#between work and chipping away at a fic while waiting for paint to dry

[crabsnpersimmons]

note to self that i will surely forget because this isn't the first time i've done this and it definitely won't be the last:

maybe don't do line art on an empty stomach

(don't worry, i ate)

(AFTER i finished the line art)

[jonesyjonesyjonesy]

Wildflowers (pt. xxi.i)

a john paul jones x fem!oc fic

summary: Julia Morgan knew nannying for three girls who had recently lost their mother would come with many challenges. But she never thought their father, the enigmatic musician John Paul Jones, would be causing her the most trouble. And while Julia is not in the business of saving broken men, her tenderness might be meant for more than little girls and wildflowers.

table of contents │ previous chapter

masterlist│ko-fi

notes: nsfw

a/n: it's my birthday and it's julia's birthday and it's everyone's birthday! :)) due to my busy schedule, i'm going to start splitting up longer chapters into two more regularly so i don't have to keep y'all waiting 5ever. anyway. enjoy. and happy birthday, julia.

pt. xxi.i, horned poppy

“I’m afraid he’s taken a leave of absence and sent John Paul Jones in his place. Will that do?”

White lilies. Ugly things.

“Well, these are nice aren’t they?”

I looked at Annie and then back at the flowers. A small card stuck out from amidst the ivory petals.

“Well, don’t just stand there and gawk at it. See who it’s from, hm?” Annie nicked me on the arm with a knuckle.

I sighed and grabbed the card. “White lilies are funeral flowers.”

The flowers had arrived while I was on my morning school run. Bounteous lilies in a fine crystal vase. Expensive. But…deathly.

“You are a snob, Julia,” Annie sniffed. “You should be grateful he thought of you at all.

She was right about that. I had to be grateful that John remembered me on my birthday at all. I had to take it as a good sign.

I unsheathed the card and read it aloud. “Happy birthday, Julia. With love.”

Annie’s eyes bulged. “With love?”

I flushed. “It’s just an expression.”

“A very strong expression,” Annie grumbled.

While outwardly I remained calm, inside I was reeling. Love was not a word John and I had exchanged. Even “like” would have felt  too strong to utter though everything between us would point to at least “like”.

As if sensing my spiraling, Annie floated toward the door to the outside. “Come on, laundry doesn’t dry itself.”

I followed her outside and sighed. 28 years old. Another birthday in another home that wasn’t my own with a family that wasn’t mine. One that I wanted to be mine more than I should have allowed myself to want. 

Annie and I went to work on hanging the wash. Time dribbled by easily, approaching the next hour. A September breeze shifted all the dresses hanging from the clothesline; a row of ghosts wafted in the morning light.

My fingers were starting to ache from pinching clothespins over and over. Bloody dryer was on the fritz, leaving Annie up to her chin in wet laundry and nothing to do with it but hang it out on the lawn. The poles hadn’t been used in eons, as made clear by their chipping white paint.

And while the chore was a bit pedantic, it was also meditative. After the first line, I’d found my rhythm and technique, how to hang up tartan skirts, socks and knickers, blouses with tiny, undissolvable stains hidden on the collar.

Anything to distract me from the date.

“Help me with this, would you?”

Annie was trying to straighten out a damp bed sheet with her small wingspan.

I smiled and wandered over, taking one end from her and spreading it as far down the line as it would go.

“That bloody machine…wasting all my time.”

Hearing Annie curse made me giggle. “Repairman should be here sometime this week.”

“Laundry doesn’t stop for a repairman, does it, Julia?” Annie said with a sigh. She clipped a pin to her end of the sheet, then one in the middle. “Blast, I don’t have another one.”

“I’m afraid I’m out too.”

She grunted in annoyance. “Hold on.”

Annie skittered away before I could say another word, leaving me standing there with the wet sheet in my hand, its dampness dripping down my arm, underneath the cuff of my jumper. I tilted my head to the side and sighed, looking up to the sky. It was slightly overcast, but the peeks of sun through the clouds were generous and brilliant.

My birthday always was more introspective than I liked it to be, especially as I got older and remained unmarried. This being my first birthday in several years without Nick in my life, I was starting to wonder if maybe I should have just gone along with him to Paris and forgotten the whole lot of my freedom. I might have been engaged by now.

Now, now, Julia, you know that’s not what you want.

Nick so rarely crossed my mind since I’d ended things. Even more so once John became the object of my fantasies and affections.

I leaned into my hip. “Come on, Annie, my arm’s getting tired.”

I was met only with silence.

I groaned, my head dipping back.

Get on with it, then.

I dropped the sheet and marched over to one of the pairs of socks I’d hung, clasped the two of them together on one, and then returned to hang up my end of the sheet.

But just as soon as I clipped the end of the sheet to the line, the opposite side fell to the ground. I huffed, marching back over to hang up that end. I scanned the ground for the pin, finding it under the drape of white, pinned it back up and sighed. A job done.

Then, the other end fell.

I stared at the fallen sheet and started to laugh. This was getting ridiculous. I went back to the opposite end, pinned it up and –

The telltale flumf of the sheet falling on the other end.

I turned on my heel, laser-focused on the fallen sheet.

That was too many coincidences in a row. “Annie…” I said with a sly smile. “Are you being clever?”

I ran back to the end and pinned it up. Again, the other end, fallen.

“You think I don’t get enough cheekiness around here with three little girls, eh?” I snuck back to the other end. Instead of pinning it back up, I grabbed the sheet and poked my head around the other side.

No one was there.

“Oh, come on. This is ridicu –” I flipped around just in time to catch the shoe of my tormentor as they hid behind the curtain once again.

And that was not Annie’s shoe.

My heart pounded. My mind must have been playing tricks on me. I could have sworn that it was John’s shoe.

“John?”

Silence. Just the waving of the sheet in the wind. Taunting me. Reminding me what an idiot I must be to think for a second it would be John.

Still my heart stayed in my throat. I crept back to the other end of the sheet. “If you’re playing a trick on me…”

You’ll what? Leap into his arms and beg him to never leave again? Be realistic…

I grabbed the end of the sheet and took a deep breath. “I swear to god, I’ll –”

Two arms enveloped me from behind, absorbing me into a tight embrace. I screamed and squirmed, but before I could see who my laundry ghost was, their lips told me, pressed against mine in a tender, familiar kiss.

John .

My body broke into goosebumps as my heart soared toward the sky. Weightless, wrapped in his arms, I had to believe this was some fever dream. I pushed a hand against his chest, drawing myself away to see his face, make sure he was really real. “John, what are you doing here?”

If I hadn’t been totally infatuated with him before, I was certainly infatuated now. His darling smile, prickling at the dimples to see me had me swooning and the glimmer in his eye made me melt. A lethal combination to a girl trying to remain sensible. “It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

“You – mm –” John interrupted me with a kiss. “ – know it is. But you wished me happy birthday on the telephone last night and –”

“That’s not nearly the same as wishing you a happy birthday in person, is it?”

I gaped, totally unable to comprehend what was happening. “This can’t possibly be happening.”

John grinned. “Aren’t I real enough for you?”

None of this felt real. John was touching me, kissing me, like some sort of dream I’ve had in the weeks since he’d left. “Yes, yes, but I really don’t –” I sighed and closed my eyes to get my thoughts straight. “You came out here to see me?”

John nodded.

“For my birthday?”

He nodded again. I brushed a lock of his hair back and tucked it behind his ear, grinning unbelievably wide. “Really?”

John threaded his arm around my shoulder, pulling me near again for what seemed like another kiss. His nose grazed mine as he whispered into my mouth, “Julia, you mustn’t be so surprised I came home to celebrate your birthday.”

But I was. Unbelievably surprised. Even more than that, I was surprised by his charisma. I’d noticed it coming more and more forward since Montreux, since we fell into each other’s arms. Now, though, it was heightened. Nearly theatrical.

“Now you two have ruined a perfectly clean sheet!” Annie yelled from the house.

I flushed and pointed at John. “His fault!”

“I should have known you’d be a snitch,” John teased, unrolling us from the sheet. “She should be grateful it’s not ruined in other ways.”

I gaped at him. “John.”

John grinned mischievously as he balled up the sheet. I still couldn't believe he was right in front of me. “Come along, dear.”

I followed at John’s heels, trying desperately not to spend too much time looking at the way his trousers squeezed his backside. “Where are we going?”

“A surprise.”

“At least let me change,” I argued, pulling at the cuffs of my sweater.

“No time,” John smiled over his shoulder and grabbed me by the hand. “You look perfect for our purposes anyway.”

I didn’t think so. I’d thrown on a frock and tried to cut the chill with a ratty old sweater that I’d acquired at the farm, an inheritance from dead Uncle Donal. Not to mention a pair of old leather boots that needed a good shining.

John and I waltzed into the kitchen where Annie was waiting with a hamper in her hands. “Alright, be good you two.”

I stared at the wicker hamper as she held it out toward us. “Where were you keeping that?”

She shrugged, a sly smile to match John’s on her face.

“Thank you, Annie dear,” John said, taking the basket and giving her a kiss on the cheek.

“You made that for us?” I asked in shock.

“No, I made it for the Queen of England,” Annie said with a roll of her eyes. Her sass turned into a smile. “Go on, birthday girl.”

I could barely believe it. The woman who’d admonished us for so much as kissing was now encouraging us to venture into the wide world together. I threw my arms around her neck. “You knew everything, didn't you?”

Annie chuckled and patted my back. “It was all him, I just aided and abetted, alright?”

“Julia, come on!” John called from the front hall.

I felt dizzy with joy as I ran through Warren House and out the front door, only to be gob smacked again by the sight of a darling Rolls convertible, which I was able to identify by the ornament on the hood. “What is this?”

John dropped the basket in the backseat. “You like it?”

“Is this yours?”

“Oh, God, no,” John said with a scoff. “I got rid of mine years ago. Borrowed this from Bonz. So, we have to be good.”

I smiled and approached the car carefully. “I’m even afraid to touch it.”

“Oh, well a lady should never have to touch the car,” John said, opening the passenger door for me.

“Thank you,” I said with a genteel look over my shoulder.

He was so smug as he shut the door behind me. And I’d allow it, considering everything he’d done to surprise me this morning. If it all ended right here and he said this was all there was, it would have been enough.

John rounded the car and leapt into the driver’s seat without opening the door as if he was some sort of Hollywood dandy. “You ready, then?”

“Who are you and what have you done with John Baldwin?”

“I’m afraid he’s taken a leave of absence and sent John Paul Jones in his place. Will that do?”

I reached over and grabbed his chin. “You smarmy, little –”

“Prick?”

I smashed my lips against his as answer. Yes, obviously.

John sighed into my kiss as if tension from all the work he’d done was melting away just at my touch. What a far cry this all was from our first meeting. Him hiding his identify from me, trying to be an average widower.  Now, here he was, flashy and bold, strutting around like a peacock.

I was charmed. I won’t lie.

Breaking the kiss before it went too far, John straightened up. “Alright, one more thing.”

“John, no more things. No more surprises,” I said.

“Just a little thing.” He reached down and tapped the glovebox. “In here.”

I took a deep breath and opened the glovebox as John slid on a pair of aviators. Handsome arse. Burnt orange flashed from inside the glovebox. “No.”

John didn’t reply, revving the engine.

“No, John, this is –” I snatched the small box and admired the small Hermes logo. “Please, this is much too much.”

“Just open it would you?”

I lifted the lid and undid the wrapping paper as John swerved the car out of the driveway and down Warren Lane. Inside was a silk scarf, decorated with periwinkle loops and golden birds.

“Since I wouldn’t let you cut up the curtains,” John said. 

I lifted the scarf out of the box, watching it flutter delicately in the breeze. “I hate to even think of the absurd amount you paid for this.”

John smiled. “Put it on, Julie Andrews.”

“Ah, you're Robert in John’s clothing, are you?” I started to fold the scarf into a kerchief shape for my hair.

Wordlessly, John turned on the radio. A jazzy melody wafted through the speakers.

I delicately knotted the luxe fabric at the base of my skull and peered into the wing mirror. With my bare face and frumpy sweater, I didn’t feel like I was a girl who belonged in a Rolls with a silk scarf in her hair. However, when I felt John’s hand on my knee, I knew I just had to accept that this was my reality. He nudged me closer to him. “Let me look at you.”

I flipped around to face him, smiling maudlinly. “The hills are alive…” I lilted.

John grinned. “Looks perfect with your eyes.

I wrapped my arm around his shoulder and kissed his cheek, teeny bristles of hair against my lips. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome darling.”

Where had this smokey-voiced, Casanova come from? Had Bonzo given him some midland pointers? Maybe Pat had really pulled all the strings. Or was this the man John was far before the broken heart?

I bade myself not to think about it too hard and to enjoy it. It was my birthday after all.

“Where are we going?” I asked, tucking my chin on his shoulder as we mazed through Crowborough.

“Well, we’ve got a hamper courtesy of Annie and you’ve got a kerchief ala Fraulein Maria, the Alps perhaps?”

I smacked him on the arm. “Cheeky.”

“Always.”

I couldn’t ignore how wonderful he smelled. How much I’d missed him. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, but it also heightens the senses. And everything about his touch, his smell, the way he looked…

Made me absolutely feral.

“I thought I’d take you down to the shore. Is that alright with you?”

I smiled. “I haven’t been to the shore in years.”

“Obviously you’re overdue for a visit then.”

“Yes,” I replied, the open road curling out before us. “Yes, I am.”

The shore at Normans Bay was nearly an hour’s drive, but the time ticked by quickly at John’s side. We had much to catch up on, things we couldn’t get from our nightly chats. Closeness, the kind I could only get from hearing his breath through the phone.

We didn’t have to talk. It was that simple at this point. The radio crooned, the English countryside plowed by, and we simply existed in the same space.

It was as close to love as I had felt the entire time I’d been falling for him. Dangerous. Unavoidable.

“Seems like old times…” the radio sang.

“So how’d you sneak away?” I murmured to John.

“Having you to walk with…”

“Zeppelin’s four members, isn’t it? All I have to do is throw a fit now and then, disappear, and then I’m welcomed back with open arms. Can’t get on with only three.”

“Seems like old times, having you to talk with.”

I pushed my face into his shoulder. “You didn’t tell anyone you were coming here to see me, did you?”

“No, of course not. They’d have a field day with that.”

Acceptable, especially based on the way I’d asked the question. Still, I would have loved to have been sung from the rooftops.

I moved back to my side of the car and leaned on the door, letting the wind whip through my hair and kerchief. “This was quite a surprise, John.”

“That was my goal.”

I grabbed the hem of my skirt. My legs felt light as arousal crept up my thighs. “I’ve missed you.”

“You know I’ve missed you, Julia.”

I had been trying to understand all this time if our relationship was more than just physical to John. And now, here I was, struggling not to feel turned on. My body hadn’t expected him. I was taken off-guard, each and every part of me.

John leaving was like a withdrawal from my system, the way it felt when I went from doing cocaine everyday after school to hiding myself on the farm while I was with child. Shakingly needy. Touching myself in the late hours, the early hours, the in between hours.

Now, here he was in the flesh.

And we’d already gone far too long without touching each other in the deepest ways.

I curled my fingers under the hem of my skirt and spread my legs.

“Julia…”

“What?”

“You know what.”

I pulled my fingers further up my thigh.

John fiddled with his glasses. “God dammit, Julia. You want me to run the car off the road?”

“I’ve barely done anything.”

John took a deep breath. “I can fucking smell you from here.”

“I hope that’s a compliment.”

The car abruptly veered off the road into an embankment. I nearly screamed before realizing John was responsible for the change in direction. He ripped the keys from the ignition and dived toward me, pressing me up against the door, lips on mine, ravenous lips, tongue ripping into my mouth. I braced myself, one hand against the headrest, the other against the dash.

His sunglasses knocked up against my face. He trembled to grab them throwing them onto the ground without another thought.

I wrapped my leg around his hip, pulling him flat against me. My entire body bucked against him, his touch utterly enthralling from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.

“I was trying to be good,” John growled, moving his lips to my neck.

His teeth sunk into my skin. I let out a long sigh in response.

“I was going to wait,” he went on.

John’s hands slid from my calves and up my thighs, jerking my skirt up to my waist.

“But you and your fucking…” John shook his head like he’d just been hit with an anvil. “God almighty, Julia, I can’t control myself around you.”

I bit my tongue through a smile. “You never have to control yourself around me.”

John pushed my panties down (also not attractive, to complement the already dowdy outfit), then ducked under my skirt, his mouth sealing tight to my center.

My head dipped back toward the sky, jaw falling open as I welcomed his lips to my groin. I could barely even calculate the things wrong with this situation. In a car on an open road, a convertible with the top down, an employer with his children’s nanny.

A continued dance between secret and broadcast. This was the thing that plagued me while I was away from John.

But while I was with him, it drove me fucking mental.

John moaned into my dripping core. I jerked in response, hooking my hands over the window well at my shoulders. “Oh my god…”

His tongue slid from my perineum up to my clit, snaring the sensitive pearl with a snap of his lips.

My body seized, then collapsed again. A whimper, a moan, a breath.

I felt a drop of rain square between my eyebrows and was immediately snapped out of my reverie. I could only think about Bonzo’s car. The leather interior and anything else that might be ruined by the rain. “John, it’s –”

He locked his hands under my ass, pressing his mouth harder to me.

I bucked again. “John, the –“ A few more drops of rain. More suction of his mouth. “Please, we have to – oh god, I have to –”

John’s mouth was unyielding. I had to give into him. The warmth of his mouth, the cool kiss of the rain, the same amount of opposition that had been in our dynamic since the very beginning.

I grabbed onto his shoulder as best I could. John moaned once, twice, three times, each one building, shaking my sense free until the orgasm trembled free. I keened, raindrops tumbling onto my tongue, down my throat. “John, please,” I begged, gripping his jacket. “John, I need –”

John reemerged from under my skirt and slid up the length of my body to catch my mouth in another longing kiss. I tasted myself on his mouth.

Fit perfectly in the cradle of my legs, John rested, catching his breath against me. His fingers curled around the door. “Fuck,” he growled. “What do I do with you?”

“That. Again and again, please.”

John coked his head against my chest, smiling lopsidedly, a sheen across his lips and cheeks.

The rain intensified, from a drizzle to a steady cadence which finally snapped John back into gear. “Shit, the top.”

“I’ll help you,” I said, dragging myself out of the car and into the rain.

Like a sketch out of a Marx Brothers movie, we managed the top of the Rolls about halfway before it stuck. We switched sides a couple of times, trying to figure out what we’d done wrong, until John realized the fucking thing was automatic and went up and down with the push of a button . “How do we keep up with these newfangled gadgets, eh?” he asked, settling back into his spot with a damp squelch.

“It’s alright, you old fuddy-duddy,” I cooed.

“Says the girl celebrating a birthday.”

“Twenty-eight, over the hill, I know.”

“Well, it’s a very beautiful hill.”

I smacked him on the arm. “Drive, you.”

We set back off on our trajectory to Normans Bay, quickly leaving behind the patch of rain we’d been hit with for cooler temperatures and wider blue skies. The closer we got to the sea, the more I could smell it in the air and eventually, see it in the distance.

“Oh, wait, wait. I have to pull over,” John remarked.

“What for?”

The car rolled to a stop one more. He nodded back over his shoulder toward a flower cart at the side of the road. “Flowers. For you of course.”

I screwed my forehead together. “More flowers?”

John’s forehead matched mine in confusion. “What?”

“You already got me flowers. You sent lilies. This morning.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“Didn’t you?” I asked.

John shook his head slowly. “No, I didn’t send you flowers.”

“Then who…” I trailed off, my heart beating with anxiety. “Please don’t joke with me, you didn’t send me those flowers?”

John half-smiled. All of the charisma he’d rode in on, suddenly caput. “I know I’m not the only man who admires you, Julia.”

I didn’t know what to say. I was still horrified to think of who could have possibly sent them. It was a short list, but none of the options were desirable. Nick Westerling being the first three names on the list.

John hurried off and fetched a spray of wildflowers from the seller. I watched through the wing mirror as his coat and hair whipped in the wind as he handed over a generous couple quid for the bouquet. He returned as quick as he’d made off, bashfully handing over the flowers. I took them with much more tenderness than I’d received the lilies this morning, pressing my nose into the fragrant spray. “You mustn’t give me anything more.”

He merely smiled.

Before he could start the car for us to finally make off to Normans Bay, I leaned over and slid my lips across the lobe of his ear. “You’re the only man I care to be admired by. I promise.”

John gratefully accepted my kiss, leaning back in his seat, a hand against my waist. I grabbed a yellow poppy from the bunch, remembering the poem from our Flower Fairies book. Only grows on the seashore. I tucked the flower in his hair. “There. Now everyone will know.”

He flushed, laughing bashfully like a schoolboy. “Damn this long hair.”

“I think it’s darling,” I said, sitting back in my spot.

John looked me over, considering each and every part of me. The yellow flower over his ear added a warmth to his face blush couldn’t seem to encapsulate on its own. Then, he smiled, put the car in gear and took a deep breath. “Next stop, Normans Bay.”

And though I laughed and sang along on the radio, I held my tongue back from what I really thought. That I never cared if we ever got to the shore at all. I could die happy in this moment.

Not even noon and this was already, most certainly, my best birthday to date.

tag list: @jimmys-zeppelin, @kari-12-10, @grxtsch, @digitcc, @ritacaroline, @kyunisixx, @salixfragilis, @rebel-without-a-zeppelin, @jimmypages, @dollyvandal, @cassiana-on-dark-side, @thepinklovewitch, @faisonsunreve, @sastrugie, @seventieswhore, @t4ngerinedr3am, @mayspringcome, @barrettavenue, @foreverandadaydarling, @glimmerofsanity, @montereypopgroupie, @lzep, @jimmysdragonsuit13, @n0quart3r, @larsgoingtomars, @paginate54, @leveeisbreaking (let me know if you’d like to be added 💋)

[cherrycoke-ruralroads]

watching paint dry | f.w. | s.o.l

A/N: This is my first fic! Hopefully, it's written in a way where it can be read as either platonic or some secret tension that's slowly building over time, whichever you prefer. It's like a slice of life, just a simple story of relatively normal interaction between two friends. Peace!

Summary: Banter between two friends after taking a break from painting. Little bit of swearing, implied friendly innuendos. 1958 words.

You sighed quietly and slowly walked over to your bucket of water to clean your brush of paint. The bristles soaked up the water as you dipped the 4 inch chip brush in. You took your fingers to the bristles and preened them between your fingers under the water, then swept them in a circular motion across the palm of your hand. Though wanting to be done with it, you were thorough. A couple of extra minutes spent meant that your tools would last. You wet the brush and took a swipe of a bar of soap across the hairs. You pointed it upwards so that the soapy water would soak down to the ferrule, getting to any paint that had made its way there. You took it to your hand again with the circular motion, this time with your hand above the brush, before dipping to the bottom of the bucket for one last circular scrub. You skimmed through the bristles to make sure there was no paint left, then beat them quickly against the lip of the bucket to get rid of excess water, which was fun.

Course, you could have done this all with an apparently simple spell, though not apparent to you. The Scouring Charm was pretty unpredictable when you, usually decent in charms, cast it. You set the brush aside on a towel, which also held washed roller, and a couple of other brushes. You took the corner of the towel and just really quickly dried your hands.

Now for the paint to dry so you could get on with it, though honestly you didn’t want to continue the work today.

You sat down across from your soon to be mural, and waited. You probably waited two minutes or so before getting back up and making your way to the painting. To be fair, it felt longer, but of course when you touched it slightly, you got some paint on your fingertips. It was still wet enough that there would be no fingerprints imprinted in the paint, and if there had been, well it was going to be covered in plenty of layers anyways. You spread the paint from the tips of your fingers onto the pad of your thumb, then from your thumb down the side of your index. Instead of, obviously, cleaning your hand in the bucket of water.

You sat back down. The halls were pretty empty. In fact, only a few students had quietly walked by while you were painting over the course of the last few hours. It was Friday evening, so most students were grabbing some food in the Great Hall, or in their common rooms or whatnot, and if they were hanging about the hallways, they didn’t happen to be hanging around here. It was nice. You had swung by the Great Hall earlier and nicked some food so that you could eat when you took a break.

You were focused on picking up the last bits of pie crust crumbs on the plate, the crumbs breaking into smaller pieces every time you tried taking the fork to them, when you heard footsteps coming down from your right. You looked and saw a red headed boy, tall and broad, shoulder length hair. You couldn’t tell at that point based on features which twin it was, but you figured based on the sweater, that is was Fred, because that’s what he wore earlier that day. You weren’t sure at what point the correct distance between him and you to say hi was, so you just looked at him with a closed-mouth smile until he was 10 or so feet away.

“Hey,” Fred said, as he looked down to you and smiled.

“Hey, whatsup?”

“Not much,” Fred paused as he sat down next to you, one leg bent and one leg out, “just mucking about, I suppose. You?” He put his hand into his sweater pocket, “Want some?” He pulled out some chocolate. “You got paint on your hand, in case you probably hadn’t noticed” he added smugly.

“Oh, yeah, thanks! And yes, I know.” You grabbed the wrapped chocolate ball he was offering to you. “Just waiting for this paint to dry, it’s something they want for…” You stopped as you were unwrapping the foil to the chocolate, eyeing it and Fred in a sort of light-heartedly suspicious way. “This,” you asked, tilting your head downwards slightly and looking at him through the tops of your eyes, eyebrows raised, “this isn’t something along the lines of your Canary Creams, is it?”

“Ha, no, this time it’s just chocolate. At least, I hope so, since I’ve had some too. Tested enough stuff today.” He chuckled.

“You sure?” You sort of chuckled breathily as you said it, but, you did want to be sure.

“Yes, Y/N.” Fred said, not dissimilar to how a teen might playfully say ‘Yes, Muuuum’.

“Good. Though, ‘suppose there’s worse birds to be” you said, before you threw the ball of chocolate up. You did not catch it in your mouth. It sort of hit your chin, onto your chest, where you tried grabbing it, but then it bounced and rolled into your lap. You grabbed it quickly and shoved it into your mouth.

“Oh wow, good one, truly skilled and truly impressive you are,” Fred said sarcastically and he laughed and smirked.

“Oh shut it,” you said, slightly unclearly as you tucked the chocolate in your cheek to speak. A friendly blush from the situation rose to your cheeks.

“Anyways,” Fred chortled, “you were saying? About why you’re painting this? It looks nice, so far by the way.”

“It looks nice? Yeahhh, sure, it’s literally three different colours of grey. It’s just the base layers.”

“Well yeah, I figured that, but, you never know! Like, what if I said ‘what’s it going to be, hows’it going to turn out?’ when it was actually your already finished masterpiece, right? If I say it looks nice, it means A: I’m complimenting you, B: I’m not making any wrong assumptions. Win, win, or, apparently not! Bloody hell, Y/N, just take the bloody compliment!” he explained, teasingly flustered.

“Riiiight, I don’t even to know how to respond to all of --”

“By thanking me!!” he blurted, tongue-in-cheek.

“Alriight, thanks.”

“You are very welcome, Y/N. Anyways, fucking hell, you still haven’t told me what it’s bloody for!”

“When did I have the time after your whole monologue?” you said, laughing with spirit. “McGonagall asked me if I could do a mural for some winter dance thing or something.”

“What winter dance thing?” Fred asked.

“I’m not really sure. A ball, I figure. She says there’ll be an announcement of some sort during the Halloween Feast, which is, you know, I’m sure great and all, but it doesn’t really help me with painting the mural now.”

“I wonder what it will be. If it is a dance, I know plenty of boys who will go wild trying to get one of Beauxbatons girls. Especially dear old Ronniekins. That will be a sight to behold.”

“Oh come on, like you’re not one of those boys, swooning over them!” you teased. Fred was your close friend, you knew him well enough.

“Absolutely not, annnddd, even if I was, they’d be swooning after me!” he stated lively.

“Yeah, uh huh, sure.” You thought his confident banter was funny, and you wanted to make fun of it, even though you figured he was probably right about at least of some of the girls swooning over him. In the courtyard, he would catch a couple of the Beauxbaton girls looking at him, or they would catch him admiring their assets, and he would make his way over to them to charm them with his wit and magic tricks. And it worked. After these interactions, you would always blurt out laughing and call him a moron.

“Well, ya know what, what can I say? The French accent always gets me ‘hon hon horn’ --”

“Don’t finish that Fred, I swear to Merlin!”

“What, you saying the French accent doesn’t get you ‘hon hon horrrrn---’”

“Frreed!” you said spluttered as slapped him comically on the shoulder. Though you didn’t want to encourage him, it was a funny joke and you struggled keeping your laughter in.

“Alright, alright” he gave in, while rolling his eyes and smiling. “But come on, what about you? Any of the new visitors we’ve got pique your interest?”

“Pique it? I don’t know, I don’t think so.”

“Surely there must be one. You know you’ve gushed while talking to the ones we had conversations with in the yard.”

“Gush? Whaddya mean gush??”

“It’s just who you are. I don’t mean you’re a flirt, like I am,” he paused and smirked, “but you’re a very bubbly person, and coupled with the fact it’s very obvious when you find a boy attractive, -- yes Y/N, it’s obvious -- you sorta … gush over them. I am not saying you’re in love with them, you’re just flirty in a non-conscious way. Besides, I don’t think the guys mind and they probably just think you’re really friendly. It’s just because we know you well enough that we notice, that, AND we’re not as thickheaded as those Dum Dum Durmstrangs.” Fred explained.

You thought about it. What he was saying made a lot of sense, though it was embarrassing and you didn’t want to admit that Fred was even partly right. Your cheeks became hot.

“You’re blushing, by the way. So I know I’m right.” Fred pointed out and laughed quietly. He then tilted his head back and rested it against the wall, looking up at the great heights of the Hogwarts ceiling.

“If anything, you’re thicker than a ‘Dum Dum Durmstrang’. ANYWAYS,” you lilted as you got up from the floor, “the paint’s probably dry by now.” you said, refocusing your attention on the mural you didn’t want to keep working on. If you were going to keep at it, you had lost your chance the moment that Fred turned the corner of the corridor, because your brain finally had a proper excuse to give up for the remainder of the evening.

“You know you don’t want to, Y/N.”

“And what, pray tell, do I want to do, Fred Weasley?” you inquired with a slight grin.

“You want to hang with George, Lee, and I. Maybe some of the girls if they decide to join in. We’ll be testing some new stuff we’ve made.” he said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“Thought you said you had enough of testing stuff today?”

“This should be a little bit more fun and chill for the tester, if you catch my drift.”

“I don’t… wait… do I?” you looked at him curiously, asking him to confirm if you were on the same page.

“Yeah. You do.” He nodded and scrunched his face up into a friendly smirk.

“Mmm.” You wanted to, but you felt like you should continue painting. You looked at the wall, then to Fred, back and forth to make a comical point.

“Y/N.” he laughed. “It will be more fun than watching paint dry,” he quipped.

“Well yeah, with me it will be,” you quipped back. You convinced yourself to go. You quickly put everything away in the very conveniently placed storage cupboard, and made your way down the hallway with your friend. He put his arm around your shoulder and you tried to do the same as well as you could, and you both skipped down the hallway like total lunatics, laughing giddily.

And so this became a regular thing, every time you had to watch paint dry. You loved watching paint dry.

[ember-owlet]

Could I maybe get like cg Jinx, or even just sitter Jinx with a gender neutral little painting her nails?

-M💚

a/c: absolutely! thank you for waiting firelight, one cg! jinx fic coming right up ʚ♡ɞ 

slight tw for mentions of injury! nothing graphic but i wanted to mention there is a  description of a slight nick on jinx’s finger and mention of blood, something to note if that makes you uncomfortable!

dynamic: gn!regressor!reader x cg!jinx  

You found yourself sprawled onto the floor in a bundle of paint sets and crayons, doodling away on large canvases to your heart's content. It was a rather busy week for the both of you. Jinx was trying to make the final adjustments to the latest project in the menagerie of bolts and tools around her desk, her head bobbing back and forth to the music blasting on the old gramophone.

You, on the other hand, were tasked with the most important job of them all: decorating duty. "How's that doodle comin' along doodle?" she called out, her attention still attuned to screwing in the last cog to the contraption. It had taken a while before you answered, a small hum ringing in your throat before nodding and striking a quick “thumbs up”. Like your caregiver you were also extremely focused on the task at hand, it was something that you two could always do: get lost in your work. It was something that she loved about you, and you weren’t gonna let her down, that was for sure. 

A small yelp had alerted your attention, watching Jinx’s hands draw quickly back from the moving bolts. You rushed to her side to take her hand in yours, tears beginning to form at the corners of your eyes upon seeing the swelling and blood at the tip of her pointer finger. She chuckles, wiping the tears from your eyes with the non injured hand. It was absolutely adorable how much you cared for her, and touched her to see how much her baby reciprocated her love.

“Hey hey, it’s alright. It’s just a scrape, nothin’ a little bandage can’t fix.” Jumping up to her tippy toes she brought down a tin case shaped like a giant eraser lovingly scribbled on top “For Big Mistakes”. Jinx then placed it in front of you to choose the bandaid design, giggling when you grab nearly all of them to give back to her. After a bit of time you had managed to help her dress the scrape. You couldn’t remember where the original cut was actually located, the entirety of her finger covered in brightly colored elastic webbing. 

Holding Jinx’s hands in your own you noticed how slim and dainty they appeared, though there seemed to be something else in serious need of attention: her fingernails. The tip of the injured finger had a chip on the top, seemingly as it was cut on the culprit cog. And on the rest of her hand each nail’s polish had been worn and chipped at the edge. She quickly picked up on the glint in your eye as you looked back at her, pleading a silent request all on your own. “Well, it has been a while since someone else has done my nails. Sure you’re up to the task my little doodle?” she grins, leaning down to hand you the blue and pink nail polish.

You practiced with precision, dragging the tiny brush delicately across each nail to layer on the paint. All the while Jinx would bob her head up and down once again to the rhythm of the music, waiting as you finish the last pinky nail to shake them dry. She placed a hand over your head, rustling your hair between her palms. “You did great doodles, I’ll be sure to keep you on paintin’ duty from now on!” 

[luminescencefics]

fade in, fade out: deleted scene

"Why haven’t you kissed me yet?”

Hi all! In honor of Fic Slam 2, here is a Fade chapter six deleted scene. You don’t have to be caught up on the story to understand it as it can completely stand alone, but if you’d like to get a glimpse of Harry and Nora’s world, click here to check it out! Thanks to the lovely as ever @oh-honey-styles for putting this together. I can’t wait to see what everybody else has come up with!

1k word count

my masterlist // read below:

***

Harry was drunk again.

It’s not like he really had any other choice in the matter, considering his mates were buying him round after round and the girl he’s been both simultaneously terrified and begging to talk to has barely spared him a second look in the past two hours.

He really doesn’t blame her, though.

Because things have been unbearably awkward ever since she first stepped on English soil and unknowingly ran into him that night at the pub nearly a month prior. A month filled with longing and confusion and wonder and a ridiculous amount of feelings Harry hasn’t let himself think about in the three years since his eyes last fell on hers.

Harry has so much to make up for—so much grovelling, so much apologizing, so much owning up to do that the weight of it all is practically unimaginable to him.

But like most boys at the ripe age of twenty-two, Harry is a coward. So he sits. And he drinks.

His tactic of avoiding and observing her from a distance seems to be working, because from his vantage point on the other side of the crowded room, his body leaning against the sticky beer-coated cherrywood bar top, he can watch the way her newly dyed dark brown hair flits whenever she turns her head to continue a conversation with her new girlfriends. He can practically hear the melodic giggle falling from her pouty, raspberry stained lips whenever somebody says something worth laughing about. He can practically feel the warmth of her gaze as her bright blue eyes squint in adoration whenever she speaks to somebody she feels undeniably comfortable around.

Because it’s Nora fucking Priestley, and everything she does seems to affect Harry in the most impressive yet terrifying way. It’s as if he’s a livewire and every single time Nora giggles or smiles or leaves a lipstick stain on her pint glass, Harry flinches with the possibility of rupture. His heart does things his drunken brain can’t seem to comprehend, and when her blue eyes fall onto his hazy greens and she stares at him with a look he can’t decipher, Harry feels his stomach bottom out. He doesn’t realize how tightly he’s clutching onto his pint glass until the skin surrounding his knuckles are painted white and practically ripping at the seam, and it’s only when she looks away when Harry feels his lungs expanding for a proper breath, and he nearly collapses under the weight of it.

He needs another fucking drink.

Somehow he’s ended up alone in the ripped, red-leather clad booth, an empty beer and shot glass in front of him. He’s been staring at the same chipped wood for so long that he hasn’t realized that the rest of his mates have upped and left him until the gentle thud of a smaller body falls into the seat near him. Suddenly, the smell of sandalwood and rosebud flood through his nostrils, and he doesn’t need to look up to see that it’s her. The pathetic drumline of his heart thundering underneath his expensive dress shirt practically gives him away.

“Are you ever going to talk to me?” Nora’s quiet voice asks, and Harry’s surprised he can hear it over the loud clamor of the band from the stage in front of them.

He looks up then, sad green eyes looking into blue. It still shocks him how familiar she feels, his body practically rendered motionless when he feels the warmth of her smooth skin, remembers the quirk of her upper lip, refamiliarizes himself with the beauty marks littering her face.

God, he misses her so much, to the point where he can hardly breathe sometimes.

“I don’t know what to say to you, I just—I don’t want to fuck up anymore. ‘S all I seem to do whenever I’m around you. So not saying anything is the—’s just the better alternative.”

“So you won’t talk to me, but you’ll stare at me from across the bar?” Nora asks with a teasing grin.

Harry laughs a bit, his cheeks pinkening when he realizes his tactics were not as subtle as he originally planned.

With a shrug, Harry says, “Can’t help it, you’re too pretty not to look at.”

Now, Nora’s the one blushing. “I think you’ve had one too many of these, mister,” she says, flicking her navy-painted fingernail against his empty pint glass. The action causes her bare arm to brush against his, and Harry shudders at the simplest form of contact.

God, he really is pathetic.

She’s a bit closer now, and without really thinking of the repercussions, Harry grasps at her wrist gently and observes the color coating her fingernails a bit closer.

“Hm, ‘s nice. Brings out your eyes,” he whispers, suddenly realizing how closely they’re sitting to one another. Nora’s kneecap is digging into the meat of Harry’s thigh, and the point of her elbow is resting on the sticky table while her forearm brushes the material of his shirt covering his ribs.

“You aren’t even looking at my eyes,” Nora whispers back, her body quivering when Harry lifts his gaze from her bitten lips to her darkened pupils.

Harry licks his bottom lip, coating the dry skin with his saliva until they look alive again—two glistening pink pillows that Nora remembers thinking about long after she first tasted them nearly three years ago in her tiny Townbridge dorm room in the middle of winter.

“Why haven’t you kissed me yet?” Harry asks, leaning a centimeter forward so that Nora can feel the warmth of his breath against her skin.

“Do you want me to?” she asks timidly, feeling his thumb gently caress her palm, his digit creating a tantalizing path from wrist to palm, back and forth, the sensation embarrassingly dizzying.

“Nora, I think I’ll die if you don’t kiss me ever again.”

Nora feels a breath trapped in her lungs, a hitch of her breath as she flicks her eyes back and forth, zeroing in on the enlargement of his pupils when he realizes that she hasn’t backed away from him yet. The revelation is so honest and so un-Harrylike that Nora isn’t sure why her lips aren’t fastened to his own yet, and when she finds that she hasn’t blinked in nearly sixty seconds, she brings her face just a bit closer to his, a subtle shift that causes the loud noise of the pub to fade into the background.

And just when she’s about to close the small distance between them, the tips of their noses brushing as their lips hover dangerously close to the others, sporadic spurts of hot breaths passing between the two like a secret, Piper calls Nora’s name from the bar, causing the sound of the busy pub to come crashing back into her ear canals, forcing Nora to spring backwards as if Harry’s lips were made of fire.

“Nora! Refills!” Piper yells over drunkenly, seemingly unaware that she interrupted Nora and Harry’s second first kiss in almost three years.

“I, uh—I should go,” Nora says quickly, cheeks permanently stained red as she tries her hardest to regulate her breathing.

“Yeah,” Harry says defeatedly, watching as she scrambles out of the old leather booth and stumbles over to the bar without looking at him over her shoulder.

When she’s finally gone, Harry sinks into the leather seating, slamming his head back against the booth as he struggles to get his erratic heartbeat back to the standard sixty beats per minute. His fingers itch for another drink, and when he maneuvers his legs out from under the table, he nearly flinches at the sudden tightness of his pants.

He looks down, noticing the slightly risen bump covering the front of his dark jeans, and he sighs frustratedly, running a shaking hand through his long, mangled curls.

He’s half-hard and embarrassed beyond disbelief at the fact that Nora’s lips barely grazing against his own roused such a reaction out of him.

Harry Styles truly is pathetic—pathetic, indeed.

***

[lluvguts]

Cool Blue ; Chapter Seven

⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚۰˚☽˚⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚۰˚☽˚⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚

frightened by my feelings

⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚۰˚☽˚⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚۰˚☽˚⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚

☽ a/n: i'm so sorry for the long wait! i've been in a mood.

☽ warnings: internalized homophobia

☽ fic masterlist

⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚۰˚☽˚⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚۰˚☽˚⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚

Alberto broke away from Giulia's hand clasped in his own and listened to their steps (his silent, always barefoot but Giulia's sandals slapped the boards unpleasantly) up the rickety staircase to the hallway. Mismatched pairs of socks and a few pencil shavings led them off in a distinct line to Alberto's room, ending at his door, a sign to anyone else in the house that Alberto had been rummaging through the downstairs cupboards at night; whereas Giulia's room opposite his, clean when she wanted it to be, teeming with school books and Machi's homemade cat toys and plant life, had no such trail.

"You know, come to think of it, this makes much more sense now," Giulia mused, her eyes fixed on her toes as Alberto abruptly stopped them at the doorway to his room.

Alberto felt a headache start to blossom beneath his eyelids, above his browbone. A throb with no rhythm but all the more pain to make up for it. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the steadying weight of the doorframe pressing on his shoulder as he leaned on it. Giulia knew, but she...also didn't. A tiny fleck marked the frame and only became apparent in his blurry vision, just a chip on the wood. Stripped of paint and sticking out against the cream walls in an ugly slash.

He trailed his thumb along the divot, feeling the splinters biting underneath his calloused hand. Giulia was still talking, ignoring his silence. The tension only grew the longer Alberto hovered at the door, refusing to open it and let all of those things come seeping out, with Giulia's smug remarks making the pain reach a high point.

"...I'm not nearly as obvious about, uh, my thing as you are. I don't go painting pictures of him--which I'm almost positive you do, by the way. Oh! And Papa's camera? You took photos, too? Santa mozzarella, Alberto, this is just like a soap opera--"

Alberto's thumbnail dug into the wood. "Yeah, okay Giulia, we get it. You're such a genius or whatever for knowing my secrets, alright? Will you ever shut up?"

Giulia blinked, losing some of that teasing glint in her eyes, but only for a moment. She stood up straighter and examined Alberto's pained expression and his half-stance, shouldered up on the wallpaper so he didn't faint from fear. She yanked his forearm away from the divot in the doorframe and pulled it forward, propelling them into Alberto's room without any other notice.

"Wait! Giulia! It's-It's very messy in here! I wouldn't want you having a heart attack or something..." Alberto rambled, flinging free of her grip once again to run ahead of her.

Always in the lead, scrambling to kick his discarded bath towel under the bed, and the rush of feelings that surged with it. The photos. The pictures were still on the dresser, and Giulia was standing by the bed, so that saved him at least a few agonizing minutes. While she grimaced at his crumpled sheets, pinching her nose and complaining of the fish smell, Alberto shied away from her gaze, laughing nervously and edged closer to the dresser.

"Honestly, Alberto," Giulia picked up his comforter, then wrinkled her nose in disgust and it flew from her fingers. "Haven't you heard of airing out your bedroom? The window is literally right here."

He glanced over Giulia's shoulder at the harbor beyond, thinking she should be at work. They should both be at work, or working, or doing at least something. "Don't like it."

"Don't like the window?" A piece of dirty laundry, another item under close sibling scrutiny, was dropped from her hands. Giulia turned from the wall and smirked unconvincingly at Alberto's palms outstretched along the top of the dresser, practically leaning on it for dear life.

He tried to clear his throat, but it was dry. Everything in his room was dry. The towel from the night before was cast under his bed, stiff as old citrus. The empty glass behind him, the tiny ring of water that clung to the bottom now dried up. Definitely what had happened hours before had nothing to do with what was already drying inches below his belt. God, he needed a shower to scrub off the memories. No, sear them off his skin.

Stop. Don't think of that.

"No! I, uh--" Alberto closed his eyes, opened them, closed them again, that headache never seeming to go away. "I don't...like...the boats."

That was mostly true. He just didn't like some boats in particular, the ones that hunted down sea monsters and pried the scales from their bodies as if they were gold flecks. He didn't mind giving up the salty nighttime breeze for peace of mind. What he didn't want to sacrifice, however, was the lingering (stifling) smell of Luca's scales clinging to his bedsheets and in the bathroom, with the door constantly open, a heady ocean candle that was never snuffed out.

"Pfft! You liar, you basically live on a boat you work so much. What about it could you possibly not like?" She tried a new tactic, no longer rooting through article after offensive article of boyish mess, and instead picked apart the uneasy smile in Alberto's upturned lips, evident in the sweat along his temple.

Her dark eyes roamed over Alberto, looking up at the wall then back down to his sprawled arms and aching shoulders, realization dawning. "You're...stalling! Hah! Think changing the subject will do you any good when you're around me, eh?"

Giulia marched over to Alberto, who even hunched back to conceal the contents of the dresser was taller by a few inches.

"You're hiding something, aren't you?" Giulia whispered, her voice once dripping with an easygoing slyness that only came with being siblings. But now, she steeled her eyes over Alberto's shoulder, freckled and tanned and nicked with fishing scars, searching but said nothing else.

Alberto slid his tongue along the rough roof of his mouth, tasting salt. He winced at Giulia's tender fingertips brushing over the top of his shoulders to reach for something outside of his vision, but by the feather-light intake of breath that Giulia did a poor job at hiding, he knew exactly what she had found. One photo turned to two, then three, and soon Giulia was thumbing through all of them like the old card deck they always managed to misplace on late nights.

"Luca," Giulia murmured softly, the polaroids pinched between her shaking fingers. She said his name, and the grapefruit that Massimo had held in his bare hand came to mind, suddenly. His name sounded sweet as she said it, peeling back the shocking rinds to a much more bitter discovery, the picture wrapped in a thin little fruit membrane that Giulia had torn apart and dove in hands first to pick out the seeds. She said his name, and Alberto bit his tongue, waiting, waiting. The salty tang was met with the quick release of blood as he chewed on his lip, not caring for the sting but more so for the way the air in the room stood still.

Giulia was sitting on the bed now, and Alberto was still sprawled out along the dresser, feeling time rush back in to greet him. The window was still closed. The bath towel peeked out from hard bedframe, sage fabric frozen in place, silently screaming if Alberto could guess. All of the warmth in the room flooded to Alberto's face, his flushed cheeks burning so hot he covered them with clammy palms. This wasn't happening...

The dizziness in his brain had subsided, at least for now. Pushed to the side. "I...uh...I think I can--You aren't afraid, are you?"

Giulia opened her mouth, speaking silent demands. The pictures were still in her hands. Though she was shaking and casting their glossy film over Alberto's pleading eyes. He took a step to her, and she held up a hand--the one that wasn't clutching the polaroids. Holding Luca. Così bello, Luca.

"Take me to him."

"Huh?" Alberto skittered back, eyeing the photos but afraid to take them from her hands, gently thumbing through them again like she was seeing the glossy scales and bright eyes for the first time. "I don't know...uh, I don't know what you're asking, Giulia," Alberto breathed, itching to take the stack of photos. Giulia sensed her brother's restlessness and stood up to place them into his trembling hands. They fit perfectly into his palms, and he carded through the five with a fond smile he quickly abandoned when realization hit him and Giulia was, there.

"Saying they were just a myth, Alberto?" Giulia brought all of the photos together carefully, choosing not to see Alberto's eyebrows shooting up into his head of curls but at the rows and neat edges she'd made. "But oh, wow, Luca. So...much different that what Papa says about sea monsters. He's so..."

Alberto's heart sped up. "Beautiful?" Was he even allowed to say that? What would she think?

Giulia nodded, flashing an appreciate grin but still indecisive.

"That's okay, Alberto," She wrapped her hands over Alberto's, a pillar to his crumbling resolve, and put her chin against his collarbone to still him. She sighed, a rumbling breath into his ribcage, and he felt his chest lighten. "It's okay to think he's beautiful."

Alberto didn't think he could get a word out, with his sister's hair inches from his nose, filling his head with soothing, sleepy smells. She had stuck a stem of lavender from the vase in the kitchen behind her ear.

No it's not.

"Shhh, fratello. Just don't think for a moment, si?" Giulia took the photos again and put them in her pants pocket, then wrapped her assuring arms around Alberto's neck as he let out a soundless cry. "You're okay."

Alberto buried the bridge of his sunburnt nose into Giulia's hair, the tiny periwinkle flower buds tickling his cheekbone.

"The lavanda in the vase, you bought that? It...was for him, wasn't it?" Giulia murmured to distract, petting the side of his neck to calm him down.

"...He couldn't keep it. The petals would float to the surface." His words came out sniffled and ugly-sounding, making him cringe but also hold in a laugh imagining Luca bringing a bouquet of flowers underwater just to see them all rush past his wide eyes to the surf above.

Giulia snorted and laughed against his chest, and soon Alberto was chuckling softly along with her. "Let's go see il tuo cuore, okay?"

"You're serious?" Alberto readjusted the lavender stem in her hair. "Giulia, this is like the total opposite of how I thought this would go."

She took his hand tenderly and went to the door, but not without a whiplash turn of her head, cocking one eyebrow in defiance. "What, did you expect me to reach for the nearest harpoon? Like everyone else in this town? I don't think so." She tapped her forehead, smirking. "Open mind, dummy."

Alberto squeezed her pinky finger. "Okay, you were so sweet a second ago. What happened?"

"Lots of things, big guy," Giulia clicked her tongue and pulled Alberto's hand closer. "But that vase on the dining room table, those flowers. That's how I knew. If it were a girl, you would have listened to Papa's advice for roses. But you got lavender."

Alberto sighed, fighting the impulse to tug his hand away and retreat fearfully back to his room. "If you think it's such a stupid idea, we can make tea with them. Papa got a new kettle at the market."

Giulia gave him a side glance again. "And what about Luca?"

"Fine, no tea then." Alberto stumbled on his words, choking on them almost. Would Luca...even be there? After what had happened...

He blushed and stopped, inches above Giulia's head when he stood one step higher than her, looking directly into the kitchen on his right where the vase was. Evening light spilled in the window by the sink the Marcovaldos refused to close, bathing the ornate, bottle green glass in moody flashes of color on the patched up tablecloth. A sliver of a grapefruit rind sat, hard and darkened next to the reflection of lavender stems, from Massimo's talk. Alberto swallowed the immediate flush of nausea, hating the way he could almost taste the embarrassment and worry on his tongue, inside his pores.

It was going to get dark soon.

[seimeinotaka]

Polished (Vil x MC Fic)

(Cross-posted from AO3)

Set after the Pomefiore arc, Ann is trying to paint her nails, but isn’t doing a good job at not painting her finger. (Un)fortunately for her, Vil happens to find her terrible handiwork and decides to give her a lesson, whether she wants it or not, full of scathing commentary.

Thanks to polyphenols@AO3 for beta-reading this and for the suggestion for the title!

-

Ann was sitting under her favorite tree, back against the trunk as she pressed the nail polish brush against her nail, the red bottle of polish carefully placed on top of her notebook. Was it absolutely risky? Yes, it was a terrible idea. However, doing her nails in her dorm, the seemingly logical place, proved to be even worse. With Grim demanding attention and constantly causing ruckus with the other ghosts, her attempts at painting her nails ended with smudges and marks, sometimes even some of Grim’s hair, to her dismay.

Outside, while still at extreme peril, her nails could dry faster with the gentle breeze.

Though, if someone was standing in front of her, their long slender legs just coming into view, her plan would be thwarted.

"What are you doing, Potato?" Vil’s voice gave away the identity of her breeze blocker, causing her to look up to his unamused expression.

"Painting my nails?" she replied, raising her hand so he could see her work, in case the smell of the polish wasn’t obvious.

What she didn’t expect was for him to pull her hand, so he could actually get a good look at it and her extremely messy handiwork, with splotches of red both on the nail and all around her skin.

"I thought you were painting your nails, not your finger," he replied curtly. Oh right, he painted his nails too, and he was fussy to boot.

"It's ok, it'll wash off when I shower," she said, not giving much thought to his judgmental tone and disapproving frown.

"You're wasting product. Wait, have you used a primer already?"

"A what?" She asked, slightly confused. Primers were used… when painting wood and other materials, as far as she knew. Though she wasn’t that knowledgeable in the art of make-up, barely wearing it before arriving at Twisted Wonderland, and not really being able to afford it until recently. She just wanted to paint her nails. It wasn’t rocket science.

However, it seemed it was rocket science, as Vil’s exasperated sigh let her know of his extreme disdain and disapproval of her methods. "Are you really this helpless?" She looked blankly at him. "Come with me."

And by come, he actually meant get up, as he yanked her arm, forcing her to stand up and pick up her things in a hurry, so that he could then drag her all the way to Pomefiore’s dorm.

-

"Eh,” Ann didn’t even know how to begin, as she looked around at the elegant ornaments and expensive-looking furniture, something out of league compared to the humble lodging of her dear hobo room. “Why are we in your room?"

"Listen well, I am not going to repeat myself nor allow you to make a disaster on your hands," Vil stated, with that tone of his that he was going to give her a lesson, whether she wanted it or not.

"He totally ignored me..." she mumbled, giving his room a short last look, before turning to her now sudden beauty teacher who was eager to smack her for getting distracted.

"To paint your nails, you need 3 items, a primer, your polish and your top coat. This product you got is no good, please replace it as soon as possible."

"But I like the color...." Ok, it was a cheap polish, but it would do the trick, for her.

"I can make you one more impressive than this if you really wanted, the problem is the color doesn't suit you, but stop straying off topic, potato. Give me your hand, I'll erase this hideousness you call nail painting."

Yanking her hands again, he cleaned both with a face wipe before inserting her fingers into a fancy looking cylinder reeking of acetone. The cold liquid touched her skin and her nail, as he scrubbed it slightly before taking her finger out, polish vanished. She arched her eyebrows, she didn’t know they made funky objects like that, her surprise causing Vil to shake his head.

"Remember to treat your hands with cream after removing nail polish and your manicure. Knowing you, you're going to spread the acetone not only on your nail but half of your finger."

‘His hands are really warm and soft...’ she thought to herself, seeing how he wasn’t wearing his gloves, skin against skin. Of course, they would be soft, he would never let his hands be ruined, as evidenced by his perfect manicure, but they were really nice to touch, or be touched by in her case.

"This is a primer, I would have expected you to know this since you are in the Art elective, what am I going to do with you?” Ann bit her tongue. “You put it first as your base coat. Not only will it help the polish stick to your nail, as the oils in your fingers would hinder this normally, but in the case of uneven edges in your nails, the base coat will give them a smooth look. If you are wearing a dark polish, it will prevent your nails from being colored by it."

With elegant and tender movements, unlike his stern voice and possible incoming smacking, Vil applied the primer on her nails, on both hands.

‘He is really skilled, it looks so easy when he does it.’

"Stop gawking at me, I am aware I am blinding you but make an effort to focus on the lesson at hand."

"Yes, yes, Vil-senpai. Teach me your ways." Ann rolled her eyes, but didn’t stifle a dreamy smile.

He huffed, as he sent her a chiding glare. "I wish I could be as cocky as you when you have no idea of what you're doing to your nails. Make sure you use long strokes, from the bottom of the nail to the top. Spread it even."

She was enjoying herself too much in spite of or perhaps because of his cocky scolding.

Vil carefully set the base coat aside and picked a charming long bottle with an exquisite purple liquid inside. He rolled it gently in between his hands as he continued his lesson. "Base coat shouldn't take long to dry, and you shouldn't use more than one coat. After that, you can use your color polish. Make sure to roll it like this before using it, don’t shake it.”

“Why not?”

“You’ll cause bubbles to form in your polish. Are you always this careless with your belongings?”

“Are you always this fussy with your belongings?” she mocked his tone. “For the record, I am careful with my things. I just didn’t think shaking the bottle would be that bad.”

“Who had a mess on her hands fifteen minutes ago?”

“Okay, okay, I got it. No shaking the bottle.”

Vil ignored the playful tone of her words with a stern poker face. However, the touch of his hands against hers remained as gentle as ever. “This part is the longest of the process, make sure to do it well. Depending on the brand and the quality of your polish, you might need more than two coats. Don't be tempted to put one thick coat, it will take longer to dry and you are at a higher risk of ruining your work. Thinner coats are always the way to go."

"When you're spreading the polish, you need to do even strokes. Avoid pressing the brush too hard. Now, we need a second coat, so you have to apply the next one only after the first is perfectly dry. Do not even think of using your finger to check or I'll smack you."

"Why not? If you press it lightly, it should be ok."

He sighed. "But if it's not dry, you will leave your fingerprint or you can smudge the color. You should touch your pinky nails together, gently. If they seem to stick, you obviously need to wait longer. Only do this when you are sure it's dry. Yes, this means you have to be patient, potato."

"Sometimes you test my patience too much, Vil-senpai," she replied dryly with an equally dry and stiff smile at him.

"Bold of you to snark at me like that. The things that are worth most are those that need time, patience, and effort, you should always remember this."

His voice was stern, but there was a hidden warmth beneath his words that brought a gentle, cheeky smile to her face. She could feel his eyes on her for a moment, but when she looked up, he was already looking away.

"Make sure you use a sufficient amount of polish, and get rid of the excess on the rim of the bottle. Apply it in 3 stripes, middle first and then to the sides. Don't paint your cuticle or the skin to the side of your nails. Obviously, this will be more difficult with your left hand, so do your best to practice often."

"Three stripes, thin coats, wait between them. Got it."

At least with him next to her, holding her hands like this, the wait was more than welcome. Of course, she couldn’t say this aloud, but that didn’t stop her face from brightening at this thought.

"You seem quite pleased with yourself, even if I have done most of the legwork."

"You made this class very entertaining, Vil-senpai. Your scathing remarks included." She gave him a bright smile, though he merely huffed at her.

"Flattery won't get you anywhere."

"I'm wounded, thinking I want to butter you up. I'm not Cater, and this tongue of mine is incapable of doing it anyway. You should know already that it's not my style."

"That is one of your good points, potato. At least you are honest with me," he said with a smile, the first time in the entire session. It wasn’t a smirk or a chiding one, but a soft one that made her heart skip a beat.

And of course, she replied with a cheeky laugh.

"But that is too little to be proud of yourself. Next is the top coat.”

"Damn, you like to shoot me down," she mumbled but Vil ignored her as he picked the final polish bottle and rolled it gently between his hands.

"Some say that the top coat isn't always necessary, but why would you compromise on something after all the time you've put into this? The top coat will prevent your nails from chipping, and it helps the polish last longer. Some can even give your nails a finishing look, whether you want them to shine or have a matte look. Similar to the base coat, you only need to apply it once. Again, thin coat, you don't want to overdo it and mess up all your hard work."

And with those words, he carefully spread the top coat on her fingers, with her eyes glued to every movement of his hands.

"So, is that it? It somehow doesn't seem too bad," she said, once her nails were shining thanks to the top coat.

"We are done because I was painting your nails, potato. However, you will need to do another step, which is cleaning your fingers."

"When you shower, the polish on your fingers falls off, that's the cleaning ste-” he smacked her head- “Why!?"

He gave her a dismissive look. "Do you intend to go around class with your messy fingers? You should always look presentable. If I ever see your fingers with nail polish smeared on them, I will give you an adequate punishment."

"Who says I'll let you see?"

"Do you enjoy testing people's limits? If needed, I'll have you show me your hands every day and if I cannot, Rook will check up on you."

"...What was the adequate method?"

"Much better.” He had a winning smirk, and as much as he seemed to complain about it, it almost looked like he was also enjoying himself. “There are different ways, but the easiest for you is to use a cotton swab with polish remover. Of course, this needs you to have a steady hand as you erase your mistakes. There are corrector pens too, but it will be cheaper for you to use a Q-tip instead, and much easier and cheaper if you just learn to do it properly."

"Excuse me for being poor in this world I was suddenly thrust into," she rolled her eyes but then focused on her hands.

Perfectly painted nails, shiny deep purple, no smudges or marks of fingers like she would always have them whenever she tried, which wasn’t so often. They looked professional, though Vil was a professional, so he wouldn’t do anything but perfection.

"They've never looked this pretty in my life, thank you, Vil-senpai!" She was beaming as she switched between admiring her nails and him.

"Never? That sounds depressing.” He folded his arms and shrugged nonchalantly. “It was a simple manicure, I didn't even fix your nails and cuticles."

"That's okay!” she replied, shaking her head. “And we match in colors!"

"We only do because I picked that bottle. Don't think too much about it."

"Hehe, perhaps, but I really like your colors. I like..."

"Purple, yes I know. You've made it clear in your Magicam account."

"Does that mean you've checked my-"

"Absolutely not."

Whatever he said, and no matter what he would later add, nothing would erase that bright infuriating smile from her face. Cheeky, and so blinding that it made him turn his eyes away.

"Well, sure sure, Vil-senpai! I have to go back to my dorm, but thank you again!" she said brightly, waving at him happily before rushing outside of his room, almost beaming.

"Hey, don't run insi- Ah, she already left. Seriously, what am I going to do with you?" He muttered to himself, as he brought the hand which had held hers the entire time to his face. Cheeks flushing pink, he closed his eyes for a moment as his lips pressed against the faint traces of her warmth.

As Ann ran to her dorm, she pressed her hands over her chest, heart beating loudly, as she kept thinking of his gentle warm hands.

-

This was written based on my own personal experience. I tried painting my nails purple so Halloween Vil would come home. However, I’m not good at not painting my finger, so I imagined Vil would make a big fuss if Ann had the similar problem.

Thank you for reading!

[alittleoptimistic]

Psychic For Hire

A Buzzfeed Unsolved Fan fic

Summary: Shane is a psychic for hire working in LA, and sure, he’s a fake, but at least he's telling people what they need to hear! That is, he thought he was fake. But after a strange accident, he begins to have the oddest dreams... Meanwhile his old friend Ryan is researching his next greatest supernatural horror novel in the underbelly of the LA psychic scene and wondering how on earth you convince someone they actually might be psychic for real?

Trigger warning: violence, car accidents, dead people

___________

Chapter One

The woman’s hand flew to her mouth. Her hair hung in thick, dry tufts on her white blouse, unnaturally red. She was a forty-five-year-old divorcee who wore several rings. Her ear piercings were stretched out like taffy, weighed down by gaudy diamond-shaped earrings. Her voice trembled. “ Jayson ? That’s my- that’s my son! How could you-”

He screwed his eyes shut. “-he wants to tell you he’s... alright. He’s not in any pain. And-and to not worry about…” He opened his eyes and peered at her quizzically. “The game?”

Ms. Snyder wiped her eyes, and he handed her a tissue that was conveniently on hand. She dabbed away, careful to keep from smearing her eyeliner. “I-I missed his last baseball game. And then when he didn’t come home, gosh... what kind of mother doesn’t go to their kids' baseball game...”

“Hey.” He caught her shaking hands and laid them in her lap as gently as he could. Her skin was soft and manicured, the lines in her palms deep. “He forgives you. Do you hear me? He loves you and he knows how much you love him.”

Her lip trembled. A watery sort of smile attempted to find room amid the trembling, and she gave a little embarrassed laugh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think I’d get so emotional.”

“It’s alright. Of course, you would. He’s your son.”

She nodded once, and again. A deep breath. “Thank you, Mr. Madej. I needed to hear that.”

Shane patted her hand and closed up the notebook he’d had out. It was covered in nonsense scribbles from a small pencil he held in his hand. “Ah,” He waved his hand, “Call me Shane.”

Ms. Snyder sniffed and smiled. “Well, thank you, Shane. That was… astonishing. I’ll be honest, I wasn’t sure- I just needed something. Some-”

“Closure?” he offered.

She nodded. “How much do I owe you?”

Shane smiled and took out his cellphone, credit card slider already embedded in the charging port. He named his price and she swiped her card.

As she stood up, straightening her clothes, she took another steadying breath. And then quietly, almost to herself. “Goodness…”

Shane stood and led her to the office door.

He conducted sessions in a small portion of his house closed off by glass doors and windows. He called it his office. It was painted in calming shades of white and brown. Very ‘live, laugh, love’. It might have been used as a parlor or a piano room if anyone else had lived there. There was an abstract painting against the back wall that resembled a beach, and fake reeds sprouted from a tall skinny vase in the corner. There was a coffee table between two armchairs and a couch. It could either have been a nice waiting room or a therapist’s office if not for the red neon sign through the blinds in the street facing window. PSYCHIC

Shane opened the glass door and walked her to the front door of his home. “It was wonderful to meet you, Ms. Snyder. If you ever need anything else, you call me?” He pointed at his business card in her hand.

Ms. Snyder nodded. “I’ll do that.”

“And,” He lowered his voice, although of course there was no one else to hear. “Be careful. I know you live a bit of a distance. If you do ever decide to visit another, ah, advisor, I would highly recommend keeping to the list of recommendations I have on my website. They are good people. But there are a lot of not-so-nice people in LA.”

Ms. Snyer blinked at him, almost surprised, and she relaxed even further. There. If there had been any reservation left, she had abandoned it. She trusted him. He had her. “Oh, I’m aware. Thank you. I appreciate the honesty. Your… your gift is incredible.”

Shane smiled, lips tucked in. “It is what it is. And you are very welcome. Now have a-”

There was a knock on the door, just as Shane reached to open it for Ms. Snyder.

He paused, confused. He didn’t have any more appointments today.

Ms. Snyder made a small noise. “Oh dear, I don’t mean to keep you.”

“I don’t think it’s another client,” Shane said, brow furrowed. “Could be an old friend of mine, but he’s not due to get here until tonight.” Shrugging, he opened the door.

Shane was correct. It was Ryan.

Standing on the bottom step, tapping on his phone, stood a young man Shane remembered well, although he had not seen him since, what, graduation? He was older, of course, than Shane remembered. More of substantial weight to him (not that Shane was saying he was fat, cause he wasn’t. Ryan just looked… grown-up. Solid. A man now, not the gangly kid he used to be). But Ryan stood in the same, slightly nervous way, bouncing on his heels.

Ryan looked up. “Shane! God, are you taller ?”

Wonderful. “Nice to see you too. Ryan, this is Ms. Snyder. Ms. Snyder, Ryan. We were roommates in college. Ms. Snyder is a client of mine.”

Ms. Snyder cocked her head, clearly interested, and shook Ryan’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you! What brings you to town?”

Ryan opened his mouth. “Actually, I’m writing a-”

That was far enough. “Here, Ryan, why don’t you come inside? Ms. Snyder, until next time?”

“Oh, yes!” She shouldered her purse. “Most definitely. I’ll leave you two to catch up!” With that, she clickety-clacked in her heels to an inordinately fancy car and drove away down the street of the average, nice, modern neighborhood Shane lived in.

Ryan, joining him on the porch, watched her go. They squinted out into the bright California sun.

There was a beat of silence which Shane didn’t try to break, hands in his pockets.

“Dang.” Ryan finally spoke. “Got her wrapped around your finger. What’d you do, tell her she’s gonna win the lottery?”

Shane hummed. “I told her her son forgives her for staying home with a hangover instead of going to his baseball game the day that he died in a car accident.” He picked at the stitching in the neckline of his sweater.

Ryan blinked. “Holy frick, dude.”

“In nicer words, obviously.” He looked down at him. “I thought you weren’t supposed to get here until tonight.”

“Sorry. I’m a fast driver and then I didn’t see the point in hanging out in an empty hotel for hours.”

Another non-committal hum. And then Shane shrugged. “Okay. Cool. Do you want lunch? I haven't eaten yet and there’s a Cuca’s nearby that is frankly divine.”

Ryan nodded. “Yeah! Sure.”

It was odd, how very natural it felt to talk to him. It was like it was just last week they’d been sitting on the floor grumbling through papers they should have written days earlier. And yet here was this distance, years of time spent only occasionally interacting through Facebook likes and Instagram comments.

“Let me grab my wallet.” Shane ducked back in the house, and Ryan trailed in after him. He busied himself searching for his wallet in the kitchen drawers, and pretended he didn’t notice Ryan blatantly snooping, eyes wide.

He popped his head into the kitchen, Shane’s ‘office’, the bathroom, the living room. It was only when he started to knock over one of the fake plants that Shane gave him a look, wallet, and keys in hand.

Ryan stood the plant back up. “Sorry. Just, this is… a really nice house.”

Shane gave him a closed smile. “Thank you.”

“No, but like, really nice. Like, how the heck do you afford this?” Most people might be embarrassed to ask a question like that. Ryan wasn’t and Shane wasn’t offended.

He got this question a lot actually. There was an idea people had in their minds of what a psychic was supposed to be. Creepy little offices in a run-down track mall next to a nail salon that doubled in sex trafficking, or a creepy booth at a carnival with crystals and incense and blah, blah, blah. Shane’s business wasn’t like that. He was clean and shaved and dressed in a brown sweater and he let his clients drink from his Starbucks espresso machine while he told them what they needed to hear. The less he was associated with thieves and liars, the better.

He shrugged. They walked outside, down the steps, and simultaneously got into Shane’s car. “You get in with the right people, the right customers, being a psychic brings in the big bucks. Besides, LA is superstitious as hell.” Shockingly so, Shane thought sometimes. It blew his mind how many hundreds and hundreds of dollars people were willing to give up to hear him spout off some nonsense.

And that’s what it was, of course.

They sat in a red leather booth at the restaurant and the plastic fabric protested loudly as they slid inside. It was past the lunch rush and the place was relatively empty, decorated with colorful paintings of wild animals, sculls, Christmas lights, the distant sound of Spanish radio, banging pots, and the rapid-fire speech of an employee in the kitchen. The food would be delicious, as it always was.

Usually, Shane could hardly wait.

But there was a pit in his stomach, a deep sort of twist that kept him stiff and ready to stand. Was he nervous? Was that what it was? But Ryan didn’t make him nervous. In fact, Ryan only increased exponentially Shane’s ability to be the calm one in comparison to Ryan.

Ryan dipped a chip in salsa and raised an eyebrow.

“So it is then? Just-, just you know, fake.”

Shane looked at him for a long moment, contemplating whether or not he was actually posing a serious question. “I mean, yeah. What else- you seriously think I can talk to dead people? I see the future? I look into the oogly-googly beyond and-”

“Well, fine, not you specifically!”

Shane chuckled. “It's fake, Ryan. I've seen it all. It's all fake.”

Ryan thought about this. He didn’t seem particularly enthused, which Shane would have expected. But Shane wasn’t going to lie to him. There wasn’t any reason to sugar coat it.

Ryan’s voice was quiet. “Last time I talked to you, you wanted to be a magician.”

“Last time we talked I was a dumbass. You can’t make money in LA as a magician. Well, you can. I just didn’t.”

Ryan stirred a chip, ate it, and chewed thoughtfully on the inside of his lip. “So that’s it then? You’re a con-man.”

Shane sat back. He didn’t invite Ryan to stay with him just to be judged. “Says the ‘true paranormal sightings’ author!”

“First of all, I write fiction based on fact, which is not conning."Ryan wrinkled his nose. "It’s just entertainment and research. You are actively lying to people.”

That hurt. A lot. He didn’t need this and on top of that, Shane honestly disagreed. Yes, he was lying to them constantly, but Shane didn’t hurt them! He was telling people what they needed to hear! He gave them closure when there was no other place to turn. And yeah, so the psychic part was rubbish, but it worked! It worked for his clients, and it gave him enough money to own a nice home and a car and gave him the option to eat out twice a week if he felt like it. “It’s better they come to me than to some tiny hovel where some witch will tell them they have to live on butter if they want to survive through the next year. Or worse, make them come back for a reading over and over until they're bankrupt just because they’re grieving and hardly in their right mind.”

Ryan paused at this. “People really do that?”

“Yeah! Happens all the time. And stuff like the stupid butter thing! Made local news. ‘Lady Eats Nothing But Butter to Avoid Death’. She didn’t die but she got super sick.”

Their food came and they took it mutely, neither looking at each other in the eye. Maybe things weren’t quite like how they used to be. Or maybe they were always this way when it came to this subject; a little tense, ever since Ryan told him he honest to god believed in ghosts, all the way back in sophomore year of university. Shane had reacted… less than ideally, he’d admit. It wasn’t his place to judge people, and he was far better at that now than he was at eighteen, but he just couldn't compute how otherwise perfectly sane people could believe in such ridiculous things. Unless they’d been tricked, of course. And he’d rather it be a nice trick, if it came to that, than an evil one.

Shane sighed. “Look, I don’t want to argue about this. You emailed me , remember? I’ll let you see what it's like to be a ‘real life psychic’ or whatever. But I’m not going to play pretend with you. You’re not a client and you can do whatever you want to make yourself happy, but this is just how the world works.”

The knot in Shane’s stomach wound tighter, and he couldn’t imagine eating. He wasn’t hungry anymore. There was something in the air that pulled at his skin, tugging him, making his entire body feel tight and fragile and horrible. His stomach felt sick all of the sudden, and he set his fork down with a rattle of metal on porcelain.

He must have eaten something weird.

“You alright, big guy?”

He hummed. His head buzzed. He took a sip of water. “Yes. Sorry. I started feeling sick for a second there. It’s a little better now.”

Ryan’s face relaxed from indignance into concern. “Shit, dude. Did you ea s.”

Ryan was not put out by the shortcut meal. Shane paid for them both quickly, before Ryan could object, and they took their to-go boxes into the car, setting them on the sun-warmed dashboard. The feeling didn’t go away, even as they eased onto the main road and took a left toward Shane’s house.

“I’ll drive,” Ryan offered. He kept side eyeing Shane. “You look really pale. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Shane didn’t answer, too busy trying to not throw up. This was the worst timing. “I’m fine! It’s fine. Just drive!”

“If we need to pull over-”

“Look at the road, Ryan!” Shane’s stomach lurched again. He rolled down the window frantically as the buzzing in his head became so loud he could hear nothing else.

Then it happened.

He remembered it later in bits and pieces, everything in slow motion. Ryan, mouth open, a hand stretched toward him, looking at Shane, and more importantly, not looking at the truck that barreled toward them. The tacos flew in the air, cheese, and lettuce like dust in a light beam. Shane saw it all in his side mirror, his head out the window. He wasn’t fast enough to pull back inside.

With shocking strength, the truck plowed into the front of the car. Something burned down Shane's legs and then he was flying. There was the sky, the ground, the sky.

The ground.

He woke up to the sound of an ambulance and the smell of vomit. Above him, sunlight trickled through layers of green leaves.

His brain felt like it was stuffed with sand. He struggled to move and found he could, but a hand pushed his shoulder into the ground. Ryan, above him. He was bleeding from a nick on the shoulder, but otherwise looked alright. He was shaking, eyes wide and red. This was gonna traumatize him forever, poor thing. Ryan was so sensitive when it came to danger. He didn’t mesh well with it...

“Can you hear me? Shane? Jeez, Shane, you’re bleeding-”

“S’okay.” Shane managed. He didn’t feel like anything was broken. He tried to wiggle his fingers and toes. They wiggled just fine. He blinked a few times. His whole body hurt. How did he get out of the car? Something in his brain wasn’t lining up, and he couldn’t quite figure out the missing piece that brought him onto the sidewalk in this idyllic, old neighborhood. The light was too bright, the colors too loud. The siren wailed. Shane tried to sit up again. It wasn’t that bad. He was okay. “Why’d you call an ambulance?”

Ryan made some reply in a high pitched shriek that Shane couldn’t understand. There was the siren again. People stood around him now, telling him to stay still, to not move. Why were they being so uptight? He didn’t even feel that awful. They didn’t need to make a whole dumb fuss. Shane remembered glimpses of the ambulance and the people poking and prodding him.

He was tired. He should sleep. Shane closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the sound was gone.

The world was tangibly silent, unlike anything Shane had ever experienced. It felt like noise had never existed in the first place, like he was in space, free-floating in the nothingness of eternity. He could feel his heartbeat pounding in his throat. He sat up. Moving through the air felt like moving through thick, thick water. His arms trembled to keep him upright. The ambulance either moved so quietly and smoothly he didn’t notice it, or they’d stopped. Everything was slippery to the eye. He couldn’t see enough at once.

The light was a dull, fluorescent sort of blue, even though he remembered the sunlight from outside ought to shine inside. He should be frightened also, but Shane wasn’t. A dead calm lay over him like a thick blanket. Even if he wanted to, Shane didn’t think he could summon any kind of reaction. Moving was hard enough, and it was like whatever was pressing in on him, pressed inside him as well.

It took longer than it ought to have to notice the people lining the walls of the ambulance. A pregnant woman. A young boy. A very old man. There were several more unfamiliar people around the room, seemingly random paraphernalia, all staring at him stanchly. Something was very wrong about them, and Shane didn’t know what it was. He tried to open his mouth and break the god-awful silence, but when he spoke, there were no words. This didn’t surprise him, to be honest. The pressure only increased, begging him to lie flat once more.

After a long moment, Shane gave in and his arms buckled. He slammed into the pallet he’d been placed in. The pressure surged, pressing him deeper and deeper into the plastic. He could feel it stretching under him, his ribs creaking. It was going to push him right through the pallet, Shane realized. He screamed silently, terror rushing back to him as the pressure finally forced him into the pallet. He watched the plastic melt around his arms, his body, his neck, his face. He couldn’t see.

Their heads were on backward.

_______________________________________________________________

next

[insfiringyou]

BTS - Missing You (Jungkook x Young-soon)

Contains: Fluff. Smut. Angst. Mentions of cheating. 

A series of events between Jungkook and his girlfriend Young-soon (OC), set at various points between the events of ‘A Phone Call’ and ‘Jin’s Wedding’ as they try to come to terms with the mistake that Jungkook made a few months before and what this means for their future together. 

This is a major chapter in our headcanon universe (find out more about our headcanon universe plot and characters here).

To read each member & their girlfriend’s headcanon universe fics in order, follow the links here: RM   /   Jin /   Suga /   J-Hope   /   Jimin   /   V   /   Jungkook

& Our full masterlist can be found here

Rated content below the cut

PART ONE 

She had said she needed space and, despite how it pained him not to message her or look at his phone frantically every time it pinged, he had done just that. He was surprised one evening, a few weeks after they had spoken on the phone, to find she had texted him asking whether he had remembered to pay off his part on their shared credit card before the interest rate kicked in, but he tried not to read too much into this. She had always looked out for him and it was more than likely she had set a reminder on her phone for when the bill was due. He had sat through a group dinner, organised by the oldest member and his girlfriend a week later, without much luster. While Yoongi was unsurprisingly absent, the others had come with their partners and questions on the whereabouts of his own were quickly dodged and forgotten. 

A few days later, while he was drying himself off from the shower, his phone rang, catching him off guard when he read her name on the screen. Fifteen minutes later, after hastily dressing in a daze, he was pulling up at the edge of a side road behind a blue Renault, its hazard lights flashing. 

“Are you okay?” Jungkook asked as the passenger door was pulled open, a cold stream of morning air hitting him in the otherwise cosy vehicle. 

“Yeah.” Young-soon muttered cautiously. “The car was squeaking the whole way, and when I pulled over, it wouldn’t start again.” As she climbed into the car, Jungkook observed her office attire; a black skirt which framed the curves of her hips and backside, paired with a flattering white blouse. He quickly looked away. “Thanks for picking me up, no one I work with lives this side of the city.” She quickly explained, clearly embarrassed. 

Jungkook shook his head, it was nothing. “Shouldn’t we wait with the car?” He asked, gesturing towards the blue vehicle. 

“The break down company is on its way…” 

“Did you give them the right licence plate?” He asked automatically, an old memory tugging at the back of his mind. He pushed it away as she rolled her eyes with a smile. 

“If I’m late to work again my boss will put me on a warning.” She explained with a sigh as he started the engine and pulled away from the curb, rejoining the rush-hour traffic at the end of the street where it joined the main road. 

He frowned. “Have you had a lot of time off recently?”

The short silence which followed made his heart sink as he realised the cause of her absences. 

“I’m sorry I missed the dinner…” She eventually said. “Min-seo invited me by text.”

The apologetic tone of her voice told him she was serious and he couldn’t help the thud of his heart. 

“I told them you were sick.” He said, not knowing if this was the right thing to do. A pause filled the air. 

“Do they know?” She asked. 

“I didn’t know what to tell them.” He shrugged, feeling pathetic as another silence stretched out. “It’s this way isn’t it?” He nodded towards another side street. 

“Take a right.” She confirmed as he indicated and carefully turned the corner, avoiding a stream of pedestrians on their way to work. 

“They’ve not been paying much attention to me anyway.” He murmured as they passed a row of tall offices, trying to maneuver the car through the rows of tightly packed parked cars. 

“Why?” She asked interestedly. 

“Yoongi’s girlfriend broke up with him.”

“Oh.” She hesitated. “I didn’t know he was dating.”

“Neither did we.” He shrugged. “I kind of thought...I saw him with a girl, but…” He trailed off, not knowing how to explain the surprise he was witnessed at the theatre, over half a year before. 

“Is he okay?” She asked softly. 

“He’s just getting on with things.” He paused. “But I don’t think so.” He finished, honestly. 

The woman beside him fell silent for a moment before asking. “And how about you?”

He turned to look at her, meeting her gaze for a moment with big, brown eyes, before turning back to the road. His heart was jackhammering in his chest, suddenly realising that this could be it. “Does that mean you’ve come to a decision?”

“Kook…” She whispered sadly. 

“What I did…” He felt a lump rise in his throat as he tried to explain, needing her to know. “I can’t take it back…but you don’t know how much I want to.”

“Me too…” She agreed wistfully. 

He felt his eyes sting and blinked fiercely, trying to clear his vision as he pleaded. “I don’t want us to be over…I don’t.”

“I know.” She said quietly. 

He fought on, knowing if he didn’t say it now, he might not get another chance. “I know you don’t love me right now and I can’t expect you to...but do you think you ever could?” He asked. 

She took a moment to reply, wiping the corner of her eye. “If I didn’t love you, this wouldn’t be so hard…” She admitted, her own voice trembling. He met her gaze once more and saw that her eyes were glimmering with tears. He wanted nothing more than to reach for her, to take her hand in his. 

“Keep your eyes on the road.” She warned softly. 

“Sorry.” He muttered, turning back to the street. He took the next left from memory and the skyline turned dark as a row of shiny, glass buildings blocked out what remained of the sun. “I’m moving apartment next month.” He eventually said, breaking the silence. 

“What’s wrong with your old one?” She asked with a smirk, her voice normal once again. 

“Nothing.” He said, thinking. “This one has a home gym.”

“Is that all?” She teased. 

“It was a good price.” He shrugged. 

“You can drop me off at this corner. My building’s right there.” She pointed to the metal sign which hung above the revolving doors of a modern complex he recognised immediately. He had only been inside once, on the day they met, but he remembered the layout of the foyer vividly, and how she had looked when he first caught glimpse of her behind the reception desk. 

“Right.” He said, checking the wing-mirror before tucking the car against the curb. “Do you need a lift home?” He asked as she unbuckled her seatbelt. 

“I can get the bus.” She offered automatically. 

“It’s on my way back to the studio.” He said, hopefully. 

“Okay then…” There was a bout of uncertainty in her voice but she agreed. “I finish at five. I might be a few minutes late.”

“I’ll pick you up here?” 

“Okay.” She smiled, closing the door behind her. He watched to make sure she was safely inside the revolving doors before he pulled away, already anticipating seeing her again later that day.

PART TWO 

(Set a few days following the events of ‘Can we work out together more often?’)

The routine continued for the next few months and slowly, almost cautiously, they had started seeing each other outside of the car and their twice-daily journey. The sex had come as a bit of a surprise to them both, with the first time happening during a tour of his new apartment. Their lips had met in his bedroom and before he knew it, he was pressing her down into the covers, his lips seeking her pubis as he tugged the fabric of her panties away down her shapely legs and touched his tongue to her clitoris. He was down there for a long time, kissing her with as much passion and tenderness as he could muster despite her quiet moans and the rigidness of her body. He worried he had taken things too quickly, until he felt her hands tugging him up, her nimble fingers seeking his erection. Wordlessly, she had rummaged through his bedside table to find a condom, and slipped it on him. Unable to hide his pleasure, he had buried his head in her long, fragrant hair as she guided him inside, stifling his gasp as they moved together. He hadn’t lasted long, despite the barrier between them, and when he came he called her name out loud, both in relief and euphoria. 

They barely spoke afterwards and he didn’t finish his tour. The home gym went unexplored until a month later, where their desire had once again gotten the better of them. This time had been different; she had seemed to want him as much as he wanted her and there had been no latex barrier between them as they fucked. 

The memory of it, of seeing her with his seed dripping down her breasts and on her tongue, still rang through his mind as he pulled up outside her building, unable, as always, to help noticing the chipped paint on the front door which, from a certain angle, looked like a smiling face. As he twisted to turn off the engine, another object caught his eye and he turned to Young-soon with a smirk. “When did you get it back?” He asked, nodding towards the familiar blue Renault parked on the corner of the street.

Her lips pressed tightly together. “Do you want to come in for a coffee?” She asked softly, a little coquettish. 

“If you’re inviting me.” He grinned, feeling his heart skip at the prospect as they unfastened their seatbelts and walked across the street to her building. 

“I’ll pay you back…” She muttered apologetically as she searched through her purse for the house keys. “For the petrol.” She explained, cheeks pink.

“You don’t need to do that.” He shook his head as they headed inside and up the narrow set of stairs which led to her floor. “I’m just curious where you’ve been hiding it all this time.”

“My neighbour has a garage.” She shrugged as she unlocked the wooden door and closed it behind them both. As always when he visited her, the loftiness of the apartment took him by surprise. The building was much older than any he had ever inhabited, built during the days when space was not so much an issue. 

“I thought a new fan belt wouldn’t take that long to fit.” He admitted, realising that a part of him had known or at least strongly suspected that the car had been fixed weeks, if not months before. 

“So why didn’t you say anything?” She asked with a smile, leading him to the circular table which stood in the centre of the living room. 

He shook his head with a cautious grin, not wanting to sound too sentimental or sappy. 

“Sit down.” She gestured softly. “What are you having?”

“Whatever you are.”

He watched as she headed into the adjoining kitchen and switched on the electric kettle. It hummed to life as she spooned instant coffee into two matching mugs, part of a four piece set she had treated herself to with the gift vouchers her parents had got for her birthday. Pastel polka dots adorned the ceramic. 

“Were you scared it would break down again?” He asked, calling into the kitchen as she returned with the mugs. 

“No.” She set them down gently and took her place opposite him on a wicker-backed chair. “It’s nice to have company on my way to work.” She confessed with a blush, before adding: “The radio in my car’s broken.”

His lips turned up at the corners as he blew onto the dark surface of the liquid, cooling it down. “If you got it fixed would you still need me?”

“No.” She admitted, trailing a finger along the edge of the mug. “But I’d still want you there.”

His stomach grew warm as he looked at the table, mirroring her awkward stance but unable to help his lips stretching in a wide toothy grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He listened as she continued.

“I missed you.” She sighed. “I’m sorry I left last week, after the shower…”

“I understand why.” He quickly said, meaning it as he said it.

“It just felt best not to rush things.” She shrugged, taking a sip of coffee. The sound of heavy footsteps as someone from the apartment above descended the stairs filled the space, cutting the silence.

“Do you regret it?” 

“No.” She replied automatically, trying to find the right way of putting it. “I was relieved.”

“Why?”

She met his eyes across the table. “That you could still make me feel like that.” 

His gaze softened with her own as a moment of understanding passed between them. 

“It’s getting late…” She eventually muttered, a little regretfully. 

“I should go. You have to be up early.” He remembered, finishing his coffee and getting to his feet. 

“Thank you.” She whispered, knowing that he desperately wanted to stay but was taking the initiative to be sensible. The last few months had been incredibly hard for her, but she thought things just might be okay so long as they took things one step at a time. She pressed a lingering kiss to his warm cheek, inhaling his sweet aftershave as he hovered by the door. 

“Did you want a lift tomorrow into work?” He offered with a timid grin, a hint of mirth in his voice. 

She smiled in return. “Yes please.”

PART THREE

(Set a few days following the events of ‘Jin’s Bachelor/Stag Party’)

“What’s wrong with the pink dress?” Jungkook asked as discordant scraping of metal against metal filled his ears. Young-soon was pushing a row of coat hangers aside on the narrow rail, trying to view the garments which hung there. The boutique was small and, thankfully, almost deserted considering it was a weekend. 

“With the frills?” She asked, turning to him as her hand hovered on the thin fabric of a cerulean blue dress which had stood out to her among the others. 

“Yeah.” He shrugged. 

She rolled her eyes, turning back to the garment which she picked delicately from the hanger, draping it over her forearm. “I wore it to my aunt’s sixtieth birthday party…” She murmured, walking towards the pink velvet curtain which framed the store’s single fitting room. She pulled it closed behind her as she faced the full length mirror. “I thought I should probably buy something new.” Slipping off her sweater, she turned to the buckle of her jeans. “And I hate it.” She muttered under her breath. 

“Do you want to know who's the best man?” Jungkook called through the barrier of the curtain, observing the sound of a zipper being undone. 

“You?” She guessed with a grin. 

“No. Yoongi…” He said, absently killing time by peering into a glass cabinet of jewellery and accessories. The glisten of a bridal tiara caught his eye in the centre of the display. “He’s been working hard on his speech.” He finished.

PART FOUR 

(Set in the evening following ‘Jin’s Wedding’)

The evening was naturally drawing to a close as the guests slowly began to filter from the room, the soft, melodic ballad of a long-ago singer filling the space as the last of the remaining couples clung to each other on the dance floor. Jungkook nodded at Jimin and Ara as he passed them, the older member’s hand resting softly against the young woman’s backside as they swayed in time to the music. Both Yoongi and Namjoon were absent, having already gone to bed. The newlyweds were standing by the bar, both finishing a final glass of champagne. It had been a long day and they looked ready to retire themselves. Min-seo rubbed her eyes as Jungkook and Young-soon approached. 

“Are you leaving?” She asked with an understanding smile.

“We’re going to head to bed.” Jungkook confirmed. 

“Congratulations.” Young-soon said to them both before wrapping her arm around the bride’s shoulder in a hug. 

“We’ll see you tomorrow.” The older member embraced the maknae before turning to his girlfriend and repeating the motion. 

“Jin’s going to teach me how to play golf.” Jungkook smiled as they pulled away. 

“Count me in.” Young-soon grinned before waving softly. “Night.”

They passed a tall figure coming back from the ladie’s bathroom in the quiet corridor, her sweet, summery fragrance filling the space. 

“Night Nana.” Young-soon smiled as they passed.

“See you tomorrow.” The other woman grinned, fixing a floral hair grip in the tightly wound curls on her head. 

“I dropped our stuff off earlier.” Young-soon turned to Jungkook as they stepped in the elevator. 

“Did you reserve a twin room?” He asked, knowing she had sorted out the booking. 

“No. Double.” She confirmed with a slight smile. 

“Good.” He whispered as the doors ushered shut. 

The lighting in the bedroom was warm and soft, framing the back of her neck as she brushed her hair over the side of her shoulder, unfastening the hair band and allowing her long brunette locks to cascade across her breasts. He caught her gaze in the bathroom mirror from his position on the bed. “You look beautiful.” He said softly. 

She grinned. “Are you glad I wore this dress now?”

“I couldn’t take my eyes off you during the ceremony.” He admitted, unfastening the top few buttons of his white shirt and pulling the thick fabric from his collar where a few beads of perspiration caught on his throat. 

“It wasn’t me you were supposed to be looking at.” She turned around and quietly shut the door to the en-suite, walking towards the bed. 

“I’m sorry.” He blushed, teeth flashing. “I couldn’t help it.”

She stood in front of him and took his hand gently in hers, running her thumb along his knuckles as he looked up at her. She felt his spare hand reach between her breasts, his fingertips grazing the tiny diamond which hung between them on a thin gold chain. 

“I love you.” She confessed, running her eyes along his sweet, familiar features and welcoming the fluttery sensation in her stomach as she took him in. “I’m sorry I haven’t said that for a while…” She said sadly. 

“It’s okay.” He whispered, trailing his hand from the gentle swell of her cleavage to her neck. “I love you too...more than the whole world.” His voice was earnest and she felt warm all over, not least of all between her thighs. 

“Jungkook…” Her voice was quiet and a little breathy.

“Yeah?”

“Take me to bed.” 

Their eyes locked as his breath hitched in his throat; for a moment he was still, unable to move, and then she felt his arms around her, turning her by the waist and spinning her around as their lips connected. The bedsheets were cool and soft against her back as he lowered her gently onto the covers, their mouths opening against each other while he slowly slipped the tops of her sleeves from her shoulders, caressing her skin with his hands and lips as she unfastened his remaining buttons and eased his shirt from his torso. 

“I love you...I love you…” He whispered as he moved down her body, mouth skimming the smooth material of her dress as his fingers sought the zipper at the side, uncovering her as she gasped above him, the cool temperature from the air conditioning hitting her skin as she wriggled out of the dress. He hesitated, hands clutching the edges of her silk panties as he regarded her expression. She gazed up at him, her eyes dreamy beneath heavy eyelids as he slid them down, pressing his palm between her warm thighs to feel her sex. Her mouth parted and his eyes fell to her chest, to the necklace which lay above the band of her bra. He kissed it softly, running his lips along the mounds of her breasts as he teased apart the petal-like folds of her labia, sliding his fingers along her centre until they reached her opening. 

Breaking away from her skin, he shifted positions to press a lingering, open mouthed kiss to her clit as she unfastened her bra, before straightening up to remove his increasingly tight trousers and underwear. 

“Here…” She reached forward, propping her upper body against the headboard as she eased the fabric away from his crotch, not forgetting to admire the flattering fit of the tailor-made garments before throwing them to the floor with a grin. They moved together against the bedsheets as he nestled between her legs, allowing her help in guiding him. Their moan was mutual as he buried himself as deep as he could, grasping her hips and raising them from the bed to find the right angle. Her eyes scrunched closed as he hit her perfectly; his cock trailing along the swell of her g-spot as he pulled out slowly, before moving back in. He kept the pace slow, savouring her gasps and biting his lower lip as he watched her breasts quiver with each thrust, her sparkling diamond in the centre catching his eye as he felt himself growing closer to release. He tried to hold off, wanting to prolong the sensation as long as possible, and focussed his attention on her clit which he rubbed and massaged sensually between his index and middle finger, knowing he had hit the spot when she moved her hips to meet his hand, her moans becoming louder and more breathy with each passing second. Her chest grew pink as she bit her lip, closing her eyes tightly as she began to shake deliciously beneath and around him. He felt her encompass him, her walls squeezing his length as her orgasm consumed her. It had been so long since he had seen her like this; her entire body consumed with pleasure, and he followed not long after; her pulsating body helping him along as he clutched her breathlessly to him. 

The bathroom suddenly felt like a long way away as he wrapped his arms around her body, slipping out of her as easily as he had entered and moving onto his back. Her breath was likewise ragged as she tucked her head into the concaving space where his shoulder met his neck and ran her hands lovingly along his chest, utterly exhausted. 

His lips found her damp forehead and he pressed a kiss to her, utterly content. “I’m so happy.” He whispered to her, allowing sleep to take him.

***

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[pussypoppinhippo]

Show me How you Burlesque|| Ballum

Summary: When a burst pipe threatens the Friday night Drag show at the Prince Albert the Vic offer to host instead. The show stars Walford’s own Diana Dee Izzuez but just which one of the residents of the square is behind the glamorous performer? 

A/N: I haven’t written anything like this in maybe ten years but this struck me tonight, beware of spelling mistakes and saucy dancing below.

Spotify Playlist for this fic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7jVrM8LP1qwd0OvO3vqcgo?si=DtdQVAY4RkKo2ZBmbv6r4A

It was a little past seven at night on a semi busy Friday in the Vic when Tina, somewhat dripping wet despite the wonderful summer weather, came bursting through the pub doors. No one really batted an eyelid at the sight, Linda who was stationed behind the bar wasn’t all that taken aback when the soaking wet woman accosted her talking a mile a minute about drag queens, burst water pipes and a plea to move some sort of theme night into the local pub.

At a table just by the door Jay, Lola and Whitney were chatting waiting for Calum to bring the next round of drinks over from the bar, Whitney and Calum had broken up a year prior just before their wedding day after a blow up argument about the lads clear disinterest in their impending marriage. They’d only really started speaking properly again after Easter and tonight was the first real night in the pub they’d embarked on as friends.

“Apparently some sort of pipe disasters driven everyone out of the Prince Albert” Calum nodded his head over to Tina who was now drying off with a towel Mick had fetched her “ they’re moving their drag show here, starts at eight and apparently they’ve got this local performing as the main act”. Placing the drinks down on the table he took his seat next to Jay “Tina says we can stay for free if we fancy it” he added.

“A local act?” questioned Lola “I wonder if it’s that ...deedee? Ben was talking about the other week there you remember that?” she nudged Jay with an eyebrow raised.

The ginger rolled his eyes affectionately at the mention of his brothers latest nightlife obsession “ Di I think he said, apparently she’s from Walford and if I remember quite rightly he said she was pretty enough to make him consider the other side”.

Calum swallowed at the mention of the handsome mechanic, they’d started dating in secret in November and while Ben wasn’t best pleased with being kept a secret he’d understood that halfway’s father moving to Walford had made his impending coming out much more difficult.

“I say we stay! it sounds like a good laugh doesn’t it?” Whitney piped up with a grin, “ What do you think Cal?”. Nodding he gave her a smile as he reached down to send his boyfriend a cheeky text about missing out on the fun. “Speaking of Ben where is he tonight?” she asked taking a sip of her drink.

“He said Something about some hot totty” Jay snorted with a head shake “ same old Ben ain’t it? though I’m sure he’ll be sad to have missed out on all this” he motioned to the filling pub and the makeshift stage that Mick and Tina were creating toward one end of it.

They fell back into relatively normal conversation about life as they enjoyed their drink, managing to grab another round just before Kathy announced the show would be starting in five minutes time. Checking his phone Calum noted the text from his lover with a smile

‘ Sounds like I’m missing out don’t get stolen away by Walford's blue eyed temptress now ;) x’

He didn’t have time to reply to it as Kathy Introduced the nights entertainment.

“ Please give a warm Walford welcome to the Incomparable Walford vixen Miss Diana Dee Izzuez” she grinned as the first few notes of ‘Welcome to Burlesque” filled the air.

The figure that stepped onto the makeshift stage was like a vision from a Hollywood film, while the person was not particularly tall the glittery red high heels made the fishnet stocking encased legs that peeked from the slit in an equally sparkling floor length gown look long and the dress with its corseted top hugged the figure of the person it encased in all the right places. Long flowing wavy black hair framed a perfectly painted face with lips that could have been painted in blood and as they parted Calum thought he quite possibly could have died as the voice of an angel fell from them.

“Show a little more, show a little less

Add a little smoke, welcome to Burlesque”

It was seductive every move graceful and every word of the song perfectly sung as the queen on staged greeted her audience with an at ease smirk. Everyone in the pub was captivated, the Prince Albert faithful watched on with an admiration for someone they loved and the Vic’s usual punters looked on in an almost awe at the masterful mystery before them. It was only as the second verse began that a vague sort of recognition rang in Calum’s head, he’d heard that voice before he was almost certain but he couldn’t quite place where.

The seductress on stage waved an elbow length black glove encased hand at someone in the crowd as her eyes scanned the rest of them passing over the table at the back of the room with a disgruntled Phil, an interested Sharon, a captivated Louise and a fed up looking Keanu in mild interest before landing on the friends sat near the door with a smirk.

“If you wanna a little extra, well, you know where I am

Something better in the dark, just playing with your mind

There's nothing in the days, that's just for the bump and grind

Show a little more

Show a little less

Add a little smoke

Welcome to …….Burlesque.”

The song finished up and Diana took her applause with a graceful smile and leant down to accept a drink from someone.

“Y’know she does look sort of familiar” Lola popped up eyes narrowing as she studied the figure on stage “y’reckon we know her?” she asked the group who were also studying the drag queen with interest.

“Maybe it’s kush?” added whitney “ I can’t really tell the lighting here is awful”.

The ginger snorted “ can’t be we all know after New Years karaoke Kush’s tone deaf, what do you think mate?” he nudged Calum unaware that the penny had just dropped for the former army officer, Diana Dee Izzuez was sporting a rather prominent hickey just above a classic pearl necklace, a hickey that the man knew matched perfectly with one he’d given Ben mere hours before in the Arches and that singing voice one that reminded him so much of Ben singing in a hotel shower after a sneaked weekend away a month or so back.

“Uh I…no idea mate” he stumbled out trying to hide his surprise with a sip of his drink as he tried to make sense of the fact that the beautiful performer on stage could in fact be his rough around the edges boyfriend.

“Welcome Ladies, Gentlemen and those who are somewhere in between, my name is Diana Dee Izzuez but you my friends can call me Di” the queen purred voice husky with a musical lilt that had Calum second guessing if his suspicions about this being Ben were right.

“I’m going to sing a few songs and do a touch of dancing for you tonight, if you enjoy my performance there are tip jars on the bar we’re collecting money in aid of AKT who help support LGBT+ homeless youth” Di smiled before taking a sip of her red wine and setting it down on the side of the stage. Clicking her fingers above her head the next songs started up the plucky piano recognisable to anyone who enjoyed a Broadway show almost immediately.

"The name on everybody's lips

Is gonna be Roxie

The lady raking in the chips

Is gonna be Roxie”

Highways mouth went dry as he watched Di swing her hips seductively on stage, every word was sung with that same devilish smirk that he could pinpoint as the one Ben used along side witty one liners, that was most definitely his boyfriend. Her hips swayed as she clicked her fingers to the beat teasingly kicking her leg out from the slit in the dress so the audience could catch a peak of the lacey black garter and matching suspenders underneath.

“From just some dumb mechanics son

I'm gonna be Roxie

Who says that murder's not an art?”

While the change in lyrics may have went over almost everyone in the pubs head it had Sharon and Louises eyes widening in recognition although Ben hadn’t made it that subtle he’d coupled the line with a little kiss blown toward the table.

His boyfriend certainly caught it and it had confirmed what he’d been thinking, Walford’s blue eyed vixen was none other than Ben Mitchell. On stage the performance went on Di was shimming along to the beat, the little break in the music was filled with a slow seductive turn and a pretty impressive high kick showing off more of the lace hidden underneath the eye catching dress. Taking a step off the stage the crowd practically parted  as Di didn’t miss a beat heels clicking in time with the music as she purred the lyrics.

Think of those autographs

I'll sign,

'Good luck to ya, '

Roxie!

She leaned over signing a piece of paper that was offered toward her with a flourish, she made her way toward the back of the crowd interacting with people as she went. Di never wavered once while singing leaning over to kiss a miserable looking Keanu’s cheek as she breezed past the Mitchell table and worked back toward the stage leaving the woman at it stifling giggles. Reaching the group of friends at the front she shot Calum a wink.

“the audience loves me!

And I love them

And they love me for loving them

And I love them for loving me

And we love each other

And that's because none of us

Got enough love in our childhoods

And that's showbiz

Kid”

Di had leant toward them as she’d sung the lines and the last few  had definitely been aimed toward Calum who was trying his best not to turn beet red. He was definitely going to have to have a long talk with Ben after this and perhaps he’d suggest those heels make an appearance at their next weekend away. She climbed back onto the stage finishing the song with a flourish and a smile before smoothing her hands over her curves then bending down to pick up her wine.

“Y’know those pearls…. they looks a bit like the ones you showed me with the one pink pearl in the centre” Jay arched an eyebrow at Calum who hadn’t quite managed to get his blush under control.

“No…no don’t think so mate” the taller man spluttered trying to avoid eye contact, he’d noticed it as well that  the pearl necklace Di was wearing was identical to the one he’d bought Whit for their wedding day but had never given her, the one he was sure was supposed to be nestled in his bedside drawer back at the flat.

“Wait ...do you know who she is Cal?” Whit questioned as everyone at the table turned toward him, looking at him expectantly she leaned in a little more “have you figured it out?”

Shaking his head he was just about to blurt out an excuse when a voice from the stage interrupted.

“ For this next song I’m going to need a handsome volunteer” Diana pretended to scan the audience her eyes almost immediately landing on Calum who was trying to lean away from his ex almost wife who had leant in to try and get information out of him, the little flash of jealousy in Di’s eyes was gone almost as soon as it appeared.

“hmmmm you” she purred pointing to Highway “ give that tall glass of water a round of applause as he makes his way up here oh and barkeep?”. She waved a hand toward Mick with a dazzling smile “ two of your finest whisky please for me and my friend here”.

While she’d been speaking Kathy had slipped a chair onto the stage, of course she knew exactly who Di was, Ben had approached her about the drag nights after he’d done a few gigs at other clubs but she wasn’t quite sure why exactly instead of the usual anonymous handsome punter he’d picked Calum for this bit.

Making his way onto the stage after some pushing from the others Cal allowed himself to be pushed down into the chair eyes taking in just how gorgeous the other was up close in drag.

“ be good for me lover boy” Di purred in his ear as the music for the next song started up leaving Calum blushing to stand behind the chair.

“The demon queen of high school has decreed it

She says Monday, 8am I will be deleted

They'll hunt me down in study hall

Stuff and mount me on the wall

Thirty hours to live, how shall I spend them?”

Up close like this the taller man could smell the perfume Diana wore, the musky floral scent was definitely expensive and the note of something very strictly Ben peeking through it was definitely making it that much more alluring. Diana's hand slid down Calums chest as she sang undoing the top button of his white button up with gloved hands. Her hips still swinging she danced around the man in the chair using him as a prop to help enhance her performance. Every word of the song was sung with such passion the lanky man was sucked in, so enchanted he wasn’t expecting the lap full of Di that he ended up with.

"Shh…

Sorry but I really had to wake you

See, I decided I must ride you ‘til I break you

'Cause Heather says I gots to go

You're my last meal on death row”

She guided his hands to her hips and faced the audience as she seated herself in his lap the pleased smirk of blood red lips saying it all the watching audience. Calum’s eyes drifted toward his group of friends who were giggling, grinning and wiggling their eyebrows at him as he received what could best be described as a lap dance from the other. He was most definitely past blushing and was now an almost permanent shade of pink that perhaps could only be matched by the shade of red Phil Mitchell had turned when his wife had explained exactly who the tart on stage was really.The Dance continued just as raunchy as Di rolled her hips and halfway hands wandered ever so slightly to run over the curve of waist the corset was giving the beautiful babe in his lap.

Get your ass in gear

Make this whole town disappear

"Okay, okay!"

Slap me, pull my hair

Touch me

There and there and there

And no more talking!

Whoa!

Love this dead girl walking!

A slap to the man's thigh and then hand tugging halfways hair in time with the song sent the crowd cheering and they only got wilder as Diana stood in front of him and ripped the skirt from her dress revealing lace boy short style panties that at that moment only Calum could see had the word ‘saucy’ stoned in red gems on the back and that matching lace suspender set that held up fishnet stockings. Hitting the note at the end of the song the place practically erupted as Di took a bow and then the whisky offered on a tray by Mick handing one to Calum before cheersing him. Downing it the undertaker stood up moving to make his way off stage but not making it very far as he was caught by Miss Diana who spun him around and promptly kissed him on the lips. Despite the moment of panic it brought immediately Calum found he didn’t actually care and pulled the other closer to deepen the kiss ever so slightly appreciating that with Ben in such high heels he didn’t have to bend into the kiss so much.

Parting to wolf whistles from the crowd Halfway slipped off of the stage and back to his table where he was greeted by raised eyebrows.

“SO you don’t her then?” questioned Jay as he crossed his arms.

“ never kissed me like that cal” Whitney added reaching over to wipe a spot of red lipstick that had transferred over to the corner of his mouth.

“ So c’mon spill, who is the mysterious Diana Dee Izzuez” prompted Lola as they all leaned in toward the other so they would be able to hear his answer over the beginnings of Britney's Toxic.

The door near the back of the pub slammed followed by a muffled “Phil!” and Calum could only chuckle his eyes were drawn back to the dancing figure on the stage who had gone from Hollywood glam to sex kitten.

“ Well I’d say he’s a talented man with daddy issues” he grinned, glancing over to the others at the table “but I think you’d know him better as Ben Mitchell and he’s my boyfriend”.

[olicity-fanwork-exchange]

PB&J

This is a gift for the talented Wallflower ( @arrowtweets ). I was inspired by her ever entertaining fanart. The piece that inspired me can be found at:

https://arrowtweets.tumblr.com/post/174349279051/tommy-tries-a-new-way-to-get-oliver-the-results

I selected this piece because I am a firm believer that everything is better with more Tommy Merlyn. Wallflowers also requested the work to be angsty with some fluff and Tommy always delivers when it comes to angst with some fluff.

Summary: After weeks of getting the silent treatment, Tommy tries to lure Oliver out to breakfast by sending him messages and pictures of how much fun he and Felicity are having. Oliver is still angry with Tommy and is refusing to take the bait.

Rating: General

From: @realityisoverrated-fic

Verdant was closed for the night and the thumping dance music that had been audible in the basement was now silent. The cleaning crew had already been through and the sharp bite of disinfectant covered the smell of stale booze and too many bodies sweating.  Verdant’s revelers would think the club looked strange empty without strobing lights, but Felicity thought it looked wrong filled with people. The club was their cover and their protection and Oliver’s best friend stood guard over them every night. No one suspected that Oliver and Tommy were hiding a vigilante enterprise in the bowels of the popular nightclub.

Felicity waited in the shadows and watched as Tommy stood behind the bar counting cash from the register. He’d changed out of his suit and tie and was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. A pair of reading glasses were perched on his nose and he kept pushing them up by the bridge as he moved through the receipts. Women, and some men, were constantly slipping Tommy their phone numbers on napkins. He always took the numbers with a flirty smile, but the numbers always got crumpled up and thrown into the trash. None of them knew the real Tommy was the slightly nerdy guy in the thick-framed glasses with the MBA he pretended not to have but was secretly proud of. It never ceased to amaze Felicity how quickly the Merlyn heir slipped in and out of the mask he wore. Instead of grease paint, Tommy’s mask consisted of a million-watt smile. Just as Oliver used his gravelly voice to intimidate and threaten, Tommy used his smile to disarm and distract. It was easy to see what drew the billionaires together in friendship. Oliver and Tommy shared many similarities beyond their womanizing reputations and love for a good party. Like Oliver, Tommy often showed his worst self to the world to protect himself. The more she got to know both men, the more she believed they only showed their true selves to each other. It was only recently that she felt like she’d been included in their inner circle.

“If you’re going to stare, the least you can do is buy me a drink,” Tommy said, as he placed cash into a bank deposit bag.

Felicity stepped out of the shadows and approached the bar, waving her cell back and forth. “I thought you wanted me to buy you breakfast.”

Tommy looked over her shoulder, the hope dimmed from his eyes and his shoulders sagged when he realized Oliver wasn’t with her.

“He’s got a lot on his mind,” Felicity said, feeling the need to apologize for her boyfriend. “He already headed home.”

Tommy smiled sadly. “That’s okay, you’re far better company and much prettier.”

Felicity snorted. “It’s sad when I pass for better company and we both know that you and Oliver are far prettier than me.”

“We are very pretty, but we don’t hold a candle to you,” he said with a wink. “Are you sure you don’t want to head home? You’ve had a long day too.”

Felicity climbed onto a stool and placed her elbows on the bar. She rested her chin on her hands as she watched Tommy fill out his bank deposit slip. “I overdid the coffee, I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to. Besides, I was promised pancakes and bacon.”

“There was a time when women answered my calls for things other than pancakes and bacon,” Tommy lamented.

“They would again if you texted someone other than me and Thea,” Felicity said gently. Oliver thought Tommy was still upset about what happened between them and Laurel, but Felicity suspected Tommy was looking for ways to punish himself for his father’s actions. Isolating himself from everyone but Felicity and the Queens seemed to be Tommy’s form of penance.

“Where too? The Unicorn or the Red Oak?” Tommy asked, naming two of Felicity’s favorite diners.

“Hmmm,” Felicity said, tapping her chin. She wasn’t sure which spot she was more in the mood for. “The Unicorn has the banana chocolate chip that I love, but the Red Oak has the banana fosters that I love.”

“You’re going to turn into a banana.” He held out his hand and helped her off the stool. “You have until I make the deposit to make up your mind.” Tommy held out his cell to take a selfie of them. “Smile. I want to make Ollie jealous.”

Felicity made kissy lips at Tommy’s phone. He tapped a message out on his cell as they crossed the dance floor.

“I don’t think he’ll change his mind,” Felicity told him as he held the door for her.

“You can’t blame a boy for trying,” Tommy said, locking Verdant’s door behind them.

Felicity hadn’t been able to make up her mind about where to have breakfast and remained silent when Tommy picked the Red Oak, even though he preferred the Unicorn. She expected it was because the Red Oak was closer to Oliver’s apartment and he was still holding out hope that Oliver would still come. Felicity had sent Oliver a text when they first arrived, but she hadn’t heard back from him.

The diner was mostly empty. An older man sat at the counter with a cup of coffee and a slice of pie. Dawn was more than an hour away and it was still as dark as midnight outside. Rain was streaking the large windows and the lights from the traffic signal were distorted on the pavement. Felicity wrapped her hands around her mug of hot chocolate. The combination of being dry and warm with the sound of the rain pelting the glass was making her feel sleepy.

“He’s avoiding me,” Tommy said, his gaze firmly planted on his cup of decaf.

Felicity tore her gaze from the window. “He’s not.” She felt guilty that the lie came so easily, but she didn’t want Tommy to feel bad. Oliver was angry, but he’d get over it - eventually.

Tommy looked up with surprise. Felicity hadn’t lied to him since Tommy found out Oliver’s green secret. “I threatened to steal his girl and even that wasn’t enough to get him to join us.”

“He’s tired,” Felicity said, ignoring Tommy’s attempt at humorous deflection. She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “The new guy bringing guns into the city has Oliver, Dig, and Roy running all over town tracking down leads. He’s not avoiding you – he really is tired.”

“He’s angry with me,” Tommy said, leaning back against the booth.

Realizing Tommy wasn’t going to let the topic drop, she stopped pulling her punches. “You almost got yourself killed,” Felicity reminded him. “I’m not all that happy with you either.”

Tommy opened his mouth to defend himself when the waitress returned with his omelet and her pancakes. He waited until the waitress was out of earshot before he said, “If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have known that the mayor is the one paying for all those guns.”

“You’re not trained to do this,” Felicity said.

“Neither were you when he sent you undercover to count cards,” Tommy replied angrily.

“I wasn’t alone. Oliver was right outside. You followed the mayor without telling anyone. You didn’t have backup. You’re lucky you got out of there with only a flesh wound,” Felicity replied.

Tommy had overheard a conversation at Verdant between two women who worked in the mayor’s office while they were sitting at the bar. The women were discussing meetings the mayor was taking and insisting they keep off his official calendar. Tommy had taken it upon himself to start following the mayor around town. One night he followed the mayor to Orchid Bay where he had a conversation in an alley with the man who was most likely running guns through the city. Tommy had managed to get a video of their meeting and send it to Felicity before he was discovered lurking in the shadows. He barely got away after a bullet grazed his upper arm.

The memory of Tommy falling down the last few steps into the basement was never far from Felicity’s mind. He’d been deathly pale and covered in blood when they managed to roll him onto his back. Diggle and Roy had been the ones to lift him off the floor and over to the medical table because Oliver had been shaking too hard to help. Once Tommy was out of danger, Oliver had exploded with anger. He’d been punishing Tommy with silence ever since. Her appetite gone, Felicity pushed her untouched plate away.

Tommy absently rubbed at his arm. “I was trying to help.”

“He doesn’t want to see you hurt,” Felicity said.

Tommy looked wounded by her comment. “Like we want to see him hurt?”

“Oliver doesn’t always see the irony of his hypocrisy,” Felicity said with a small smile.

“He’s always been stubborn.” Tommy ran his hands over his head. “Is he ever going to forgive me?”

The bell over the diner door jingled and Felicity smiled at the familiar figure standing by the hostess stand and brushing water from his closely cropped hair. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

Tommy turned in his seat and they watched Oliver approach their table. “I thought you weren’t coming,” Tommy said in way of greeting.

Oliver hung up his leather jacket and slid into the booth next to Felicity. “You didn’t play fair. You said you were ordering the southwest omelet. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.” He picked up Felicity’s fork and reached across the table to cut off a piece of Tommy’s omelet and speared it along with a home fry. He hummed with satisfaction as he chewed the eggs and potato.

Tommy rolled his eyes as he pushed his plate between them. He reached over the booth behind them and retrieved a set of napkin wrapped cutlery that he handed to Felicity. He signaled to the waitress and ordered another omelet.

“What are we talking about?” Oliver asked as he moved Felicity’s pancakes closer to her.

“How stubborn you are,” Tommy said.

Oliver arched an eyebrow. “I’m stubborn? I believe you’re the one who slept outside in the rain and ended up in the hospital because you refused to ring the doorbell when you lost your house keys at Max Fuller’s pool party.”

“I was sixteen, drunk, and missing my pants. My dad would’ve killed me and then grounded me and then killed me again,” Tommy said around a mouthful of omelet.

“You ended up in the hospital?” Felicity asked with concern.

“Hypothermia,” Tommy said with a shrug.

“You still got grounded,” Oliver said.

“You got grounded after being hospitalized?” Felicity asked. She knew she shouldn’t be surprised by anything Malcolm Merlyn did. A man who was willing to commit mass murder was never going to be named father of the year.

“It was only for a month,” Tommy answered.

“He canceled Christmas,” Oliver grumbled.

“Who cancels Christmas?” Felicity said. She never celebrated the holiday, but from all the cartoons and movies she’d watched over the years, only Scrooge and the Grinch ever tried to cancel Christmas and even they never succeeded.

“He didn’t cancel Christmas. He didn’t let me go with Ollie on the Queen’s annual ski trip,” Tommy explained. “We still had Christmas.”

“We didn’t spend it together. It felt like Christmas was canceled,” Oliver pouted.

“I hope the party was worth it,” Felicity teased. She loved hearing about Oliver and Tommy’s exploits. Her teenage years were pretty boring in comparison to theirs. When she was sixteen she was already in college and spent most of her free time studying.

Tommy scoffed. “It was totally worth it. Beth Miller kissed me.” He looked out the window wistfully.

Felicity took a bite of her pancakes. “What happened to your pants?”

“I bet him he wouldn’t jump into Max’s pool,” Oliver said.

“That still doesn’t explain what happened to his pants,” Felicity said.

“I took them off before I jumped in,” Tommy said like it was obvious.

“And you forgot to put them back on?” Felicity asked with a laugh.

Tommy’s brow furrowed and his nose scrunched. “No, someone took them – never found out who.”

Felicity knocked her shoulder against Oliver’s. “Was it you?”

Tommy snorted.

“What?” Felicity asked, sitting up.

“Someone took my pants too,” Oliver mumbled.

Tommy laughed and Felicity joined in. “I thought you bet him about getting in the pool.”

“I bet him right back. If I was getting wet, so was he,” Tommy said.

Felicity shivered at the thought of going swimming in December. The Pacific Northwest was temperate, but Starling City was still cold in December. Oliver put his arm around her shoulder and drew her closer into his side. The warmth of his body chased away her imagined chill.

Oliver kissed the side of her head. “Max’s swimming pool was heated,” he explained.

“Being in the water wasn’t bad,” Tommy said. “It wasn’t until we got out that it was freezing.”

“No wonder you got hypothermia,” Felicity said. She had more questions about how Tommy got back to his house without his house keys, but she hesitated to ask a question that might lead to Laurel. The Lance sisters made frequent appearances in Oliver and Tommy’s stories and Laurel was still an open wound between them. Felicity had no intention of poking that wound while Oliver was still upset that Tommy had risked his life to obtain information for him.

“No one ever accused him of being the smart one,” Oliver said with a wink.

“I don’t remember anyone accusing you of being the smart one either,” Tommy said to Oliver.

Oliver smirked. “No, I was the cute one.”

“I was the cute one,” Tommy insisted. “You were the bad boy.”

Felicity looked up at Oliver and grinned at the thought of him in a boy band. “The rebel with the heart of gold.”

Oliver squeezed Felicity’s hand. “You need to be smarter,” he said to Tommy. “I need you to be smarter.”

The smile fell from Tommy’s face. “I was trying to help.”

“I know, but I want you safe. I can’t lose you,” Oliver said.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Tommy said sincerely.

Oliver’s eyes became glassy and he looked away. His lips pressed together in a thin line and he gave a sharp nod.

“Dig offered to teach me to box. I accepted,” Tommy said with a grin, “but I told him he’s not allowed to hit my face. I make my living with this face.”

Oliver looked at the ceiling like he was praying for patience.

Felicity resumed eating her breakfast as she listened to Oliver and Tommy continue to tease one another. The sound of their laughter was filling the empty spaces in the diner. She was glad Oliver had decided to join them for breakfast. He needed to forgive Tommy as much as Tommy needed his forgiveness. Thea liked to joke that Oliver without Tommy was like peanut butter without jelly. The more time Felicity spent with them, the more she realized Thea was right.

Tommy leaned forward and crooked his finger at Felicity. When she complied, he asked, “Did Ollie ever tell you about the time he stole a penguin?”

“The time we stole a penguin,” Oliver corrected.

“Fine, we stole a penguin,” Tommy said.

Felicity put down her fork. “This I have to hear.”

[torestoreamends]

Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Fic: Bluebell and Birch

9.7k words, G rated

Albus and James find a ramshackle shed in the orchard at the bottom of the garden while they're playing one day. With Harry's help, Albus rebuilds it, and over the years it becomes a hiding place, a sanctuary, a place for tears and romance, and ultimately his favourite place in the world.

This is a belated birthday present for my friend @hestels2. Over the summer she asked Theo where he thinks Albus runs to after the blanket scene, and he told her about Albus's shed – a place where he can hide and feel safe when things are too much at home. This is based on that idea. It's the saga of the shed.

Beta'd by the wonderful @abradystrix.

Read it here on AO3.

*

Albus’s earliest memory of the shed is of it being a ramshackle wooden hut, surrounded by overgrown grass, full of cobwebs and broken bits of metal contraptions left behind by the Muggle who owned the house before they did. He and James discovered it one day while they were playing in the orchard, nestled between a gnarled old apple tree and the bit of crumbling stone wall that separates their land from the sheep field next door. 

It was locked when they found it. James wanted to pick the lock, but before he got the chance to find a suitable implement, the strength of Albus’s curiosity had already made the padlock click and fall into the grass. 

“I didn’t mean to do that,” Albus said, looking down at the tiny glimpse of rust-browned lock that can be seen among the jungle of undergrowth. He actually felt a bit proud of himself. It wasn’t often that he did accidental magic, and every time he did it gave him a secret thrill of joy. 

“You did do it though.” James patted him on the shoulder as he brushed past and gave the door a shove. “Come on. I want to go inside.”

It took both of them to get the door open; it was so stiff. The boards making it up were bent and warped by years of damp. It looked like the paint had flaked off, leaving only the bare, unprotected wood behind, and the odd rusty nail sticking out. 

Inside it smelled of musty damp. There were mushrooms growing in one corner, little white ones peeking through a gap between floor and wall and ground. The leaves that had blown in through the broken windows were now a mulch on the floor. As James stepped through the door the whole structure creaked and cracked. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t go in,” Albus whispered, without knowing why he was whispering. “It might be dangerous.”

“It’s fine,” James replied. “Look.” He stomped his foot on the floor, which buckled beneath him, making him grab at the door frame. When he was sure it wasn’t going to completely collapse he turned to Albus and gave him a bright smile. “See? Come on Al.”

Albus tiptoed over the threshold, trying to put as little weight on the floor as he could, and avoiding James’s hole. As he stepped further into the tiny space a pair of field mice came skittering out of nowhere, making him jump.  He jumped back, straight into James, who shoved him off.

“Ow, you stood on my toe.”

“Sorry!” Albus gasped. “They made me jump. This place is creepy.”

“It is a bit,” James agreed. He ran his fingers over the fractured plastic handle of something Albus thought might be a lawn mower. “It’s like a graveyard for Muggle gardening stuff. We should bring granddad here.”

“I think we should tell Mum and Dad it’s here,” Albus murmured, watching a fat black spider making improvements to its web. It seemed oblivious to their presence, focused on the delicate spin of silk, which shone gold in the dappled sunlight streaming diffuse and soft through the dusty window. 

“We could make it a den,” James suggested. “Or a broom shed!” His eyes went bright and his gaze more distant, clearly imagining the glory of this room stuffed with broomsticks and Quidditch gear. 

Albus pulled a face. “No. We already have a broom shed. I’m going to tell Dad about it, then we can decide what we do. It can’t be a den with holes in the floor and mushrooms growing in it.”

James shrugged. “Okay. Race you back to the house to tell Dad.”

---

They did decide to make the shed into a den. 

“But not just a den for you, James,” Ginny said, giving James a significant look. “You have to let Albus and Lily play there too.”

James pouted. “Fine. It can be a boring den. I don’t mind.”

It didn’t take long to clean out with magic. They spent a couple of hours scrubbing it clean, or rather Harry did. James did laps of the orchard on his broom, dropping by every half an hour to check on progress, and Albus sat cross-legged in the grass and watched his dad work. Lily was too young to be interested in the redevelopment project, so she was inside with Ginny. 

Once everything was stripped clean, Harry started rebuilding, with Albus as his assistant. They replaced the rotten boards, completely redid the floor and roof, and Harry showed Albus how to fix things together the Muggle way, only instead of using a hammer to push the nails home, they used magic instead. 

The most fun bit, not that any of it wasn’t fun, was painting. Once the shed was all rebuilt and water tight, and the new windows had been put in place, gleaming with polished perfection, they went to a shop in Diagon Alley to pick out the colours for the inside of their new den. James wanted bright crimson and gold, because of course he did. Albus wanted more muted shades, pale blue maybe, or green. In the end they compromised and went for a cheerful sunshine yellow. 

Albus did most of the painting, at least of the bits he could reach. It was actually quite fun, sweeping the brush down the lines of the boards to create a perfect wash of colour. Watching the inside of the shed slowly transform from the silver of plain birch boards to buttercup yellow is still one of his favourite memories. When he could no longer reach to paint anymore he sat on the floor and watched Harry do it, and when they got to the ceiling, Harry lifted him up so he could paint that too. 

It was really nice, spending time just Albus and Harry. Albus didn’t get to spend enough time with his dad, because he worked so much, so that weekend was precious to him. At the end when he could look around at the drying paint, and the little hut they’d made together, he felt a warm glow of happiness. They did this together. It was theirs. Their memory. Their place. 

“Are you happy?” Harry asked, seeing Albus’s smile. 

Albus nodded, unable to speak against all the joy welling up inside him.

“Good.” Harry ruffled his hair with a paint spattered hand. “Come on. We can come back once it’s dry.”

Albus couldn’t stay away. He spent all that evening sitting on the doorstep, staring out at the spot in the orchard where he knew the shed was. Only when it was time for bed did he leave, and even then he couldn’t sleep. The next morning he was up with the sun, gathering all the things he wanted to take to the shed: a couple of blankets, cushions, a lamp, a Mimbulus Mimbletonia, and a regular Muggle cactus. By the time his parents came downstairs he was sitting by the back door, surrounded by a heap of stuff, desperate to be allowed to get going. 

Harry and Ginny glanced at each other. 

“Come on then,” Harry said. “Do you need help with any of this stuff?”

They carried it together, lugging it across the dewy grass that sparkled, crystalline in the pale heather dawn light. 

The shed was cast in shadow as they approached, nestled in the pools of darkness beneath the trees. They hadn’t painted the outside, just cast an Imperturbable Charm to preserve the wood, so It was still protected while maintaining the silver sheen of the boards. Harry had put a spell on the door too, so it only opened when any of the Potters touched it. Albus had tested it several times the day before, pressing his palm to the door and waiting for it to click open, but this time it was for real, which made it all the more thrilling. 

The door swung inwards, and he stared in at the room. It was bright and airy, all the mushrooms and spiders and rotten boards long gone. The smell of fresh paint and wood chips floated out and he inhaled, closing his eyes. It was solace and peace and home. 

Dust motes danced in the rising sun as they stepped inside and started decorating. Albus arranged the blankets and cushions on the floor, placed the cactus and Mimbletonia on the window ledge, and set the lamp down in one corner. Harry drew his wand and started draping little beads of light across the walls, making the place even brighter and more welcoming. Finally he cast a bit of bluebell flame into the lamp, and Albus sat down in the middle of his new den, looking around. 

“I like it,” he said. “I like it better now it’s not all mouldy anymore.”

“It’s not about to collapse either,” Harry said, resting a hand against one of the walls and inspecting the paint. “Will you be happy out here?”

Albus nodded. “Definitely. As long as James doesn’t visit too much.”

Harry laughed and pushed his glasses up his nose. “You might have to compromise on that. It is meant to be a den for both of you, and Lily.”

“Lily can come,” Albus said. “And I might let James. If he’s very nice.”

“I’ll have a word with him,” Harry promised. “Now, do you want some breakfast?”

Albus thought about that. “Can I bring it back here to eat?”

“Of course,” Harry said, putting a hand on Albus’s shoulder. “It’s yours now.”

---

It didn’t take James long to get bored of the shed. He loved it for that first summer, and he would sometimes hang out there afterwards. For a while Albus couldn’t go in there because James was always there with Rose and the other Weasleys. Even Teddy came to visit at one point. But James always preferred being outdoors. He liked running around in the orchard, or whacking Bludgers at people. He didn’t go in for being cooped up inside or sitting quietly in the shade, so the novelty of the den wore off after a while. 

But Albus didn’t get bored of it. He loved having somewhere to hide from the chaos and noise of his family. He liked being able to disappear and not be bothered for hours, until his mum came to fetch him for dinner. The shed became his favourite place to be, and then it gradually became the only place he wanted to be.

It started around the time that James went to Hogwarts. Even though there was one less person in the house, it seemed as though, gradually, everyone had less time for Albus. There were letters to write to James every week, and he became all anyone ever talked about: his classes, his Quidditch, his detentions. Albus was doing well with his basic schooling, so Ginny’s attention was focused more on making sure Lily was up to scratch. Harry became busier at work, thanks to a swell in dark activity, and gone were the days when he’d come home and read Albus a bedtime story, or lift him up so he could paint the ceiling of a shed. 

Albus started going to the shed because he was lonely, and he hoped that if he was the one inflicting the loneliness on himself it wouldn’t hurt so much. But it still did. 

One rainy spring afternoon, just after Albus’s eleventh birthday, when his parents were fretting about James’s exams, and Lily was struggling to memorise her times tables, Albus slipped out of the house and went to the shed, even though it was a weekday and he wasn’t meant to go there on weekdays. 

The weather outside was mild, but the shed was cold. There was no sunshine, just murky grey, so the shed was dingy. Albus uncovered the bluebell flames, the same ones his dad had cast for him all those years ago, and wrapped a blanket round his shoulders for warmth. He huddled up in the corner, shivering, curling as close to the jar of flames as he could get, and feeling entirely lost. 

Sometimes, on days like that he might as well have been invisible. No one really saw him, even when he was standing right in front of them. There was always something or someone more important than him. They probably wouldn’t even notice he’d gone. 

He rubbed his hands together over the bluebell flames, trying to get some warmth into them, but he felt cold all over. And as he lay there in the dim blue glow, he began to worry, the way he‘d begun to do when he was alone with no one to fill the silence. 

He worried about the impending doom of Hogwarts, and how well James was doing, and whether he’d ever be able to live up to expectations. He worried about his schoolwork, whether he’d managed to learn enough – what if he turned up on the 1st of September in a few months’ time and everyone knew things he didn’t? He worried about his dad, because Harry used to have all the time in the world for him but that seemed to have changed. Maybe his dad didn’t really love him anymore. What if his family had got bored of him?

And on and on. Black doubts niggling away about friendship and family and school, making him feel grey inside, cutting him off from the world, until all he could do was hug his knees and rock and try not to cry. 

He must have worried himself to sleep at some point, because next thing he knew a door banged open nearby and he jumped awake, staring wildly into the darkness for the source of the noise. As he tried to get his bearings, a sudden blinding light shone right into his face, and he shrank back, terrified, squeezing his eyes shut and ducking his head to make the painful brightness stop. 

“Albus!” Someone shrieked his name, and then there were hands on him, holding his arms, and then dragging him into a hug. “Harry, he’s here. I’ve found him.”

He realised his mum was holding him, and that she was very warm and comfortable, and he hugged her tight in return without really knowing why. All he knew was that he wanted a hug, and that hers were better than anyone else’s. 

After several long seconds she pulled back, and he saw that she was clutching her wand and wearing a cloak over her pyjamas. Her face was pale and desperate with fear. 

“What happened?” He asked, bleary and confused with sleep.

“We thought you’d disappeared,” she said, squeezing his shoulders and patting at his arms like she was trying to convince herself he was real and solid. “We couldn’t find you, and-“ she shook her head and pulled him into another hug, stroking his hair. “Albus. You’re freezing cold. Why are you out here? How long have you been here?”

Albus’s stomach dropped like lead and he released his arms from around here. “I came here after lunch,” he murmured. “I didn’t think you’d notice, if I just- I think I fell asleep.”

“Since lunch,” she breathed, pulling back to look at him. “But-“ She didn’t get chance to finish, because the next second Harry came flying into the shed, hair a mess, glasses askew, looking wild. He flung himself on the ground and pulled Albus into his arms. It was the first time he’d hugged Albus in a year, and although it should have felt good it made Albus feel sick, because he knew it was the middle of the night. They hadn’t noticed he was missing all afternoon, or at dinner, maybe they hadn’t even noticed until they came to check on him before they went to bed. 

He was invisible. 

“We’ve been looking for you for hours,” Harry said. “We were worried sick! Don’t you dare do this again.” He pulled back from the hug and looked at Albus, expression turning to thunder. “Do you hear me, Albus? You’ll stay in the house. You’re not to come out here without permission ever again, do you understand?”

Albus gave a tiny nod. “Yes,” he whispered. 

“Good. Now get back inside. It’s late and we all need to sleep.”

So you can go to work tomorrow, Albus thought. Where you’ll forget all about me.

His mum kept an arm round him as they went back to the house. She tucked him up in bed and gave him another hug, while his dad hovered in the doorway, still storming with anger and upset, and not saying a word. 

---

It was hell being banned from the shed, and that was before James came home for the holidays. Suddenly the house was full of noise and chaos. He’d forgotten since Christmas just how loud James was. It was physically painful to hear him yelling to Ginny in the kitchen that yes, he would like a cup of tea, thanks, or to hear him screeching as he play fought with Lily on the stairs, or to hear him crowing and singing with glee after scoring a hat trick during a Quidditch game in the orchard. 

Without the shed to escape to, Albus hid in his room and feverishly read his new spell books, trying and failing to block out the noise, and trying and failing to remember practical tips about wandwork and potion making. 

“Al is worrying again!” James yelled one afternoon in July as he burst into Albus’s room uninvited, flopped down on the bed, and grabbed Albus into a headlock that didn’t feel anything like a hug.

It hurt. Tears flooded Albus’s eyes and he felt as if he was being choked. He tried to fight his brother off, but James was two years older and an athlete, so he was bigger, heavier, and used to fighting with kids twice his size. It was futile, so Albus gave up and lay there, James on top of him and the book crumpled beneath him. 

“You need to stop worrying, Al,” James said, digging his knuckles into Albus’s scalp. “Everything’s fine. Of course it is, I’m your brother.”

Albus squirmed and pressed his fingers into the mattress, trying to alleviate some of the pain by clawing it out. It didn’t work, and his wriggling just made James sit harder on top of him. Albus gasped in a breath. 

“James,” he groaned. “Get... off... me...”

“Aww, But I’m giving you a hug!” James said, squeezing him tighter.

Albus started struggling again, trying to kick his brother off, and as he did he heard the pages of the book beneath him tear. That was the final straw.

“Get the fuck off my bed!” He yelled, anger rising red inside him and boiling over. He kicked James as hard as he could in the shin, and James yelped and let go, just as Ginny came charging into the room. 

“What in Merlin’s name is going on in here?”

“He kicked me!” James said, rubbing his shin and glaring at Albus. “And he swore.”

Albus sat up and pulled his ruined book out from beneath James. He was too angry to bother defending himself, so he just started inspecting the damage, flipping through pages and trying to straighten them out. 

Their mum took in the scene for a moment before sighing. “James, go downstairs and help your dad with dinner. No, don’t bother arguing, just go.”

James pouted and gave Albus one last punch on the arm. “See you, Al.” Then he sloped out of the room and banged his way down the stairs, while Ginny came and perched on the edge of Albus’s bed. 

“You shouldn’t talk to your brother like that,” she said. 

He ignored her and she sighed. 

“Are you okay?” She asked gently. 

“Fine,” Albus lied, not looking at her and leaning across to grab some Spell-o-tape for his book. He flattened the pages down and tried to make them line up properly, but the book was all creased and ruined, making it nearly impossible. 

“I know he was hurting you,” his mum said. She shifted down the bed, closer to Albus, who ripped off a bit of tape and started sticking the pages back together. “I’m going to talk to him later,” she said. “He shouldn’t just walk into your room like that. This is your space. He has to learn to respect that.”

“I had a space he wouldn’t go in,” Albus muttered, hoping he was speaking too quietly for her to hear. “But I’m not allowed to go there anymore.” His voice cracked as he said it, and a tear dribbled down his cheek, splashing onto the page of his book. Annoyed at himself, he brushed his sleeve across his cheek and sniffed. 

“Albus,” his mum murmured. She reached out to try and hug him, but he dodged away, right down to the other end of his bed, and started patting at the stupid, uneven, wrinkled bit of tape. “Would that help?” She asked. “If you could go back to the shed? I know it gets loud and busy in this house. It can get a bit much, can’t it?”

He half shrugged, and started picking at the tape, trying to even it out. The page wasn’t straight, the words didn’t quite line up right. It was unreadable, unusable, useless, and it was all James’s fault for ruining it. 

Frustration bubbled up inside him and he threw the book away from himself, so it tumbled onto the floor and landed pages down, while he buried his face in his hands and started to sob. 

“It’s shit. I hate it.” He didn’t know if he was talking about the book or the noise in the house or his whole life, but whatever it was, his mum recognised that it wasn’t good because she didn’t lecture him for his language. Instead she hugged him, and he didn’t resist. He curled into her arms and buried his face in her shoulder while she held him. 

“It’s alright,” she whispered in his ear. “We can fix it. I promise.” And he didn’t know which thing she was talking about either, but he thought it might be the book, because how could they possibly fix everything else? 

He clung to her and cried until all his tears dried up and he started to feel exhausted and headachy, and his face hurt from the tears. Then he pulled away and wiped his nose, while she stooped down to pick up the book. She inspected the damage for a moment before looking up at him. 

“I’m going to talk to your dad,” she said. “About the shed. I know he was worried that time, but as long as we know where you’ve gone I don’t see why you shouldn’t spend time out there.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

“I don’t like seeing you unhappy like this,” she said. 

“No,” he murmured, picking at a hole in the knee of his jeans. He hated feeling unhappy like this too, but there was nothing anyone could do about it. 

“Maybe the shed will help,” she said. She looked at him for a moment, waiting for a response, then she sighed and drew her wand. She tapped it on the edge of the pages, and all the crinkles melted from the book, and the tears sealed up, so when she handed it back to him it was good as new, apart from the bit of Spell-o-tape sticking out of the middle where he hadn’t quite cut it to size. 

He took the book and turned it over in his hands, wishing that fixing himself could be that easy. But there’s no spell you can cast to cure loneliness, or make someone stop feeling invisible and overwhelmed. 

“Thanks, Mum,” he murmured, hugging the book to his chest. 

She smiled and kissed the top of his head. “Any time,” she said. “Now, dinner should be nearly ready. Get your hands washed and I’ll see you downstairs.”

---

The first time Albus spent the night in the shed was the next summer. It was a bright, warm day, and he stayed out watching the sunset. He’d asked his mum if he could and she’d said yes. By the time the sun was finally gone, leaving behind fading pastel streaks of gold and blue and green, the lights were out in the house and everything was quiet. 

Albus hugged his knees and looked up at the dark window of his bedroom. He knew he should go back inside and sleep, but it was peaceful out here. The warm summer breeze ruffled his hair and cooled the sticky night air. Being out here under a blanket was better than being in a bed in the attic of a hot house. And out here he could watch the fairies flitter back and forth across the garden, glowing like embers of firelight. 

He felt freer in the garden, away from his family, away from everything that was difficult about life. The only thing he wished was that Scorpius could be here. 

A small pang of loneliness, the same loneliness he’d felt last year before he started at Hogwarts, made his heart ache, and he rested his chin on his knees. It would be nice to bring Scorpius here. It would also be nice to stay out here on the edge of the wilderness and not have to go inside, with the noise and the walls and the knowledge that he didn’t fit in with his family. It would be nice to stay in this place where he could be completely himself. 

It was silent. The household was sleeping. His parents knew where he was. If everyone was already asleep no one would miss him. He could just stay here. So he did. 

He lay on his back on a bed of cushions and stared up at the ceiling he’d painted all those years ago. Silver moonlight streamed through the window. Crickets chirped in the garden, and a gnome giggled as it rushed through the long grass outside. The breeze stirred the leaves in the orchard. He felt safe. He felt at home. He felt free. 

Sleep took him, gentle and peaceful, and although he knew his back would ache from sleeping on the floor, and he’d be woken far too early by the bright morning light, he didn’t care. This was the one place in the world that he felt good enough for. It wasn’t Hogwarts, it wasn’t his parents’ house, it was here. In his shed. And for that night everything was as perfect as it could be. 

He started sleeping in the shed a lot over the summer and no one noticed. James made noticing anything other than himself impossible. There was this strange divide inside him, between the loneliness of being overlooked by his family, and the knowledge that he’d come to terms with it and was making the best of a miserable situation. He didn’t really feel sad in those days, just numb and quietly at peace. 

“I haven’t seen much of you this holiday,” Ginny said on the last day of the holidays, when Albus was sitting on the back step of the house watching her prune the Flutterby Bush – he wasn’t in the orchard because James was playing Quidditch and more than once already Albus had been almost killed by a stray Bludger flying through the window of his shed. “Have you had fun?”

Albus didn’t think that fun was quite the right word, so he shrugged. “It’s been okay.” Better than school, he thought. 

“Are you looking forward to going back to school?” His mum asked, glancing up from the bush and wiping her forehead on the back of her gardening gloves. 

“I miss Scorpius,” Albus said. 

“Maybe he can come and stay next summer,” his mum said. 

Albus closed his book and looked at her, trying to suppress his excitement at that prospect. “Do you think?”

His mum smiled and nodded. “I don’t see why not. Why don’t you invite him?”

Albus’s grin broke across his face like dawn in a summer sky. “Okay! I will.”

---

Owls had long since learned that if they wanted to deliver a letter to Albus, they had to come to the shed. The people who wrote to him had worked that out too. His Hogwarts letters were addressed there, as were the letters Scorpius sent him, as were the few magazines and correspondences he got from the Wizarding Library in London, the Esteemed Guild of Potioneers, and the couple of other societies and things he was a junior member of. He plastered the walls of the shed with those letters, and a couple of photos, and every time he got new ones, especially from Scorpius, he felt the brief thrill of excitement that came with being acknowledged. 

The summer after second year he didn’t get any letters. At least, he didn’t get any letters from Scorpius, and those were the ones that counted. Even though Scorpius had immediately said yes to Albus’s invitation to come and visit, the likelihood of him actually coming grew slimmer every single day, and Albus got more and more miserable. The only thing he’d been looking to about this summer was Scorpius coming to stay, and he didn’t even have that anymore. He had nothing and no one, and he’d never felt so lonely. 

At the beginning of July, his mum came to visit him in the shed, something she hadn’t done for a long time. She knocked on the open door and hovered outside, looking at him huddled up in the corner, draped in his blanket and staring back at her. 

“I wanted to come and see if you were alright,” she said slowly, taking in the sight of him, and he could tell from her face that she already had her answer. “You haven’t been inside for a while. I was wondering if you’d like to eat with us tonight, instead of out here on your own.”

Albus picked at the corner of his blanket. “I don’t know,” he murmured. 

His mum nudged the door open a bit more. “Can I come in?” She asked. 

Albus looked at her for several seconds, then he nodded. He missed her. Of everyone in the house she was the one he most wanted to spend time with. Her and Lily. He missed talking to them. 

His mum stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind her. She came over and sat on one of the cushions near Albus, her skirt splaying out around her. “Is there anything I can do?” She asked. “I still don’t even know what’s bothering you. But I can tell there’s something, and you can talk to me, Albus. You can tell me anything. I hope you know that.”

Albus thought about everything that was buzzing round inside his head, in a dark cloud that obscured the rest of the world and left him trapped in himself. He thought about exploding potions, and failed spells, and people laughing and tripping him in the corridors, and broomsticks that would never obey him, and the bright emerald green that felt right on his body but left him so far estranged from everything he’d ever been taught to value. Putting any of it into words was impossible, so he didn’t try.

“Scorpius hasn’t written to me all summer,” he said instead. He stared down at his hands and swallowed at the first prickle of tears in his eyes and throat. “I don’t... I don’t get it. We were fine at school. He said he’d come and stay. He said he’d write to me every day, and... he hasn’t.” He looked up at his mum and he could barely see her through the blur of tears that suddenly flooded his eyes. “What if he’s forgotten about me? What if he doesn’t want to be friends with me anymore. What if I’m- I’m not good enough for him either?” 

And with that he broke. He buried his face in his knees and started sobbing. All he ever seemed to do in front of his mum these days was cry, but he couldn’t help it. There was something about her presence that let him express his emotions the way he couldn’t in front of anyone else. 

“Sweetheart,” she whispered. “Come here.” She sat beside him and gathered him in close, holding him and rocking him in her arms while he cried. It was like he was young again, letting her comfort him when the world felt like it was falling apart. Back then it was normally because James had stolen his paints and wouldn’t give them back, or because he’d fallen in the yard and hurt his knee. Doubting whether anyone in the world, including his best friend, cared about him was a lot bigger than that, but his mum’s hugs could heal anything. 

“I-I miss him,” Albus gasped between sobs. “I wanted to see him. What if I made him unhappy?”

“I’m sure you haven’t done anything,” Ginny said, stroking his hair and squeezing him hard. “He might just be busy. Maybe he’s gone on holiday, or-“ she hesitated. “It could be that he’s busy taking care of his mum. It won’t be your fault, Albus. And it won’t be his either. I know it hurts, I know you’re upset, but I doubt either of you are to blame.”

Albus tried to swallow back his tears and calm down. He gulped in several breaths as he hugged his mum as hard as he could. “What if he forgets me?” He asked. 

Ginny tutted and ruffled his hair. “Now you’re just being ridiculous. Of course he won’t forget you. You’re his best friend.“

“Are you sure?”

She brushed her fingers through his hair and looked down at him. “Completely positive,” she said. She studied him for a moment, then she brushed the tears off his cheeks with her thumb. “Will you come in for dinner?” She asked. “It must get lonely out here, and we miss you inside.” She smiled, expression going soft and crinkly round her eyes. “I miss my voice of calm. You’re the perfect antidote to James. It’s far too noisy without you.”

“I don’t like the noise either,” Albus sniffed, wiping his nose on his sleeve. 

His mum handed him a tissue from one of the pockets on her skirt. “I’m making dinner tonight,” she said. “Would you like to help me? We’ll ban the others from the kitchen so it’ll be nice and quiet. Just the two of us.”

Albus thought about that for a moment before nodding. “I’d like that.”

He didn’t get a letter from Scorpius that summer – he forgave Scorpius for that the second he found out about his mum – but he did eat with his family every evening until the first of September. It wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it might be. 

---

He fled. His feet clattered on the stairs and tears stung his eyes. He couldn’t breathe. He was numb to everything apart from the words echoing round and round inside his head. “Well there are times I wish you weren’t my son.” No one obstructed his path, not James or Lily or his mum, and his dad had been left far behind, still standing in the middle of the room stammering empty, meaningless apologies. 

He flung open the front door and sprinted headlong into the beautiful, late summer evening. Warm, sweet air filtered into his lungs, and he could smell honeysuckle and almost taste the tang of freshly mown grass. Loose gravel crunched under his feet as he ran, until it turned to the soft squish of dew-dampened grass. The chickens scattered in front of him, squawking and squabbling, but it wasn’t long until he was past them, past everything, halfway across the garden with only his own tearful snatches of breath and his heart pounding in his ears. 

The setting sun behind him lit the whole world blood red, but the shadows of the orchard were deep silver-grey, and the branches welcomed him in. He was on the edge of his world, as far as he could run away without really running, and he was safe here. 

He pressed his palm to the shed door and it swung open to let him in. He stepped into the cool, dark interior and lit his wand, letting the pale light flood into every corner. It glowed off the sunshine yellow walls, and the room felt bright and cheerful. 

Albus had painted these walls with his dad, many years ago. That was a beautiful time, sunlit, carefree, happy. He’d felt special, to be able to build something so amazing with his dad’s help. It was a proud moment, walking in here for the first time and looking at the space they’d made together. 

And now what? Now he knew for certain that things had changed, just like he always suspected. He was too far removed from the others, too Slytherin, too quiet, too useless at magic. He wasn’t a hero or a star. He wasn’t getting good grades. He was a mess. A useless mess, and he barely deserved to be called a Potter. 

He slumped against the back wall of the shed and slid to the ground, staring out of the open door at the conflagration of the sunset. That was what every interaction with his dad felt like: fire, burning hot, sparks ready to take hold at any moment and flare up. It was always dangerous, never certain. Long gone were the days when love flowed easily in both directions. Clearly there was none of that anymore.

The jar of bluebell flames was sitting just a foot away, covered, the way he always kept it when he wasn’t in the shed. He leaned across and pulled it towards him; uncapped it, letting blue tinge the pale wandlight that already flooded the room.

Those flames were so gentle, so harmless, but he knew he could fan them, make them spread. He held his hand over the top of the jar, feeling the warmth on his skin, then he dipped his wand in and scooped up a bit of the flame, so it crackled and flickered on his wand tip. It would have been so easy to take those flames that his dad gave him and set this place alight. He could have burned the whole thing to ashes, erasing all the painful memories of a time when his dad seemed to care for him, when he was part of this family. 

But even with his heart lying in shattered pieces, he couldn’t do that. Despite the cruel irony that his dad helped him create his refuge and became the one chasing him to it, losing this place was not an option. He’d already lost enough. 

Just one more night, he reminded himself. One more night and then back to Hogwarts. The next day at 11am he would escape, because at that point even going back to school was an escape. 

Or he could try something else. He could change everything. He could prove to his dad that he was more than useless, that he was worth something. He could prove it to the world. 

His dad didn’t care. His dad didn’t love. His dad didn’t feel remorse and sadness. But Albus did. He knew exactly what it was like to be the spare. He knew that pain, a pain that might have been made bearable with just a little bit of love. If he could bring that love to someone else then wouldn’t that be a worthwhile thing? That would be something to pay attention to. 

He let the bluebell flames pour back into the jar and set his wand down on the floor, casting the corners of the shed into deep shadow. Outside the sky was going dark and the sun had gone. It was getting chilly, so he pulled the blanket over his knees and huddled up. 

Of all the nights he’d spent in this shed over the years, this would be the worst. But there would be hope in the morning. In the morning he would start fixing everything. 

---

“And this is my shed,” Albus said, gesturing at it as he led Scorpius towards the orchard. 

“Your shed,” Scorpius said, with that dubious tone that meant to he was trying and failing to reserve his judgement. 

Albus nudged him. “Yes, my shed. It’s like a den. It’s quiet. You’ll like it.”

“Does it have books in it?” Scorpius asked. 

“It can do if you want,” Albus said, poking him in the back to get him moving. “Bring some next time you come.”

“Next time,” Scorpius said, like he was taking the words as a promise. 

Albus grinned. “Next time.” He grabbed hold of Scorpius’s sleeve and started dragging him across the grass. It had been too long, far too long, since he’d visited the shed. That summer had been busy, between visits to the Manor, forced (and unforced) bonding activities with his dad, and Potions projects to try and prepare for his O.W.L.s. There hadn’t been time to even think about hiding away, and even if he had had time, he wouldn’t have wanted to do it. 

But now Scorpius was here, Scorpius was visiting him at home for the first time. The only place they could possibly go where no one would bother them was the shed, and Albus was quite keen that they wouldn’t be bothered – spending time with Scorpius was too nice to be wasted by irritating interruptions. 

“Is this it?” Scorpius asked, walking up to the undecorated door and looking at it. “I was expecting something...” he looked at Albus. “I think I was expecting it to be green.” He reached out and gave the door a push. “Is it locked?”

Albus stepped up next to him and nudged him out of the way. “Why green? And yes it is. You have to be a Potter to open it.”

“I imagined it might be the colour of your-“ Scorpius swallowed and gave a little shrug, looking away from Albus. “Green is one of your favourite colours, and you’re a Slytherin.”

“I like it being plain on the outside,” Albus said, pressing his palm to the door so it swung open. 

“Is it green inside at least?” Scorpius asked, peering in. “No, it’s yellow. It’s quite cheerful!” He stepped inside and looked around, eyes bright. “There aren’t any books. Oh, but there are plants.” He went over to the window ledge and started stroking the leaves of Albus’s Mimbulus Mimbletonia, while Albus leaned in the doorway and watched him, unable to keep the smile off his face. 

“This is the shed,” he said. “It’s not much exactly, but it’s okay. I like it.”

Scorpius turned way from the plants and looked around. The dappled sunshine flooding through the window made his hair glow silver, and his eyes sparkle like stars. Sometimes seeing him like that – bright, attentive, glowing – took Albus’s breath away, although he could never quite explain why. 

“I like it too,” Scorpius said. He looked at Albus with a smile that made all of Albus’s words dry up in his mouth. “It’s very you. Cosy and tidy and bright. It’s... congenial.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Albus said, because it was all he could get out. 

“It’s good,” Scorpius said. “It’s a nice thing.”

Albus nodded. “Good to know.”

From the days when the shed was home to his loneliness and pain – a hiding place, tear-stained, where he was estranged from the whole world – over that summer and the one after it became the opposite. It became a place of slow, gentle revelations and whispered confessions. A place to bare the soul. There were tentative touches, featherlight kisses on sunlight summer days. It was heady and bright, and Albus forgot what it felt like to be lonely, because he wasn’t anymore, not even a little bit. 

He realised that for the first time at twilight one night, when they were sitting on the step up to the shed door and watching the fairies flitter from bush to bush across the lawn, chattering and arguing. He looked down at his and Scorpius’s interlinked hands, and it hit him in a sudden burst of warmth and joy that this was real, he and Scorpius were together, and he would never be alone again.

He brushed the back of a hand across his watering eyes, sniffed, and put his head on Scorpius’s shoulder, squeezing his hand tighter. 

“I love you,” he whispered. “Have I mentioned that before.”

A smile broke across Scorpius’s face. “Maybe,” he said, drawing the word out in joking uncertainty. “But you should say it more. Just to make sure.”

“I do,” Albus said, looking up at him. “A lot. And I’m glad you’re here.”

Scorpius looked down at him. “I- are you crying?”

Albus shook his head and brushed away his tears, giving a shaky laugh. “No.”

“You’re such a liar,” Scorpius laughed. “Look at you.” He dropped Albus’s hand and pulled him into a tight hug instead. “Don’t cry. It’s okay. I love you too.”

Albus squeezed him as hard as he could. “I know. I’m happy.” He sniffed and smiled, wiping his eyes again. “Happy tears.”

Scorpius ruffled his hair. “I’m happy that you’re happy. Even if you are dripping tears on me.”

Albus sat up and immediately spotted the tear stains on Scorpius’s top. “Sorry,” he said, trying to mop himself up. “Sorry, I’ll stop.”

“You don’t have to,” Scorpius said, rubbing his arm. 

“I can’t see the fairies,” Albus said. “Just a lot of tears. I can’t see you either.”

“Oh,” Scorpius said, wrapping an arm round his shoulders. “Well that really is a loss.”

---

The last evening before seventh year was weird. Albus felt restless and unsettled. There was an edge of emotion that he couldn’t quite get rid of, and he didn’t really know what to do with himself. Normally he’d sit still and read a book to calm himself down, but that night he couldn’t concentrate. It had been a long time since he’d needed to go to the shed because he couldn’t handle being in the house, but that night he did. 

He finished packing his trunk after dinner and snuck out across the yard towards the orchard. The shed was dark when he arrived. The sun wasn’t really set yet, but the trees were heavy with leaves, and they’d been growing recently, so they blocked out the last of the evening light. When he got inside he trailed beads of light across the walls, making the butter yellow walls shine like the sun, then he sat down and buried his face in his knees and tried to work through every one of the thoughts and worries buzzing round and round in his head. 

He felt a similar pressure then to the one he’d felt when he was 11 years old and waiting to start at Hogwarts. The pressure to succeed, to live up to expectations, except this time the expectations were his own rather than anyone else’s. There was so much he wanted from this year, so much he knew he was capable of, and that was the most terrifying thing of all. He didn’t want to let himself down. 

Lost in stillness and quiet, thoughts and seconds rushed by. Outside the sun sunk below the horizon, and the garden turned dark, but the lights in the distant house stayed on. When the knock on the shed door finally came, Albus had no idea what time it was. He’d almost forgotten where he was and what he was doing, and he jumped at the sudden sharp sound. 

“Yes?” He called, lifting his head. 

The door creaked open an inch and his dad peered into the room. “Hi,” he said, with a small smile. “It’s me. Do you mind if I come in?”

Albus shook his head and sat up properly – he’d slumped further and further down against the wall while he’d been sitting here. “No, it’s okay. I thought you’d be asleep or something. What time is it?”

“Late enough. I was too busy thinking to sleep. It’s a big day tomorrow.”

Albus nodded and looked down at his hands. “Yeah. It is.”

His dad slipped into the room and closed the door behind him. “How are you feeling?”

Albus shrugged. “I don’t know. Weird? A bit scared. It’s just... odd.”

His dad sat down on a cushion next to him and nodded. “It is a bit. I can’t believe you’ll be 18 this year.”

Albus pulled a face. “Don’t say that. It makes me sound so old.”

Harry snorted. “How do you think I feel every day?”

Albus nudged him and smiled. “I didn’t mean that. I meant... I don’t feel that old. I thought I’d feel like a grown up by now, but I don’t. I have to take my N.E.W.T.s this year and get jobs and stuff, but I don’t feel responsible enough for that. It’s terrifying.” He sighed. “I know you were saving the world when you were my age but you’re not normal.”

“Thanks,” Harry grinned. He ran a hand through his hair and straightened his glasses. “If it helps, I don’t think you ever feel grown up enough for anything. I don’t.”

Albus looked at him. “But you’re Harry Potter. You’re Head of Magical Law Enforcement, and you have like, responsibility and stuff. You’re in charge of everything that Hermione isn’t.”

“True, but I’m terrible at paperwork, my best friend regularly breaks into my office to swap my biscuits for Canary Creams, half the time I’m making everything up as I go along, and my second child is in his last year at Hogwarts and I still haven’t figured out how to be a good dad.” He ticked the list off on his fingers as he talked it through, and Albus stared at him in amazement. 

“That’s not true,” he said. 

Harry considered for a moment. “No, I think it is.”

Albus shook his head and twisted round to face his dad. “It’s not. You’re a really good dad. Probably the best.”

His dad looked at him. “Do you think?”

Albus nodded emphatically. “Yes. You are. You helped me build this place, you’ve put up with me – and the other two – for years, you’ve helped me with my spells, you’re good at listening to problems, and you make the best cakes – better than Draco’s, but please don’t tell him that.”

Harry laughed and stretched his legs out in front of him, smoothing his hands over the creased knees of his jeans. “I’ll try to remember not to mention it to him.”

“You’ve been really good,” Albus repeated, nudging him again. “I promise. Not all the time, but these days.”

Harry’s smile turned to a grim line. “I’m sorry about all the times I wasn’t good,” he said, looking right at Albus. His eyes had dimmed to the same shade of green as a wilty plant, deep and miserable. “I truly am. You deserved better. You’ve always deserved better.”

“It’s okay,” Albus murmured, thinking back to long, cold, dark nights spent out here on his own; all the times he hadn’t felt comfortable in the house; the times it was too loud; the times when he was too different to feel allowed. “I like to think it was character building.”

His dad’s expression twitched into a tiny attempt at a smile, which faded almost as soon as it appeared. “I don’t know what it was like,” he said softly. “Feeling the way you felt. I can’t pretend I do. But I hope you know that I love you, and that I’m proud of you every single day. I’m proud that you’re my son. You’re Albus Severus Potter, and you’re brilliant.” 

Albus leaned against his dad’s side and thought about that. He thought about how you had to be a Potter to open the shed, and even when he didn’t feel like part of the family he’d always been able to do that. He thought about his messy black hair and bright green eyes. He thought about Lily and James – the older versions, his grandparents – and the glint of recognition in his grandma’s eyes when she’d looked at him.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I suppose I am.”

Harry reached out and ruffled Albus’s hair. Albus tried to bat his hand away but missed, so he flopped against his dad’s side and hugged him instead. His dad wrapped an arm round his shoulders and gave him a comforting squeeze. 

“When tomorrow comes,“ he said, “you’re going to show it who’s boss. You’ll be ready for it.”

“I hope so,” Albus said softly, allowing himself for the first time to believe that his dad might just be right.

---

“You were,” Scorpius says as Albus finishes talking. “Ready for it.” He gives Albus a light punch on the arm and grins. “Mister overachiever.”

Albus snorts. “Barely. I didn’t get five Outstandings like some people.”

Scorpius waves a hand. “Details details. Compared to an average sample of the population you are an overachiever.”

“That I’ll accept,” Albus says with a grin. “I’ve done okay.”

“And I’m proud of my exceptional boyfriend.” Scorpius squeezes his hand. He falls silent for a moment, gazing at the little wooden structure, nestled between the stone wall that marks the edge of the Potters’ orchard and a gnarled, bowed old apple tree. Harry’s spells have kept the years off. The silver wooden boards look the same as they did the day he restored them. It’s like no time has passed at all since Albus was five years old, but in reality so much time has passed, so much has happened, and nothing is the way it was. 

“Are you going to miss it?” Scorpius murmurs, glancing at Albus. 

Albus nods. “Yeah,” he breathes. 

“It’s meant a lot to you, hasn’t it,” Scorpius says. 

Albus nods again, and this time he doesn’t say anything. recounting everything the shed has been to him over the years, all his memories of it, has ached, but it’s felt good at the same time. And now Scorpius knows everything. He knows the importance of this tiny, insignificant-looking little hut in the orchard. It’s strange that a pile of wood and glass should hold so many memories and emotions, and be a chart of Albus’s whole life to this point, but it does and it is. 

“I hate goodbyes,” Scorpius says quietly. “Even when they’re not mine.”

Albus presses himself against Scorpius’s side and holds tight to his hand. “It’s okay,” he says. “I’m okay. No more tears.”

He’s spent the whole last month crying – when they’d left Hogwarts for the last time, when his exam results had come, when he’d packed up his room earlier ready to move to his new house with Scorpius – and he’s going to try not to do anymore. Or at least he’ll save it for saying goodbye to his parents and sister. 

“One day, when we get a proper house, I’ll get you a new shed,” Scorpius says, and Albus glances at him and smiles. 

“Will you?”

Scorpius nods. “Yup. It’ll be better. It’ll have lots of books in it. You won’t miss the one.”

Albus laughs. “You and your books.”

“Books make everything better,” Scorpius says, with a great deal of superiority.

Albus elbows him. “Don’t insult my shed. Or I might decide to stay here and not move in with you.”

Scorpius pouts. “That would be mean.”

“Be nice to my shed then.” Albus lets go of his hand and crosses the overgrown stretch of grass. He runs the tips of his fingers over the silver wood, then presses his palm to the door one final time to open it. It creaks inwards and he steps inside. 

It’s neat and tidy in here, all the blankets folded and the cushions stacked. His plants are growing happily on the window sill, and he’s set up spells to water them when they get dry. They’ll be fine there, waiting for him whenever he visits. There’s nothing else in here that he needs, nothing else to sort out. It’s all ready for him to go. 

He stands in the centre of the space and inhales. The scent of fresh paint and wood chips are long gone. These days it smells of dust, the citrus scent he likes to cast through the room, musty blankets, and cactus flowers. It smells familiar. It smells of home. But of course it’s time to leave home now, and move on to whatever’s next, and while that’s a tiny bit sad, it’s mostly exciting. 

He feels once again like that little boy who was thrilled to discover the unknown, and make himself a space to hide out in, all of his own. It’s going to be good to do that again, this time with Scorpius for company. There’s no point dwelling on the past when the future has so much promise. 

Squaring his shoulders, he turns back towards the door, but as he does he spots the little jar out of the corner of his eye, the one that’s filled with the bluebell flames his dad cast for him when he was so much younger. They’ve burned ever since, and they’re still going. He walks over and uncovers them, letting the soft blue light flood the room. 

For a moment he gazes down at the crackling, dancing flames, then he leans in and blows them out. Instantly the shed goes dark. The colour of the yellow walls seem dull, and all the life has been extinguished. Albus sets the empty jar down on the ground beside his stack of pillows and re-covers it.

“I’ll come back and visit,” he promises to the space at large. “I don’t know when but I will.” He pauses, then, even though he feels stupid, he looks around the space and says: “Thank you.”

And with that he turns towards the future where Scorpius is waiting for him, and he leaves the shed, closing the door behind him. 

[ghostbustermelanieking]

merry little christmas

summary: A How the Ghosts Stole Christmas AU: what if Mulder hadn’t been alone for Christmas?

this felt necessary after the evilness of my other htgsc fic. this fic is fairly unangsty; just mulder and scully and various holiday-themed stuff. part of my series that i write as i rewatch the x files.

Two days before Christmas is something of a sad affair at the FBI, at least half the agents in the bullpen having taken off to go visit family. Scully sips coffee under a sad little spring of holly in the breakroom, surveying the empty desks. Someone has set up a little Christmas tree on their desk. It’s the tiniest amount of spirit that counts, she supposes. Down in the basement, there’d usually been nothing in the way of decoration.

“It’s certainly a holly, jolly Christmas in here, huh?” Mulder materializes at her shoulder, seemingly out of nowhere.

“Tis the season,” Scully agrees dryly, taking a sip of the coffee. A year ago, she would’ve been out for the holidays herself, but she would like very much not to think about what happened last year. She’d flat-out refused to go to San Diego, threatening to skip Christmas all together. Her mother had suggested that she be the one to host this year, and Scully had been grateful. But the pressure of family coming to town, the overhanging cloud of Christmas, lingers in her mind like a heavy stone. Christmas has never been the same since she was little, has never been the same since her father and Melissa died. “Do you have any plans for the holidays, Mulder?” she asks him, chipping off a bit of paint on the handle with her fingernail.

“Nah,” he says, reaching around her for the coffee pot.

She blinks in surprise, setting the cup down in the sink. “Really? You’re not even going to visit your mother?” She realizes just then that she has no idea what he does for Christmas; how could they have been partners for over five years without her ever knowing where he goes every December?

“No, the Mulders aren’t big on family gatherings, and my mom doesn’t really celebrate, anyway…” The coffee sloshes its way into the cup. He sets the pot back down. “What about you, Scully? Do you have any big plans?”

She turns on the water, rinsing out the mug. “My brother and his family are coming into town. I’ll be spending the day at my mother’s with all of them… Will you really be alone on Christmas, Mulder?”

He’s shrugging at her. “Sure, why not? I’ve spent enough of them alone.” The casualness in his voice isn’t quite as strong as it should be; it’s strained, just a little.

Scully switches off the water, watching him drink his coffee out of the corner of her eye. An idea springs up in her mind, too tantalizing to push away. “You don’t have to spend it alone, Mulder,” she offers, her voice going quiet at the edges.

He looks up from his mug in surprise, eyebrows raising at her. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“I mean… look, I have a lot of shopping and wrapping to do tomorrow. My nephew is about to turn one, and I’m buying into my mother’s conspiracy to spoil him rotten.” He chuckles a little at that, watching her carefully. She half-shrugs, her shoulders hunched up almost protectively. “You could come along if you wanted,” she offers.

It’s not the most absurd suggestion she’s ever made; they’ve been spending more time together outside of work, anyways. Chasing down X-Files and almost getting fired, or just keeping each other company outside of the long, droning hours of background checks. Outside of the incident with Gibson Praise in the summer, they’ve been companionable. It’s not absurd at all, for her to ask her best friend to spend Christmas Eve with her. But the silence that transpires between them directly after makes her feel like it is. She swallows, waiting for his reply.

“So I’d have to follow you around stores?” Mulder asks finally. “Listen to Christmas carols and be full of holiday cheer?”

She pokes at her cheek with her tongue to keep from grimacing. “Look, if you’d rather not…”

“Oh, no, no. I didn’t say that.” He’s smiling now, teasing, reaches out to nudge her shoulder. “Just wanted to know what I was getting into, Scully. You know. For reference purposes.”

“Oh.” She crosses her arms over her chest in an almost protective manner. “Well. Yes, like I said, I have shopping and wrapping. But we have tomorrow off, so it doesn’t necessarily have to last the entire day…”

Still smiling, he runs his hand down to cup her elbow. “Sounds great, Scully. I think I owe you a few after you repeatedly bailing me out with Kersh.”

“Careful, Mulder,” she says, only half joking. “You've clearly never gone last-minute shopping on Christmas Eve.”

“C’mon, Scully. I've faced down terrorists and aliens living under the ice in Antarctica. How bad can it be?”

---

Pretty damn bad, in fact.

It turns out, as she expected, that having Mulder with her is entirely necessary, if only because checkout lines are worse than rush hour on the 95. The stores are ridiculously busy, packed elbow-to-elbow with all the other last minute shoppers, who have all the ferociousness holiday specials would have you believe. After the first store, Scully is done. Necessity only forces her to come up with the theory of divide and conquer. She digs into her purse and finds an old receipt from a gas station, makes Mulder a very specific list and sends him to the opposite ends of the stores so they can, assumedly, save time. It doesn't help. He looks slightly pissy the entire time, and she's probably doing no better, annoyance building steadily the entire time. “If I hear Silent Night one more time,” she tells him after their last store, her voice as dry as the winter wind, “I'm going to start taking hostages.” He laughs at this, genuinely, the fingers of his bag-free hand coming down to rest at the small of her back.

They do, eventually, get back to her apartment. Scully dumps bags on her kitchen counter and slumps down at her table. Mulder is moving through her kitchen behind her, opening the fridge and poking at the contents. “That was worse than the feral cats, I think,” he comments. “We may have stumbled into an X-File, Scully.”

“I'm sorry, Mulder,” she says wearily, rubbing her forehead with the tips of her fingers. “That probably wasn't any improvement on your holiday.”

“Eggnog?” He shakes the plastic container at her.

She nods without looking. “Bourbon’s in the cabinet.”

“Merry Christmas to us.” The sounds of things shifting in her cabinet, liquid pouring, and then he's handing her a cup. She thanks him, sipping slowly.

He sits down across from her, hands flat on the table. “Wrapping?” he asks, conversationally.

She nods grimly. “Wrapping.”

---

The wrapping actually does go quicker with Mulder's help, even if he wraps like an elementary schooler: sloppy and with too much tape. Oh, well; Matthew won't care. They make their way through half a roll of wrapping paper while A Christmas Carol plays in the background.

“I'm surprised you didn't want to do something like this with your Christmas,” Scully comments as the ghost of Marley visits Scrooge.

Mulder's struggling with a wad of tape stuck to a piece of wrapping paper. “What, you mean being haunted by the ghosts of my past who teach me to be a better person?” He swears as the paint comes up off the wrapping paper with the tape.

“No, that's not what I meant.” She shakes her head, feeling a bit foolish. “I meant… out pursuing some X-File.” He'd spent the Christmas of 1996 on a case that she'd refused to go on for obvious reasons; she'd spent half the holiday on the phone with him, in part worried that he was going to get himself killed and in part not wanting to face the absence of her sister, too large in the room. Onscreen, Marley shakes his chains at Scrooge, and she adds on lamely, “Ghost hunting or something.”

Mulder doesn't look particularly upset. He balls the wrapping paper up, tossing it in a corner. “Actually, I almost did.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Seriously? Ghost hunting on Christmas?”

“Sure, why not? All holidays have their ghost stories, Scully.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively.

“Oh, really.” She crosses her arms. “And what's this story? Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future?”

“Oh, no. It's much more traditional than that. Macabre spirits with a holiday twist.”

“Hmm.” She creases the corner on the side of the box she is wrapping. (A noisy toy that is sure to drive Bill mad.) “All right. Fill me in.”

He grins at her mischievously before rearranging his expression to reflect the story, and beginning in a mysterious tone. “Christmas, 1917. It was a time of dark, dark despair. American soldiers were dying at an ungodly rate in a war-torn Europe while at home, a deadly strain of the flu virus attacked young and old alike. Tragedy was a visitor on every doorstep, while a creeping hopelessness set in with every man, woman and child. It was a time of dark, dark despair.”

“You said that already,” she says, amused, sticking a bow on top of the package on her lap.

“But at 1501 Larkspur Lane in Maryland, for a pair of star-crossed lovers, tragedy came not from war or pestilence, not by the boot heel or the bombardier, but by their own innocent hand.”

He looks to her questioningly, as if unsure if she wants him to go on. “Go on,” she says, finishing with her package and propping her feet up on the table as she sets it aside.

“His name was Maurice. He was a… a brooding but heroic young man, beloved of Lyda, a sublime beauty with a light that seemed to follow her wherever she went. They were likened to two angels descended from heaven whom the gods could not protect from the horrors being visited upon this cold, grey earth.”

Mulder and his flare for the dramatic. She smiles a little to herself, asks, “And what happened to them?”

“Driven by a tragic fear of separation, they forged a lovers' pact, so that they might spend eternity together and not spend one precious Christmas apart.”

Macabre indeed. “They killed themselves?” she asks, surprised.

“And their ghosts haunt their house every Christmas Eve,” Mulder says eerily. She laughs, somewhat amused. “I just gave myself chills,” he says.

“It's a good story, Mulder, and very well told, but I don't believe it,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You don't believe in ghosts?” he asks, shocked, leaning back and putting his feet up beside hers.

Having spent the past six years debunking each and every myth he throws at her, she's surprised at his surprise. “That surprises you?”

“Well… yeah. I thought everyone believed in ghosts.”

Scully rolls her eyes. “Well, I don't.”

“Oh, of course not,” he says haughtily. “You wouldn't believe a ghost if it got right up in your face and showed you how it died.”

She slugs him in the shoulder, amused and annoyed all at once. He makes a face at her, playful, and she smiles back. Onscreen, the Ghost of Christmas Past draws aside Scrooge's bed curtain.

“So why aren't you there?” she asks, poking his foot with hers.

“What?”

“Why didn't you go investigate? A ghost story sounds a lot more up your alley than a shopping apocalypse at your local department store.”

“I didn't want to go alone,” he says.

He's totally playing her, side-eyeing her to see her reaction, and goddamnit, it works. She made him fight off angry Christmas shoppers and wrap presents for her nephew and her brother who hates him, and it's not even nine o’clock yet. Humoring him and going to investigate a certainly-not-haunted house is better than sitting here and letting her own Christmas ghosts creep in.

“Well,” she offers. “Christmas Eve isn't over.”

---

Scully doesn't believe in ghosts. And she isn't sure what transpires over the next few hours at 1501 Larkspur Lane. But she does know that, after crawling in pools of her own blood and walking away completely unscathed, she's much more willing to listen to Mulder's ghost theories. Or perhaps never, ever go to a haunted house again.

---

She drives Mulder home sometime after midnight. They're both mostly silent on the car ride home, which is understandable, all things considered. Being shot by someone or something who looks like your partner is hound to shake anyone up, even if it's happened to you before. She's very much regretting suggesting they go. Mulder's likely regretting suggesting it in the first place.

Besides that, the things that those people—Maurice and Lyda or whoever—said have her nearly as shaken as the part where she thought she was shot. Calling her life small, claiming that her only joy in life is proving Mulder wrong. That Mulder had brought her there so that he'd never have to be alone again. She wanted to argue that she suggested it, that he hadn't tricked her into anything. That he wasn't alone, because he was spending Christmas Eve with her. But maybe he was thinking of when she would go to be with her family tomorrow, and all the Christmases after that he'd spend alone. She swallows, eyes on the road. On the Christmas lights flashing by.

When they get back to Mulder's apartment, she pulls over to the curb and leans back in her seat. Mulder doesn't make a move to get out. “You must be exhausted,” he says quietly. His fingers are hovering near the window, the heat from his skin fogging the glass in tiny starbursts.

“I don't know if I could sleep.” Scully's fingers tangle together in her lap. “Mulder… none of that really happened out there tonight. That was all in our heads, right?”

“I-it must have been,” he says uncertainly.

“Mmm.” She looks up, turning to face him. “Not that my only joy in life is proving you wrong.”

“When have you proved me wrong?” he asks, a little challengingly.

Surprised, she asks hesitantly, “Well, why else would you want me out there with you?”

“You didn't want to be there?” He raises his eyebrows at her, and she reminds herself in the pause that follows that she did suggest it. But he's already backtracking, says, “Oh, that's, um… that's self-righteous and… narcissistic of me to say, isn't it?”

“No, I mean…” She licks her lower lip, considering. “I did want to be out there with you.” Maybe not in the sense of getting-shot-in-a-haunted-house, but with him. She did want to be with him.

They are quiet in the following moments. Mulder smiles a little, looking down at his lap. “Now, um… I know we said that we weren't going to exchange gifts but, uh… I got you… a little something,” he says to his lap. “It's upstairs.”

She's filled with a sudden rush of affection, one of the fleeting urges to kiss him that come and go. “Mulder…” she says, voice soft, touched.

He looks up to meet her eyes, smiling at her. “Merry Christmas.”

She turns in her seat, reaching into the back and grabbing the package she'd wrapped for him from the floorboard, the one she'd hidden under an old coat all day. “Well, I got you a little something, too,” she says, passing it to him.

He laughs a little, taking the package and shaking it a little. She laughs a little, too, caught up in the kid-like joy of Christmas. They are not shot, they are not trapped in a haunted house for all eternity, and they are not alone.

“Want to, uh… to go upstairs?” Mulder offers uncertainly, scraping his teeth over his lower lip.

It's just past midnight, and she really, really isn't tired. And she'd like to stop reliving their ordeal inside the house, and she knows if she has to go home alone that she won't be able to not think about that. “Sure,” she says, switching off the car. “I believe you owe me a present.”

---

After they open their presents, she makes no move to leave. She burrows into the corner of the couch, leather warm against her skin. Mulder has flipped on the TV in the background, and it's some Christmas movie, of course, the soundtrack unsettling to her ears. He shoves aside wrapping paper and reaches out to touch her ankle. “Hey, Scully,” he whispers. “You look like you're about to fall asleep.”

Her eyelids are drooping in a way that is very indicative of her sleepiness, and she doesn't actually care. “Hmm,” she mumbles, motioning towards the window. “Is that snow?”

The thunderstorm has turned to white, snowflakes fluttering down outside his grimy window. “Yeah, I guess it is,” Mulder says, rubbing his thumb in circles around her ankle.

She nestles further into the couch, crossing her arms over her stomach. “Roads’ll be terrible. Can't drive now. Too sleepy.”

“What about your family? Don't you have to go see them in a few hours?”

“Mmm, I need sleep first.” Her eyes are all the way closed now. Someone is singing a Christmas carol onscreen, their voice cheerful, and it makes her feel almost happy.

“Thought you weren't tired,” Mulder says from somewhere above her, teasing.

“I changed my mind,” she says firmly. “Now let me get some sleep.”

“Okay.” He pushes hair back from her face, and she can suddenly feel him leaning over her, pressing his mouth briefly to her forehead. She shivers, eyes still closed. “Merry Christmas, Scully,” he whispers, and it's what Mulder said after he shot her (except it wasn't Mulder, she thinks, and she has no idea what the hell happened), but it sounds different this time. Not ominous. Just sweet, like he's happy to be with her.

“Merry Christmas, Mulder,” she mumbles, everything inside her heavy with exhaustion. She's not awake, not really.

She thinks he sits beside her,  leaning back into the couch. She think she might move towards him. Because it's cold. She thinks he puts an arm around her, drawing her into his side so that her face lands pressed against his shoulder. She thinks she falls asleep.

[inopinion]

Rainbow Brigade

@mareshmallow... @chelsthebookworm... It’s my delight to gift to you the following fic in honor of this Holiday Season.

Whether due to surprise or etiquette, Cal shot up from his relaxed slump when more people joined him and his silver commanders in the room. Farley blocked his view for a moment and he relaxed recognizing other members of Command. His head snapped between Farley and a man on his right with only a small hint of confusion and a whole heap of annoyance. Then, intending to land back on Farley, he instead looked directly at Mare and morphed like an ember being extinguished in a muddy puddle. He visibly struggled to recover his composure. Cal turned to consult with the squat man with graying temples. Neither of them expected command to be there and Cal hadn’t anticipated seeing Mare so soon.

Command thought Mare could have input on the Guard’s strategy and, disrupt the power balance at least a little. Farley stayed true to Command’s decision and convinced Mare to attend a Command meeting, forgetting to mention that they were crashing a Silver alliance meeting.

It’s only because he couldn’t control his eyes–always finding Mare even during the introductions, that he noticed the sag in her posture. She held her arm to her gingerly, and defensively. She’d left the battlefield hurt, but was healed before they entered the hall with House Samos. Her injuries made him shift in his seat. Twenty-four hours had passed and she was already hurt.

When she slid her hand off the table and under she emitted a soft groan. Cal shifted forward and into the table between them, a physical reminder of his divisive choice. The move stopped the droning speech of the squat man on his arm.

When his adviser put a hand on Cal’s forearm, a sign of caution and meant to ground him, Cal exploded. Flames flickered and heat exuded throughout the tiny room. The man retracted, moving an arms length away. Cal blanched hot, eyes lit up. Suspicion crease the corners of his eyes. His chin jutted up in defiance.

“Who’s games are you playing, Mare?” His echoing snarl snapped in half when the heavy door slammed shut behind him. Clearly, the prince thought Mare’s presence —wounded as she was— a play on his emotions. A play that obviously worked.

Farley turned to Mare, eyes set on rectifying the situation, at least on explaining it; but Mare didn’t have time or patience or enough calm left to give her the chance.

“What game are we playing? I’m not playing anyone’s game.” Mare shook. Shaking was safer than pulling the lights down around the tables, but the lights still flickered.

[]

“Get me out of here,” Mare demanded.

“I didn’t think… None of us thought…” Farley started but words couldn’t chip away the anger. She hedged with facts instead. “We’re regrouping at the base, first transport at 1540. I’ll put your name on the list.”

Mare picked up an already packed duffel and marched to the field of transports to wait.

[]

Kilorn and Bree leaned against the hanger and waited for the transport door to spread wide. New bloods spilled out, silent and tired. Most were injured and in need of Sarah’s attention, Mare included. She looked more exhausted than any of them.

“Hey, Mare!” Bree called her attention and Kilorn wished he was the one to catch her first hug as she crumpled in Bree’s arms. “You’re hurt?”

“I’m okay. A New Blood healed most of it on the plane,” Mare assured him.

“Mare, come on. Your mom’s waiting.” Kilorn tugged them into motion. She sucked up snot and dried her eyes, squeezing his arm in response. She fell into her family and sunk into bed next to Gisa, sleeping more than a day in one stretch.

A stroke on her shoulder brought her around. Her dream told her it was Cal, her mind reminded her it was not. And her eyes hardened to see Farley, in plain clothes, looking with pity.

“Why do you want?” Mare hissed, her throat dry and her chest sore.

“Are you ill?”

“What do you want?” Mare repeated, then pushed up and out of bed. She fumbled fingers through her hair and ignored the ache in her body. She couldn’t ignore the pulse of pain from her bladder.

“To see if you’re okay. You’ve been out for a while.”

“I’m fine.” She moved to side step Farley, but she was immediately blocked.

“Sleeping so much isn’t a sign of being okay.”

Mare bobbed left but Farley countered. “Move or I’ll piss right on you.”

Farley twisted to the side and let Mare pass, but stayed outside the door.

“If your sick, I’ll send for Sarah,” Farley murmured.

“A little privacy?”

“Mare—” when the lights flickered, Farley backed down the stairs.

The shower revived her although she didn’t know to what ends. But Farley surely had a purpose specially chosen for her: a performance to give, a speech to read, a lie to tell. She combed her hair and fixed it back into a braid. The gray ends made up nearly half of her length. Running the tail through her fingers she considered her options. If she went down stairs, she’d be obligated to listen. If she stomped out the front door, Farley would follow. She examined the different hues of gray as she turned her hair in the sunlight, then approached the window.

A window on the second floor was directly below her bedroom. It had a brick facade that jutted out an extra inch framing it. The little ledge was enough for her toes. And a small leap away was the sturdy branch of a oak. Escaping became second nature months ago. She lowered herself carefully, caught the ledge, and leapt backwards, twisting and grabbing the branch. Her breath caught as the tight skin forming into a scar on her arm pulled in an uncomfortable stretch. She moved hand over hand to the trunk and slid down to the grass. Better safe than sorry, she ran the length of the street and only slowed when she saw the swirl of storm clouds over the practice field.

She could sense Ella’s power halfway across the base. She exuded an energy that coursed through the air begging Mare to come play. Tyton must have felt similar, as he sucked blue waves of light down into his skin and bounced white, crackling shocks between his fingers. He sent his bolts to a mannequin mock-up. It sizzled and danced on the sand. Mare gaped as the crown toppled off it’s head and onto the ground. She was certain it wasn’t Maven drawing their ire.

Ella’s clouds dissipated and cleared, Tyton stopped crackling his fingertips and both looked sheepishly at their toes. Mare gathered the static from the air and shot bright purple at the tin-foil hat and watched it blacken and fuse together with coils of lightning-glass.

“Sorry, Mare. Rough situation,” Rafe sighed, his hand in a sling.

“You were hurt?” She countered, placing the focus back on him.

“Not as much as it looks. I’m low priority for the healers, scheduled for tomorrow.”

She nodded and turned back to the field.

“You got any more crowns?” Mare asked.

“A few,” Ella smiled, pointing at a small pile of shrapnel fashioned into metal rings. Ella picked one made from barbed wire coils, tossed it a few times between her palms then and then launched it like a frisbee out and up. Mare painted the darkening sky purple.

—-

“How long are you going to avoid me?” Farley asks, coming behind Mare on her trek from her parents home to the barracks.

Training with the other Electricons was more than a distraction to Mare. And, in her estimation, none of Farley’s business. Lacking actual orders to fight or even a direction for what the Guard would pursue next, everyone had turned to routines and training to pass the time. Mare didn’t even slow her pace, no intention to respond. Petty as it was to hold her encounter with Cal against Farley, Mare couldn’t look at her without sparks threatening to dance on her skin.

“You’re a soldier and you are one step away from being insubordinate. I know you don’t want to face the facts–”

“What else am I supposed to do? I’m training just like every other soldier.”

“You’re not just another soldier. We need you to show up to meetings.”

“Why? I’m not good at scheming like you. Every time I try, I fuck up. Remember? Misjudging Cal. Misjudging Maven. Misjudging John. Misjudging Cal, again. Lets stop pretending I’m at all helpful in making decisions. I am a new blood, a foot soldier. All I’m good at is fighting. So go figure out who or what or where you want me to kill next, because I’m done shitting all over this with my bad ideas.”

Farley’s mouth opened and closed two times before she nodded and let Mare continue to her new bunk.

[]

“You couldn’t tell me this morning that you were moving?” Kilorn slumped onto the foot of her bed. He wiggled his toes in his boots and stretched his back as if he’d walked a dozen miles. Mare peaked out from under the flesh of her upper arm. She’d been dozing after a hard training session, blocking out the sun and the situation at the same time with the familiar feel of her sweaty skin.

“You ever dye anything before?” Mare asked.

“I walked all the way to your folks place only to be told you decided to rough it out here with us.”

“Dying? Have you ever dyed anything?” she stated with crisper enunciation.

“Not a ‘sorry’ or a ‘oops’?”

Mare sat up on her elbows and pushed his side with her barefoot while saying, “Kilorn, I’m sorry you had to walk an extra half mile and eat diner with my family.”

“How’d you know?” Kilorn sat back, eyebrow raised.

“There’s crumbs on your shirt.” She pointed with her toe. He slapped her foot back down to the bed.

“Tramy sent rolls. I might have ate one.” Kilorn produced two bread rolls from behind his back. Mare snatched them, greedy. “What do you wanna dye?”

“My hair.”

“Ask Gisa.”

“I’m asking you,” she said, mouth full of dry crust.

“What color?” he relented.

“Purple.”

Kilorn considered her thoughtfully, breaking into a small grin. “Conformist.”

“Shut up.” She snapped to her feet, pulled on her boots, and pushed him in the direction of the toilets.

[]

“I thought you weren’t gonna dye your hair,” Rafe smirked.

“I’ve made a dozen bad decisions, why not this one?” she countered, passing them on her way up the hill.

Half way into practice, a message runner arrived in a transport. Ella took the note, Mare was focused on precision strikes, sweating and cursing as she hit and missed.

“Hold up, Barrow. We got orders.” Ella passed the note to her.

“Lakelands? We’re going to the Lakelands?” Mare racked her brain for any reason why the Scarlet Guard would cross the silver lines and attack in enemy territories, especially without an agreement with Cal. She regretted skipping meetings.

“So?” Rafe looked at her expectantly.

She struggled again, then swallowed hard. Under her own request, she knew no more details than any other soldier.

“Soldiers don’t make choices, they follow orders. Let’s get ready.” She lead them back to the barracks. Her insistence that she didn’t know anything additional didn’t dissuade their pointed questions.

Mare gave her mother a hug like it could be the last and then followed it with her father and brothers. Gisa she squeezed extra tight.

Kilorn pulled a hand out of his pocket so he could punch her shoulder lightly. “You come back, okay?” He nodded at her.

“Stay out of trouble,” she hit his shoulder back a tad harder than he had.

She turned and took in a deep breath when she faced the transport. Kilorn’s hand on her shoulder spun her around and he wrapped her up.

“Stay alive. Don’t forget you got us here. Okay? He means nothing in all of this.”

“Who?” She responded dryly.

“Don’t be stupid just because you’re hurting. Just come home, okay?” He held her long enough to force a nod.

The Electricons waited for her to board first then followed up the ramp.

[]

Three days of walking into skirmishes and they’d finally stumbled onto a walled city built on the cliffs of the coast. Each company had a rough split of the new blood powers, excepting those that needed water from the ocean or who could turn the iron gates from defensive structures to offensive weapons. Mare called energy from a well so deep inside of her she scarcely believed she had more left to draw. Her energy was fading, she was fading. Never one to pray, she found herself searching for fireballs, heat, warmth, a sign that he’d come and help her, save her. They’d always saved each other. Down on one knee, she saw her purple bend down, snatched and turned yellow. She pushed through the Telky woman battering her with stones and bodies. She watching a blond-headed body streak past, sparks flying from fingertips, but no armor. She raced after him, eager to protect him, to draw energy from him, to get a respite and recover. Another Electricon, an undiscovered Lakelander New Blood could be a powerful ally in recruitment.

[]

The base gathered around the transports as one after another arrived. The first ship carried the wounded. And the second contained lower priority cases. Each transport that landed after produced waves of returning soldiers, prisoners, and new allies. Every plane was greeted as if they all carried victors and not ravaged rebels. Most of the coastal cities had been freed from silver control. But each was released back to Lakelanders as the small army moved from one to the next. In succession, every town but one was reclaimed by silver lords. But a heavy price had been paid. In the silver-lining, new bloods roused from the Lakeland countryside arrived for training, equipment, and supplies. All were ready to be sent back to join the fight as members of the Scarlet Guard.

Ruth reached Mare first, cupping her swollen face gently. The bruising on her left side was bad enough that she was barely recognizable, and Mare suspected she had a fractured orbital socket.

“I’m okay, mom,” she assured, pushing her mother’s hands away from her injuries.

The rest of her Electricons emerged from the transport behind her. The blond-headed boy starstruck by the big hangers and the crowd straggled for a moment and hopped two big strides to catch up with Tyton and Rafe. Ella limped a little behind the boys.

Kilorn touched her shoulders and chuckled in a nervous release of anxiety. “You’re two colors short of officially being the Rainbow Brigade,” he teased.

“Oh that one? Yeah, picked him up at the first city. He’s been a pretty good addition. He may not need any hair dye to fit in. But I could use a touch up.” She smiled and allowed her arms to wrap around his middle. He rocked her inside of a solid hug, their soles pushing from side to side.

“Good job staying alive.” Kilorn pressed his face to the top of her head.

“Who else is gonna keep you in line?” Mare sighed into him, heavy in his arms. For the first time since they left weeks prior, she let herself relax.

[aibrechts]

Ah yeah it would work better w the whole gang and that would require lotsa work but so like you could do something like bst tykillen song fic kinda thing? *eye emoji*

ID ALREADY STARTED WRITING A SCENE LOL;;; gen nuisance ot4 it is lmfaooo

The steel ball rattled sharp and dry in the almost-empty can and paint hissed clean against a concrete wall, layering Allen’s fingertip with another colour like a jawbreaker. There wasn’t much space, the building painted over with the tags of a whole city full of bored teens, but he made it work. Standing on the deck of Lenalee’s longboard to reach the hint of empty space, he cut the narrow black outline of his tag with red held too close to the wall, let it bleed and drip down.

“When’s he getting here?” he asked, an ambivalent hum while he lowered one foot to the ground to roll the board a few inches along the wall so he could continue his masterpiece.

“When he gets here,” Lena answered simply, a little too happy with her own vagueness.

Allen rolled his eyes at the wall and Kanda groused, “Why’re we even waiting for him at all?”

“Uhhhh,” Allen dragged out sarcastically, shooting him a scathing glance from the corner of his eye, “cause I chipped in fifteen bucks for a stick and I want my goddamn weed?”

Kanda muttered something under his breath - something along the lines of, “Filthy fucking stoner,” and Allen narrowed his eyes at the wall he was painting, lips pressed tight and sarcastic.

“Says the dumbass with a cigarette between his lips,” he sniped, scathing, and probably should have known to expect that Kanda would kick the board under him, having him instinctively lurching down to keep his balance while it rolled away, a sharp line of red paint cutting through his tag. 

“Are you kidding me?” he barked, seething cold and sharp, and carved the board to roll in a tight half-circle to face where Kanda was leaning smug and unaffected against Allen’s wall, a cigarette trailing vile smoke from between his fingers. “Thanks shitbag,” Allen snapped, seeing the messy line of red that’d cut through his tag, and hurled the almost-empty can at Kanda’s feet. 

Kanda flinched away from it when it bounced harsh against the rough concrete and shoved away from the wall with a murderous look on his face. “You right?” he glowered, advancing on Allen.

“Guys,” Lenalee sighed, heavy exasperation. 

“Are you?” Allen retorted, stepping off Lena’s board and matching Kanda step for step.

“Guys…” she repeated, and it sounded like a warning. They both knew how dumb it was to ignore one of Lenalee’s warnings, but Kanda had ruined Allen’s tag and Allen had thrown a paint can at him, and anyone who knew them knew it would take more than a warning from Lenalee to settle their short fuses. 

Sneering, Kanda brought his burned-down cigarette to his lips, sucked in one last drag. “Oh, I’m fuckin’ peachy,” he growled, smoke forced angrily from his lips and nose, and he flicked the cherry-hot filter at Allen. 

Allen flinched, smacked it away before it could burn a hole in his shirt and his lips twisted when he glanced back at Kanda, all but ready to catch his throat a moment before Lenalee snapped, “Guys!” with enough commanding urgency to break them out of it.

The two of them shot defensive glances at her, but when they found her staring down the dark street they realised she really didn’t give a shit about whatever spat they were having - and they shouldn’t either. 

Whipping around to see what’d caught her attention, Allen caught sight of a figure charging towards them - on a bike, actually, pursued by… oh fuck. Fuck. 

“Is that-” Allen started to ask, was cut off by Lenalee standing quickly from where she’d been crouching against the wall and Kanda’s low, fervent curses. “Lena,” he said quickly adrenaline spiking in his blood, and caught her wrist to drag her towards the board.

“Sprout,” Kanda called, holding up Allen’s paint-stained backpack before tossing it to him. 

“Run,” Allen snapped, forcing his arms through the straps and turning to watch the desperate approach. “I’ll catch a ride with Lavi.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Kanda spat, and Allen might have liked to argue more but Lavi was almost on them and the cops weren’t far behind.

It was Lavi’s turn, then, to scream, “Run, dipshits!” and hold out an arm for Allen to catch and sling onto the back pegs as he rode past. 

“Come on, Kanda!” Lenalee demanded, already kicking off after Lavi and Allen, and there was another pissed-off curse before Allen heard the sound of his feet striking out against the pavement, dashing to follow them while the police called heated threats from not too far behind. 

“Where are we going?” Kanda demanded, almost able to keep up with Lena’s longboard and the double weight on Lavi’s BMX. 

“The fuck away from here,” Lavi panted blatantly, fervent, his blood pumping with adrenaline under Allen’s hands. 

“What’s the plan?” Allen translated for him, hazarding a glance over his shoulder. The cops weren’t flagging, and the extra weight on Lavi’s bike had slowed the growing distance between them. Allen didn’t wait to see if the pair were gaining on them, instead turning back to face over Lavi’s head, hands on his shoulders.

“If we make it to Melbourne Street we can split up, circle back to Link’s,” Lenalee suggested, long legs kicking out to push her along, crouched a little low over the board, swerving easily around rugged potholes. 

“Reckon we’ll get that far?” Allen stressed, shooting another look over his shoulder. He couldn’t tell if the cops were closer, but they certainly weren’t further away.

“Shut up,” Kanda growled, half a pace behind them. “Course we can.”

uhh and then i lost track of how this goes but when they get to the juncture allen and kanda go off through the back yards and lavi and lena split up, something about ‘do you think that dog bites?’ and ‘bet you your fingers it does’, they actually do get lost for a hot second because who the fuck thought it was a good idea to pair those directionless idiots up. 

when they crash into link’s place lavi’s rolling a spliff and lena’s making some drinks, kandas like ‘what the fuck were they even chasing you for’ nd lavi takes off his coat, empties his pockets and theres like fuckin 50 chocolate bars, allens just ‘BITCH YOU HAVE SO MUCH PARA ON YOU WHAT IF YOUD GOT CAUGHT’ 

meanwhile link is just when and how the fuck did my house become a hub for sheltering criminals while they’re on the run so they can do criminal stuff and incriminate him in the process. this is not where he wanted to end up. this is not where he expected to be. he loves them but oh my god why does he let them do this shit. 

[amoristt]

Trophies | Peter x Reader

Alternatively: The Halloween Fic I Never Posted

originally this was supposed to be posted on halloween but i’ve been rather stressed lately so i ended up not finishing it until last night! i hope you guys can appreciate it regardless <3

i listened to >this< song while writing this (if you can’t click the link, it’s lorde - ribs ryan hemsworth remix) and i suggest you do too!

reblogs + tags and replies will make my entire day as i put a lot of effort into this :)!

story continues beneath the read more. let me know if you can’t access it!

Trophies

Hours after Halloween had come to an official end, you discovered that you weren’t done with your seemingly unlimited energy. The houses were dim without all the colorful lights, the streets vacant and littered with open candy rappers here and there. If you weren’t dressed in your costume you’d have picked some up and thrown them away, but you had no pockets to work with. Besides, you had your own candy to worry about.

It’d been somewhat of a slow night but it was fruitful, as evident in your dully aching shoulder and cramping wrist. Peter seemed unaffected by the weight of his candy bag, occasionally pulling it open and eagerly grabbing at a random piece and trying to read it through the darkness. Unoriginally upon choosing costumes he went with the one thing he was the most familiar with: Spiderman. At first he was hesitant but when you told him no one knew his identity, therefore making his outfit both compatible AND ironically hilarious, he moved forth with his plans and decided to keep the mask on incase someone realized the material of his suit was a little… too realistic. As the streets cleared out he slid the mask up his face enough to eat varying chocolates, unable to wait for a moment to sit on a bench.

Somewhere in the distance a child called out to her father, the sound followed by an array of giggles and laughter, then a door closing. Silence, and the porch light flickered off. The night had come to an end but you were not disappointed, and neither was Peter. If anything he was as good as can be, eagerly picking out and digging through his bag.

It had been his idea to go trick or treating this year, something you discovered he’d never really had the chance to do. You didn’t have the heart to say no and your decision did not go regretted- he had had so much fun.

“Where should we go?” Peter managed through a mouthful of airheads.

You shrugged, using your free hand to smooth down your messy hair. The night had been thankfully dry (unlike previous years) but windy nonetheless. Once again, Peter didn’t seem to care one bit that upon removing his mask his hair would likely be everywhere in tufts.

Your bag of candy knocked against your upper back and you gave it, moving it off your shoulder to pull out a piece and re-sling it back over. Even more house lights turned off as the two of you passed them by, and you wondered where a fun place would be to relax and hang out before heading back to Peter’s house. “What about that one park you told me about? The one by that sandwich shop you like.”

He blinked at you once or twice before recognition took over. Before he spoke he pulled the just opened sucker from his mouth and said, “Oh, oh right! Yeah we can hang out there for a bit- or just until Aunt May calls me. She was freaked out over the staying out late thing so I said we’d be home before midnight.”

“That’s fine,” You giggled. His Aunt May could be such a worrier. “What time is it anyways?”

“Uuh-” He looked down at a gadget build into his wrist. “About 9:30.”

“Alrighty then, lead the way. You know these roads better than I do.”

The walk was thankfully short, only a few blocks away from where you and Peter currently were upon your decision. Along the mostly vacant roads were a few groups of adults here and there standing around fires, the smell of alcohol thick in the air as you both walked by and awkwardly waved when a few people shouted out drunken ‘hello’s.  

With the park in sight you were delighted to see it was lit up with lamps, making it all the more safer to be a makeshift hang out spot. Not that you needed to extra safety anyways, you were, after all, literally walking along side the Spider Man himself, but if you could avoid a fight that was definitely a good choice. By the time you and Peter arrived, you setting your bag down with an audible huff and him just tossing it to the dirt, it was 9:45 and your legs were aching up a storm. Despite being lopsided and made of an uncomfortable wood, the bench felt like a saving grace. Peter let his mask fall next to him and sighed in relief. 

“Do you still wanna’  trade candy when we get back?” You asked, leaning forward and rubbing at your knees.

“Yeah of course!”

“Hell yeah.”

A comfortable and relaxing silence took it’s place in between you and him, and in the wake of it you leaned back against the bench and stared up. It was a windy and chilly night but there wasn’t a cloud to be seen, the stars shining brightly even with all the buzzing and livelihood of New York. You’d heard from a friend that outside the cities, the stars looked like entire galaxies, and you having grown up in the city with all your relatives blocks away only dreamed to see of it. Sometimes you wished you could be somewhere out in the country lying in some open field, the stars dancing and sparkling brightly.

But, those were future thoughts. Right now you were in a city that never sleeps, and among that you were at an empty park with Peter resting right beside you. A smile shaped on your lips and you sat straight up, looking around. It was a small, dingy park, with a merrygoround, some swings and a miniature play structure. The merrygoround looked inviting, however, so you brought yourself back to your feet.

“Come on.” you urged, holding your hands out for Peter to grab. You led him to the structure, a laugh bubbling out of you as you approached it.

Carefully you stepped onto the platform of the merry go round, eyes widening for just a second as it shook beneath your weight. Like old bones, the bolts and joints creaked but you continued in stepping into the center of the ride and grabbing onto the railings. They traced the outline of the circle with small space in between, then all met in the very center for safety. You crouched alongside one, and this close you could see how the paint chipped and peeled away to reveal what looked like ancient metals.

“Ready?” Peter asked, and you grinned, nodded, and tightened your fingers around the railings.

The spinning started slow at the first, naturally. Slowly the world around you cruised by and then repeated. Every few seconds you saw Peter standing only inches away from the moving ride, hands pushing hard at the same railings you gripped tight.

“Faster!” You chanted as you kicked your legs out from underneath you and sat back against the metal. Thanks to the night's chill it was cold, and it bit against your skin, but you didn’t mind. If anything it felt refreshing in some ways.

As soon as you’d spoke you felt the shoving intensify. The poor merrygoround shook with every forceful push and for a moment you worried that it could possibly just fall apart all together, but as you felt gravity start to tug you outwards those thoughts faded away. “You asked for it!” He taunted in reply, and you laughed gleefully even as your knuckles turned white.

For a brief, capturing moment you sent a glance up to the sky and admired the way the stars looked like they were funneling above you. The movement didn’t allow you to notice each individual twinkle but you knew they were winking anyways at the sight of you and Peter together, playing like teens should, at some no-name park just before 10. Even the crickets seemed to chirp sweeter than usual, egging on the radiant smile you offered the world.

“Had enough?” He spoke over the rides shrill cries, and you tried to manage a glimpse of his face. It was moving too fast- but just in his voice you knew he was watching you untroubled and beaming.

Everything was a blur at this point, and when it would come to a stop your stomach would likely be churning, but you still tipped your head back once again and let out a string of laughter. He was standing idly now, no longer urging the ride faster, so you called out to him. “Jump on!”

“Jump on?” He asked incredulously. “It’s going way too fast for me to just hop on!”

“Do it anyway!”

For a split second he came into view, and then the next time you saw him he was a few feet back. “Alright, here goes-” Before you caught another glimpse the entire ride shook with a great force, the ends rocking back and forth unstably. You cried out but it wasn’t of fear, that wide smile still apparent even through the night’s darkness.

“I think you broke it!” You giggled. As the merrygoround shook it still continued spinning, as did it still continue whining under your now combined weights. Through the gravity of the spinning Peter managed to scoot his way close to you, sitting at your side and gripping tight onto the bar next to his head. His hair was much messier than it had been when the night started, but he seemed so much livelier. The possibility of getting chewed out by his aunt May was only a distant memory, the fears of potentially running into a villain even further.

“Knew you could do it,” Once again your eyes found their way up to the sky. “Don’t the stars look cool?”

Peter too fixed his gaze up at the swirling moon-lit sky, and a soft silence (filled by only the ride’s creaking) took over. He smiled beside you and leaned back to let his head rest against the bar. “This is making me so dizzy.” he mumbled, and you nudged his arm.

“Weakling. They do look awesome though, don’t they?”

Peter shrugged. “I guess I uh-.. Never really thought about it.”

“Seriously?” You casted him a skeptical glance, one that he did not meet. “I’d have thought with your whole nerdy stuff you’d be all over stars.”

“Well, no, I mean I know a lot about stars. I just never really… Appreciate them I guess.”

You brought your knees up to your chest, heels pressed hard against the metal to assure you wouldn’t slide down and hit the wood chips. Peter seemed different suddenly, a little more mellow than he had been just seconds ago. Something was on his mind.

“You should.” The ride trembled beneath your body, and you leaned back. “Appreciate them more, I mean.”

“I know.” Peter sighed, closing his eyes, and you wondered if it was possible for Spiderman to get motion sickness. “Everything’s just been so crazy lately you know? With school, and the Avengers.”

Tentatively you unhooked a hand from the bar and rested it on top of his. “Well, nothing's going on right now, right?”

For a moment he looked back down at you, a strange distant yet affectionate glimmer in his eyes, but he soon turned his attention back to the constellations overhead. He sighed and slumped his shoulders. “Guess you’re right. I’ve been missing out on a lot, lately.”

“But you’re Spiderman,” You blurted. “You’ve gotten to do so much cool stuff like meet Tony and save people. You stole Captain America’s shield. Not everyone can say that.”

Peter shrugged dully. “I know. I just don’t really feel like I’m doing things normal kids should be doing.”

You frowned. “But… You’re not normal.”

He just nodded down at his lap, and a sinking feeling started taking its spot in your gut.

“Hey,” You brushed your elbow against his own, a halfhearted attempt to push him from whatever thoughts were starting to eat away at him. “If you’re worried about missing out on things then don’t worry. We’ve got plenty of time to do stupid stuff.”

A lopsided smile graced his features, and he let out something between a sigh and a meaningful deep breath. “Star gazing is stupid?”

“No,” You tilted your head from side to side. “But staying out late to mess around a park? I think so.”

“Right,” He nodded, laughing quietly under his breath. “Speaking of that we should probably get going, I don’t wanna freak out Aunt May.”

By that moment the ride had started to lose its previous momentum, now only idly spinning at a much less nauseating speed. Though you’d much rather have sat there with him all night, you removed your hand from his own, and made your way scooting down to the edge of the circle. The moment you hopped off you were struck with dizziness, a strange lead-like weight holding your legs down. It took you a few moments to get your balance back, and thanks to Peter’s supportive hand taking a quick rest between your shoulder blades, you were able to walk like normal again.

“Almost tipped over there for a second.” You laughed, stretching your arms broadly with a yawn. You picked your candy bag up from the ground and let it take its place back over your shoulder, that same dull ache already starting to reform the instant it did so.

“You know,” Peter grabbed his own candy bag and brushed off his suit with his other hand. “We should come here again sometime. Maybe a bit earlier though since-”

“Aunt May?” You rose a brow teasingly.

He sheepishly grinned and looked down for a second. “Yeah.”

“We should totally come here again earlier next time. Other places too. Gotta get some stupid things in there.”

At your words Peter laughed, eyes closing for a second before he looked back out ahead. “We’re going to end up getting in trouble somehow, I know it.”

“You bet we are.”

Like before the streets were vacant. Even by now the groups of drunken adults had dispersed, some scattered voices in backyards calling out goodnights and goodbyes to one another. A truck started up, took off, and then there was silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable, however. You stared down at the ground as you walked, wondering what kind of movie you and him would want while you ate yourselves sick on candy like kids did.

It had never really occurred to you that Peter felt somewhat… Alienated from his age group. He’d always seemed to adamant about being more mature than his age, capable of handling things well beyond his pay grade. Being upset over ‘missing out’ on being a silly teen made you feel in the dark. It made sense in some way, he was out doing things in secret that hardly anyone else would relate too, and in order to do so you knew he’d sacrificed so many social outings he wished he could’ve attended.

The candy in your bag nudged against each other with every step, and you smiled when you heard him once again reach inside and pull a piece out to snack on.

To you the bag felt like a weight. It made your arms ache, your wrist cramping with the constant position, but to Peter it was likely an entirely different story. It made sense why he seemed more than happy to plow through nearly a quarter of his bag before you and him finally made it to his home.

A simple bag of candy from a fun, childish night probably felt like a trophy to him.