, the fact that it's where she's crashing too. They've lived together before, of course — years at a time, in fact — but when she'd left the city they'd been a few bus stops apart. And then, of course, the ocean. It's weird to be back like this, and Jo hates that she can't find another word. Weird to feel like...like a charity case, although she'd never say that to Fran. She pitches in for groceries and some of the utilities but it still makes her body feel like a sticky door with a bad lock, having to let someone cut her a break on rent and feed her dinner at night. Frankie's the only person she'd ever accept that from, even when accept is much too graceful a word for any of how she's acting.

Frankie's spending the night at Anita's, so the apartment is quiet, except of course for the street noise. She settles into the couch with a bowl of cereal and her laptop, some shady site where she can stream German soap operas without ads. It's easier to stay awake until her eyes feel propped open, than it is to try and fall asleep in the darkened living room by herself.

Frankie and Anita met at a flower show where Anita was offering services as a business consultant. She wears actual suits to work and runs in the morning and takes vitamins, and is way nicer than anyone who does any of those things has any right to be. Jo goes through the roster in her mind. Evie and Angelo, together for almost the entirety of their natural lives, got married a few years ago, and run their shop together. Clara's boyfriend is with AmeriCorps for another couple of months, and they're both so disgustingly cute together that even Frankie can't get mad when Clara calls him from the store. Lena, Jo suspects, also has a boyfriend. If Clara is an open book than Lena is a lockbox, although Jo did catch her once blushing into her phone after a consult with Frankie about the store's business plan. Berlin feels like the bubble and crack of paint on rotting wood, smoking in bed with artists who all looked at her the same. 

Now we don't have time to unpack all of that, she thinks sourly, or sorely, whatever adverb describes the pressure squeezing at her ribs, and gets up to wash the dishes. She might not be a model roommate, but she knows better than to act like she were raised, as Frankie says, in a barn. She's being so good she doesn't even crack the window for a cigarette instead of going outside. It's too cold for either tonight, which is saying something. 

Maybe she'll bring her notebook downstairs tomorrow. There were some alstroemerias along the far wall that had caught her eye. It's something too, she thinks, to feel that itch again. She fights the urge to flinch.

[wallacejwriting]

descent snippets; #2

From Chapter 2

I finished chapter 2 today! So I thought I'd share some of my favourite lines from it. Here we go. As always, reblogs, comments, and feedback are super welcome.

Content warnings for explicit ableism

a:

“Here we go, got the connection finally,” said the guy in the passenger’s seat. “Damn tablet.” Nat jolted. What? “All right, who wants to hear about Nat Carter, mute murderer?” Nat flinched. “Come on, Lorenz, let’s at least give the kid the benefit of the doubt,” said the woman across from Nat. The man driving said nothing. “Maybe they don’t talk because they can’t lie.” …What? “Good point,” said Lorenz, chuckling. “Fucking hell. You know they’re registered as an Epsilon?” The woman snorted. “No fucking Epsilon could do all that. When’s the last test?” “Looks like… holy shit, 2026.” “Thirteen years ago?” The woman scoffed. “You’re supposed to get retested at eighteen.” “Yeah. No shit. Three years past that.” Nat pressed their hands tighter to their ears, trying to block out the noise. Without their static, it was pointless. They couldn’t cover anything without it.

b:

“You think they know?” asked the woman. “Know what?” asked the driver. “That they did it. You think they’re smart enough?” asked the woman. Nat clenched their hands in their lap and pretended not to be awake. “File says they’ve got autism,” said Lorenz. “Probably a toss up, then,” said the woman. Nat ground their teeth and did nothing. They couldn’t fight back. They had no way to win. And how did you win a fight if you couldn’t throw a punch or speak a word? How did you argue when your opponents refused to listen to your language? Their static built, hot and angry. The smell of dried blood burned in Nat’s nostrils. But it was so hard to stay angry. Especially when the only person Nat could yell at was themself. And they were already doing that.

c:

Nat pressed as far away from the open doors as they could, wrapping their cuffed hands around their raised legs. Nat pressed their face into their knees and whimpered again. They squeezed their eyes shut. No. No. Docks and ferries and open fucking water and sunrise. Not the sunrise. They couldn’t. The flood of orange and pink and blue, the way it tinged and shifted in slowly lightening shades— Light in the kitchen window, streaming through lavender curtains. Ayla had picked out those curtains. She’d loved the butterflies embroidered into the corners, the flowers that looped and leaped across the edges, little border guardians. Shades of pale yellow and orange and pink scattered across the kitchen table, empty except one item. The table was never empty. Discarded plates, untouched mail, craft projects, school work, half-finished jigsaw puzzles, and maps of local terrain to plan rock climbing excursions always covered the table. But the puzzle was put away, the box on the kitchen counter. The maps were tucked into the magazine rack in the living room. The dishes were washed and put away. The mail sorted and dealt with, opened, maybe. Ayla’s craft projects gone — Nat had found them later, in her bedroom. Set up like she’d left them there. She hadn’t. The details had been wrong. All the details were wrong. They were real but they were wrong. And on the kitchen table, alone, despite the table having never been empty a day since they’d moved in, was a postcard. Wish you were here!, it read, with a picture of the Veda skyline. On the other side, in neat handwriting, two lines that changed everything. Come to the mines. We’re waiting for you.

d:

But Sage was a metahuman. Sage could teleport. A sort of freedom Nat had only ever dreamed about. And Veda was full of metahumans. Nat’s people. The crash of waves breaking against the rocks and docks beyond thundered against Nat’s eardrums and heart, anchoring them to the cold, wet present.

e:

Nat nodded again. To feel powers under control, to know what a meta who knew what they were doing looked like in action… the excitement of it pressed against one side of their exhaustion, trying to break in. But the panic, the grief, ballooned the exhaustion until nothing could possibly pop it.

[kasnudel]

Leaving hell behind me, heaven turn your light up

my gift for @ruthofrhythm for @averyfruityhalloween's gift exchange

the prompt i used was steve and robin celebrating a holiday for the first time. i decided to have it be the christmas between s3 and s4.

Words: 2,030

i hope you enjoy!

---

Robin never thought she’d ever be intimidated by a house. Or any kind of building really. And yet here she is, standing in front of the door to Steve’s house, frozen on the spot. It feels like it’s looming over her, taunting her, mocking her for daring to believe she could spend Christmas with her best friend in the whole wide world.

She knocks on the door quickly before she gets the urge to run far away and never look back.

When she hears footsteps coming from inside she worries that the person who’s about to open the door isn’t going to be Steve, but his mom or dad, back from wherever they’ve been for the past few months, even though he assured her that there was no chance of that happening. He even showed her the postcard they’d sent him wishing him an early Merry Christmas as his father’s business required him to be on location over the holidays and that Switzerland was “just so pretty this time of year” so his mother didn’t want to come back to dreary old Hawkins for a few days to see her only son. She didn’t actually say that last part, but Robin could tell that she wanted to.

The rattling sound of the doorhandle breaks her out of her thoughts.

“Robin!” Steve exclaims as he swings the door open. “You came.”

“Well, you did invite me”, she says, using sarcasm to cover up her feelings of doubt.

“Yeah, I know, I was there”, he fires back before switching back to sincerity when he sees the thin jacket she’s wearing. “God, come in, you must be freezing”

“It’s not that bad,” she says, her hands stuffed under her arms. She really wishes she had chosen to wear some gloves, but she honestly thought she wouldn’t need them. She knew she she’d only be outside in the freezing cold air for the walk from the gate where her dad dropped her off to the front door of Steve’s house, but she completely underestimated just how freezing cold the air would be.

“You can put your bag upstairs. I’ll be in the kitchen!”, he shouts as he runs towards the beeping that starts just as she’s putting her shoes next to his boots on the rack.

She rushes up the stairs, trying to warm her fingers up by rubbing her hands together. Once she makes it to his bedroom, she places her bag on his bed and does what she’s done every time she’s come over since the temperatures have dropped and goes to raid his wardrobe for a sweater. Specifically the dark grey one with the red cuffs and collar that he hates. It’s one of the softest ones he owns and because he never wears it she knows it’ll always be hers for the taking.

Well, usually it is, but now she can’t find it. Maybe he finally got rid of it. Slightly disappointed she chose the forest green one that’s not quite as soft but warm enough for her to not feel like she’s going to turn into an icicle.

Going back to her bag she checks to make sure she has everything she wanted to bring. She usually borrows some of Steve’s pyjamas and even uses his toothpaste so the only absolutely necessary thing in there is her toothbrush. Oh yeah, and the presents for Steve, those are important too.

Technically they’d agreed that they wouldn’t do presents, but as the date got closer Robin felt more uncomfortable with the idea of not getting Steve something for Christmas. Even if she didn’t end up giving them to him tomorrow, she was still prepared for the possibility that he wanted a present. Not that she doesn’t trust his word, it’s just that sometimes she second guesses everything she knows and that includes what the conclusion of that particular conversation was. Sure, he said he didn’t want anything, but what if he just agreed to it because she suggested it and actually desperately wanted to exchange gifts.

After she takes out the unmarked VHS cases she brought with her she stuffs her jacket into her bag to hide the inexpertly wrapped items. Gripping the tapes tightly she makes her way downstairs to the kitchen, where she sees Steve stirring something in a pot.

“What are you making?” she asks, making Steve jump in the air.

“Jesus,” he exclaims, wielding a large spoon as a weapon. “Don’t creep up on me like that, you almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry.” She hides behind the items in her hands, which she then holds out as a peace offering. “I brought some tapes.”

“Oh, neat. We can watch them while we eat.” His face brightens up immediately. “Come here and try the pasta, I think it might be ready.”

Leaving the tapes on the kitchen table she goes to stand next to him by the stove and grabs the spoon he threatened her with from his hand to scoop some pasta out of the pot. It was the twisty kind she liked.

“What’s in there?” She gestures to the other pot on the stove. It seems to have something bubbling in it.

“That’s the sauce.” When Robin gives him a suspicious look he adds, ”its just tomato and herbs, you don’t need to worry, there’s no onion in it.”

“Good.” She figures the pasta on the spoon must’ve cooled enough so she tries it.

“What’s the verdict?” Steve asks. She nods so he turns the stove off and goes to the sink to drain the pasta. “Can you get the bowls. They’re in the-“

“Yeah, I know where they are.” She grabs them from the cupboard to the right of the fridge and then gets two forks from the next drawer along. Once she set them out Steve’s ready to pour the pasta into the bowls.

“Say when.”

“When,” she says and he moves to fill his own bowl.

“You can take as much sauce as you like. I made more than enough for us to have it for lunch tomorrow too.”

When she finishes spooning the sauce on her pasta Robin sees tension in his face and shoulders but can’t tell how long it’s been there. Just as she opens her mouth to ask what’s wrong he blurts out, “Are you sure it’s okay?”

“Am I sure what’s okay?” Was he talking about the sauce? Just a minute ago he was trying to convince her she’d like it.

“That youll be here tomorrow and not at home.”

Oh. That.

“Steve, I told you, we’ve never really done anything on Christmas day-“

“because your mom was always working, I get that,” he interrupts and Robin can tell now that this is weighing on his mind more than he wants it to, “but you said she’s actually got tomorrow off and-“

“Steve. Its fine, really. We talked about it and we all agreed that it would feel wrong to actually celebrate it on the day its supposed to be celebrated on, so …”

“Yeah, okay, okay, your family’s weird, I get it.” He puts his head in his hands with his elbows resting on the counter and takes a few deep breaths. When his body starts to finally relax she bumps into him to get his attention.

“It’s fine.” She’s never been confident enough to properly comfort anyone, but for some reason her limited skills seem to work on Steve. Even if she doesn’t understand why, she’s glad that they do.

When he bumps into her to tell her his doubts are dealt with she picks up her food in one hand and the VHS in the other to make her way to the living room, where she sees a small, modestly decorated Christmas tree. Other people might think that someone like Steve Harrington would have the most elaborate decorations known to man, but Robin has found this was much more his style. It felt honest in a way that over-the-top things never could.

“What will we be watching tonight?” he asks as he follows her. “Ooh, or is it a mystery tape?”

“No, I know what it is, I just don’t necessarily know what episodes will be on here.” She’d just grabbed it on a whim five minutes before her dad rushed her out of the house because he insisted on driving her here but didn’t know the way and didn’t want her to be late. Good thing he did, because he made a total of three wrong turns.

“So it’s a TV series?”

“Yeah,” she answers meekly. She can feel his suspicion as she puts the tape in the player.

“Robin,” he says warily. “What are you making me watch?”

“Batman.”

Steve throws his head back and groans. “Seriously? Are you and Dustin conspiring against me to make me watch every single nerdy thing there is?”

“Dustin has nothing to do with this.”

“Then why?” His voice takes on a whiny tone.

“Because it’s fun. And I think you’ll like it,” she says, deliberately avoiding the actual reason she picked it.

“Okay fine,” he relents and she settles down next to him on the couch, mirroring him and putting her feet up on the coffee table. When she puts the first forkful of food into her mouth she sighs. “Good?” Steve asks, already having had some of his.

She nods and swallows. “Good,” she confirms.

Often when they watch things together, they talk all the way through it. Mostly either Robin telling Steve all the little details she knows about whatever film they’re watching or Steve making fun of the characters. But tonight they don’t.

Beyond a few chuckles from Steve at the fact one of the characters is called Dick and intense eye contact when the same character was later referred to as Robin, neither of them says much.

Robin is too caught up in feelings of nostalgia and Steve is too fascinated by what is happening on screen to think of anything to say.

After about four episodes (she lost count) the tape ends and they decide to call it a night. Steve’s eyes keep falling shut and Robin feels way to sleepy to want to stay up any later. She can just about gather the energy to get up and turn off the TV. When she turns around to go back to the couch she sees a very dopey and very tired smile on Steve’s face.

“Good?” she asks, voice almost a whisper.

“Good.”

She smiles and tries to find a position on the couch that is comfortable for them both. Luckily it doesn’t take long and before they know they’re asleep.

---

Robin is woken up by movement under her and a very quiet “sorry”.

After an inquisitive grunt from her Steve says “I really need a piss, I’ll be back in a moment.”

She rubs her eyes and looks at the clock. It’s dark so its hard to see but she thinks it says it about 6 o’clock. Maybe 7.

The realisation that it’s Christmas makes her brain wake up, so she has no chance of falling back asleep now. It also makes her think about the presents she’s got in her bag. Maybe it’s her still slightly sleep addled brain or just the nice comfortable happy feelings from yesterday, but she feels the need to get them. She creeps upstairs, desperately hoping she can get back downstairs to put them under the tree before he gets back.

She tries to be as quick as she can without tripping over anything, but she must’ve been too slow, because when she returns to the living room, Steve is already there crouching by the tree.

He looks over and sees her, sees the presents in her hands and smiles to himself. She looks down at the space underneath the tree beside him and sees that there are already some presents there. Presents Steve got for her.

“Didn’t we say no presents,” she asks, barely able to contain her laughter.

“We did,” he answers, shoulders shaking.

“Merry Christmas!”, Robin exclaims and lets herself laugh.

“Merry Christmas!”, Steve replies and joins in.

[jem-fern]

Miniature Project: Happy Camper Caravan (Rolife)

Okay, here's the first project where I got really silly with it! I made a LOT of changes to the og Rolife kit; I made all the outside furniture from scratch, added an awning and a shelf and a fence, and even completely revamped the interior as well.

These official pictures show a little of the original kit's features:

The exterior was cute but the weird little signs and paper-based grass and BBQ weren't terribly inspiring, while the inside was just a few random kitchen elements with a printed floor and printed carpet. The bed was just a fabric platform (with a plate of fruit on it??) and the colors were mainly brown and yellow in contrast to the cute pastel exterior.

So of course I completely remodeled the caravan:

I used math paper to paint floor tiles and also hand-painted all of the wallpaper. The kitchen bench is painted with sparkly nail-polish for that Formica look, and I made utensils, a fruit bowl (from a cool button), a shelf of containers and cups, and of course a tiny camping fridge! The little stove is also a remodel, but I kept the tiny chopping board and fruit.

The 'bedroom' features a shelf of toiletries, comfy blankets and pillows, books, plants and a little postcard taken from notepaper.

I also added a little ivy-leaf mobile to balance out the composition:

(From the second picture there you can see the repaint of the og kit chair and a little pastel-themed handbag under the bench.)

The final touch was a little pile of camp activities on the bed:

By far the most work on the exterior was finding a suitable finish for the paintwork. I eventually settled on pink printer paper, painted over with a brighter pink acrylic paint, and finished with two layers of clear nail polish.

Also time consuming was creating the base; the kit just came with a printed grass cutout and some plastic moss powder. I added gravel under the caravan (as most campsites might have), larger pebbles and plastic grass strands, dried grass and plants that resemble lilies and harakeke, often seen in the wilder areas of Aotearoa. The mat is cut from a place-mat.

I also made a cool wire-and-post fence! I only really had access to that thicker wire at the time, so its not completely to scale, but it looks amazing anyway.

Here are some details~!

On the roof-rack we have plenty of luggage and a guitar, and I added a towel (and improved the rack as it sat too high on the og kit),

Whoever lives here is prepping for a hike and a picnic! They have their retro ipod, maps (printed from real pamphlets found online), headphones and of course a picnic basket with snacks and sunnies.

Plants decorate the flat surfaces outside. I made the shelf from scratch as the kit came with a weird brown table thing that I didn't like. I also used the shelf to make an extra light for the outside, as the kit only had the one light on the inside. The lantern is a plastic straw large enough for the LED with a cardboard cuff and a button on top.

The BBQ area is a little under-decorated, mainly because I ran out of ideas for this area. I have some plans to finish it with some BBQ tools and crockery. Proud of the tiny jandals, though!

A big kitty at the back, alongside the revamped bumper. The plate comes from some travel-themed scrapbooking paper (ignore that its from colorado lol). The cat was found at the thrift store, badly worn and covered in stickers (someone had tried to turn him into a pendant!). I cleaned him up and painted in some details - now he's the campsite cat~ (of course in real life, all cats should be kept inside for their own safety and for the conservation of local wildlife)

Peeking in through the windows! And the door:

So yeah, while I do have a few more ideas to keep adding to it, I'd say the Happy Camper kit is just about finished!

The kit makes a great starting point for a more advanced project, but I didn't use much of the original furniture or even the smaller elements. Overall this was an amazing project for me because I love camping So Much (I have like five lego campervan kits lol) and I just had so many ideas as I was making it.

[0ne-way-ticket]

Have you ever had a chance to get things that are free? I’m talking about the stickers, pencils, and random pins laying on your messy floor that you should pick up right now.

It honestly surprised me when I got the email notification about me winning the travel contest. Terms and conditions aren’t something to worry about now.

It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.

Today, I figured out where I am going to go.

Perhaps a new destination? Honestly, somewhere where I can truly be myself.

London felt like the right place for me. Many of my classmates said the rainy weather gave them seasonal depression and they never wanted to visit there again. However, Julie from my Art History had other thoughts to say about the new destination. She wanted to go if it wasn’t for her internship over the summer. I understand for the most part… I mean getting a job is the priority of most graduates in my program. Most students say that entering my program is that your job is secured from the beginning.

“Good for you, I’m proud of you for doing what you want.” It’s a phrase that Julie had always said when we started our program.

I nodded to the students at the counter as they blabbed about how their classes went before waiting for my forms to be printed out. One signature after another as the ink of the pen danced to the movement of my hands.

“Don’t buy the Jaffa Cakes from the supermarket. They are sweeter than you can imagine.” Julie’s words of wisdom were correct in that one, as it was one of the last things she had mentioned before waving me off at my airport gate.

I tried writing a letter to Julie. It happened many times, whenever I would pass by a local bookstore. It often started off with “Hi Juls!” or “Julie…” before it ended up being inside the recycling bin of my home. There were only half written or unfinished letters that never managed to see the light of day.

On a sunny afternoon in September, I finally had the courage to pick up my pen and write again. Holding the door handle to enter the bookstore, I was met with endless shelves of books that greeted me with a warm smile. Ignoring the bookshelves, I went straight to the spinning rack that displayed all the postcards. There were cards with tacky designs, which I would make sure to clearly steer away from. After spending a good 20 minutes and £5 inside the bookstore, I had settled on a postcard with a picture of Westminster Abbey on the back. If it wasn’t for this postcard, I probably wouldn’t have stumbled upon this neighbourhood.

Setting my timer to 30 minutes, I began to write my letter. This time, I’ll make sure to complete it and send it to Julie. The time limit was able to keep my thoughts and words on the ground.

Julie… I hope this letter arrives to you safely.

Please get back to me soon.

[faewritesshit]

This npc hurt/comfort drabble got away from me.

tw: panic attack, references to trauma

---

It was late, almost closing time for Leslie. To be specific, it was 11:47pm on a Wednesday, and they were staring at the rack of postcards next to the register again. Stuck staring at the spot that it happened. The rain was drumming rhythmically against the wide front windows created a haze of background  noise to their zoning out. It had been a month, but their bones still ached at times. Usually late at night, when they were alone. Nights like tonight. A throb of pain bounced dully around their jaw, an echo of the pain of feeling it crack and shift out of place. A tightening knot began to form in their stomach, and their vision tunnel, focused on the spot on the ground. The faint memory of the rage, the clawing hunger, the pain of their body reshaping itself, and the bloodlust that didn't belong to them. It was hard to take in air, as their chest constricted, short breaths becoming more rapid as the beginnings of a panic attack was taking hold.

Then, the door to the grocery store flew open, sending the bell above ringing loudly, and the door slamming against the wall. Leslie jumped at the sudden noise, feeling rushing it's way back into their extremities. Looking up, feeling their heart thrumming violently, they were surprised to see Micah. The newest member of the weekly support group, a short boy with roughly cut dark hair. He had been quiet the two times he had shown up, and hadn’t shared what he had gone through yet, and tonight, he didn’t look good. Wild eyes, soaked to the bone from the now torrential rain. He was trembling, standing frozen, dripping on the entry mat. He jumped at the sound of the door closing behind him, letting out a small yelp, his hands moving quickly to shield his face. 

Leslie was across the room in mere moments. They knew the feeling of what he was going through. Holding their hands out in front of them, Leslie made sure to move slowly, and keep their voice soft. 

“Micah?” He didn’t jump at the sound of their voice, but his eyes did start to focus on their face. “Hey- hey, you’re okay.”

“I’m sorry,” were the first words that he spoke. It was barely audible, a hoarse whisper. “Sorry, I- I d- I didn’t mean-” His teeth were chattering, stuttering out whispered apologies. 

“It’s okay.” They took a tentative step closer, and held out a hand, a silent question. Micah nodded, small but rapid. “Come inside, you’re freezing.” Leslie closed the distance between them, putting a hand on his arm, shifting to around his shoulders as they guided him farther inside the store. 

Micah’s head fell against their collarbone as he was led inside, he kept his arms curled close to his chest, half for comfort, half for warmth. He didn’t exactly know where he was, at some point on his way here, he stopped being able to process his surroundings. It was his intention to get here, but this certainly wasn’t the state he was hoping to be in when he got there. All he wanted was someone to talk to. It was another night where he couldn’t sleep, and his restlessness had started to bother his roommate, who was actually trying to sleep. Leslie seemed nice, and was the only one he knew would be awake, and knew where they would be. Suddenly, he found himself in a chair, a sweater being thrown over his shoulders. Across the room now, Leslie was clicking off the neon ‘open’ sign that hung in the shop window, flicking off the front lights. Micah was trying to regain control over his breathing, but it wasn’t going well, his chest was too tight, he was starting to feel dizzy. 

This was one of his worse nights. It hadn’t been this bad when he left the dorms. The sound of a radio crackling inside of a bar as he passed had set him off. The high pitched tone that crackled and seemed to scrape the inside of his brain and bounce off the walls of his skull. That was when he had started running. All of a sudden he was back in the broadcast building, the sound of Sarah’s voice echoing through the building, soothing but somehow wrong in a way that twisted his stomach and wormed its way into his brain. Then there was the gunshot, and the screeching sound of the busted speaker before the walls started to crack as those things started to force their way out. He could feel those things behind him as he ran, reaching, racing, twisting their way around his chest and reaching up to constrict his throat. Then, Leslie was in front of him again, forcing themself directly into his line of sight. His eyes struggled to focus. Warmth spread through his ice cold fingers as he realized that they were enveloped in Leslie’s hands, gently squeezing the warmth back into them.

“Hey, stay with me.” Their voice was soft, and their hands gently squeezed his again. This time, he shifted his hands to squeeze back. “Just breathe. The doors are locked. We’re safe.”

It took some time, but slowly, he started to calm down as Leslie continued to whisper a mantra of reassurance, gently coaxing him down from the panic. Eventually, he was back in control of his breathing, but still shivering. Leslie hadn’t asked any questions, and for that, he was grateful. He made the right choice to come here. 

After the first ten minutes, Leslie had settled themself onto the ground in front of the small chair they kept tucked behind the counter, legs crossed underneath them. Micah’s eyes finally looked more focused, clearer and less wild. Their careful, practiced reassurances were memorized by now. It wasn’t uncommon for Olive to show up on their doorstep in a similar state, late at night. They’ve had a lot of practice this past month. When Micah’s breathing finally settled into a steady, slower rhythm, Leslie felt it was safe to continue. 

“Hey,” they started gently, waiting until Micah met their eyes, and gave a small nod. “You okay to make it up some stairs?” He looked confused, but gave a small nod, and finally, a noise of confirmation. 

Leslie finally let go of his hands, and almost immediately, Micah was missing the warmth. As Leslie unfolded their legs, and stood up to shake the sleep out of them, curling his chilled fingers into his palms, Micah followed suit in standing up. He took it slowly, making sure he was steady on his feet before following Leslie through the door into the back, keeping a few feet behind as Leslie unlocked another door, and ushered him through the door and into a small landing that led to a steep set of stairs. The click of the lock re-engaging helped to settle Micah’s frayed nerves. Again, he followed cautiously behind Leslie. 

At the top of the stairs, another door led into the second story apartment. It was messy in a lived in way, the open concept kitchen and living room was filled with mismatched, secondhand furniture. Dishes were scattered between the sink and the small kitchen island, and a few fleece tie blankets were crumpled in the corners of the couch, one folded across the back of a well loved armchair. It was nice, it felt warm, and suddenly incredibly personal. He was brought back to the present moment, drawn away from studying the room by Leslie clearing their throat. They had a hand held out to him, and all he could do was look at it a bit dumbly.

“Can I have your jacket?” They were still maintaining the soft tone from before. “The sweater, too?”

He didn’t have the higher brain function to refuse, so he did what was asked, peeling the wet fabric off of his body. Immediately, the shiver came back, racking his body and sending goosebumps blossoming across his skin. A hand was on his arm, a point of warmth grounding him as he let himself be ushered inside. Leslie placed him in the kitchen before disappearing down a hallway, and he was left alone. The panic was gone, and he was left drained and a bit numb. He was swaying a bit on his feet, but he was aware enough now to notice when Leslie reentered the room, a bundle of fabric in their hands. 

“You’ve gotta warm up.” They sounded worried again. “Can’t have you catching a cold on my watch.” 

All Micah could do was nod, and take the clothes out of their hands. Leslie led him to the bathroom, ushering him inside before closing the door. He knew that Leslie had given him instructions on how the shower works, but he certainly didn’t comprehend it. The bathroom was cluttered, the counter busy with various items and products, and two towels hung from hooks on the wall. Eventually, he figured out the shower, and managed to peel the rest of his soaked clothes off and step into the steaming stream of water. 

Leslie let out a sigh, finally relaxing as they heard the shower start up. It was 12:24am when they made their way into the kitchen, and flicked the electric kettle on before shuffling the abandoned dishes from the island to the sink. It had clicked itself off by the time they had gathered the various cups from around the living room. Methodically, they started the practiced task of preparing two cups of tea. They didn’t know how Micah took his tea, so they settled for setting out a bottle of honey and a container of sugar. They were digging around in the fridge for the carton of milk when they heard the shower shut off. The door clicked open by the time they had finished doctoring their own cup. Micah rounded the corner hesitantly, he looked exhausted, head tucked, the bundle of half dried clothing clutched close to his chest. The borrowed clothes were too big, making Micah look small, dwarfed by the well worn sleeping shirt and loose fitting sweat pants.

“Have a seat wherever,” Leslie instructed as they crossed the room to him. “I’ll toss your clothes in the dryer.”

“Th- thank you.” It was still a whisper as he handed over the clothes. He was talking again, that was a good sign. 

By the time Leslie got back to the kitchen, Micah had settled himself into a stool at the island, and had his hands wrapped around the mug set out for him. He looked up when Leslie came back, but only met their eyes for a moment before looking back down at the mug. His brief smile came off as more of a grimace, but it was an attempt. Leslie picked up their own cup and took a long drink from it, letting the silence settle over them, and Micah did the same. 

“Sorry-” Micah was the one to break the silence. “Sorry for just showing up like that.” His voice was still hoarse. Raw from the hyperventilating. 

“How frequent have they been?” Leslie dismissed the apology. 

There was a beat where Micah took a deep breath before responding, breathing in the steam from his mug. “Almost every day.” He admitted. “It’s only been a week or so since…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought. Not yet.

A hum of acknowledgement. Micah couldn’t bring himself to meet Leslie’s eyes, but could feel himself being watched. “We all get them.” It was a statement, a fact. “They’ll get better. Easier.”

Micah kept his eyes down as he felt the stinging prickle of tears welling in his eyes. The exhaustion was wearing him down. “Haven’t been sleeping much. Doesn’t really help.” 

“You’re staying the night.” It was another statement, said like it was a well known fact. Micah tensed immediately. “The couch pulls out,” Leslie continued. “I don’t think either of us want you walking back in the dark.”

And, they weren’t wrong. The thought of heading back out into the dark, and the pelting rain sent a shiver down his spine. He still didn’t have the energy to put up a fight. “Thank you.” He managed, forcing the words around the building tightness in his throat. Blinking away the blur in his vision, he managed to look up at Leslie. They watching him carefully, making sure he was okay. The look on their face was enough for him to know that they had been in his place before, shaky hands clutching a warm mug like it’s a lifeline. He took a slow drink, letting himself feel the warmth spread through his chest. Leslie again hummed in acknowledgement, and just gave him a nod. 

They both were quiet for a while, the chamomile warming them from the inside out, thawing the last of the ice from his veins, and easing the tension in the room. Leslie’s cup was emptied first, and they settled themself against the counter behind them. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” They broached the subject gently, the soft, quiet tone back in their voice.

“No.” The answer was quick, too quick, and Micah reflexively flinched at his own answer. “I don’t- Maybe, I don’t know.” It felt like an admission of defeat, and he set the mug down, running his hands over his face. 

“You don’t have to.” Leslie was moving, and Micah removed his hands to watch their movements, too anxious to not know where they were around him. They were getting the couch set up, carefully removing the cushions and pulling the frame out from the inside.

“I didn’t mean to come here, not like… that.” Leslie didn’t look over, continuing their task.

“I had assumed that much.” It was a reassuring tone.

“I just couldn’t sleep. Didn’t wanna be alone, and you’re usually awake this late.” He took a deep breath. “Sorry if that isn’t, like, okay. I can not.”

“It’s fine.” They were pulling pillows out of an ottoman now and tossing them onto the half made bed.

“I was fine when I left, I don’t- I don’t know what happened.” It was a lie, but he was too far in now. “There was a noise, and then I just- I just ran. Then, I couldn’t stop, and it felt like they were there again, and I was back, and- and then I was… here, I guess.”

With blankets now tossed on the bed, Leslie finally looked back over to him. They nodded, making their way back over to the counter, putting their cup in the sink. “I’m glad you made it here.” It was soft, an honesty he had caught glimpses of tonight. “Sounds like you’ve had a shit night.”

That got a laugh out of him. It was an understatement, to say the least, but Leslie smiled back at him. They were taking it in stride, an attitude that only comes with experience. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s one word for it.”

“My first one was two days after.” They admitted it quietly, a private confession. “I don’t count the first day since I basically slept through it. Woke up from a night terror, couldn’t get out of it. The flashbacks are the worst for me. When you get stuck.” The last sentence was huffed out, more annoyed than distressed. 

“Are they-” He didn’t know how to ask, exactly. “Are they going to happen a lot?”

“Maybe. For me, the first two weeks were the worst. I was hurt, it was real bad, and any pain just… reminded me.” Their eyes drifted, unfocused, and it took a moment for them to come back to the moment. “I suggest staying around people as much as you can. Hanging around people you know helps, from my experience. The coffee shop always has someone around who gets it.”

“Would you mind if-” the question was halfway out before he realized he didn’t want to ask it. “If I hang around you, a bit?” A moment of silence hung in the air for a moment, sending a pang of anxiety down Micah’s spine.

“Nah.” They said it with a shrug. “I don’t mind. As long as you don’t mind the shop, I’m usually here.”

“I don’t.” Wash of relief spread over him, easing the tension in his shoulders. He was tired, but more lucid now, and he could see the exhaustion etched on their face. A glance at the clock told him they had reached 1:30am now, and a twist of guilt settled in his gut.

“Great,” It was tired, but light. Genuine. “Then I’ll… see  you in the morning?” 

“Yeah.” Micah hurried to stand, walking the cup over to Leslie, letting them set it in the sink. “See you in the morning.”

Before Micah knew it, he was wrapped in Leslie’s arms, pulled against their chest. He wasn’t usually a hugger, but he let himself melt into the embrace, wrapping his arms around them, trying not to hold too tightly onto the back of their shirt. There would be time to be embarrassed about it tomorrow. For now, he clung to the contact, feeling small, but feeling safe for the first time in a few days, at least.

When they finally separated, Leslie held him at arms length for a moment, making him look them in the eye, giving him a soft smile. “If you need anything, just knock, okay? I’m a light sleeper.” They didn’t let him go until he had nodded, agreeing to their terms. “Keep any lights you want on.” 

“Thank you, again.” Even if Leslie didn’t think much of it, he needed to say it. Leslie actually rolled their eyes at it this time.

“Anytime.” They meant it. They both knew it. “Goodnight, Micah.”

“Yeah, goodnight.” He watched as Leslie left the kitchen, and didn’t move from next to the sink until he heard a door click closed. “See you tomorrow.”

[the-lost-glove]

She bought the faded postcard of some busy, unidentifiable Basquiat painting after it caught her eye from the postcard rack at the used bookstore. She doesn’t really like Basquiat that much; it just reminds her of that poster she saw on his wall so many years ago.

And because the postcard reminds her of that, it also reminds her of taking the 38 Geary bus to and from her temp jobs each day, and the old Chinese ladies sitting in the window seats carrying pink plastic bags filled with produce and folded newspapers. 

It reminds her of her home around the corner from the market on 25th and Clement, a many-bedroomed apartment with a stained, red carpet and a disconnected toilet on the stairwell sprouting a vaguely menacing spider plant.

It reminds her of Nancy and her morbid poetry and exaggerated eyeliner, and smoking cigarettes on the floor in Clare's room. It reminds her of their Irish housemates Sinead and Keith with their network of Irish friends from the same Irish town, all the girls working as nannies and all the boys moving furniture. It reminds her of waiting for hours in front of the Fillmore to see Weezer,

and Joe's letters and mix-tape packages in the mail,

and driving down to Santa Cruz on a whim in the beat-up old Honda through the fog of Highway 1,

and trivia night at the Front Room and going to Green Apple Books at dusk,

and the revenge prank calls: Clare calling the bitch of an ex-manager at the restaurant, posing as someone from the Health Department; Steve calling the evil ex-office supervisor as an intellectual property attorney serving her papers for copyright infringement (his passable posh English accent was an absurd touch); her own call to Clare's dick of an ex-boyfriend at the Safeway where he was an assistant manager, pretending to be a crazy old lady with lactose intolerance who had just bought—and eaten—a gallon of their rum raisin ice cream.

It reminds her of collapsing with laughter on that stained red carpet, of how she thought they would always be that invincible.

And then, of course, she finds herself at the bar that night (was it Trad’r Sam? … she can’t remember) and she is trying to light her cigarette and his lighter is appearing from over her left shoulder. She is turning around, smiling, and they are kissing. And the next morning her finger is tracing his elaborate shoulder tattoo of the tiger and the bear and the Cyrillic letters circling a fighter jet dropping bombs. And then she’s laughing at him doing a muscle-man pose in front of the fenced-in bison on the day they decide to walk to Golden Gate Park, and she is pretending to like the orange caviar on toast he prepares for her in his small kitchen, and he is laughing over her attempts at Russian with the book she checks out of the library, and she is opening the nesting doll he gives her,

and she is sneaking past his roommate snoring on the living room futon, and they are holding on to each other for balance in that accordion-like section at the center of the bus, and they are at China Beach,

where she is telling him to say something to her in Russian because she likes how it sounds like purring, like a melody in reverse; where his whiskers are poking a red rash against her cheek and neck in the wind and cold; where she is asking him what he said as they lie on an old green blanket half-buried in the sand; where he is whispering “you smell like home” in stumbled English words closer than the crash of waves.

But the main reason she bought a yellowed, dusty postcard of art she doesn’t really like is because it reminds her of that poster on his wall.

It reminds her of how she had asked Clare to honk from the street when ten minutes had passed. This had seemed like a very sensible plan, and plenty of time, she had explained to Clare, for a breakup with someone who was not her boyfriend by any stretch and really, let’s face it, was probably just in it for the green card. Plenty of time for standing at his door at night with the rain blowing into her back and not going in even though he keeps asking her to and listening to cars pass behind her, tires hissing over wet pavement, and wondering, as she looks over his shoulder into the living room, 

Wait ... did he just put that up? Is that … Basquiat? He likes art?

It reminds her of how she didn't want to look him in the eye.

"Just come in and we talk. Don't go."

And suddenly Clare honks from the street. And she goes.

[freckleslikestars]

Trinkets

Giftshops and love confessions, set some time season 7

1053 words, read here on AO3

‘I’m sorry we didn’t see a Hodag, Mulder.’

He shrugged, morose. They’d been trekking through the Wisconsin snow following reports of missing people and sights of the horrendous Hodag. What they’d found, instead, was a cave of frozen bodies and the remains of a fire that hadn’t kept them warm.

He was now tailing her like a lost puppy as she roamed the local tourist information centre and gift shop in search of an appropriate postcard to send home to her mother, something she always did on the road. An endearing Scully trait he found adorable. He even had a couple of treasured postcards stuck to his fridge; one from Maine, another from San Diego. Both arrived home after her, but they’d made him smile to find them in his mail, her soft cursive flourishing around his name.

‘Cheer up and I’ll buy you a Hodag keyring,’ she grinned, plucking the enamel beast from a jangling box of them and dangling it from her finger.

‘Whilst tempting, I can think of other things that would cheer me up more,’ he waggled his eyebrows and she scoffed and shook her head.

‘I would have thought last night would have cheered you up significantly, then,’ she demurred quietly as she brushed past him, bowing her head to hide her blush as she made her way to the cash register.

He smiled softly as he ran his hand through the wooden tray of polished stones, remembering the taste of her, the pliant, malleable feel of her beneath his fingertips as she melted.

A shelf of snow globes distracted him and he went over to shake one, entranced by the swirl of snow around the hog-like creature. His attention wandered yet again, to be caught by a small box of mood rings, the likes of which could be found in every tourist shop across the country. He slipped one onto his little finger and watched it change colour, settling on the navy of ‘cool’, whatever that meant. He smirked, went to twist it off to only find it stuck.

‘Mulder?’ Scully called over, and he looked up, ‘I’m done here.’

‘Yeah, I’ll, uh, I’ll meet you out there.’

She gave him a frown but nodded and headed out. It wasn’t like he had previous for lingering in gift shops, having nobody at home he really felt the inclination to buy anything for. Nobody but Scully, and he knew she’d just roll her eyes if he were to buy her a fridge magnet at every place they visited on cases.

With a sharp yank, he pulled the ring off and was about to drop it back in the box when he reconsidered.

She was leaning back on the car when he joined her outside, rereading what she had written on the postcard to her mother before she posted it. She raised a questioning eyebrow when he drew up to stand before her, a sly grin on his face, ‘hold out your hand, Scully.’

‘Why?’ she asked sceptically, postcard slipping into her pocket as her hand hesitated by her side.

‘Just do it.’

She rolled her eyes but did as he asked, presenting her hand palm up to him. He turned it over and kissed her knuckles before unfurling his other hand and, after lingering over her ring finger, swallowed thickly and slipped the mood ring onto her index finger.

Her heart stopped for a moment, her chest tightening as she felt the cool metal brush against the tip of her ring finger, eyes widening in momentary panic. She huffed a laugh when she looked down to see the mood ring on her index finger, trying to shake off the nervous energy she suddenly felt coursing through her body. This, them, together: it was new. Three months new, but still new. It might have been seven years in the waiting, but everything felt different now. The tension had changed, not for better or worse, it was just different. But she wanted time to get used to it before they changed it again. Wanted time to enjoy...whatever it was they were doing. And certainly wanted to establish exactly what they were doing before they made such a commitment. Just a discussion, something that was somewhat lacking and purposefully avoided by both parties.

‘It’s a mood ring.’

She cleared her throat, ‘yeah. I can see that.’

‘Green. According to the chart that means you’re in love,’ he murmured, leaning down closer to her. ‘Are you in love?’

Her cheeks flushed and she turned her head away, eyes unfocused, ‘it’s, uh, it’s a gimmicky ring for children, Mulder,’ her voice cracked as she avoided his gaze, ‘it works on body heat. And even if it were scientific in any way, the weather conditions and my being bundled up in hat, scarf and coat would make any results unreliable.’

‘That didn’t answer my question,’ his voice was full of false bravado, trembling with a quiet fear of rejection.

His thumb had taken up a sweeping path across the back of her hand, and needing something to occupy her other hand she moved it up to his tie, straitening it and tracing the patterns, fixing her eyes to it as she contemplated her response. With one final stroke to smooth it down, she looked up at him, cupped his cheek in her palm, ‘Mulder, you don’t need a mood ring to know I’m in love with you.’

‘Really?’

‘Really,’ her fingers curled around the nape of his neck, pulling him down to her height so she could press a soft, chaste kiss against his lips.

‘Say it again?’ he asked, nudging her nose with his own.

‘What? I love you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Hm,’ she chuckled, kissed him again, ‘I love you.’

He pressed his forehead to hers, dropped his hands to her hips as he breathed her love in, occasionally tilting his head to give her pecks until a snowflake tumbled down to catch in her eyelash. He wiped it away, tugged at her hand as he opened the car door for her and helped her in, walking around the front and sitting down in the driver's seat.

They’d been on the road for five minutes when he broke the soft, contented quiet that had formed around them, ‘Scully?’

‘Mm?’

‘I love you, too.’

tagging @today-in-fic

[fromcenotaphy]

enamored with the idea of a Bunker that changes and breathes and warms with the presence of the people who’ve moved through it or dwelled in it. things I wished had gradually wormed their way onto the set and never left. initials carved into a table, yes, but why should it end there?

I’m talking about Dean’s scribbled recipe notes fixed to the corner of the fridge with a hideous souvenir magnet that Cas bought from a rest stop in Tampa. Spice rack showing up on the countertop one day. Jack leaving bunches of wilted wildflowers on the kitchen table. Jody’s and Donna’s favorite mugs set to one side of the shelf. One wall slowly getting taken up with the postcards that Claire keeps sending from different states. Sam making a smoothie every morning in an overpriced juicer that Dean shoots dirty looks at.

I’m talking shoebox of Sam’s ritual supplies in a corner of the library: the stubs of chalk he doesn’t want to throw out, the ceremonial dagger with the grip that’s just so, the bronze dish Rowena gave him after she caught him mixing a tincture in a brownie pan. Steadily growing record collection in an enormous glossy case in the archives: half of them albums that Dean insists are the pinnacle of humankind’s musical achievement, half of them unheard-of indie bands that Cas buys from used bookshops because he liked the album art. Eileen and Cas fussing over tiny planters of succulents that would have withered long ago from lack of sunlight if Sam wasn’t covertly maintaining a basic hedge enchantment to keep them all alive. 

I’m talking giant scratch on one of the library pillars from when Charlie and Dean had a swordfight that got out of hand. Shelf of Kevin’s books that nobody will move and that Dean quietly dusts twice a week. Sam on his hands and knees in rubber gloves sanitizing every surface that Lucifer's touched. Coat rack of Mary’s jackets still standing in a corner of the war room.

Kitchen cabinet carefully stocked with Rowena’s favorite teas. Half-empty decanter of the kind of whiskey Crowley favored. Nicks on all the furniture because no one can resist trying out the throwing stars that get left all over the place. Jack starting a snowglobe collection over Dean’s half-hearted protests (snowglobes in the infirmary, snowglobe on the map table, snowglobe in the kitchen that plays a tinny rendition of O Come All Ye Faithful when you flip a switch, [jesus christ cas when is it gonna end] [don’t be rude dean], snowglobe on Dean’s desk that he pretends not to notice but would kill anyone who touched).

Novelty coasters that Donna and Jody keep bringing for the library table. Moisture rings on the wood anyway because the boys keep forgetting to use them. Windchimes hung from the ceiling of Castiel’s bedroom, above the used record player that Dean picked up from an antique store. Sam rolling his eyes when he opens a new book and another one of Max Banes’ warding charms falls out from between the pages. Eileen showing up one weekend with a power drill and a steel shelving unit because she’s tired of there not being weapons within easy reach of the front door. Blankets that Dean keeps folded on a shelf in the library because Sam has a habit of falling asleep reading. Invisible fingerprints they leave, all of them, on the surfaces and corridors of a place they’re making into a home.

[marveldc-imagines-hub]

Subtitles: Episode 1, Filmed Before a Live Studio Audience

Subtitles Masterlist

Summary: [Y/N] has been living in Westview for more almost a month now and yet to properly put down roots. What they hadn’t been expecting was to work so much, have unpacking be so hard, and for a new couple to move in the other house for sale, directly across the street.

Word count: 8,425

Warnings: Sit down and grab a snack because this one’s a bit long! Otherwise nothing, really. Maybe second-hand embarrassment caused by a thirsty Reader.

~~~

    Ever since you left both home and family behind some years ago, you’ve always felt a little out of place in the world. It was a hard time for you, leaving everything you knew behind and instead branching out and trying to find your place in the world. Actually, not only was it a difficult time in your life, but a confusing one; when you attempted to reflect on those memories, all you get is a head of foggy feelings, including a particularly sick sensation that leaves you out of commission for the rest of the day if you’re not careful.

    When you settled in Westview, it was like a breath of fresh air. Finding a home in a nice neighborhood was easy and the moving was done in a pinch thanks to a local moving company helping you get the boxes to your door, though you couldn’t afford to pay for them to do more. You were even lucky enough to find a street with not one but two open houses to pick from; you chose the smaller, more modest abode, as you had no family in town and no intention of getting married or starting a family any time soon. Despite this lack of them nearby and generally solid memories, though, you knew you had a good relationship with your family because as soon as you found a place, you were receiving housewarming gifts and postcards and letters from not only your family but close and extended relatives alike. Needless to say, it didn’t take long for your new house’s already installed fridge to be covered in pamphlet-worthy pictures of places across the nation and kind words from your mother, grandmother, and cousins. 

    There was still unpacking, now of both the furniture and gift variety, that needed to be done before anything else. Then there was the question of a proper source of income—while the money you received from your relatives would cover a month or two while you got yourself settled, you suspected there wasn’t going to be anything else for a long while and, either way, you wanted to be able to fend for yourself. Finally, after the necessities were dealt with, there was the matter of making your house and the neighborhood your home and by making some connections; while you were perfectly content living alone, it would be nice to not feel like such an outsider, to have friends to go out on the town with or take the occasional trip with on the weekends. These were normal goals, you figured, and, with as easy everything else has been so far, they should be simple enough to complete.

    Right?

    Well, at least getting a job was easy enough, you thought as you sat on the stack of boxes that, over the last month, had become a chair by the door that you used to pull on your shoes before work, as you were doing now. It also functioned as a coat and hat rack, as proven by your growing collection of jackets and headwear piled on it, and the occasional bookshelf after a trip to the local library. It used to be a place to hold your keys but you have yet to make that mistake again after sitting down one day and getting a sharp jab to the backside. 

    You were right that getting a job was easy enough—you received a callback for a secretary job at a computational services company only after a week of job searching—but you had yet to follow through with your other aspirations. It’s not like you haven’t tried, but when it came to unpacking, your job left you with very little energy to do much other than collapse on a couch-shaped collection of boxes when you get home and only a semi-decently decorated bedroom to show for your work. In terms of bonding with the locals and making some friends, let’s just say that Dottie is convinced you purposely spilled red wine on her perfect white parlor gown—who wears white when drinking red wine?—and now all you received from the neighborhood husbands were side-eyes and grumbling after telling them you found their attempts at humor in poor taste. At least you’d managed to charm your boss and his wife when they came over for dinner and now Mr. and Mrs. Hart invited you over for the occasional drink and gossip; Agnes, a woman from across the street and down a house, was also among your few successes, and she was a hoot to be around in a big sister or wine aunt type of way, despite her loudness. 

    Speaking of which—

    “Hey, [Y/N],” Agnes hollered from somewhere outside, “haven’t seen you out of the house yet! Better hurry up, the streets are antsville today! Or, at least, you could come with me to say welcome the other new neighbors!”

    Agnes came knocking on your door the same day you moved in and since then, she’s apparently committed your daily schedule to memory because if you’re not heading to work right on time, you get a holler from across the— Wait. New neighbors? You hopped up from your boxy perch after making sure your shoes were secure and peeked out the nearest window. Sure enough, the other house that you had considered moving into, the one immediately across the street from your own, no longer had a FOR SALE sign stuck in its yard and the yard and curtains appeared to have been decorated. Your heart lept into your throat as you wondered when that had happened; you desperately hoped that it hadn’t happened too long ago because you’ve been on a work rampage for the past few days and haven’t noticed much else. Yet another thing you haven’t done correctly. 

Agnes was also by the front yard, leaning against the fence and chatting with the mailman as he walked by. After he passed, she looked up and caught your eye, grinned, and waved. “Come on, [Y/N], no time like the present!”

You wanted to join her and introduce yourself to the new neighbors, you really did. Unfortunately, you would definitely get to work late if you didn’t get a move on, especially if the streets were as crowded as Agnes mentioned them to be, and you definitely didn’t want to greet the neighbors without a housewarming gift in hand. Perhaps you could stop by a shop on the way home and pick up a plant or a pie and welcome them this evening.

“Now, don’t flip your lid, Agnes,” you teased back with a smile as you walked outside. This response earned you a mock scowl, then Agnes’s smile again; you walked over to your vehicle and tossed your bag into the passenger’s seat. “I wish I could join you but you caught me; I am in fact looking to wind up late and I’ll be cruisin’ for a bruisin’ if I don’t leave now. I’ll try to stop by after work!” 

“Well alright then,” came Agnes’s reply, while you hopped into the driver’s seat and started your chariot up. “I’ll tell them you say hi. Congrats on no longer being the new guy!”

Too bad I still feel like the new guy, you mentally grumbled, rapping your fingers on the steering wheel. You took a breath, checked that your hair was in place and your shirt wasn’t wrinkled in the mirror and headed on your way.

“Oh, hello dear; I’m Agnes, your neighbor to the right! My right, not yours. Forgive me for not stopping by sooner to welcome you to the neighborhood. My mother-in-law was in town, so I wasn’t.”

Wanda watched the woman on her doorstep, visibly a bit perplexed but smiling either way. She was confused about what special event she and her husband were supposed to be celebrating tonight after seeing a heart on the calendar but now that she had an unknown woman—no, not unknown; one of her neighbors—here, Wanda couldn’t possibly be a bad hostess and turn her away. 

Not that the woman, Agnes, would have let her do so anyway. She shoved the plant she was holding into Wanda’s arms and walked inside, talking without giving Wanda any space to chime in. “So, what’s your name, where’re you from, and most importantly, how’s your bridge game, hon?”

Wanda quickly shut the door and trotted after the woman. She was newly stressed over the unknown event but now also giddy; this was the first neighborly welcome of many, she was sure of it! She reached Agnes’s side and stretched out a hand with a big smile. “I’m Wanda.”

“Wanda,” Anges repeated as if to see how the same felt on her tongue, before taking Wanda’s hand in a solid shake, “Charmed.” She paused, glancing around the house—Wanda felt an odd pang of anxiety—then continued, “Gol-ly, you settled in fast! Did you use a moving company?”

Wanda struggled momentarily for an answer. Of course, she didn’t; she’d used her powers to unpack and decorate quickly, but she couldn’t say that to this stranger. She decided to go with an affirmative answer as it was the easiest route. She went to reply—

“If you did,” Agnes went on, “I should get the name from you. Our other new neighbor across the way still has a house full of boxes!”

Wanda blinked, her head tilting to one side out of curiosity. “Other new neighbor?”

“Why the house directly to your front!” Without waiting, the other woman walked to the front window and yanked back the curtains; she gestured to the house in question. “[Y/N]. They live on their own, you see, and probably could have done well with the help. Actually, they were going to stop by with me but they were running late for work. I told them I’d tell you hi for them—Hi for them!”

The loud car Wanda had heard a few minutes earlier must have been this other neighbor rushing off to work. It was nice to know that even though it hadn’t happened, there had almost been a party of two to welcome her and her husband to the street; it’s too bad that he had left for his own job only a while earlier.

Wanda made her way over to the window as well and took a look. It was more modest in size and build than Wanda’s own home, much more suited to house a single person. Despite Agnes’s claim of them having not unpacked, a few lawn decorations were set up and a pair of [F/C] curtains hung neatly framing the home’s front window. Wanda could make out various boxes leaning up against the window, evidence to Agnes’s statement, but otherwise, the place seemed well-kept. The yard was taken care of, though Wanda wondered if it was because the person had moved in just as recently as she and her husband did or if they just enjoyed garden work.

Apparently, she’d wondered this aloud because Agnes responded, “They’ve been here for about a month, just been too busy making a good impression at work and making a fool out of themselves to the other neighbors to make their house a little more homely. Poor thing’s a darling but struggling in the social department.”

Wanda continued to watch the house as if this other, slightly older newcomer was about to drive back up the street to home. Consider her interest piqued. Wanda wanted to know more about [Y/N], all of her neighbors really, but more importantly, why there had been multiple houses open and if it was common. She hoped this neighborhood was as friendly as it seemed and that it wasn’t danger or unkindness that had made multiple people move out. She opened her mouth to ask—

However, Agnes had moved on to a different subject, as well as a different part of the house. “So what’s a single gal like you doing rattling around this big house?”

“Oh no,” Wanda, sighing softly, switched gears with her and replied, “I’m not single.”

You gulped down a gasp of air as you tumbled out of the elevator of Computational Services Inc, which earned you a few odd looks from unknown coworkers passing by. You’d bumped into one of them while skidding to a halt and you felt a blush creep up on your cheeks and ears and you stepped away, apologizing profusely. You tried to reach your desk in a quick but professional manner, only stopping briefly to make sure your clothes and hair were still in order in the reflection of an office window. As you got closer to your desk, a small thing in an area separated from other employees, you heard the comforting sounds of typing and radio music. You got to your desk, pulled out your chair, sat your bag down, and began to sit, only for a voice to catch your attention.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, there is. Would you be so good as to tell me what exactly we do here?”

A British accent? Not something you hear every day around here. You pushed your chair back into place to prevent another worker from bumping into it and walked over to peer around the corner. You recognized Norm, a kind and well-mannered employee that filled out computational forms in this section of the building, standing and chatting with a taller, paler, glasses-wearing man that you didn’t know.

The British voice spoke again and now, at least, you could put the voice to a face. “Do we make something?”

The British gentleman was very tall indeed and quite handsome. He had light wavy hair in a side part, with a sliver’s worth that looked like it could fall into his eyes at any moment; you felt the strange urge to push it back before the idea of running your hands through a stranger’s hair made you blush again. His suit fit his lanky body well, though you’d expect nothing less as Mr. Hart was very strict about his workers’ appearance. His tie was interesting, a dark color with a simple, lighter print of four spots, two larger ones encased in a rectangle, and his glasses framed his curiosity-ridden face very well. Above his lovely-looking, light-colored eyes, his brows were furrowed as he looked animatedly around, as though his workplace was a puzzle he was trying to solve. You noticed he talked with his hands quite a bit and you also noticed that his large, long-fingered hands seemed slightly out of place compared to the rest of his body. They seemed like nice hands, though, and they probably did their job well.

Goodness, [Y/N], now you’re just being ridiculous. You squeezed your eyes shut and pressed your head against the wall you were hiding around. No, not hiding, because that would make your creeping seem even more bizarre. Definitely not creeping. Investigating.

You shook your head to refocus and looked towards the men, listening again. He is a bit of a dreamboat, isn’t he though?

Norm was answering the man. “No and no.”

“Then what is the purpose of this company?” the stranger continued.

“All I know,” Norm replied with a smile, “is since you’ve gotten here, productivity has gone up three hundred percent!”

Three hundred? That was a startling thought, almost enough to give you a headache. So you’re the reason I’ve had more files on my desk.

The stranger picked up one of said files and flipped through it. “Yes, but what is it that we’re producing?” 

He’s quite interested in figuring out the answer to that question, isn’t he? You felt another pang in your temple. How strange.

Your brows knitted together as you, curious, leaned into the pain a bit. The pain seemed to follow the British employee’s questioning, so you focused on it.

What did they do here anyway?

The harmless pangs quickly turned into a full-blown migraine, similar to what would happen if you thought too hard about your past. You grimaced in pain and reached for your head, only to lose your balance completely and fall forward, into the room you were observing. You hissed as your knees hit solid ground and you braced yourself with one hand while the other gripped the hair closest to your temple. You tried to look around for something else to focus on but your vision was blurry and you couldn’t tell if you were even moving your head.

Then there was shouting, which didn’t help the throbbing pain at all, and you felt what seemed like a hundred pairs of hands grasping at you. You couldn’t understand the yelling other than recognizing the voices as male; you tried to tell them you were alright, shake the hands off and get yourself some space, but nothing in your body seemed to be working quite right. Because of this, the voices and the various hands—or was there just two hands?—didn’t know what you wanted and instead of space, they crowded you. You felt grips on your shoulders and arms, even on your back— Then you were being lifted. Completely off the ground or only to your feet, you couldn’t tell.

Then the hands—only one on your back and another pair holding your arm now—guided you to a place where you could properly sit.

It was quieter now and you could feel the floor beneath your feet and an office chair holding your weight. You realized your eyes were closed so you opened them and you found your vision beginning to refocus. You looked around. 

“Goodness, are you alright?”

You could feel how red your face was—it was probably bright enough to be used as a neon stop sign—when you found yourself staring into a man’s torso. A torso that was quite close. You looked up and directly into the face of the British man, who no longer looked troubled by curiosity but rather quite concerned by you. 

Oh, yes, definitely a dreamboat, you thought without really meaning to.

Then Norm came rushing over, a cup in hand. “[Y/N], are you alright?”

“[Y/N],” the stranger repeated. He took the water cup from Norm, who hovered nearby, and squatted down to be at eye level with you. 

You wouldn’t mind hearing him say your name again.

Good Lord, stop it, you almost passed out!

“That is my name,” you managed. You even managed a definitely awkward smile, a couple of seconds of definitely awkward eye contact.

“Here, you should drink this.” He offered you the cup and once you took it, he pressed the back of his hand to your forehead. “You’re burning up!”

I would imagine so, with how I feel. You sipped the water. Maybe you didn’t look as bad as you thought you did.

“Looks like you’re about to throw up too,” Norm very helpfully added.

Thank you for the commentary, Norm.

“[Y/N],” the other employee said, drawing your scowling gaze back from Norm, “do you have someone you could call? You look ill; perhaps it would serve you well to go home.”

“I’m fine,” you assured him. He did not look convinced but you pushed on, whipping up a quick white lie to cover up your jarring headache. “I didn’t eat this morning and I rushed to work to escape the antsville. I must have gotten overheated on the way and I’m sure an empty stomach helped that. Sorry for worrying—”

“What is going on out here?”

You both jumped to your feet; you moved too fast for having just recovered and stumbled but luckily both Norm and his colleague caught you and straightened you up before you fell over. No one wanted to be seen out of place by the boss and you were currently both out of place and sorts. Even though you knew Mr. Hart already saw you—hell, he was standing directly in front of you three—you glanced around for a place to hide. Instead, you saw files and papers scattered across the floor, the result of your migraine-induced fumbling. You groaned and dropped your head into your hands. 

“Well?”

There was a moment of silence. You felt Norm take a step away from you and you expected the other man to do so as well. He didn’t but you raised your head and squared your shoulders, preparing for the worst.

“Sir—” you started.

“Sir,” the British gentleman interrupted, taking a step forward. “[Y/N] here was walking back to their desk and tripped, and in my haste to help them, I knocked over a pile of files on my desk. I apologize for the racket and the mess I’ve caused; I’ll deal with it right away.”

Mr. Hart looked from him to you to Norm, who was quaking in his nice shoes, then back. There were yet a few more moments of quiet before he spoke again. “Vision.”

Vision?

“Yes, Sir.” 

You glanced at the man to your right. Vision. What an interesting name for an interesting person.

“You better hope dinner tonight goes well after this charade,” Mr. Hart barked. “This better be cleaned up by the next time I come out here.”

Rather than looking upset or stressed, Vision looked relieved. He made a heart with his hands and muttered, “Mr. Hart. Of course…”

“And you,” the boss’s glare now settled on your face. “You were late this morning. In my office. Now.”

“Dammit,” you muttered after Mr. Hart had turned his back. 

“Sorry, don’t think I can help you that one,” Vision chimed in. He was rubbing the back of his head and squinting at Mr. Hart’s back. “You’ll be alright?”

“Promise, it was just a bit of the spins.” You gave him a friendly pat on the arm and made your way to hopefully not get fired. “Nice meeting you!”

“You as well, despite the unfortunate circumstances. Good luck!”

    Mr. Hart was waiting for you by his desk when he entered. He gestured for you to shut the door before he sat and as you did, you saw Vision beginning to clean up your mess before the phone on his desk started ringing.

    “Ugh, I’m exhausted.” You were exiting a shop downtown, squinting against the light of the setting sun. You held the door open with a toe of one shoe while you adjusted the bags on your arms, then moved around to properly hold the door for Agnes, who strolled out after you. “Hart was an absolute villain today! Barks at me for coming in late and not getting work done but then does it for an hour! Well now who’s keeping me? Then this British gent—I swear I’ve never seen him before but he’s apparently the cause of my last few busy work days!”

    “The looker?”

    You blushed a bit; Agnes will never you live it down now that you’ve slipped up and said you’d found the man attractive. “I may have mentioned that earlier—but I digress! As charming as the man was, helping me out even after I knocked over a bunch of his things, he’s still a powerhouse of an employee. Tripled my load of work with his own; now I get what Norm meant when he said productivity has gone up by three times! Imagine, being yelled at by my boss—who was one of the few well-off relationships I’ve had since moving to town—for an hour, and then, when you finally get back to business, your desk is buried in files! I’m barely breathing at this point! Ain’t that just a bite.”

    “Who’s flipped their lid now?” Agnes said with a cheeky grin. You responded with a tired glare and she scoffed. She moved her own bags to one arm so she could give your shoulder a good pat. “Just teasing you, dear! We can’t all be superhuman, unfortunately. Although you’re damn near close; thank you for helping me home, by the way. Ralph had a last-minute “meeting” with some “coworkers” tonight and I’m helping out our new neighbor plan a very important date!”

    That’s right, you had a new neighbor across the street. You’d almost forgotten. You knew there was a reason you’d felt the urge to pick up a small houseplant on your way through the checkout.

    “You have the mouth of a sailor, ‘Nes,” you quipped, cracking a grin.

    “And a drinking tolerance that would put any soldier to shame!” Agnes agreed with a short laugh. After a quick pause, she added, “It’s not like I said ‘fuck.’”

    That time both of you laughed and for the first time since your disastrous day, you felt yourself relax. After bringing up sailors and soldiers, Agnes lept into one of her half-complaint, half-stories about how, one time, her husband Ralph got drunk and tried to fight an entire bar—“Everything including the stools!” While she talked and you escorted her to your car, your mind wandered, curiosity about your new neighbors piqued again. You reached the sidewalk’s curb and helped Agnes stepped down, then opened the vehicle’s passenger door and took her bags. 

    Instead of sliding inside, Agnes watched you as you moved around to the other side of the car and put the bags in the backseat. “You’re a bit of a flutter bum yourself, dear. Look at those manners; you’ve been out and about all day and still came to help me with the groceries! And that voice! Absolute apple butter sometimes, when you want it to be. I’m surprised you aren’t already circled with a couple of children along the way!”

    You snorted as you opened your door and slid behind the wheel. “Just not in my plan, I suppose.” You gestured for her to join you in the car and started it up when she did so. “You didn’t see me today either. Creeping around corners, then these annoying headaches got to me and I was stumbling around knocking down everything! Not to mention the new guy, sweet as pie, saw me do all this and go absolutely red just from looking at him. Sweating, cottonmouth, everything. I must have seemed bonkers! It was awful.”

    Agnes offered, “I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as you think.”

    “I’m sure if he ever sees me again, he’s going to turn heel and walk in the opposite direction,” you stated. Then you shifted into gear, pulled away from the sidewalk, and turned towards home.

    You were in the one room in your house that wasn’t a part of the United Boxes, your bedroom, standing in front of one of the few pieces of furniture you’d managed to unpack since moving in. You fussed over your reflection in the mirror, pushing your damp hair from one side to the other, adjusting your tie one moment then readjusting it the next, holding up various hats and cardigans.

Your casual wardrobe was much more unique than the business attire you kept for work, which was generally neutral in both color and style. Tonight, you wore a collared button-up in a bright pattern of your favorite color paired with a tie that was darker in shade but equally bright in color, and you were debating between various cardigans in complementary colors. The pants you wore were more muted, a neutral color to go with the shiny black dress shoes and good quality belt that you usually only broke out for special social occasions. For a little more pop, you also wore a few colorful bracelets on each wrist and a ring or two. You even added a little more color to your still tired-looking face, despite you feeling much better after a nap, shower, and change of clothes. 

You finally settled on the combination of a brighter colored cardigan a more muted hat to pull your entire look together. Slipping the cardigan on and flattening out any creases, you flashed your mirror self your friendliest smile for practice’s sake. Then you gave yourself a twirl, craning your neck over over your shoulder to make sure everything looked just as nice from the back as the front. 

Now we’re cooking with gas, you thought. Hopefully, the neighbors think so too.

Satisfied, you made your way out to the living room where your outfit-appropriate handbag and housewarming gift waited. The young plant, a pachira, sat in a pot whose color accented the color of the house you were going to visit this evening as opposed to the simple white it’d come in. The pot itself wore a big ribbon bow that you’d attached yourself and sticking out of the soil was a card welcoming the neighborhood’s newcomers. 

Perhaps you’d finally make some friends tonight.

You picked up the plant-based gift in one hand and placed it securely in the crook of your arm, then picked up your handbag in the other and made your ways outdoors. It was a quick walk across the street and once on the neighboring house’s doorstep, you steeled yourself with a deep breath. You smiled, then frowned, then smiled again and repeated this a couple of times to make sure the first smile your neighbors saw wasn’t a strained one and raised your hand to use the oddly realistic-looking lobster door hanger.

Much to your surprise, however, the door opened before your hand ever reached it.

And there, in front of you, looking just as shocked as you felt, was your boss and his wife. 

“Mr— Mr. Hart?” you stammered, stumbling backward and almost dropping the plant under your arm. Remembering the last time you and your boss “conversed,” your friendly face twisted into more of a deer in the headlights look. “Mrs. Hart? What are... What are you doing here? You didn’t just move in, did—?”

“Is there a problem, Mr. and Mrs. Hart?”

Not only did you recognize the Harts but you recognized the British voice that came from behind them and the face that appeared with it. 

“Vision?”

“[Y/N]?”

The two of you stared at each other in surprise. That is until Mr. Hart cleared his throat; he and Mrs. Hart still stood directly in front of you, with Vision unintentionally blocking them from stepping back inside. You yelped an apology and stepped to one side, then had to catch yourself on the doorframe as you almost tripped down the front steps.

“Yes, that’s right,” Mr. Hart said slowly as he stepped outside, giving you a particularly unpleasant look, “[Y/N] here lives in the neighborhood as well. Say, you live directly across the way, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” you responded immediately with a tilt of your head in the direction of your home. Then you glanced over at Vision and raised the pot you held slightly for him to see. “I was just coming over to introduce myself and offer a housewarming gift.”

Mr. Hart gave a strained nod, clearly still out of sorts about your work performance today. “Well, we were just out the door after the first dinner with the Maximoffs.” He made it sound like having dinner with your boss, while important, was something more of a religious experience. 

You hoped Vision did well. 

“He did just fine,” Mrs. Hart piped in.

There you go, accidentally wondering things aloud again.

“Congrats!” you chirped in Vision’s direction. You noted that he seemed as uncomfortable being in this situation as Mr. Hart acted and you felt. Perhaps you should have just visited in the morning.

Out of the group, Mrs. Hart seemed to be the only one unphased. She gave your shoulder a friendly squeeze and complimented your outfit—the one that her husband eyed distastefully—then lowered her voice so only you could hear. “I heard about your little brawl at work today. Don’t get bent too out of shape about my husband’s behavior; he has to work the weekend and he’s about excited as a cat that doesn’t get fed on time. We’re still on for bridge this weekend, right?”

You always liked Mrs. Hart. She was a good counterweight to her ever so charming husband and she always made sure to make you feel at home here in Westview, even if you struggled to do so yourself. You gave her a smile and a nod. “Of course, ma’am. You look stunning tonight, by the way.”

“Charmer.”

As you were talking to Mrs. Hart, Vision settled things with the mister, and things finally seemed to be calming down. However, Vision was wishing the Harts a safe way home, and you gave them a “Good night!” and a wave while wondering if you should just go home yourself, when a clatter came from inside the—what was it?—Maximoff household.

A voice followed, “Vis? Is everything alright out there, dear?”

You felt yourself deflate a bit; you already forgot that Mr. Hart had mentioned Maximoffs. Maximoffs, not one Maximoff. You were somewhat disappointed that, from what it sounded like, your new dashing British acquaintance had a partner, not that it was a surprise. He must have had people throwing themselves at him at one point in his life before he settled on The One and they immediately got married and moved into their cozy-looking, bigger than your own, house. Or, perhaps, maybe he was the awkward one falling all over himself to impress the person of his interest and when they finally picked him, he felt like his heart exploded into a billion heart-shaped butterflies that found their home in his stomach.

Of course you were the only one on the block who was single and living alone.

You wondered if they had kids.

“... come in!”

You zoned back in from being lost in your thoughts to catch only the end of what Vision was saying. He stepped back from the doorway and held the door open for you and looked at you expectantly and, not wanting to make more of a fool of yourself that you already have in front of him today, you made your way inside, just hoping he hadn’t said anything important while you had been wondering about his romantic life. You felt heat on your ears and cheeks.

Vision, on the other hand, didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. Now that the Harts were gone, he appeared much more relaxed, leaning on the door with one leg crossed over the other and even smiling at you as you walked into his spacious and already unpacked living room. 

That was the first time you’ve seen him smile, you noted. He had a very charming smile, one of those that made his eyes smile too and seemed much more in place on his face than any other expression. 

Vision closed the door behind you as you looked around the space with mild surprise—how long have they been moved in? How had they gotten unpacked so fast?—then he gave you a friendly squeeze on the shoulder. It was then that you noticed more clattering coming from behind a door that you assumed belonged to the kitchen.

“If you’ll excuse me for just a moment,” he said, making his way to said door, “As you know, my wife and I just finished dinner with the Harts, and my darling Wanda is doing all the dishes. I’ll tell her to wait a moment and come join us! Do you drink fluids?” You must have looked at him oddly because then he stumbled on his words a bit before clarifying, “Alcohol? Or would you like water, juice?”

He certainly did talk with his hands a lot. You liked the way he clasped his hands and fiddled with his fingers while trying to untangle his words.

“Water’s fine,” you replied with a friendly smile.

Seeing that you weren’t bothered by his slip-up, he smiled back and made his way into the kitchen. Halfway through the door, he chirped over his shoulder, “Please feel free to take a seat! I’ll return momentarily!”

Being alone again for only a few minutes still had you beginning to feel the weight of the day’s chaos again. You placed your housewarming gift on the coffee table and rubbed where the pot had been digging into your arm, then wriggled your toes; because these were shoes for special social occasions only, something you didn’t go to very often, they weren’t very well broke in and your feet were beginning to hurt. 

The clattering in the kitchen had stopped but now the muffled voices of Vision and Wanda, which was somehow comforting. You looked around, taking in the classy but simple room. How on earth they’d managed to get unpacked so fast unless they used a company or stylist or somehow bought the place pre-furnished, you had no idea—well, you had a few, clearly. It was still surprising though. However they managed, you hoped your own living area looked half as nice. When you got around to it.

You perked up again as you heard the kitchen door creak… and then felt like your heart exploded into a billion heart-shaped butterflies that immediately found a home in your stomach.

If Vision was a dreamboat, his wife was a, well, literal vision. Wanda wore a dress that was just as simple and charming as the house she lived in, paired with a pretty necklace and pair of heels. Her curled hair perfectly framed her face and despite appearing as frazzled as Vision had when you first showed up at their doorstep, she wore a smile so gorgeous that your heart, which had apparently recovered from its explosion of butterflies, decided it preferred to do somersaults in your throat.

The pair of them were standing hip to hip with Wanda carrying a set of glasses and Vision a pitcher of water. They were chatting lightly about how well dinner went as they walked into the living room before turning their set of beaming smiles in your direction. 

Your body couldn’t decide whether it wanted to melt, tie itself in knots, or spontaneously combust. You decided to make it stand to properly introduce yourself instead.

Just living in the same neighborhood as these two was going to be cataclysmic. 

“Wanda, darling, this is my coworker [Y/N], the one I told you about earlier this evening.” Vision detached himself from his partner’s side and began snagging glasses from her hands to fill and place on the coffee table as she walked closer. “And [Y/N], this is my wife, Wanda.”

You and Wanda watched him hop around from her to the coffee table and back two more times with amusement, then Wanda looked at you and gave an incredulous shake of her head, offering her hand. “Hi, hon. Don’t mind him; he’s not usually this dancy but dinner with the boss was a bit unexpected on both our parts. I had to pull something together last minute and he’s trying to make up for it.”

“You did so much in such a short amount of time,” Vision added, finally settling on the couch beside Wanda after the two of you shook hands and got seated. “You deserve a break. I can handle filling a few glasses and doing up the dishes.”

“Speaking of which, I hope you got a break yourself, [Y/N].” Wanda’s comment and concerned look made your eyebrows raise with confusion. She elaborated, “Vision mentioned covering for you at work today.”

You flushed slightly and rubbed the side of your neck. Vision noticed and gave you an apologetic look.

“Oh, yes,” you replied, “I get these awful migraines sometimes. One just happened to hit me at a particularly bad time today and I fell and knocked over a bunch of files. Your husband was an angel, did something he absolutely didn’t need to do and said it was all his fault.”

“And yet you got punished anyway,” Vision said, still looking apologetic. He wrung his hands a bit as well; you wanted to hold them to make him stop.

Wanda did instead, giving him the sweetest smile in the process. 

“But if it weren’t for you,” you chirped, “I may have just gotten fired. So I have to thank you for that. And I can’t imagine how that may have affected your dinner tonight, if I had known you were having the big boss dinner tonight, I wouldn’t have let you. I’m so sorry, by the way, for barging in immediately after your dinner, too; you two must be exhausted!”

“Oh, nonsense,” Wanda piped up again. She patted you on the wrist; you kind of wished she’d left her hand there but she went to pick up her water instead. “Dinner went quite well actually, if not a bit ill-planned. We had a bit of a misunderstanding of what the calendar said.” She gave Vision a playful glare and he responded with a bashful smile that he tried to hide by running a hand over his face.

“I drew a heart, for Hart,” he explained. “We forgot and thought we missed an anniversary instead.”

You thought back to when Mr. Hart mentioned the dinner at the office and Vision had made a heart with his hands, then tried to suppress a grin of your own. “That’s an easy misunderstanding. Happy to hear I’m not the only one good with planning, though, no offense.”

“Well, maybe you two should be married.” Wanda glanced between the two of you, the playful look in her dark eyes paired with her suggestion making your throat dry.

“You couldn’t remember it either, darling,” Vision countered, giving her a peck on the forehead, “If that’s the case, maybe all three of us were meant to be.”

You went to swallow and ended up having to suppress a choke. You reached for your glass, only to see it empty—when did you do that?—but Wanda was quick to refill it.

You gave her a sheepish smile and soft “Thanks” in return, took a drink and decided to play along. “That would explain why we ended up living directly across from the street and why I’ve been single almost my entire life.” 

You mentally kicked yourself for mentioning that last part and coming off way too desperate. However, when you glanced the couple’s way, Vision was chuckling, and Wanda was giving an understanding nod with a pleased look on her face. Maybe she thought her joke was going to hit wrong? Maybe it hadn’t been a joke?

Don’t get your hopes up, you thought.

Then Wanda spoke again. “You must be joking. You’re living on your own in that house?”

    You shrugged and responded, “I have a fish.”

    “I’m sure they’re wonderful conversation,” Wanda quipped back. 

    “No romantic interest in sight?” Vision asked. 

    Well, I wouldn’t say that but I’m certainly not going into that right now. You shook your head and decided to shift the conversation to a topic that was less likely to make you feel, if either or both of them did happen to ask you to marry them at that very moment, as if you would immediately throw yourselves at them. “Speaking of houses and all that, what a coincidence that we happen to find each other living next door the same day we meet. That’s what I originally came over to do, introduce myself to my neighbors and give you a housewarming gift.”

    You gestured to the pachira on the coffee table and Wanda reached over to touch its leaves, then used Vision’s still-full water glass to water it. “That’s right. It is a lovely plant, thank you very much. I think it will look nice in the kitchen, or perhaps over by the window.” 

    “It’s supposed to bring good luck to the house,” you offered, “and red ribbons are often associated with it but I’m not sure why.”

    “Well here’s to good luck then,” Wanda said, clinking Vision’s empty cup with your half-full one. She read the card you’d attached, smiled, then picked up the plant and offered it to her husband. “Here, dear. Since you’re taking on the role of house-husband tonight, why not take this and see how it looks over by the window.”

    Vision was already standing and taking the plant from her hands before she finished her sentence. “Of course, darling. Tell me where you think it looks nice.” Then he added to you as he walked by, “I may be skilled many things, like filling out computational forms, but the interior decorating is all her. I’m practically color-blind. And furniture-blind. And generally design-blind. Possibly blind-blind, if I’m being honest.”

    Wanda rolled her eyes but she still giggled, then pointed out where she thought the plant would look best. It was off to one side of the window and she explained that she thought it would be visible from your window as well, and thus give both houses good luck. 

    “Maybe it will give me the luck to finally unpack and decorate like you two already have,” you pondered allowed, finishing off your water a second time; Wanda promptly offered to fill your cup again but you politely declined. “The two of you have been here, what? At least a few days now and your home is already made in the shade. I’ve been here in Westview a month if not more and I usually spend my time lounging on a couch made of crates and boxes.” 

    You noticed Vision glance oddly at his wife as he sat back down but Wanda didn’t seem to catch it. Still, she answered quite quickly, “We used a company.”

    “Ah.” You glanced between them but the strained energy that suddenly appeared just as quickly as it came when Wanda gave you another sweet smile and offered to write down the company name for you. “No need, I couldn’t afford it anyway. Thank you, though.”

    That response didn’t seem to please Wanda all that much. She pursed her lips in a way that looked partially pondering and partially pouty—it was a very cute pout—before leaning over to Vision and muttering in his ear. His attention was immediately drawn to focus only on her and they chatted quietly among themselves for a few moments.

    You suddenly felt awkward again and took to looking around a bit. You first looked at your feet and noticed how close one of Wanda’s own was to yours; in fact, the three of you were sitting so close together that her dress poofed out over your leg. Then you happened to look over at where your arm was resting across the back of the couch. Vision’s was too and you suddenly became keenly aware of how, if he were to start talking with his hands like he does, his would most definitely brush your own. You wondered if it already had while you were too engrossed in conversation to notice, then you wondered if you should move farther to the other side of the couch.

    You began shifting to do so when Wanda suddenly leaned back to her normal spot and grabbed your wrist. “Why don’t we come over sometime this weekend and help you unpack?”

    You blinked. She seemed closer than she had been earlier, or maybe it was just the fact that hand hadn’t pulled away yet. Her eyes were as bright and welcoming as they had been since you first saw them, eyebrows raised in what you could only place as eagerness, and you officially decided that if you were to look up the word “sweet” in a dictionary, there’d be a picture of her smile.

    You were so suddenly flustered that for a moment all you did was stare while you figured out how to talk again. When you did, you were surprised at confident your voice sounded when you replied, “Sure.”

    “Great!”

    Wanda and Vision looked equally excited when you looked at them both, which confused you before you remembered that you were only the second person from the neighborhood to visit them since they moved in. Thinking of it now, you were also feeling energetic from the conversation and not just because you happened to be sitting next to a very attractive-looking pair. This was the first time you sat down with people from the neighborhood and it did not only go well but you were thoroughly enjoying yourself; you also enjoyed spending time with Agnes but Agnes was just outwardly friendly to everybody and even if you ran out of things to say, she had enough stories to add filler to seven different conversations at the same time. Wanda and Vision seemed to be just as awkward as you, making unusual jokes that might not make it through and fumbling over themselves and on occasion just being awkwardly silent at times, but it was a weird kind of awkwardness that also felt comfortable, comforting. You felt like you were among friends. 

    Conversation flowed easily for the rest of the night. The three of you made plans to spend the next day at your place, unpacking and decorating and just getting to know each other better, then conversation shifted smoothly from one random topic to another. Wanda had a lot of questions about the neighborhood and the people in it and she and you swapped stories of first meeting Agnes. You were somewhat fascinated with Vision’s almost eidetic memory and couldn’t help quizzing him on random subjects but luckily, he seemed to be just as eager to answer. Wanda mentioned Vision’s ability to play ukulele at one point and he felt is was absolutely necessary to perform and after mentioning Wanda’s breakfast cooking ability—and your stomach grumbling in curiosity—she brought you to the kitchen and made the best breakfast you’d ever had, despite it not being morning, while Vision kept to his word and washed the dishes. Eventually, though, the night caught up to the each of you and you said your goodbyes, hugs included, at the door and you headed back home with a goofy grin on your face. 

    Upon getting home, you kicked off your shoes that you’d long since forgotten were causing your feet pain and went to your bedroom. You quickly stripped, put on your bedwear, and faceplanted onto your sheets. You laid there for a moment in comfortable bliss before turning your head and catching yourself in the mirror. Though looking utterly exhausted, it was mixed an almost childish happiness. You finally felt content in Westview, like you’d finally found your place. 

    You scrambled around to get under the covers and curled up. Quickly dozing off and still grinning, you muttered, “I think I’ll like it here.” 

[theficplug]

Can I Come Home {Atticus (lovecraft country) Fic}

Atticus Freeman x Black Reader 

Warnings: smut (21+)

(Ayida-Weddo is a loa of fertility, rainbows, wind, water, fire, and snakes)

(Atticus wants to come home after his little adventures. Reader isn’t having it.)

The incessant knocking at your door pulled you out of your concentration on rolling the last bit of your hair. It had been a week of perms and presses. You were more than ready to listen to your vinyls and relax by yourself away from the troubles of whatever was going on in this hell of a country. 

The person at the other end of this door had other plans for you apparently and as an adventurous woman living alone you weren’t about to take any chances.

You grab the small pistol out of your brown fur coat on the rack and closed your eyes as your fingertips begin to spark little flames. 

As you slowly creak the door open, Tic lowers his glasses and his face comes into view. 

You let out a deep sigh of relief as you lower the pistol to the ground and the fire simmered down. 

“BOY! You play too much knocking on my damn door at this hour of the night! I almost blew your ass clean to Mississippi, Atti !  I figured you’d drag yourself here after you finished parading around God knows where else with Miss Letitia Fucking Lewis.” you say reluctantly unlatching your screen door to look at your ex boyfriend face to face. 

Even in the moonlight you could still see the bronze glow cascading from his sculpted cheeks, to his beautiful broad nose, and down to his cupids bow. He was standing there biting at his plump bottom lip nervously while awaiting you.

“Whoa . HEY. HEY . HEY!” He yelled with his hands up as he ducked down. 

“Now, baby look, i-” Tic stammers across his words trying to plead his case as you press the cold bottle of Cola to your reddened lips as you give him the cold shoulder. 

You shook your head and closed your eyes to summon snakes around his ankles as he hopped side to side kicking off the illusions.

“Town is small, Atti. Everybody talks. A postcard to know that your knucklehead ass is still alive would’ve been nice. But to hear from Betty with the uneven bob at the salon that you’re back in town running around with Leti of all people. You know good and well we haven’t seen eye to eye since junior high. I know we broke up but that don’t mean you had to disappear on me like that. Your triflin behind ain't no good Atti-. Why are you even here?” You ask him pointedly instead of going off on your tangent. 

The audacity of him to show up after months of barely 3 postcards from him and a few dodgy and quick calls in the middle of night spewing all types of things about monsters and shapeshifters and both kinds of wizards. 

He grabs you gently around the arms and presses a soft kiss to your lips while holding your chin between his fingers. 

“Just wanted to see you, that’s all.” He says simply in that tone he uses when he wants you to let him inside. Granted, you knew you were gonna let him inside and come inside but you wanted to watch him sweat. 

“I should summon rain over your head...You hungry?” 

After huffing and puffing you decide to ease the screen door open fully so that he could embrace you properly.

You turn your head and his kiss lands on your cheek instead. His gaze fell upon you intensely as he caressed over your cheek where his lips had been moments before. Atticus’s gaze falls from your warm oak coloured eyes to your neck, to your collarbones, and down further where your robe was slightly open and the neckline of your silk red gown had fallen lower. 

You lean in to breathe into his long black coat. The Chanel Pour Monsieur that you gifted to him before he left for the war evaded your senses. You hiss softly before smiling against him, feeling his large calloused and frigid hands run up the back of your thighs to cup under your butt and lift you onto him. 

“What, you run around all summer and come back here in the winter when you're cold and lonely and realize that she wasn’t gon’ stick around? Is that it? Your summer fling is back on the road?”  you question with a huff and a roll of your eyes. 

He chuckles deeply and shakes his head as he walks with you still wrapped around him into your small quiet little cozy candlelit home with Ella Fitzgerald , These Foolish Things playing softly in the background. 

“Town talk goes both ways, baby. I heard you were playing backseat bingo with Martin Thompson, the preacher? Really?” he questions as he licks over your neck and jawline pressing kisses along the way.

“And what is there for a lonely young woman to do when her man writes her a letter trying to rationalize falling in love with a goddamn ninetail fox. I saw Letitia coming. Seen that a mile away. I knew there would be women and men along the way for us. But, a fox, well baby you had me beat on that one. A descendant of Ayida-Weddo herself wasn’t enough? Bible Boy was good to me. He would make sure I made it home safe and sound every night from the shop. Bought me that fur coat and everything.” you say and he drops his head with a chagrined expression. 

Atticus sits you down on your own two feet and looks at you for a moment. Both of his hands on your hips.

“And what did you do for him, hmm?” He asks tracing his hands over the ties of your robe letting it fall open in one swoop.

“You really wanna know?” You scoff and swat at his hands for asking such a witless and invasive question. 

“I’m sorry, baby.” he whispers before lowering to his knees. He places one of your shea butter lathered feet in his hand kissing it softly before moving to the other.

Atticus wraps his strong arms around your waist and kisses your belly button. 

You push his mouth from suckling open mouth kisses onto your clothed mound and saunter away from him and over to the record player.

You search through the collection until you reach Big Mama Thornton. You laugh to yourself as “Hound Dog” starts to echo throughout the room.

“You’re ever the jokester ain’t you?” Atticus says with a laugh of his own as you sway your hips to the music and dance over to him.

“Dance with me” you call out to him as he comes up behind you and you gasp at the feeling of how hard he is just from caressing you moments before.

He meets your movements grinding with a shimmy of his own as he matches your movements of doing the twist and you sway your hips flush against him. His hands ghost against your thighs again and up your body. He takes note that you’re not wearing anything under your silk nightgown. 

Atticus  caresses over your breasts carefully massaging over the almond coloured buds as you let out a soft moan and place your hands over his.

You turn your head to kiss him again this time less innocently than before as you guide his hands in yours and slide them down your body while never losing the beat of the song. 

Goosebumps begin to pepper your skin  and your breath hitches as his hands settle between your thighs. He brings his fingers to his mouth before moving between your legs again.

Atticus’s nails drag softly up your left thigh as he grips it and brings you closer to feel how he’s already hardening for you. You ride his hand for a moment trying to control your temperature that’s already too high for the average human body. 

The flames of the candles dance as your excitement and wetness heightens and you tap against his thigh to warn him. 

He laughs deeply as he works over your clit skillfully and methodically. “I remember” he says simply and your eyes roll back as you utter the word “out” assertively. 

All of the candles burn out instantly and you revel in the feeling of his fingers treating your body and your flower like a Shenzhen Nongke Orchid. 

“You’re two seconds away from making me nut in my trousers like we’re back in your dorm all over again.” he mumbles while nipping at your neck and your deep dark chestnut eyes slowly fade to a golden hue to a soft glow of scarlett red.  

You nod giving him your consent as you lay over the couch. You wiggle your ass in the air , knowing that he’s watching while working his boxers down too.

He slowly works his way into you before slowly pulling out and watching his member glisten fully saturated by your nectar as he works his length up and down you before entering you again. 

The little gasp you let out echoed through the room and the candles were lit again momentarily with the flames dancing around as you bury your face into the couch pillow.

He gripped your hips firmly bringing you back and down onto him as his other hand gripped your silk gown. 

“Mhmmm, hmmph.” was all that left Atticus’s mouth as he sinks into your warmth the second time. 

“Careful. Slowly, I don’t want to hurt you.” you rasp as he circles his hips finding the right rhythm for both of you as the little pants and shrieks fall from your lips when he pushes deeper into the right spot.

“All the times I’ve made love to you and you haven’t hurt me once. I won’t mention the time you singed off one of my eyebrows though. That was my fault, I shouldn’t have tried to wake you up like that.” he soothes as he moves your silk gown up further to massage over your back and cheeks.

His large hands soothing over and kneading the knots and kinks from standing on your feet most days doing countless amounts of roller sets and bang cuts. 

“I know.” you whisper to him with a small laugh of your own. You drop your head slightly and arch your back when his hips finally rests flushed against your cheeks.

Your mouth goes slack as he picks up his pace but then pulls out.

“What the hell was that?” you question as you turn to face him. 

“Just wanted to see that’s all. Wanna look at this pretty face all glossy eyed and reciting my name like a poem.” he teases as he leans in to connect his lips to yours again, this time letting his tongue glide over your bottom lip until you’re suckling it softly.

He’s massaging his dick against you slowly as you pout and huff against his lips. Your legs begin to shake slightly and you can feel yourself heating up more.

“Shh shh shh, what do you want? Use your words.” he asks as his fingertips ghost over your breasts up to the sides of your face. The chill of his hands feeling like bursts of fresh air against you. 

Atticus lifts you once more to set you on the edge of the couch, his fingers tracing over your inner thighs. 

“You’re really going to tease me after I’ve already waited months to feel you. I really don’t want to get Martin to finish the job especially when you have the best d-” you let out a muffled moan as he places his fingers into your mouth and thrust into you again. 

You suckle his fingers, envisioning something else much bigger as he leans you on the edge of the couch and gives you what you’ve been missing for months. 

Resting your forehead on his shoulder you close your eyes enjoying the feeling of being full of him. 

You can feel him twitching inside of you as you begin to work down onto him, bouncing and coating his dick with you. 

You caress your own body letting your hand wander to your clit , skillfully massaging as Atticus watches on.

Both of your moans and sounds of him pounding into you flows with the music as you both cry out into each other’s mouths as your orgasm rocks through you both. 

Your fireplace goes out abruptly as you throw your head back and let out little uh uh mhhmmms.

Atticus leans down to place tender kisses between your breasts as he cums inside. 

You slowly continue your rhythm riding out the little waves of aftershock as his hips stutter and he lets his own praises of you fall from his lips this time. 

He slowly pulls out and swipes his thumb over next to your lips trying to fix your lipstick.

“Leave it, I was getting ready for a shower and the bed anyways. . . I’m sorry Atti.” you say to him softly as your fingertips trace his soft skin now donning a purple deep burgundy colour after being pressed against you for so long. 

“You’ve made me feel the best I've felt all damn year. You ain't got a thing to be sorry for. I’m the one that came to apologize. I was just too bullheaded  to realise that everything isn’t about just me. I regretted it the moment I got there. . The war. Ji-Ha. You finding out about Leti the way you did. It wasn’t like that in the beginning. I was supposed to go off and figure all out on my own. Somewhere down the line after you see enough crazy shit together. Things get all mixed up.. I’m sorry for all of that too.  I just wanna come home. Tired of all these things that don’t make no sense when everything that makes perfect sense has been here the whole time.” he explains and you nod along listening to his words, mulling them over. 

“Well you definitely scared the shit outta me… I checked that mailbox everyday for months waiting for a letter from you. And I think whatever you were searching for out there scared the shit outta you too. I think all of this made us both realise that we don’t really wanna be without each other..But next time if you’re gonna go off, play detective, and uncover some great family mystery,the smartest decision would be to take  the walking fireball with you. Yeah? And who’s Christina? ” you ask him as he carries you off with him towards your bathroom. 

“The dreams. I was wondering why I kept seeing snakes every day for a week. I ain't going nowhere. It’s gon’ take me all weekend just to explain all the shit I’ve seen in the last 6 months as it is-” 

(not my best but i still hope yall enjoy! i’m knocking the writing rust off after a few weeks of not writing new stuff. seasonal depressive be hitting different. alright my boos x )