#but october is still a sort of looking glasses anniversary

[ferronickel]

A year ago, I burnt myself out doing all of these runetober drawings, but while I was working on them, I started to have some ideas that turned into Looking Glasses. These drawings ended up being a backdoor into solidifying my designs for the comic, especially those last two with Dess and Dark Fountain Ralsei.

This year I wanted to do a few more of these, but got burnt out for unrelated reasons, and it didn't happen. Maybe next year.

This year I did runetober as a series of fashion magazine images, here’s the finished set.

Individual images can be found under the #runetober tag on my blog.

[burning-academia-if]

Happy write a lot of words month and welcome to another dev log. I once more got sick, bringing my 2024 sick counter to a stunning 8!!! Thankfully besides this, October was the first semi-calm month I've had in a while, so I had more time to chip away at Chapter 3! Here's what October looked like:

Released the One Year Anniversary Side Story

Started coding in the opening scenes of Chapter 3

Inched ever closer to a total word count of 150k

I think a few months ago I made a semi joking mention that Chapter 3 brought BA to a total word count of 100k, but this Chapter just keeps getting longer so it'll likely bring it to 150k which feels like a pretty solid word count now lol

With that said, I know I mentioned hoping to start looking for beta testers in November (and I'll certainly try to finish writing and coding chapter 3 in time!) but I'm going to make it more realistic and say the beginning of December. This is because a) chapter longer than expected, b) coding takes me eons, and c) got more hours at work. I'm confident I'll get the writing portion done in November, it's just the coding I'm not as certain about!

I'm slightly nervous about Chapter 3 tbh, just because it's more of a 'break' sort of chapter. A lot of exploring the university/town and finally just settling in to MC's new life. Granted, Things still happen (rip to the MCs with the drinking vice or MCs who wear glasses this chapter lmaO), but it does lighten up a bit! If you play your cards right, it'll almost have a slice of life vibe for most of it.

Anyway, excited to be so close to finally finishing this chapter lol Here's the monthly preview ft Zoe and kind!MC:

[xohyeona]

༺♱༻ THE SOUND OF CERISE ༺♱༻

beginning with the promotional single, ENHANCED FLOWER, CERISE’s introductory album, GEMINI, paying homage to her zodiac sign, is raw in nature. with the title track, NEW, she introduces herself as an artist and embraces the idea of finding herself. she stated in an interview that she wrote the songs for GEMINI three years prior as a way to, sort of manifest her future, hoping that one day she’ll be able to live the life she writes about. NEW did well for a debut, garnering 15 million views in the first twenty four hours. the album sold 6,077 copies the day of release and 12,437 copies in its first week.

coming back 5 months later with KILL THE DAY, the album gained a lot more traction with its soft rock vibe. the title track of the same name received much more commercial success with many netizens saying that the style complimented her well and that she looked more comfortable on stage. CERISE even said that KILL THE DAY was one of her favorite songs she’s ever written. this album did better than her last, selling 35,729 copies the day of its release and reaching the 100,000 mark that week. this era has been marked as a “golden era” for her as she began to market herself as a stand-out artist.

she released LAST DANCE, LAST CHANCE in october of 2023 with the title track, LAST DANCE. with this album, she gained her first win on mcountdown and secured 2 more wins during promotions. while having a musical difference from KILL THE DAY, it was still received well by cherries and even non-fans. someone made an edit of the music video with the caption ‘female rage’ which went viral, gaining the song and music video even more popularity.

upon the 1st anniversary of her debut, CERISE dropped the digital single, RAISE A GLASS. the song serves as a thank you to fans and asks them to celebrate the milestone with her. the single wasn’t promoted as a regular comeback, instead just having a music video filmed on a digital camera. the video showed a more humane and childlike side to her as opposed to her mature image, even including predebut videos of her. despite the lack of promotion, RAISE A GLASS went viral and charted high for weeks due to the music video being heavily talked about and the song being used for sweet edits.

making an official comeback in 2024 with the mini album, BLACK SEA, this marks a shift in CERISE’s musical direction. with this album, she takes a much darker approach, taking inspiration from disney villains like ursula and mother gothel. she provides a dark and creepy aesthetic, making use of fire and the ocean. the album did slightly less as good than her previous comebacks solely due to the fact that the title track was completely in english and didn’t really favor the kpop market. korean netizens preferred other korean tracks from the album. however, the song garnered some traction in the western market, charting at #74 on the billboard global 200 chart.

[toalloftheboysivelovedbefore]

Graveside Letters #5 J.D.B.

October 27, 2024

My Most Darling Love,

I’m sorry that it took so long for me to come and visit. I meant to be here on Friday, but I got some sort of stomach flu and was sick as a dog. I still want you more than anything when I don’t feel weak — whether it’s a migraine, my period, or the stomach flu…every time I want to climb into your arms. It was a lonely day, Friday. Being alone and being sick like that tends to make my head go to bad places.

I was going to bring you flowers again today — the little white ones in the garden like the ones your mom grew in hers. I want to visit her. I miss her — her and your dad both. It’s just too difficult though. I can’t. And I feel terrible for that. You are a perfect amalgamation of their features and yet it is not you. Sometimes I feel like I failed them. They took me in, they loved me in a way no one ever had, then we lost you and I disappeared. How selfish am I?

I brought Starbucks this morning so that we could have our Sunday morning coffee. The park is swarming with kids today and an absolutely previous AYSO soccer game is running. You would be delighted. I have been thinking about it a lot lately. Maybe it’s good that we never tried to have kids. we already knew that I had some fertility problems and I cannot imagine the pain of starting that process proccess process (I wrote that word two ways and neither looked right but Google said that I had it correct the first time) and going through the inevitable disappointment , the probable pain, the chance of miscarriage, only to lose you in the end. I’m barely surviving as it is. I can’t imagine adding that to the mix. I am surviving though. I think you’d be proud of me for that.

We’re approaching the holiday season and I’m dreading it — Thanksgiving, our anniversary, Christmas, so many big days that I am going to have to get through without you. The dark days will be here in a week from today and I can’t look forward to you coming in here door and greeting you with soup that we can snuggle up and eat while we work through whatever TV series we are in the midst of now. It’s finally cold enough that Amos needs his sweatshirt. I always forget how cute her looks in it until I put him in it every year. He gets extra tappy. I still call him that — Tappy Toes. I hear it in your voice when I say it though. They miss you. They’ve been extra clingy, even for them.

I’m thinking about going to stay with my parents for a while. The house is too empty. I’m too sad, too lonely. I could use some extra love and maybe a meal or two. I’m losing weight. I see it in my face and when I look in the mirror. My clothes fit a little more loosely. I’m trying to eat,I really am. And drink water, before you ask, ha. I miss waking up to a glass of water on my nightstand before you left for work. It was such a small gesture but it meant so much. I wish I had told you that more. You’re the one that caught me when I fell and the reason I’m falling now is because you’ll never catch me again.

Can I tell you something extraordinarily selfish? G.A.D and his husband are having marriage problems and a dark, twisted part of me hopes they don’t stay together so maybe G.A.D. and I could get a place together and grieve. He’s my best friend and I don’t actually wish that at all. I’m just so fucking sad and lonely and I want someone to sit with me in my grief.

Things are just so difficult, my love. I don’t want to do this without you and I have no choice but to figure it out.

I hope it’s beautiful, wherever you are. I hope you get to snuggle Oliver all of the time. I had o give you up for you to get him back. I’m not sure about the fairness of that trade, but it makes me smile when the going gets tough that you have him.

One last thing — I know you always joked that when we got married, you wanted to take my last name because it was better, but I really wanted yours. Just so you know.

I love you infinitely. Endlessly. Ceaselessly.

Love,

Your Sunshine

[bubonickitten]

Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 29: discussion of Jon’s & Daisy’s restrictive diets & associated physical/mental deterioration (and potential parallels with disordered eating etc.); arguing & relationship disputes (that are not immediately resolved in-chapter); self-harm (burning oneself with a lit cigarette); cigarette smoking; discussion of suicidal ideation; panic & anxiety symptoms; discussions of grief & loss; cyclical mental health issues (post-traumatic anniversary reactions; related self-loathing, internalized victim blaming, & survivor’s guilt; generally speaking, Jon’s relapsing into self-isolating, worse-than-usual headspace, esp towards the end of the chapter); depiction of parental neglect/rejection (Martin's mother). SPOILERS through S5.

There’s also a Hunt-themed statement that contains descriptions of indiscriminate violence & unprovoked warfare against a civilian population. Oh, and a cliffhanger.

Let me know if I missed anything!

_________________

“Statements ends,” Jon says, somewhat breathless as he fumbles to stop the recording.

“You alright?” Daisy asks.

“Fine.” The word is punctuated by a click and a whirr as the recorder resumes spooling.

“Are you, though?”

“Yes.” Scowling, Jon jabs his finger at the stop button – only for it to keep recording.

“It’s the Hunt, isn’t it.” Daisy sighs, rubbing the back of her neck. “Sorry it’s been so prominent for the last few. I’m… not quite scraping the bottom of the barrel yet, but–”

“It’s fine, Daisy.”

“Still, I–”

“I said it’s fine–!” Jon winces at his sharp tone. “I’m sorry, that was… I’m just – on edge, I suppose.”

Which is an understatement, really.

Because it’s September. It’s September, and after September is October, and October is–

Well. These days, he can’t even look at a calendar – can’t even look at the time and date on his phone – without icy dread coursing through his veins.

Sporadic flashbacks have become an everyday occurrence, set off by the smallest of stimuli: a dropped glass shattering on the breakroom floor becomes a window bursting inward into shards; a thunderstorm heralds a fissuring sky, marred by hundreds upon thousands of greedy, unblinking voyeurs; his own voice is a doomsday harbinger, a key crammed into a lock he can’t keep from unbolting. The memories are too immediate, too vivid to feel past-tense.

It’s to be expected. Studies, common knowledge, and anecdotal evidence all point to the impact of anniversaries on mental health. He knows what a textbook post-traumatic stress response looks like. Monster or not, in this particular sense he remains overwhelmingly human. No matter how much he rationalizes it, though, intellectually understanding a psychological phenomenon does little to soften the lived experience of it.

And it does nothing to temper the chilling knowledge – bordering on conviction – that it may happen again.

“Would be worrisome if you weren’t stressed out, considering… you know. Everything.” Daisy leans back in her chair, stretches her legs out in front of her, and rolls her shoulders. “Speaking of the Hunt. Any new developments?”

“I mean… nothing since yesterday? Everything I know, Basira knows.”

“Basira… isn’t keeping me updated,” Daisy says, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

“Ah,” Jon says, with tact to spare. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

“It’s fine.”

“Is it?”

Daisy sighs. “She thinks that I think she’s wasting her time.”

“And do you?”

Daisy gives a jerky shrug. “Don’t you?”

“Not… necessarily,” Jon hedges. Truthfully, his answer to that question is as mercurial as his moods these days, shifting from hour to hour, sometimes minute to minute. Daisy gives him an unimpressed look. “I won’t lie and say I’m optimistic, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.”

“You sound like Martin.”

“Well, he spent ample time drilling it into me,” Jon says with a wry smile. “I don’t have the same capacity for hope as he does, but improbable doesn’t mean impossible. If I’d had it my way, I’d have lain down and died ages ago. I’m only here now because of him.”

“Mental health check,” Daisy says automatically.

“Not thinking of hurting myself,” Jon replies, just as rote. “You don’t have to do that, you know. I’ve told you, I’m physically incapable of killing myself even if I wanted to.”

“That doesn’t stop you brooding.”

“Anyway, I wasn’t referring to anything recent.”

“Weren’t you, though?” At his blank look, Daisy gives an impatient sigh. “It hasn’t even been a year since you woke up, Sims. Up until six months ago, you were wandering an apocalyptic wasteland–”

“…I found myself utterly alone. Facing down a room full of nothing eyes, willing myself to take action. I never did, though–”

“–I wanted to act, to help, to do something, but – my mind had all but seized up, and I felt helpless to do anything but watch as events progressed–”

“–there was nothing I could do to save him – he died – so did any hope I had of – doing good in the world–”

“–there’s a sort of numbness that you adopt after months or years of bombing–”

“–I did spend a lot of time just… slumped in despair – had no reason to think it would help, but I could see no choice but waiting for death–”

“–hoping against hope that – it wouldn’t be forever–”

“Hey!” Daisy’s voice finally breaks through the rush of static. Or perhaps it was the pressure: Jon looks down to see her bony fingers caging his own in a bruising grip.

“Sorry,” he says, catching himself as he starts to list woozily.

“Not to say ‘I told you so,’ but…” Daisy gives his hands another light squeeze. “You sort of just proved my point there.”

“I’m well aware that I’m – traumatized, or whatever–”

“Not ‘or whatever’–”

“–but I’m not a danger to myself, so could we please just move on?” Jon mumbles, averting his eyes. “You wanted a Hunt update.”

Daisy scrutinizes him for a long moment before she allows the conversational pivot to stand.

“Basira said you’ve heard back from that Head Librarian,” she says, “but she blew me off when I started prying.”

“Zhang Xiaoling,” Jon says, his shoulders relaxing. “She was able to confirm some of Jonah’s intel. They do have a statement about a book matching that description in their records, and she agreed to forward a copy once it’s been digitized. They’re further along in their digitization process than we are–”

Daisy snorts. “Probably because they’re actually working on it.”

“That, and they have the benefit of a Head Librarian who actually has a background in archival studies,” Jon says drily. “In any case, they have a large archive, so it’s a work in progress. She’s processed our inquiry, though, and she says she has someone on it. We should hear back by tomorrow at the latest.”

“Huh,” Daisy says. “Sounds…”

“Like a functioning archive?”

“I was going to say ‘streamlined,’ but sure.”

“The wonders of a hiring process that prioritizes job qualifications as opposed to a candidate’s apocalyptic potential.”

“What are the chances their institution is also led by a centuries-old corpse with a god complex?”

“Non-zero, I imagine.”

Daisy wrinkles her nose. “Ugh, don’t say that.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t have evidence one way or the other.”

“It doesn’t. Does she know about…” Daisy waves her hand vaguely. “All of this? The Fears, Rituals… Jonah?”

The question gives Jon pause. He thinks back to his meeting with Xiaoling all those years ago – well, last June, from her perspective.

“Some of it, I think,” he says slowly. “She seemed familiar with some of the Archivist’s abilities. There were parts of my visit that struck me as odd at the time. I didn’t realize until later that she had been speaking both Chinese and English at different points in our conversation.”

Daisy frowns. “She didn’t clue you in?”

“She didn’t, no. But…”

Elias made a good choice, the Librarian’s voice echoes in Jon’s mind. I did offer him someone, but he thought the language might be too much for him.

It does tickle me, Jonah’s voice chimes in, that in this world of would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the Chosen One is simply that – someone I chose.

“I don’t know if she’s aware of Elias’ true identity.” Jon swallows with some difficulty, his mouth suddenly dry. “Or his intentions.”

“So is it really smart to trust her?”

“If she’s in communication with him, there’s nothing she can tell him that he doesn’t already know. We’re just following up on information he gave us. And he’s likely spying on our correspondence whether she’s in contact with him or not. Not much we can do about that.”

“She could have her own ulterior motives,” Daisy says.

“True enough, but… I got the sense that her primary interest is curation. Studying phenomena, building a knowledge base–”

“In service to cosmic evil,” Daisy says pointedly.

“W-well, yes, but – I don’t think she has delusions of godhood herself, and I don’t think Jonah has tempted her with the idea.” Jon huffs to himself. “He wouldn’t want to share his throne.”

“Hm.”

“I’m not saying we trust her or the Research Centre as a whole. I had reservations about their motives then and I still do. It’s not unthinkable that they’re a front for something more sinister in the same way that the Institute is. But… I don’t think there’s any especial danger in utilizing their library.”

“Sims,” Daisy sighs, “your danger meter is broken beyond repair.”

“In my defense,” Jon says, bracing one arm on the desk to leverage himself to his feet, “at this point, everything is just differing degrees of dangerous.”

As the two of them leave the tunnels, Jon’s phone buzzes in his pocket. When he glances at the screen, he sees a text notification from Naomi – in addition to two missed calls. He frowns to himself. The two of them text regularly, but she rarely calls.

“What’s up?” Daisy asks, her brow furrowing in concern.

“Naomi,” Jon says distractedly, already returning the call. Naomi picks up on the first ring.

“Jon?” Naomi’s voice sounds thick and tear-clogged.

A cold weight settles in Jon’s stomach. “What’s wrong?”

“I j-just” – Naomi pauses to clear her throat – “just needed to hear a familiar voice.”

“What happened?” Jon asks – and realizes too late that in his urgency to discover the source of her distress, he’s poured too much of himself into the question.

“Nothing.” What starts out as a self-deprecating little laugh quickly deteriorates into a half-sob. “Nothing new, anyway. It’s always like this, this time of year. Evan and I didn’t have an exact date planned, but we’d talked about an autumn wedding. Thought it would be fitting, since we met in September, you know? Tomorrow is our anniversary, actually. Or – or it would’ve been. A-and then by the time I’ve picked myself back up, the holidays will have crept up on me, and that’s always hard, and – and then before I know it, it’s March, a-and that’s its own kind of anniversary, and it’s just… it’s a lot.”

“Oh, I – Naomi, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“It’s fine,” she says with a sniff. “Don’t think I would’ve been able to get it all out, otherwise.”

“S-still, I–”

“It’ll be three years this March. And it still feels like it was yesterday. I spend six months out of the year feeling like I’m still stumbling through that cemetery, and I just…”

This time last year, Jon thinks with a lurch, I was still the monster in her nightmares.

And even now, he still pulls her there whenever they’re both asleep.

“When does that stop?” Naomi laughs again, a desperate, pleading thing. “When does the healing come in?”

“I… I don’t know,” Jon says truthfully. “Anniversaries are… they’re hard enough on their own. It doesn’t help that… well, it’s difficult to heal from something when you’re still living it.”

“What do you mean? Evan’s dead,” Naomi says, her voice breaking on the word. “He’s not coming back. It’s… it’s over.”

“There are still the dreams. The narrative might have changed, but the stage dressing is still the same.” Jon draws his shoulders in, one arm pressed tight to his stomach. “Keeping the memory fresh.”

“It’s not so bad.” Naomi sniffles again. “Better than being alone.”

“‘Alone’ or ‘nightmares’ shouldn’t be your only options.”

“I have my own nightmares, you know,” Naomi counters, sounding slightly annoyed. “When I’m asleep and you’re not. And they’re worse, because in them, I actually am alone. Nothing supernatural about it. It’s just… me.” She sighs. “This time last year – and the year before – I didn’t have anyone. And I just… I didn’t – I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’re not,” Jon says. “Not anymore.”

“I – I know, but I…” Naomi takes a breath. “I was… I was thinking – maybe tomorrow I could come by.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says gently, “truly I am – but it’s not safe. Especially for you, especially right now. Not with Peter here.”

Naomi is already the equivalent of an unfinished meal to the Lonely. That, together with her association with Jon, is more than enough to mark her as a potential target should Peter take notice of her.

“Feels safer than being alone,” Naomi says. “The Duchess helps – a lot – but I…” She lets out a fond but tearful chuckle. “I can’t expect her to grasp the nuances of… grief, or loneliness, or what have you.”

“How about this,” Jon says. “We tell Georgie what’s going on – as much or as little as you’d like, even if it’s as simple as ‘I don’t want to be alone right now.’ I doubt she’d be opposed to having you over.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose. I mean, I – I’ve not spent much time with her outside of just… spamming the group chat with cat photos. I like her, but she’s your friend. I’m just… a friend of a friend.”

Nestled between the words is a familiar sentiment, unarticulated and nonetheless resounding, echoing all of the earnest conviction it had when first she made such a confession: All my friends had been his friends, and once he was gone it didn’t feel right to see them. I know, I’m sure they wouldn’t have minded, they would have said they were my friends too, but I could never bring myself to try. It felt more comfortable, more familiar, to be alone…

“People can have more than one friend,” Jon says. “I can’t speak for Georgie, but she wouldn’t go out of her way to talk to you if she didn’t like you.”

Indeed, that might be the reason Jon was able to open up to Georgie in the first place. He observed early on that she had no qualms disengaging from people whom she had no interest in getting to know. Whatever Jon might have felt about himself on any given day, the simple fact of the matter was that Georgie would never have let him get so close if she hadn’t seen something redeeming in him.

And she likely wouldn’t be letting him stay close now if she didn’t still see something worth salvaging.

“It’s up to you, of course,” he says. “I won’t pressure you. But I think Georgie would be more receptive to friendship than you expect. And I think – I think you’d get along with Melanie, too.” Naomi is silent on the other end of the line. “At the risk of overstepping, I… I know being alone feels like the natural state of things, but it doesn’t have to be. If you want, I can talk to Georgie. Lay the groundwork. I won’t give her any of the details – it’s not my story to tell – I’ll just let her know that you’re feeling alone and could use some companionship.”

“Okay,” Naomi whispers. “Just… let her know she’s not obligated.”

“I will. On the extremely off chance she says no, or if she’s busy tomorrow, I can keep you company remotely. We can spend the whole day holding up the office landline if you want.”

“It’s a Friday.”

“And?”

“It’s a work day?”

“Naomi, my job is wholly comprised of monologuing to any tape recorder that manifests within a six-foot radius and doing my utmost to render my department as counterproductive to both the Institute’s professed and clandestine organizational objectives as humanly or inhumanly possible.” Naomi barks out a startled laugh. “I won’t be fired no matter what I do – which is a shame, seeing as it became my foremost professional development goal somewhere between finding out my boss murdered my predecessor and virtually dying in an explosion at a haunted wax museum. Barring a sudden and unexpected apocalyptic threat – which, admittedly, is unlikely but not unthinkable– I’ve already cleared my non-existent schedule for you.”

“Okay.” Naomi makes a sound somewhere between a sniffle and a chuckle. “Thanks. Really.”

“Any time.”

_________________

The statement is an unnerving, circuitous thing: a firsthand account from an unnamed member of the Drake-Norris expedition in 1589. In many ways, it’s eerily similar to the last statement Jon accessed from Pu Songling’s archives: Second Lieutenant Charles Fleming’s shellshocked, guilt-fueled confession of atrocities committed under orders.

The historical record is rife with accounts of Francis Drake’s cruelty, Jon knows: his role in the transatlantic slave trade, the unprovoked massacres committed in his name, the preemptive strikes that incited further bloodshed. The statement giver speaks in awestruck horror of the bloodlust lurking in the man’s eyes, the vitriolic fervor with which he undertook his campaign to seek out and destroy the remnants of the Spanish fleet – and the depths of his rage when his efforts ended in defeat. Humiliated, he turned his vengeful eye to the Galician estuaries.

The writer tells plainly of his own complicity in the sacking of Vigo, razing the town to the ground and slaughtering its inhabitants with indiscriminate zeal. For four days Drake’s men carried out their rampage, retreating only when reinforcements arrived to stem the tide.

“You may ask yourself,” the Archivist reads on, “how it is that a man born into the reign of Good Queen Bess sits before you today, some four centuries past his due?

“You see, as we left the shores of Galicia that day, I heard from behind us a vicious braying, as if someone had set loose a great host of hounds. They were close – close enough for me to sense their stinking breath hot on the back of my neck. Such a thing was impossible, for we were by that time far from shore, having already rowed half the distance between the beach and the waiting armada. That did not stop me dreading the dogs lunging and tearing into me at any moment.

“I am not ashamed to admit that I let out a whimper.

“As the seconds ticked by and the pack failed to descend upon us, my curiosity grew to outweigh my terror. I turned to look – and was thus ensnared. It was, I realize now, the instant at which I became beholden to the blood. My greatest folly.

“Perhaps I oughtn’t have been so surprised to see no hounds surging toward us atop the waves, but you must understand that the proximity of their snarling was far more convincing than their visual absence. In looking behind us, though, I was able to appreciate the havoc we left in our wake: the great plumes of ash rising from the smoldering rubble, backlit by a flickering orange glow, and wails of despair so profound as to combat the noise of the wind, the waves – even the discordant shrieking of the hounds.

“It was a scene of such devastation as I had never seen before or since. Looking back, I think upon the acrid stench of charred flesh on the breeze with horror and… indescribable remorse. It shames me now to admit that at that time, I had never felt such… rapture.

“That was when a motion caught my eye. Between the distance and the billowing smoke, it should have been impossible to discern such detail, yet there he was: quarry I had left for dead, emerging from the debris and staggering away from the ruins of his… wretched life. As he looked out to behold our retreat, I could see the grief playing on his face, the fury, the fear – but what most set my blood to boiling was the spark of relief I saw in his eyes.

“It awakened something in me – a famished and merciless thing, composed of tooth and claw and a mind beginning and ending and utterly encompassed by the call of the pack. With a roaring in my ears and a single-minded violence supplanting my sensibilities, I deserted the rowboat and swam to shore. A chorus of howls carried me forward, and I let them be my wings, steering me down the swiftest, straightest path to my target.

“I slowed for nothing, and I made certain my prey did not live through the night.

“As you can likely guess, the chase did not end there. Those baying devils who had so called me forth continued to hound my steps, nipping at my heels, spurring me ever onward to the next quarry. Those who once knew me would scarcely have recognized what I became. Whenever I dared look into a mirror, I would see in myself a dogged, seething violence so akin to that which had lived in the eyes of my former commander. A cruelty that once had frightened and repulsed me had become the blood and breath of me.

“For a time I sought to refrain from the chase. The longer I refused the call, the weaker I became. The hounds’ breath on my neck grew hotter; their braying swelled louder. I found myself wasting away: always hungry, never sated. Eventually my faculties began to slip. I would lose myself to such… bestialimpulses, and only the stain of blood on my teeth would return to me my reason. It pains me to confess to you now that it did not take long before I ceased my resistance entirely.

“It was at the turn of the sixteenth century that I happened upon the artefacts now in your possession. Their previous owner was a formidable adversary. I spent nearly a fortnight tracking him before I managed to run him down, and he fought like a tempest before he fell.

“Ordinarily I did not linger after a kill, instinct hastening me ever onward to the next great game. As I turned to leave, though, I was overcome by the sense that the hunt was… unfinished. Troubled, I reached down to check the man’s pulse. I was reassured to find him quite dead, but as I drew back, I noticed the brooch.

“It was a simple thing made of tarnished copper, fashioned into an incomplete ring, the ends of which resembled the heads of dogs. The moment my fingers brushed that ornament, I knew it was meant for me. It went into my pocket with nary a conscious thought.

“The itch of the hunt was still crawling down my spine, though; the frantic snuffling of phantom hounds yet filling the air all around me. I continued to search his person until I found what was calling out to me: a thin volume bound in leather. Curiosity ever my folly, I opened it.

“Up until that point, I had never learned to read nor write Latin with any degree of mastery. Yet I could understand the text within with perfect clarity. The script did not transform to English before my eyes, nor did the book render me proficient in the language. No, I simply… beheld the pages, and the meaning flowed into me.

“The story tells of Herla, legendary king of the Britons, who visits the dwarf king’s realm. Upon leaving, he is gifted a hound and warned not to dismount his horse until the dog leaps down. When Herla and his men return to the human world, they discover that not days but centuries have passed: all those they had known have long since perished, and the Saxons have taken possession of the land. In their distress, some of the men dismount, whereupon they turn to dust. Herla warns the survivors to stay in their saddles, to wait until the dog leaps down.

“‘The dog has not yet alighted,’ the author tells us, ‘and the story says that this King Herla still holds on his mad course with his band in eternal wanderings, without stop or stay.’

“The next several pages are unreadable. The language resembles none I have ever encountered, and I have yet to find a soul who can decipher it. I can however attest its hypnotic qualities. I have spent many hours mired in those words, but I could not for the life of me tell you what I saw there. Others to whom I presented the text found themselves either enthralled or agitated, though none could recall such episodes once lucidity returned to them. I expect you mean to unravel its secrets, but you may do well to let its mystery stand.

“The final passage – a single page, this written in English – tells of Herla’s escape: how, weary and driven to despair, he casts the dog from the saddle and into the River Wye. The instant the hound hits the water, Herla and his band crumble into dust, at last meeting the same fate they spent so many hundreds of years trying to outpace.

“I have had hundreds of years of my own since first reading the tale to digest its message, and that is why I come to you today. Although I have killed several times since these items came into my possession – it should come as no surprise that there are those who covet them – I have not sought out a single hunt since I vanquished the man who yielded me these trinkets. The hounds at my heel have not ceased their clamoring, but so long as the brooch is on my person, they cannot sink their teeth in me. I am always hungry, yes – but I am no longer starving.

“But I am also weary. I have come to understand that even as the hounds can never catch me, they will never leave me. In my four hundred years, I have played the role of both the hunter and the hunted, and have learned that they share the same ultimate plight. Whether I be predator or prey, I am trapped in the throes of an endless pursuit. So long as I should live, my blood shall never quiet.

“And that is the key: so long as I should live. Even now, the fervor in my blood insists that the hunt is eternal, but I know now that one cannot outrun one’s end forever. Much like my constant, howling companions, Death will always be nipping at my heels. In that sense, he is perhaps the ultimate hunter. Just as I have delivered to him so many souls, neither can I escape his judgment. If ever I am to rest, I must bow to his supremacy.

“And so, like Herla, I shall cast the dog away from the saddle. I leave it in your care now, and the book. I should be so lucky to exit this life with the dignity I denied so many others, though I fear I shall be found undeserving of such a swift end. I can only hope that, whatever my comeuppance should be, I shall have the grace to accept it without complaint.”

With a heavy exhale, Jon depresses the stop button on the recorder, then puts his head in his hands, putting pressure on his closed eyes.

“You alright?” Basira asks.

“More than I’d like,” Jon mutters.

“If I thought there was any chance this guy was still alive, I wouldn’t have given you the statement to read.”

“I know. Just…” Jon waves his hand vaguely.

“Unpleasant, yeah.”

And rejuvenating, Jon thinks bitterly. It’s only been a few days since his last statement from Daisy, and already he had begun to feel famished.

“They sent along some supplemental records,” Basira says, rifling through printouts. “The statement is cross-referenced with two objects in their Collections Storage – here.”

The document she slides across the desk contains two catalog listings:

Item No. 9820702-1

Description: Pennanular brooch, copper alloy. Geometric and interlace motifs. Confronted zoomorphic terminals (canine profile). Moderate surface oxidization and patination. Dimensions: 5.5cm x 4.5cm body; 12.5cm pin. Artefact dated ca. 500–700 CE.

Properties: Primary subject (Case No. 9820702) reports mediating effect on the Hunter’s affliction (unverified). Item implicated in subject’s alleged abnormal longevity (unverified). Further study suggests dormancy and/or lack of reactivity to unafflicted subjects (see associated Investigation Log).

Storage: Special Collections – Inorganic Storage, Container Unit No. 982-05. Acid-free board housing, etherfoam packing. Environmental parameters in brief: maintain stable temperature (16-20°C); relative humidity, 32-35%; light levels, <300 lux. Handling protocols as per Acquisitions & Collections Policies and Procedures §3.5.3: Artefact Preservation – Metals – Copper and Copper Alloys.

Access: Upon request. Curator approval required prior to initial visit. Applicants may submit statement of intent to Acquisitions & Collections Department Head Curator for clearance. Terms, procedures, and degree of supervision subject to Curator’s discretion.

Provenance: Surrendered 2nd July, 1982 upon receipt of accompanying statement (Case No. 9820702), subject name unknown. See also Item No. 9820702-2.

Appendices:

· Investigation Log No. 9820702-1;

· Supplemental Documents Nos. 9820702-1.01 through -1.03.

Cross-reference:

· Case No. 9820702;

· Item No. 9820702-2;

· Acquisitions & Collections Catalog §3.6.4: Antiquities – Adornments and Jewelry (Inert).

Item No. 9820702-2

Description: Bound manuscript. Front and back covers unembellished leather (source undetermined) stretched over wood board (source undetermined). Leather cord binding (calf, bovine). Paper and parchment leaves. Ink corrosion and paper degradation present but minimal (fair condition inconsistent with age and media). Dimensions: 8.8cm x 14.0cm x 2.5cm. Artefact dated ca. 1190–1450 CE.

Contents: Eighteen (18) pages total, one-sided.

· Title page (1) iron gall ink on parchment (sheepskin): Gualterius Mappus – De nugis curialium – xi. De Herla rege

· Pages two (2) through four (4) iron gall ink on paper (hemp pulp, linen fiber): Medieval Latin (ca. 12th century) script.

· Pages five (5) through sixteen (16) ink (chemical composition undetermined) on paper (cotton fiber): alphabetic script (unknown roots); refer to Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.03 for comparative linguistic analysis (inconclusive).

· Page seventeen (17) ink (chemical composition undetermined) on paper (cotton fiber): Middle English (ca. 15th century) script.

· Page eighteen (18) parchment (sheepskin): blank.

Transcripts and translations (where possible) provided in Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.01*.

Properties: Primary subject (Case No. 9820702) reports total comprehension of Latin portions of the text despite lack of proficiency. Text alleged to diverge from source material (De nugis curialium – Map, Walter, fl. 1200). Both claims verified upon further examination (see associated Investigation Log). Probable association with the Hunter’s affliction.

Storage: Special Collections – Secure Storage. Environmental parameters in brief: maintain temperature at 20-22°C; relative humidity, 32-36%; light levels, ≤50 lux. Housing and handling protocols as per Acquisitions & Collections Policies and Procedures §2.5.5: Document Preservation – Premodern Inks – Iron Gall and §9.2: Special Precautions – Occult and Esoteric Texts.

Access: Restricted.

Provenance: Surrendered 2nd July, 1982 upon receipt of accompanying statement (Case No. 9820702), subject name unknown. See also Item No. 9820702-1.

Appendices:

· Investigation Log No. 9820702-2;

· Supplemental Documents Nos. 9820702-2.01* through -2.07;

· Incident Report No. 9930214.

Cross-reference:

· Case No. 9820702;

· Item No. 9820702-1;

· Acquisitions & Collections Catalog §2.1.1: Archival Media – Occult Books (Active);

· Interdepartmental Bulletin No. 9941002, “The Library of Jurgen Leitner: Lessons Learned.”

*Addendum, 16th February, 1993:Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.01 reclassified as Restricted Access. Direct all inquiries to Pu Songling Research Library Head Librarian or Acquisitions & Collections Department Head Curator.

“So?” Basira prods. “What do you make of it?”

“Well, assuming the statement is a reliable account, it seems…”

“Promising, right?” Basira says, her eagerness tinted with relief. “If we can–”

She stops abruptly as the tape recorder on the table clicks back on.

“I think that’s our cue to move this conversation elsewhere,” Jon says.

Not that it will stop the tape recorders from listening in, but he has no desire to make Jonah’s surveillance any easier for him.

_________________

It takes some hemming and hawing, but Jon manages to convince Basira that this really ought to be a group discussion. As she recaps the statement and shares her own remarks, Jon keeps a close eye on the other two people in the room. Martin is listening attentively, leaning forward slightly but otherwise at ease. Daisy, though… she’s all corded muscles and jittery legs, taut and precarious on the edge of her seat.

All the while, Basira appears impervious to the storm brewing in Daisy’s eyes, even as Martin catches on and begins chewing on the inside of his cheek, darting nervous glances between the two of them. By the time Basira finishes her overview, the tension in the air is palpable, nearly electric.

For several seconds, no one speaks.

“So,” Martin says, his voice a bit pitchy. He clears his throat before continuing. “Magical, Fear-resistant brooch, huh?”

“It wouldn’t be unheard of,” Jon says. “Remember what I told you about Mikaele Salesa?”

“The apocalypse-proof bubble? Yeah.”

“That camera of his didn’t just protect him from the Eye, it hid him from the Powers in general.”

“What was the catch?” Daisy asks pointedly. “Got to be a catch.”

“Does there?” Martin asks. His hesitant smile falls at Daisy’s blank stare, and he tilts his head back with a sigh. “Yeah, alright.”

“It’s… not entirely benign, no,” Jon says. “In Salesa’s statement, he called it a ‘battery’–”

“–charging itself on all the quiet worries that come from living in hiding, and then when the sanctuary collapses, all that fear flows out at once. No doubt, if my oasis breaks before I die, the Eye will get quite the feast from me, but in this new world–”

“That’s enough of that, I think,” Martin says, resting a hand on Jon’s arm.

Jon bites his tongue, shuts his eyes, and takes a deep breath in, only daring to speak once the tingling on his lips subsides. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for.” Martin offers him a reassuring smile. “Just didn’t want you getting bogged down.”

“That’s one term for it,” Jon says, not quite under his breath. It’s true enough, though. Sometimes it feels like the Archive is pressed up against the door, watching for the tiniest crack, waiting for any opportunity to surge through and drag him under. Lately, Martin has grown uncannily adept at sensing when to interrupt these lapses before they spiral out of control – likely because they’ve been growing more frequent.

“That’s what I thought,” Daisy says. Puzzled at the apparent non-sequitur, Jon glances at her, but she isn’t looking at him. All of her attention is focused on Basira. “This thing is probably the same. It’s not some… some harmless miracle solution. If we mess around with it, it’s bound to blow up in our faces sooner or later.”

“I’m… not sure about that, actually,” Jon says. “The brooch didn’t free the Hunter, it just made it so he couldn’t be caught. I think that’s what it was feeding on – the Hunter’s gradual awareness that he was no different from the hunted, that sensation of being perpetually stalked from the shadows by a greater predator. It spent centuries charging itself on that fear, and it culminated in the realization that he would never escape it. He would always be waiting for the axe to fall, and Hunt was happy to keep him as perpetual prey. If he wanted the chase to end, he had to give up the artefact – and once it was no longer keeping him in stasis, he had a choice to make.”

“Go back to hunting, or let it catch him.” Daisy breathes a humorless laugh. “The Hunt, or the End.”

“But it would keep you alive,” Basira says. “It would buy us time to find a way to free you for real.”

“What about the Leitner?” Martin asks. “That’s what Jonah sent us after in the first place.”

“Turns out it’s not actually from Leitner’s library,” Jon says. “No bookplate, and it seems the statement giver had it in his possession since the 1500s. It’s… difficult to tell from the statement whether it had any significant effect on him. He called it ‘hypnotic,’ but he was already a Hunter by the time he found it. I imagine it might have different effects on someone not already under the Hunt’s influence.”

“He sort of alluded to that.” Basira takes a moment to peruse the statement, running her finger along the page until she finds the relevant line. “Here – they ‘found themselves either enthralled or agitated.’ A bit obscure, but… he says it like it’s an afterthought. If it outright turned anyone into a Hunter, he probably would’ve said so.”

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous,” Daisy says.

“I never said it wasn’t,” Basira replies coolly. “The record references a transcript, so I assume they had someone read it at some point. And it also mentions an incident report.”

“What was the incident?” Martin asks.

“Don’t know,” Basira says. “They didn’t provide any of the supplemental documentation, just the catalogue listing and the statement itself. But they acquired the book in ‘82 and didn’t make the transcript restricted until ‘93, so… either it was dormant when they first studied it and became active later, or they didn’t study it closely enough to activate its effects, or it doesn’t affect everyone the same way, or – or maybe their workplace safety guidelines just changed and they decided not to risk studying it anymore.”

“Jonah did say something about its effects varying depending on how much of it a person reads, right?” Martin asks. “Though who knows where he got that from.”

“There might be some truth to that,” Basira says. “The catalogue entry does describe what’s on the title page, so I’m assuming that part at least is safe. I’m most curious about the untranslated chunk in the middle.”

And I’m a universal translator, Jon thinks, fidgeting with the drawstring of his hoodie. Basira’s eyes flick to him, as if reading his mind.

“I… suppose I could–”

“No,” Martin and Daisy say simultaneously.

Jon scowls. “You didn’t even let me finish the–”

“You threw yourself into the Buried – twice – to save me,” Daisy says severely. “You can’t keep sacrificing yourself at every opportunity.”

“I wouldn’t be–”

“What, re-traumatizing yourself by reading a Leitner?” Jon shuts his mouth, pressing his lips tightly together. “It’s not worth it, Sims.”

“Daisy,” Basira begins, but Daisy cuts her off.

“No. I’m not having him throw himself to the wolves just because you’re curious.”

Basira flinches, hurt momentarily crossing her face before her expression goes stony.

“You really think that’s what this is about?” she says, her voice shaking. “Knowledge for knowledge’s sake? Me being curious?”

“You can’t tell me you’re not,” Daisy says, and then her expression softens. “And I love that about you, I do – you’re brilliant, Basira – and driven, and passionate, and…” She sighs. “But sometimes… sometimes you need to let things go.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon notices Martin cross and uncross his legs, his lower lip captured between his teeth. When Jon catches his eye, Martin jerks his chin minutely at Basira and Daisy, a grimace on his face. All Jon can offer is a helpless, equally awkward shrug. Near as he can tell, Basira and Daisy seem to have momentarily forgotten that they have an audience, and judging from their locked eyes and thunderous expressions, he doubts either of them would appreciate a reminder right this second.

“Let you go, you mean,” Basira says tersely. “When you say ‘it’s not worth it,’ what you really mean is that you’re not worth it.”

“Well, I’m not.”

The cavalier tone is the last straw, it seems.

“Why won’t you just let me help you?” Basira slams her hand down on the rickety table, straining its wobbly legs. “You’re just so ready to–” She lets out a frustrated groan. “You never used to give up this easily.”

“Maybe should’ve done,” Daisy says flatly. “Might’ve lowered my body count.”

“Giving up Hunting doesn’t have to mean giving up on living,” Basira says. “I might have finally found an alternative, and you won’t even consider–”

“I’m not doing anything that’s going to hurt someone, and that includes exposing Jon to a fucking Leitner.”

“I’m right here, you know,” Jon mutters testily, the friction finally getting the better of his nerves. “Don’t I get a say?”

“No, you don’t,” Daisy says, rounding on him. Now that all of her brimming agitation is funneled in his direction, he regrets saying anything at all. “Because lately, whenever I ask you if you want to hurt yourself, the best you can give me is ‘it doesn’t matter because I can’t die anyway.’”

“Jon?” Martin says urgently, his eyebrows drawing together.

“Th-that’s not what I–”

“You’re not thinking rationally,” Daisy speaks over Jon’s stammering. “You’re thinking like a condemned man with a rope around his neck and something to prove, and I’m not going to be the noose you use to hang yourself with.”

“Will you listen to yourself?” Basira says heatedly. “You get on my case about double standards–”

“That’s enough!” Martin bursts out. “This isn’t helping. Daisy’s right, Jon. You’re not going anywhere near that book – I don’t want to hear it,” he adds before Jon can retort. “Not now, anyway. We’ll talk later. But Basira’s right, too,” Martin says, turning his attention to Daisy. “You can’t make amends by dying, and you can’t do better going forward if you’re not alive to try.”

“Who says I deserve a chance?” Daisy says.

“Whatever you think you ‘deserve’” – Martin gives Jon a meaningful glance as he says it – “you’ve got a chance, and people who want to help you through it, and you ought to consider that before you assume you’d do more good dead than alive.” He exhales a sharp breath. “Anyway, forget the Leitner, and forget what Jonah said about it. The brooch seems like the more promising option here.”

“I agree,” Jon says, cowed. ���Between the book and the brooch, the statement giver credited the latter with keeping the Hunt at bay. And perhaps my bias is showing, but truthfully I – I’m not inclined to see those books as anything but tragedies waiting to happen.”

“What’s the difference?” Daisy says flatly. “It took a decade for something bad enough to happen for them to make the Leitner’s transcript restricted. The brooch could be just as much of a time bomb. Just because it doesn’t have any ‘incidents’ connected with it now doesn’t mean it never will.”

She isn’t wrong. Looking back, Jon had found it infuriating that Leitner would continue meddling with the books even after he witnessed the horror they wrought, all while claiming to have learned from his hubris. Just because this particular artefact isn’t a book doesn’t make it any less ominous.

And yet…

“I think it’s already shown its more sinister side,” Jon says slowly.

“You think,” Daisy scoffs.

“It doesn’t give a Hunter strength, it makes them perpetual prey. It… won’t be pleasant for you, I’m sure,” Jon admits, “but Basira’s right – it could keep you alive while we search for a better solution.”

“There might not be a better solution,” Daisy says stubbornly.

“Which is what I said before you browbeat me into taking statements from you,” Jon counters.

“I didn’t browbeat–” Jon raises his eyebrows. Daisy gives a flustered groan. “It’s just – it’s different, okay?”

Much as Jon wants to disagree, he knows better than to argue. They’d only end up talking in circles.

“I think it’s an avenue worth pursuing,” he says. “Given the alternatives.”

“Please, Daisy,” Basira says. “Just… consider it, at least.”

The for me remains unspoken, but Jon can hear it loud and clear. As can Daisy, it seems – the defiant set to her jaw falters for a moment before she tenses again.

“Fine,” she says grudgingly. “But if it starts to go south–”

“If it manifests any new properties, we’ll prioritize containing it over interacting with it,” Jon says.

“You promise?” Daisy asks, but she looks at Basira when she says it. It takes a moment, but Basira does nod.

“Do you think Pu Songling will let us have it?” Martin asks. “Seems like their protocols are…”

“Rigorous?” Jon supplies.

“You’d almost think they were running an academic institution or something,” Basira says drily.

“Yeah, but treating the artefacts like museum pieces, it’s… it’s weird, isn’t it?” Martin says. “It’s not as if they’re fragile, right? They’re held together by… nightmare alchemy, or whatever.”

“I suppose it’s to be expected,” Jon says. “I know the Librarian has a degree in information science. And I recall her telling me that the Curator is an historian with a background in museology. But you’re right – it would be nice if Leitners were as delicate as the average old manuscript.”

“At least they’re flammable,” Daisy mutters.

“We spoke with the Head Curator,” Basira says. “She’s willing to work out a trade.”

“A trade?” Martin asks.

“Knowledge for knowledge,” Jon says. “An artefact for an artefact. I get the impression that the Librarian and the Curator are both very… collections-oriented. True to their titles, I suppose.”

“Hold up,” Daisy says. “‘The Librarian,’ ‘the Curator’ – are those just job titles, or are they, like… Beholding Avatar titles?” Jon blinks at her, perplexed. “I mean – the way you keep saying them, it’s sort of like…”

“What, ‘Archivist’?” Jon gnaws on his thumbnail as he pauses to consider. “I… don’t know, actually. I wasn’t really doing it consciously? It just…” He shrugs helplessly. “It felt right.”

“Is it coming from the Eye, then?”

“I have no idea, Basira.” Jon leans forward, props his elbows on his knees, and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Hm.”

“In any case…” Jon exhales slowly, forcing himself to sit up straight again. “They seem to take the research and curation aspects of their roles to heart. They aren’t reckless with their pursuits, they take ample precautions, but the scholars at Pu Songling do study the items that come into their possession. And from what I understand, the Curator takes avid interest in adding to their collection. Same as the Archivist’s role is to record stories. To what extent her efforts are driven by her connection to the Eye versus her own innate curiosity, I couldn’t tell you, no more than I can make that distinction in myself.”

“Sort of a chicken-or-egg situation, then,” Daisy says.

“From an evolutionary perspective, the egg came first,” Jon says automatically. “Amniotic eggs have been around for over three hundred million years. Birds originated in the Jurassic, true galliforms didn’t evolve until at least the Late Cretaceous, phasianids don’t appear in the fossil record until about thirty million years ago, and chickens as we know them were only domesticated about eight thousand years ago–”

“Oh my god,” Daisy groans, putting her head in her hands.

“What?” Jon says, heat rising in his cheeks as Martin muffles a snicker beneath his hand. “I’m not wrong.”

“Pu Songling’s Collections Department is larger than our Artefact Storage,” Basira interjects, “but the, uh… Curator has a shortlist of artefacts she’s been on the lookout for. I checked our records and found a match. A ring – probably belongs to the Vast, based on the reports surrounding it. Looks like the Institute purchased it from Salesa in 2014, shortly before his disappearance. The Curator considers it an ‘equitable exchange,’ but she still wants to assess the ring in person before making the trade.”

“And we still have to talk to Sonja,” Jon adds. “On the one hand, she likely wouldn’t object to being rid of an artefact, but on the other hand… I imagine she won’t be keen on letting it out into the world.”

“I think it would be a harder sell if you were just going to swap it out for another artefact – something unfamiliar that they’d have to develop all new protocols for,” Martin says. “But yeah, even if you won’t be making the brooch her problem, she’ll probably still want to know what we want with it. And I can see her pressing the Curator on why she wants the ring when she gets here.”

“The Curator won’t be coming here,” Basira says evenly, casting a surreptitious glance at Daisy to gauge her reaction. “Says she’s too busy to travel.”

“So you have to haul the ring up to her,” Daisy says.

“I mean” – Basira breathes an uneasy laugh – “it’s a ring. Not much hauling involved–”

“Oh, don’t start–”

“–and there are precautions I can take. Looks like Artefact Storage has relatively thorough documentation for this one.”

“‘Relatively’?” Daisy repeats, unimpressed. “You were just complaining about how sparse their records are. ‘Relatively’ isn’t saying much.”

“Well, it’s better than nothing.” Basira rubs at her face. “I have to do this. Just… trust me.”

“You know I do–”

“Then let me have your back,” Basira says, practically pleading. “Let me help you.”

“Fine,” Daisy mutters, her posture going slack. “Do what you want.”

It’s not exactly a resounding endorsement, but it’s as good as they’re likely to get.

_________________

Despite Daisy’s lack of enthusiasm, Basira immediately throws herself into making arrangements. The Curator at Pu Songling is more than accommodating, seemingly as eager as Basira to make the trade. The real challenge is the Head of Artefact Storage.

It takes over a week of cajoling, lengthy justifications, and a concerted, collaborative effort from Basira, Jon, and Martin before Sonja finally, albeit reluctantly, agrees to discuss the matter with the Curator. Over the following days, Basira and Jon facilitate negotiations between the two: mediating a fair amount of (professional, but nevertheless pointed) verbal sparring early on, and later arbitrating the terms and conditions of the trade.

“You’d think that in the course of dealing with literal supernatural evil on a daily basis,” Basira gripes at one point, “bureaucracy wouldn’t be the biggest priority.”

“I’ve found that the bureaucratic process gives me ample time to make assessments,” Sonja says, unruffled. “Red tape has a way of bringing out the worst in people. Sometimes that’s a procrastinating student who woke up this morning, realized their deadline is next week, and ‘needs access to our materials, like, yesterday,’” she says, complete with finger quotes and a mocking tone. “And sometimes it’s some shady rich snob who’s been consistently cagey about his motives, and eventually he starts to go from impatient and entitled to desperate and frustrated, and that’s when the red flags start popping up crimson. After a while, you learn to distinguish the mundane sort of desperation from the more sinister sort.”

“Huh,” Jon says, smiling to himself. He knew Sonja was clever, but he never knew she was so calculating. It seems Jonah made the same mistake with Sonja as he did with Gertrude – overestimating a person’s curiosity and malleability, underestimating their prudence and pragmatism, and then promoting them to a position where they were free to act in a decidedly un-Beholding-like manner.

Once Sonja is sufficiently assured that the Curator has no intentions of utilizing the artefact or allowing it to venture beyond the secure confines of Pu Songling’s Collections Storage, the process starts to go a bit more smoothly. As expected, Sonja is amenable to the prospect of having one less piece of malignant costume jewelry, as she puts it, provided the Archival staff take full responsibility – both for the ring once Basira signs it out and for the artefact they receive in exchange.

“The ring has a compulsion effect,” Sonja tells them. “Makes people want to put it on – and once it’s on your finger, it’s not coming off until you hit the ground. Luckily it’s not a particularly active artefact, at least not compared to some of the other things we have here. I wouldn’t call it safe, obviously, but” – she raps her knuckles on the wooden beads of the bracelet on her opposite wrist – “it’s never breached containment.”

The how and why become abundantly clear upon seeing the closed ring box, so caked in earth and grime that it’s impossible to make out the color or material underneath.

“Buried, I take it,” Basira murmurs, giving Jon a sidelong glance.

“Yeah.” Jon grimaces at the phantom taste of soil on his tongue. “An artefact to contain an artefact.”

“Looks like the Curator is getting a twofer,” Basira says.

“Fine by me,” Sonja says with a nonchalant shrug. “That’s the box it came in, actually. Don’t know why it works, but it does, and that’s all I care about. So long as you keep it closed, the worst you’ll get is vertigo. As far as we’ve observed, anyway. There’s always a chance that an artefact has more secrets than it lets on at first glance. Assuming you know everything there is to know is a good way to end up in a casket.”

“We’re well aware,” Jon says. “Believe me.”

“Seriously, though – if this goes tits up, I don’t want to hear it,” Sonja says sternly, all but wagging a finger. “And if you call up here a few months from now to tell me that you’ve got a rogue artefact wreaking havoc in the Archives, and I’ve got to put my people at risk to contain it, I will unleash unholy hell.”

The funny thing is, Jon believes her.

_________________

Despite the progress they’re making on obtaining the Hunter’s brooch, dissent continues to simmer within the group – particularly where Daisy is concerned. As the escalating tension in the Archives becomes ever more tangible, Martin begins to feel claustrophobic under the weight of all the things left unspoken.

Daisy is consistently ill-tempered: bellicose in one moment and taciturn in the next, frequently seeking out solitude whenever her agitation gets the best of her. Martin suspects that her volatile mood has as much to do with her deteriorating condition as it does to do with her lingering aversion to the rest of the group’s efforts. Although she and Basira haven’t had another row – so far as Martin is aware, anyway – there’s been an undeniable friction between them. On the worst days, Basira keeps to herself, burying her head in her research while Daisy slinks off to some dark corner of the Archives to brood until Jon comes to drag her away from her thoughts.

Not that Jon is much better. He’s been sullen lately, growing more withdrawn, sleeping less and jumping at shadows even more than usual. Martin often catches him in a trance, staring vacantly into space and droning horrors under his breath. More and more he lapses into statement clips mid-sentence, regardless of how recently he’s had a statement. Sometimes, all it takes is a momentary slip for Jon to lose his footing and devolve into a frenzied litany of back-to-back, fragmentary horror stories. On a few recent occasions he’s lost his voice entirely, though luckily it’s only been for an hour or two at a time.

(So far, Jon says morosely after each episode.)

Most unsettling, though, is the chronic faraway look in his eye, like he’s seeing something else. Like he’s somewhere else, lost across an unbridgeable divide.

Martin is well-acquainted with the sensation of feeling alone in the presence of others. That doesn’t make it any less distressing. It’s not that Jon intends to be distant. He might not even be aware of it; would likely be mortified if he knew just how much that detachment stirred Martin’s longstanding fears of isolation and abandonment. Jon’s still affectionate, after all. Although he seems reluctant to actively seek out comfort these days, he’s still prompt to take an outstretched hand, to lean into a kind touch, to accept a proffered embrace. Still makes a concerted effort to muster, however feebly, a soft smile whenever Martin enters a room. Still attempts to be present and attentive and open.

But sometimes it feels like Jon is out of reach, separated from the rest of the world, watching it pass him by through layers of frosted glass. Martin knows the feeling. What he doesn’t know is how to fix it.

Before long, Basira is set to leave for Beijing, an artefact of the Vast nestled away in her luggage amidst assurances to Sonja that, yes, under no circumstances will Basira attempt to take it on a plane or into the open ocean because, no, Basira does not have a death wish, thank you very much.

Martin half-expects another quarrel to break out on the eve of Basira’s departure, but Daisy is oddly subdued. Perhaps she just doesn’t want to part ways with angry words and unresolved arguments, or perhaps she’s simply come to accept the rest of the group’s decision to move forward with the plan. Considering the dark circles under her eyes, though, it’s just as likely that she’s simply too fatigued to start a fight.

A few days later, Martin descends the ladder into the tunnels to find Jon standing at his makeshift desk, staring down at the map unfurled across its surface – the product of the group’s ongoing efforts to survey the sprawling tunnel system of the former Millbank Prison. The blueprint-in-progress is an equally sprawling thing: sheets of mismatched paper layered one atop the next and taped together, its irregular borders comprised of haphazard angles and dog-eared edges.

The hand-drawn map on its surface is chaotic, reflecting the penmanship of four different authors. Jon’s contributions might be the messiest – the burn scar contracture on his dominant hand renders his lines shaky at best, and his handwriting has always been a tad chickenscratch. Daisy’s isn’t much better. Conversely, Basira’s additions are the neatest, her strokes as steady as the persona she tries to project to the world. Martin’s are passable, if only because, unlike Jon or Daisy, he actually has the patience to use rulers and book edges to trace straight paths.

To be fair, it would probably look a mess no matter how painstaking they were in constructing it. The tunnels are as labyrinthine as expected: a vast network of arterial corridors with offshoots along their lengths, branching into three- or four-way forks, most of which lead to dead ends. Occasionally, they find a path that loops back around and connects other parts of the maze, creating a series of meandering, convoluted closed circuits. It’s difficult to tell just by looking, but they are (Martin hopes) making progress. At the rate they’re going, they have to be on track to find the Panopticon before the winter solstice.

In any case, as Martin approaches the desk, he sees that familiar vacant look on Jon’s face, as if he isn’t actually seeing what’s in front of him. The effect is underscored by the cigarette burning away in his hand, hanging limp and forgotten at his side. Martin clears his throat lightly, in deference to Jon’s hair-trigger startle reflex. He doesn’t count the fact that Jon doesn’t jump at all as a success. If anything, it’s cause for concern.

“Jon?” Martin tries. There’s a slight delay before Jon glances over, giving Martin no acknowledgment aside from a sluggish blink before lowering his head again.

“I, uh…” Martin offers a weak smile, attempting to keep his tone light. He gestures at the cigarette. “I thought you quit?”

Jon shrugs, refusing to meet Martin’s eyes. “Not like it’ll kill me.”

“Might catch up with you later, though,” Martin says, scratching at his neck. “You know, once we find a way out of here.”

“There is no ‘out’ for me,” Jon says mulishly.

“You don’t know that. Or Know it.” Jon’s only reaction is to press his lips tightly together, like he’s biting back a retort. “Look, I’m not trying to nag you, I just wor– Jon!” Martin yelps as he watches Jon put his cigarette out on the back of his hand.

Martin lunges forward, grabbing Jon’s hand and yanking it close to inspect the damage. It’s the same hand that Jude shook, already textured and pitted with webs of hypertrophic scarring. Somehow, Jon managed to plant this newest burn on a patch of previously-undamaged skin, sandwiched between two bands of knotted tissue.

The contours of her fingers, Martin recognizes with a queasy lurch – followed by another when he thinks to wonder whether Jon sought out that scrap of healthy skin on purpose just now.

Jon barely reacts, staring into space with wide eyes and dilated pupils. Martin looks down again to see the circular singe mark already knitting itself back together, leaving only a small, shiny patch of discoloration ringed with a dusting of ash. In all likelihood, even that will be gone by morning.

If only all wounds would heal so easily.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Martin hisses, fighting to keep his voice even. He brushes a soothing thumb over the spot, as if to apologize to the abused skin on Jon’s behalf.

Jogged out of his reverie by Martin’s sharp tone, Jon stares daggers at him, his mouth open as if to unleash a scathing reprimand, the set of his jaw so reminiscent of those early days in the Archives. An instant later, though, he withers, cringing away and fixing his eyes on the floor.

“I wasn’t,” he mumbles, at least having the decency to sound contrite. “Wasn’t really paying attention.”

It’s not the first time Martin’s witnessed a self-inflicted injury. When pressed, Jon always claims that it’s not a deliberate, planned form of self-punishment, but rather a reflex reaction that kicks in when he starts feeling adrift in time. Somewhere along the line, it seems, he convinced himself that physical pain is as good a shortcut as any – a sort of panic button to bring him back to the present when he needs grounding.

Whatever his intentions, though, and no matter what rationalizations Jon wants to dole out, it’s not a healthy coping mechanism. And it’s difficult for Martin to believe that self-punishment doesn’t factor at all, considering Jon’s obsessive guilt spirals and his blasé attitude towards being hurt.

“‘S already healed,” Jon says with a spiritless shrug. He drops the snuffed-out remainder of his cigarette on the floor and unnecessarily grinds it under his heel.

“That’s not the point.” Martin doesn’t realize how tightly he’s grasping Jon’s hand until Jon winces. Although Martin relaxes his grip somewhat, he doesn’t let go. “It doesn’t matter how quickly your body heals, or that you’ve had worse, or whatever other justifications you want to make. You’re still getting hurt. That’s not okay, and – and if it were me in your shoes, you’d be telling me the same thing.”

“I’m sorry.” Jon’s hair falls to cover his face as he ducks his head.

It’s fine, Martin almost says – except it’s not, is it?

“Come on,” he says instead, guiding Jon to sit in the nearest chair before taking a seat next to him. Where before Jon was all stiff limbs and rigid spine, now he looks like he’s given up the ghost, drooping like a wilting flower.

Though he allows Martin to keep hold of his hand, Jon doesn’t return the pressure. And Jon’s skin is freezing – no doubt partly due to the damp chill of the tunnels, and partly because he has, by his own admission, always had shit circulation. Combined with his limp fingers and loose grip, though, the overall effect is far too reminiscent of those months spent keeping vigil over Jon’s hospital bed, his hand nothing but cold, dead weight in Martin’s.

It took too long for Martin to admit that he had been foolish to hope that Jon was still in there somewhere, aware of Martin’s presence, fighting to regain consciousness. The whole time, Martin was just keeping his own company. Jon wasn’t just unreachable – he wasn’t there at all.

(Martin had been wrong about that in the end. He doesn’t know that he’ll ever forgive himself for not being there when Jon woke up.)

Martin bites his lip as he formulates a response. He’s learned over the years that when Jon is like this, it’s best to strike a careful balance between docility and defiance. Push too hard too fast, and Jon will dig his heels in; approach him too tentatively, and he’s liable to interpret concern as pity; force him to talk about his feelings, and he’ll bolt; smother him with tenderness, and he’ll balk.

Granted, Jon has become much more receptive to tenderness over the years. Most of the time, anyway. When his skewed self-worth and convictions about what he does and doesn’t deserve don’t get in the way.

“At the risk of being a nag–”

“You’re not a nag,” Jon says softly.

“When’s the last time you had a statement?”

“A few days ago.” The response is too quick, too automatic.

“A few days ago,” Martin repeats, allowing a bit of disbelief to seep into his voice.

Jon nods stiffly. “Monday, I think.”

“Today is Tuesday.”

“I–” Jon cuts off his own retort, turning to blink owlishly at Martin. “Is it?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, his heart sinking. Jon must be losing time again. “So you had a statement yesterday?”

“No, I – I don’t…” Jon squints up at the ceiling, wracking his brain. “I don’t think so? It’s – I think I would recall if it had been shorter than one day.”

“So, last Monday?”

“I don’t – I don’t know,” Jon says, growing testy. “I suppose. Must’ve been.”

“Are you hungry?”

“I’m always hungry.” The admission is devoid of all the simmering agitation that had been there only moments before. Now, he just sounds tired.

“Well… I think you might be due for one.” Although Martin had been striving for gentle suggestion, there’s a harsh edge to the words. Rather than get Jon’s hackles up again, though, he seems to crumple under what he doubtless reads as an accusation.

“You’re right,” he says hoarsely. “And I’m sorry. I know lately I’ve been…”

“Tetchy,” Martin offers, just as Jon says, “a bit of a prick.”

“Your words, not mine,” Martin says with a tentative grin. Jon returns his own feeble half-smile, but it quickly falters.

“I’ve almost exhausted Daisy’s catalogue,” he confesses. “Only a handful left now. I’ve got to make them last until the solstice.”

An apprehensive chill runs down Martin’s spine at that. “And then what?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

There’s virtually no chance that Jon, prone to rumination as he is, hasn’t been dwelling on it.

“Basira said she has a few statements, right?” Martin asks. “Which… if you already have a statement about an encounter, can you still get nourishment from other statements about it, so long as it’s coming from someone else’s point of view?”

“Probably.” Jon shrugs one shoulder. “The factual details of the encounter are less important than the subject’s emotional response. Different perspective, different story, different lived experience of fear.”

“Then… you have my statement about the Flesh attack, but there’s still Basira’s. And – and maybe Melanie–”

“I’m not taking another statement from Melanie,” Jon says tersely. “She’s been tethered to me for too long without say, and I’m not dragging her back in.”

“But if it’s consensual–”

“It won’t be, because I don’t consent.”

“If the alternative is literally starving–”

“I’ll find another alternative. Or I won’t. But I’m not asking Melanie for a statement.” Jon keeps his head bowed, but he looks up at Martin through his lashes. “The first time she quit, I was worried that she might show up in my nightmares again, but she didn’t. I don’t know if her severance from the Eye will keepher out of my nightmares if she gives me a new statement, and… I can’t risk it. I can’t do that to her. Even if the nightmares weren’t an issue… I’m not going to ask her to relive yet another traumatic experience for my benefit–”

“–I shall choose to die rather than take part in such an unholy meal–”

Jon claps a hand over his mouth, a panicked look in his eye.

“…nor shall I take my own life, whatever extremity my suffering may reach,” he tacks on, too much of an afterthought for comfort.

“Which means we need to plan for the future,” Martin says, forcing calm into his voice despite the way his heart picks up its pace.

“But it can’t involve Melanie,” Jon says – gentler than before, but still firm.

“No, you’re – you’re right,” Martin relents. “It wouldn’t be fair to her. But we could still ask Basira.”

Jon makes a noncommittal noise, his expression rapidly going pinched and closed off again.

“Lately,” Martin says, licking his lips nervously, “lately it feels like you’ve been shutting everyone out again. It isn’t healthy–”

“Healthy?” Jon’s glare could burn a hole in the floor. “I don’t need to be healthy, I just need to be whatever it wants.”

Once, Martin might have been daunted by Jon’s scathing tone. By now, he knows that Jon is all bluster – and that the brunt of it is turned inward, against his own self.

“Please, Jon. Tell me what’s going on. You’re worrying me.”

Those, apparently, are the magic words, because Jon finally capitulates.

“It’s October,” he tells the floor.

“It… is October, yeah.” Bewildered, Martin waits for elaboration. When a minute passes with no response forthcoming, he prompts, “Is that… bad���?”

“Historically, yes, it has been,” Jon says with a tired, frayed-sounding chuckle.

“I… Jon, I need you to help me out here,” Martin says helplessly. “I can’t read your mind.”

“October is when it happens, Martin.” Jon glances at Martin once, quickly, before returning his gaze to the ground. He’s twisting one hand around the opposite wrist now, fingers curled tightly enough to blanch his knuckles. “The eighteenth. When everything goes wrong.”

“You mean…”

Jon’s sharp inhale becomes a choked exhale, which in turn abruptly cuts off as the Archive takes its cue.

“…what settled over me wasn’t dread; there wasn’t enough uncertainty for that. It was doom. I was certain that some sort of disaster was on the horizon–”

“–something bad. Something unspeakable. And I would have helped make it happen–”

“–the fear never really went away. I’ve heard that being exposed to the source of your terror over and over again can help break its power over you, numb you to it, but in my experience it just teaches you to hide from it. Sometimes that might mean hiding in a quiet corner of your mind, but–”

“–soon enough, I could no longer fool myself–”

“–the calm I had been getting accustomed to had been torn away completely, and where it had been was just this horrible, ice-cold terror–”

“–that – we can’t escape the ruins of our own future–”

“–a future where – humanity was violently and utterly supplanted, and wiped out by a new category of being–”

“–there are terrible things coming – things that, if we knew them, would leave us weak and trembling, with shuddering terror at the knowledge that they are coming for all of us–”

“–I think in my heart, I have been waiting for this moment. For the final axe to fall–”

“–we create the world in a lot of ways. I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising that, when we’re not being careful, we can change it–”

There’s a breathless pause before Jon continues, in a nearly inaudible whisper: “What could I have chosen to change? Would a different path have been possible?”

“It is,” Martin says firmly, “and we’re on it. What happened last time won’t happen again. We won’t let it.”

Jon doesn’t acknowledge the reassurance.

“I should’ve known,” he says with a quiet ferocity, in his own voice this time. “It was too peaceful. I should’ve known it wasn’t going to last. And – and on some level I did know – I knew it wasn’t over – but I just… I didn’t want to be the one to shatter the illusion, I suppose.” His expression goes taut. “Didn’t much matter what I wanted, in the end. But I still should’ve seen it coming. Can’t let my guard down again.”

“How could you have known?” Martin doesn’t intend for it to come out as exasperated. He tries to reel it back, to gentle his tone. “You’ve said yourself that you can’t predict the future–”

“No, but I knew Jonah had plans for me. And I knew nothing good could come of feeding the Eye, but I kept on anyway.”

“It’s not like you were doing it for fun, Jon! You needed it to survive, and Jonah took advantage of that. Or…” No – that makes it sound purely opportunistic, doesn’t it? In reality, it was all part of Jonah’s long game from the start. “He made you dependent on statements specifically becausehe wanted to take advantage of that.”

“I made choices,” Jon says tonelessly. “I can’t absolve myself of responsibility just because Jonah was nudging me in a particular direction.”

“You were manipulated,” Martin insists, “and I’m not having you apologize for surviving it. For not starving to death.”

“You don’t understand,” Jon says, growing more distressed, reaching up with both hands and tangling his fingers in his hair. “When that box of statements finally arrived, I… I couldn’t shoo you away fast enough. I was hungry, yes, but I wasn’t starving yet. I could’ve waited longer, but I just… I wanted one–”

“–should have fought harder against the temptation – but my curiosity was too strong–”

“You shouldn’t have to wait until you’re literally on death’s doorstep before you fulfill a basic need,” Martin interrupts.

“I should when that ‘basic need’ entails serving the Beholding,” Jon says heatedly. “And I – I should’ve known better – should’ve known not to jump headlong into the first statement that caught my eye. I’d known for a while that the Beholding leads me away from statements it doesn’t want me to know. It logically follows that it would lead me towards statements that would strengthen it. If I’d had any sense, I would’ve been suspicious of anything in that box that called out to me. It didn’t… it didn’t feel any different, but I – I suppose that somewhere along the line I just got used to… to wandering down whatever path I was led. I didn’t think, I never stop to think–”

“If anything, Jon, you overthink. You’re overthinking right now.”

Martin has known for a long time now that Jon will latch onto the smallest details, allow his thoughts to branch into an impossible number of routes and tangents, tie together loose threads in countless permutations in the interest of considering all possible conclusions, no matter how outlandish. He will apply Occam's razor in one moment before tossing it into the bin, only to fish it out again: lather, rinse, repeat. His mind is a noisy, cluttered conspiracy corkboard, and he’ll hang himself with red string if given half a chance, just to feel like he’s in control of something.

“It’s easy to look back and criticize your past self,” Martin says, “but he didn’t know what you do. If we knew the outcome to every action, maybe we wouldn’t make mistakes, but we’re only human–”

“Not all of us.”

“–so we just have to do the best with what we have in the moment,” Martin continues, paying no heed to Jon’s grumbled comment. No good will come of guiding him down that rabbit trail right now. Anyway, Martin has a more pressing concern–

“Why didn’t you tell me about any of this sooner?” he blurts out, immediately wincing at his lack of tact. “That came out wrong–”

“Why didn’t I tell you how quick I was to chase you out of the house and sink my teeth into a statement the moment temptation presented itself?” Jon scoffs. “Because I’m ashamed. Why else?”

“No, not–” Martin scrubs a hand over his face. It’s a struggle, sometimes, not to grab Jon by the shoulders and shake him until all of that stubborn self-loathing falls away. “About the fact that you’ve got a – a post-traumatic anniversary event coming up, I mean. You haven’t been well, and I thought I understood why – thought it was just… all of it, in general. But here I come to find you’ve been agonizing over the upcoming date of the single worse day of your life–”

“One of the worst,” Jon says quietly.

“What?”

“I didn’t lose you until much later.”

Martin’s breath catches in his throat at that, a sharp pang shooting through his chest.

“Well… you’ve got me now,” he says meekly. “So – so you don’t have to suffer in silence, is what I’m saying. What happened to you – no, what was done to you – it was horrible, and it wasn’t your fault. I know you don’t believe that, but it’s the truth.”

“Either I’ve always been caught up in someone else’s web, passively having things happen to me with no control over my life–”

“–the Mother got exactly the result she no doubt wanted, one that would lead to a fear – so acute that I could later have that horror focused and refined into a silk-spun apotheosis–”

Jon bites down on one knuckle, eyes shut tight as he waits for the compulsion to subside.

“Or,” he says after a minute, “or I do have control, and I can change the outcome, which makes me culpable. I don’t know which prospect I hate more. Which probably says some unflattering things about me.”

“It’s not that simple–”

“It is,” Jon says viciously. “If there is another path, then I should’ve found it last time!” He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, and takes a steadying breath. When he speaks again, he’s no longer bordering on shouting, but there’s a quaver in his voice, a fragility that Martin finds more disconcerting than any flash of anger. “The way I see it, there are two options. One, what happened in my future was inevitable and nothing I could’ve done would’ve changed it – which certainly doesn’t bode well for this timeline. Or, the outcome can be changed, in which case my choices matter, and had I just made better choices, maybe I could have prevented all of this from ever happening in the first place.”

“You’re not being fair,” Martin says, his hands clenching into fists – but Jon isn’t listening.

“Doesn’t make much difference, I suppose. The consequences are the same either way–”

“–billions of – people making their way through life who had no idea what was right above their heads–”

“–would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters–”

“–minds so strange and colossal that we would never know they were minds at all–”

“–idiots who destroyed themselves chasing a secret that wasn’t worth knowing–”

“–there, caught up in a series of events that I didn’t understand but that terrified me – I did the stupidest thing I’ve ever done–”

“–running was pointless. To try to escape from my task would only serve to fulfill another. I finally understood what I needed to do–”

“–I don’t know if you have ever drowned, but it’s the most painful thing I have ever experienced–”

“–I do not suppose I need to dwell on the pain, but please know that I would sooner die than endure it again–”

“Would you?” Martin says abruptly. Jon won’t look at him. “Jon, I need to know if you’re feeling like hurting yourself.”

“What would it matter if I was?” Jon still won’t look at him. “I’m categorically incapable of hurting myself in any way that matters.”

Martin blinks in disbelief. “Okay, that’s blatantly untrue.”

Jon has been a glaring portrait of self-neglect for as long as Martin has known him. That simple lack of consideration for himself, together with compounding survivor’s guilt, was the perfect stepping stone to active self-endangerment. Now that Jon’s convinced himself he’s invulnerable to a normal human death, he’s all the more careless with himself.

“I don’t want to die,” Jon whispers. “That’s the problem.”

“What—?”

“Before, I was unknowingly putting the entire world at risk by – by waking up after the Unknowing, by crawling out of the Buried, by escaping the Hunters, by continuing to read statements like it was – like it was something routine, as unremarkable as – as taking tea. Now, though – now I know better. I know what Jonah is planning, I saw what I’m capable of, and still I… I don’t want to die.”

“Well… good,” Martin says. “You should want to live–”

“It doesn’t much matter what I want–”

“–I never wanted to weigh up the value of a life, to set it on the scales against my own, but that’s a choice that I am forced into–”

“–doesn’t get to die for that – gets to live, trapped and helpless, and entombed forever – powerless–”

“–a lynchpin for this new ritual – a record of fear–”

Shit, Martin thinks the instant he recognizes the statement. It’s the worst of them all, virtually guaranteed to send Jon spiraling.

“–both in mind as you walk the shuddering record of each statement, and in body as the Powers each leave their mark upon you – a living chronicle of terror – a conduit for the coming of this – nightmare kingdom–”

“Okay, okay, stay with me–”

“–the Chosen one is simply that: someone I chose. It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your destiny. It’s just in your own, rotten luck–”

“Jon, can you hear me? Jon–”

“–I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but my god, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was–”

Martin reaches over, taking both of Jon’s hands in his own and squeezing tightly. The pressure seems to do the trick: lucidity sparks in Jon’s eyes and he takes a deep, ragged breath, as if coming up for air.

“There you are. Are you okay?” Martin rubs both thumbs over the backs of Jon’s hands in rhythmic, soothing motions. “Hey, it’s–”

“I don’t want your kindness!” Jon snaps, jerking backwards and snatching his hands out from Martin’s grip.

Both of them lapse into a stunned silence. As mortification dawns on Jon’s face, Martin can feel the color rising in his cheeks. It only takes a few seconds for the blood rushing in his ears to be drowned out by another voice.

Martin can remember with cutting clarity the days prior to his mother’s departure to the nursing home. She had been in (somewhat) rare form, her already-short fuse dwindled down to nothing, sniping at him around the clock, full of caustic observations and spiteful accusations.

I don’t want your help, she had sneered as she entered the cab, swatting his hand away.

It was one of the last things she ever said to him.

“Well, tough,” Martin bites out, “because you deserve it, and you never should’ve had to go without it, and you’re not going to change my mind about that, so you may as well stop trying!”

“Martin, I – I – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

He saw, Martin realizes all at once, his skin crawling with humiliation.

“I’m going to go make some tea,” Martin says, rising to his feet.

Jon reaches out a hand. “Martin–”

“I just need a breather, okay?” Martin says, a pleading note to his voice. His lungs are constricting, his chest is tightening, there’s a lump in his throat, and he really doesn’t want to have a panic attack in the tunnels – or in front of Jon. “I’m not – I’m not angry, okay, I just need some air.”

Jon opens his mouth, then immediately closes it, clutches his hands to his chest, and gives a tiny nod that Martin just barely glimpses before turning to flee.

_________________

“Stop crying,” Jon hisses at himself, furiously scrubbing at his face as the tears slide down his cheeks. “Stop it.”

He plasters the heels of his hands over his closed eyelids. It does nothing to stem the flow, only brings to mind images of pressing himself bodily against a door to hold it closed, only for the crack to continue widening, millimeter after millimeter, the flood on the other side trickling through the gap, rivulets swelling into rivers, frigid eddies biting at his ankles, a whitewater undertow threatening to drag him below the waves–

“Enjoying our own company, are we?”

Once, Jon might have been humiliated to be caught mid-breakdown, raw-voiced and puffy-eyed, especially by Peter Lukas of all people. Several lifetimes spent in thrall to cosmic horrors have a way of putting things in perspective.

“What do you want?” Jon says with as much ire as he can muster.

Peter hums to himself, starting a slow, back-and-forth pace in front of Jon. “It occurred to me that I’ve been derelict in my duties as far as the Archives are concerned–”

“That’s just now occurring to you?”

“–and, as such, I thought it was high time that I met the infamous Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute.”

“Well,” Jon scoffs, gesturing at himself, “you’ve met him.”

“I must admit, I was expecting something a bit more… hm.” Peter taps a finger against his lips. “Formidable.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” The scathing sarcasm is rendered pitiful by an ill-timed, involuntary sniffle. Jon can’t bring himself to care.

“The state you’re in, you hardly seem fit to work.” A pause. “Have you ever considered taking some time off?”

“A six-months hospital stay has a way of eating up your PTO, oddly enough. I’m told that payroll already has already had to make special exceptions for my ‘unprecedented’ circumstances.” Jon chuckles to himself. “On multiple occasions. Did you know the Institute considers a kidnapping in the line of duty to be an ‘unexcused absence?’”

“I think you’ll find that Elias and I have different management styles,” Peter says mildly. “I’m open to making allowances – particularly since your department can function so smoothly in your absence. Your assistants have proven themselves to be quite capable of working independently – and seeing as your approach to supervision borders on fraternization, I imagine they would be more productive without excess drama to distract them.”

“I’ll take that into consideration,” Jon says acerbically.

“No need.” Jon squints at him, and Peter stare him down. “It’s not a request, Archivist. It’s an order.”

There was a time, not long ago, that sneaking up on the Archivist would have been difficult. Only Helen had consistently managed to ambush him, and that was because she didn’t waste time sneaking – she manifested and launched the jump scare in the same instant, giving him no chance to See her approach. Readjusting to a binocular point of view had been a process, but rarely does he find himself yearning for the panoramic field of vision that had been foisted upon him during the apocalypse.

Occasionally, though, there are moments when 360° sight would come in handy. Too late, Jon realizes this is one of those moments.

By the time he notices the tendrils of encroaching fog, they’re already curling around from behind him, pooling at his feet, ghosting across the back of his neck, affixing themselves around his wrists.

“It’s alright,” Peter says placidly, almost soothingly. “You can let go now.”

Jon shivers as his heart pumps ice through his veins, fingers and toes going numb as he struggles for breath.

No. No, no, no, no, no–

“I am not Lonely anymore,” Jon gasps out through chattering teeth.

“No,” Peter says with an air of nonchalance. Then he smiles, sharp and cold and cruel and the only detail Jon can still discern through the fog. “But you will be.”

___

End Notes:

Daisy: hey siri, google what to do if i suspect my bff has been possessed by the ghost of a fussy paleornithologist Jon: why are you booing me????? i’m right

Pretty sure this is the longest chapter yet? Probably bc of the statement. I could’ve split it into two, but, uh. I like that cliffhanger where it is. >:3c (Sorry for that, btw.)

Quite a bit of Archive-speak this chapter. Citations as follows: Section 1: 122/124/011/007/047/155. The Xiaoling quote is from MAG 105; the Jonah quote is ofc from 160; the Naomi quote is from 013. Section 3: 181. Section 5: 058 x2; 144/130/086/143/121/149/134/144/143/069; 147; 017; 147; 057/160/106/111/067/121/129/098; 155/128/160; 160 x3. Section 6: 170, of course.

I’m taking wild liberties with Pu Songling Research Centre’s whole deal. I’m conceptualizing their spookier departments as being like… actually academia-oriented, instead of “local Victorian corpse with illusions of godhood throws a bunch of traumatized nerds with no relevant archival experience into a basement, what happens next will shock you”. Xiaoling is out here like “our digitization is still a work in progress, I’m sure you know how it is” and Jon Sims is like “digitization who? i don’t know her”. (Listen, he tried once. Tape recorder was haunted, he got kidnapped a bunch, there were worms and things, he died (he got better), his boss used him as a battering ram to open a door to Fearpocalypse Hell – it was a lot.)

Likewise, we didn’t get much info about Sonja in canon, so I’m having fun envisioning her as a certified Force To Be Reckoned With (and a bit of a Mama Bear wrt her assistants). Most of the Institute is leery of the Archives (& especially Jon) but Sonja’s seen a lot of shit and Jon Sims doesn’t even rank on her list of Top Spooky Scary Things.

re: the statement – it’s not clear in-text, but I want to clarify that I’m not conceptualizing Francis Drake as being influenced by the Hunt. Fictionalizing aspects of history is tricky, and I’d feel personally uncomfortable chalking up Drake’s real life atrocities to supernatural influence, even in fiction. In the case of this particular fictional member of his crew, he was (like Drake’s real-life crew) complicit in following Drake’s orders for entirely mundane reasons and was only marked by the Hunt at the point in his statement where he first recounts hearing the Hunt chasing after him.

At some point in writing this chapter, I had 137 tabs open in my browser for Research Purposes and like 20 of those were bc my dumb ass seriously considered writing that statement in Elizabethan English before going “what are you DOING, actually.” If I’d tried, it would have come off as inauthentic at best, if not ridiculous, bc I’m unfamiliar with English linguistic trends of the 1500s, and I’d basically be badly mimicking Shakespearean English, which isn’t necessarily indicative of how everyone spoke at the time, and I don’t know what colloquial speech would look like for this particular unnamed character I trotted out as exposition fodder, and it was probably unnecessary to formulate a whole-ass personal history for him for the sake of Historical Realism for a single section of a single chapter of a fanfic, and… In the end, I decided that this pseudo-immortal rando can tell his life story in modernized English, as a treat (to me) (and also to those of you who don’t think of slogging through bastardized Elizabethan prose as a fun endeavor).

Speaking of research – shoutout to this dissertation that had an English translation of the Herla story in Walter Map’s De nugis curialium, and if you want to read the whole story, you can find it on pages 16-18 of that paper. I feel it’s important for you all to know that IMMEDIATELY after Map dramatically proclaims, “the dog has not yet alighted, and the story says that this King Herla still holds on his mad course with his band in eternal wanderings, without stop or stay,” he goes on to say in the next breath “buuuut some people say they all jumped into the River Wye and died, so ymmv. ¯\_ (ツ)_/¯ anyways, can I interest you in more Fucked Up If True tales?” (Herla throwing the dog into the river wasn’t in the original story though. I made that part up.)

Thank you so much for reading! <3

[saline-coelacanth]

Nightmares (Purified Au)

So since today is Ninjago’s tenth anniversary and I feel bad for not really making anything for it, I decided instead to post a fic that I wrote back in October and forgot to post. Ninjago has meant a lot to me and this community has really helped me gain more confidence in my art and fics, and even though I’m not really that active anymore, I figured I should at least post something to show my appreciation

_______________________________

Oliver was in his bed in his new room on the bounty, tossing and turning as he tried to get some good sleep. He still wasn’t fully used to the new room, despite having it for quite a while now since the ninja needed to use the cell in his old room during the whole ghost incident. 

Oliver was happy that Lloyd was back, but something else had been bothering him- nightmares. Ever since he had his outburst while fighting Morro, he’s been getting recurring nightmares that have kept him up at night. The ninja all seemed so occupied recently that he didn’t want to bother any of them, and he figured the nightmares would go away, but they never did.

Oliver jolted awake, breathing heavily as he looked around at his surroundings. He looked around his bed trying to find his beloved stuffed animal, eventually seeing his paw sticking out from under his bed. Oliver quickly grabbed Tofu and hugged him as he started to calm down. He sat there for a while before deciding to go get a glass of water, hoping it would help him feel better.

He hopped out of bed and left his room, still hugging Tofu as tight as he could. He made his way to the kitchen, trying his best not to make any noise that could wake anyone up. 

“You’re up late.”

Oliver jumped as he heard Lloyd’s voice, scared that he was gonna get in trouble. He looked over at the green ninja standing in the doorway.

“H-hi Lloyd,” Oliver greeted.

“Are you ok?” Lloyd asked, walking into the kitchen. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“I… I was thirsty,” Oliver explained. He looked up at Lloyd. “What about you? Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“Same reason as you,” Lloyd replied. He grabbed two cups and filled them with water, handing one of them to Oliver. “There you go, buddy.”

“Thank you,” Oliver said. He took a sip of the water but looked away.

“Is there something bothering you, Oliver?” Lloyd asked.

Oliver continued to avoid eye contact. “I…”

“C’mon, you can tell me,” Lloyd assured. He pulled out a chair and sat down.

Oliver looked at Lloyd before looking away again. “I had a nightmare…”

“Oh, it’ll be ok, Oliver,” Lloyd replied. “It was just a nightmare.”

“But I keep having the same nightmare,” Oliver explained. 

“Well what happens in the nightmare?” Lloyd asked.

“Well…” Oliver paused as he tried remembering the order of events. “I always hear a scary voice… and…”

“Oliver, you can tell me,” Lloyd repeated.

Oliver looked up at Lloyd. His eyes looked terrified. “You were trapped in a glass container. You looked like you were in pain, and there was golden stuff coming out of your body. And the scary voice was happy that you were hurting…”

Lloyd went silent. He knew exactly what Oliver was dreaming about.

“I’m sorry, Lloyd,” Oliver apologized. “I didn’t mean to dream about you being in pain, but it keeps happening and I don’t know why and I just want it to stop!” Oliver started sniffling as tears started falling down his face.

“C-calm down,” Lloyd assured. He pulled Oliver close to him, giving him a hug. “It was just a nightmare…”

“I know,” Oliver replied. “But I don’t like seeing it every night!” Oliver cried again before managing to form words again. “Am I in trouble?”

“No, you’re not in trouble,” Lloyd assured. 

“The others are gonna be mad at me,” Oliver said.

“No they won’t,” Lloyd replied. “It’s just a dream, it’s not real.”

“Are you gonna tell the others?” Oliver asked. “I… I don’t want them to be upset…”

Lloyd hesitated. Everything would be fine, right? This would sort itself out. This was no reason to worry. Right? “I… I won’t tell them,” Lloyd replied.

Oliver only responded with a quiet mumble. He squeezed Tofu and looked at the ground.

“Are you gonna be ok to go back to bed?” Lloyd asked.

“I think so…” Oliver responded.

“Well then you’d better go get some sleep,” Lloyd said. “It’s late and you need the rest.”

“Ok…” Oliver replied before walking back to his room.

Lloyd waited until Oliver was completely out of sight before taking a deep breath. He knew this wasn’t a good sign. He knew telling the others would be the smart thing to do, but he was scared. Oliver had become a little brother for him, and he didn’t want to risk the others doing anything drastic. He knew that Jay, Cole and Nya were both ok with him, and Kai has warmed up to him, but Zane was the one who was still very hesitant. Lloyd shook his head.

“It’s all gonna be ok,” he told himself. “There’s no reason to worry.”

[conaionaru]

Loving you is a losing game (Modern Ivar the Boneless)

Synopsis: Ivar and Agatha look back on their toxic relationship, both unaware of the thruths that led to their break up.

Warning: toxic relationship, break up, drinking, asshole Sigurd,

Five fucking years of relationship all flushed down the drain over a month of problems. It was their anniversary, and Agatha felt like shit.

Once upon a time, she had dreams and hopes. She imagined a life of happiness and success. The university was thought, but so was she, and the moment she made it, she would go onto law school and become a lawyer. Life would bring her money and a good reputation; maybe she would have made it high and become a judge. Do some good in the world.

But it all got fucked over that night; she went out drinking instead of studying. By midnight she was drunk, crying on a stranger's shoulder, complaining about her teacher. The next day she woke up in the boy's bed with a massive hangover.

The cute stranger took her home after she barfed into a bush at 2 pm, and somehow, he liked her enough to date her.

Ivar Lothbrok, the bane of her life.

He should have left her by the vomit in the bushes. But he just had to be perfect and cute; his cocky attitude drew her in, and little by little, she fell for him.

Three years they lived in bliss, going on dates and meeting each other's families. Agatha worked hard to become a lawyer while he worked his way through med school.

He probably is a great doctor, with his little glasses and hair in a top bun in a white lab coat.

Meanwhile, Agatha sits on a rooftop with shot glasses and a bottle of expensive whiskey she stole from home. She was supposed to be in a pastel pencil skirt, with high heels and a neat hairstyle. Not a windy roof drunk and with no cash.

The first of October is today's date, the anniversary that she spent alone in self-loathing. It's not the day they went out for the first time or the party's date where they met. Today marks the day they fought.

It was huge, and she started it. Or maybe he did; it all kinds of blurs together after the seventh shot. Ivar had a paper due, and she was sick, her third day of having food poisoning. He took care of her in the morning; the next thing she remembers is her storming out and getting into his brother's car. His hand was bleeding; he cut himself on a cup he broke in their argument.

She was driving him to get stitches, but the argument wasn't over; Agatha lost control and hit the side of the building pretty hard. The airbags went off, but she still banged her head pretty hard, her head was bleeding, and by the time the paramedics came, she was barely conscious.

Ivar's leg got beaten up pretty badly during the crash, not mentioning Ubbe's car. She was high on medicine while driving and lost her scholarship, ending her hopes as a lawyer. On the other hand, Ivar's leg was so bad he had to get surgery, maybe the metal is still in his foot till today. Even three years after the accident she caused.

If she didn't crash, they would have sorted it out. But Agatha went against his instructions and swallowed more medicine than needed, unaware of her self-medication, Ivar asked her to drive him because of a wound he gave himself in anger against her. All because she felt awful and threw his mistakes in his face.

He went out to party with his brother's at the begging of the month, his brother Sigurd was in town, and they all wanted to celebrate. But they got drunk, and Sigurd got handsy, which made Ivar angry and broke his nose. They didn't argue then; she only gave him a disappointed look and ignored it.

During a dinner with her family, Sigurd threw it in his face, saying she was too good for him. When Ivar ignored the comments, Sigurd said she threw herself on him, and maybe she did, she was too drunk from a drinking bet she made with Hvitserk. But Ivar didn't throw it in her face till the end of the month; instead, he told him to fuck off and became distant from her.

The exams and papers did the rest, the stress too much and the lasagna her mom bought her for her birthday was the final nail. The food poisoning made her bitter, and he got agitated with her vomiting while he tried to focus. They yelled, and the coffee cup broke in his hand. And then the car his the arcade they had their first date at.

They broke up the next day, her not bearing to look at his leg in a cast, the permanent handicap she gave him so painful to see. He couldn't look her in the eye either, maybe because the three stitches over her eye with a popped blood vessel weren't a pretty sign.

The scar was permanent as well, including the depth perception problem she now had. So even if Agatha had her driver's license, she wouldn't be allowed to drive. It's better this way anyway.

But still, she misses him. He was good to her until he started getting mouthy and complained about her low sex drive. Cuddling didn't always cut it for him, and the jealousy around other guys was annoying. But they both kept quiet, too focused on the good parts that they ignored all the bad.

His mother was right, she wasn't good for him, and Ivar wasn't good for her either. Agatha was social and loved crowded places, but he loved silence and intimacy. She compromised and stopped going out, stopped talking to her friends, and instead spent time sleeping in his apartment.

She was too tired from school and constant sex to realize it wasn't a compromise at all; it all came crashing down on her when her mother pointed it out when she came to visit her.

Now she is sitting on top of the closed arcade that she crashed into, trying to remember the sound of the games and his victory smirk as he beat her at a car race. The smell of popcorn that she threw into his hair when he got too cocky for her liking. Maybe she was a sore loser, but at least she didn't have popcorn in her hair.

She was a disgrace without a degree working her ass off at a dinner her aunt owned. When she imagined arguing with strangers, it was supposed to be in court, not as an underpaid waitress smelling od burned coffee. Her parents let her move back home, looking at her like she was a dissapointment. Which she was, of course.

Ubbe stopped by last week on a date with his wife Torvi, who told her how her ex was doing. Ivar graduated and now works in a hospital in Copenhagen. His rich ass is dating an 18-year old model by the name of Freydis. The girl looks cute enough, but Torvi swears she is manipulative and bitchy. So like Ivar on his bad days. He now also uses a cane to walk but is doing ok in therapy; he should be walking on his own in a year.

They were doomed from the start to fail, but she was too blinded by her first love to see it. She got addicted to his cute smiles and ignored the jabs he made against her habits and friends. By the time she was free of him and no longer that depressed, she realized all her friends hated her or were too embarrassed by knowing her.

She poured another four shot glasses for herself and put away the empty bottle. She would nap to sober up later; now, she wanted to numb the need to send him money every year. She sent some to pay for the surgery, the money being useless as his family was rich and had no trouble paying it.

But back then, she wanted him to know she was sorry after seeing the Instagram post Hvitserk made of Ivar's recovery process. She blocked them all on every social media platform, moved back home, and burnt all the photos. But she still knew his phone number by heart.

Fucking prick with his contagious smile and firm muscles, why can't she forget him?

Ivar sat on his balcony, smoking his third cigarette, his right leg propped up on a stool to relieve some of the pain. The medication wasn't helping, and neither was Freydis. His girlfriend of six months was hogging his spacious bedroom to take some photos for her only fans.

He met her at a club where Hvitserk dragged him to, to socialize. He brooded at their booth, not allowed to drink because of his meds. He hated loud music, crowded places, and the pitiful looks people threw him when he limped around. He could even take a piss without somebody asking him if he needed help.

Freydis sat down next to him and leaned against the table so heavily, her boobs nearly fell out of her dress. She flirted with him, and the whole night, in the end, he slept with her. It was supposed to end after that night, but they started a relationship instead. He needed somebody to stroke his ego and his dick, and she needed a sugar daddy.

Three years of therapy, surgeries and crutches, canes, and wheelchairs are getting on his last nerve. Especially now that Ubbe mentioned the temptress that was behind all his problems. Agatha. His ex was a special one, smart and chatty with a constant need for affection.

The brunette collapsed on top of him drunk and gossiped about her teacher for hours. When he finally pried her off, he found her watering the bushes with her vomit, so he took her to her dorm and left. She wrote her number on his arm with a sharpie, and when he felt bored, he hit her up. That led to his longest relationship.

Agatha was a handful; she was far too social and would always make out only to deny sex later. He was frustrated with her all the time until he got what he wanted. She stopped going out and ignored her friends in his favor; the secret to having sex with her were gifts and affection.

He could swallow some romantic comedy if it meant sex afterward. But obviously, it didn't work forever.

Over time, she got more annoying by the week, and her getting too friendly with Sigurd wasn't helping. The bastard stole the girl he liked in high school, and the comments he texted about Agatha's body the same evening was the last nail. He ignored his brother's attempts at angering him and left her out of it.

Instead, he buried it in deep and tried to forget it, like he always did. That is until the night of the accident that she got on his nerves. She was throwing up the whole day, and when he texted Ubbe to bring by a soup, Sigurd read the text only to write back that she was probably pregnant.

Sigurd got inside his head, telling the child could be Ivar's or his or anyones. Maybe the reason she didn't want to sleep with him was that she had side piece, or maybe Ivar was the side piece all along. It made sense to him at the time; she was out so often before, always on her phone.

But after she stopped going out, Agatha got handsy, and their sex life got better. She wasn't so tired, and if he played along, she wasn't so annoying either. He was certain she must be pregnant and hiding it, so he bought a test.

But they never got the results because of the fight that broke out. When Agatha called their relationship toxic, the cup broke in his hand. He wasn't toxic; he was trying to be good to her. But all the short skirts and horny boys weren't helping, or Sigurd's and Hvitserks advice and taunts. He confessed to Hvitserk that their love life was shit, and the first thing his brother told him was there was probably somebody else fucking her instead of him.

He mentioned it in the car on the ride to the hospital; she was so angry that she looked away from the road to yell at him and crashed. He was in pain when the paramedics woke him up to drag him out of the vehicle. She was stapped on a gurned with a neck brace, and there was blood all over her. All because he listened to his brothers and saw her hobbies as signs of cheating.

The next day after his surgery, they broke up; he couldn't even look at her after it all dawned on him. Even if she was pregnant, she definitely lost the baby during the crash. She would need time to get her life in order and recover, and so did he.

So they broke up, and he focused on school and later on his job. He slowly recovered from his injury and moved on. And according to Ubbe, Agatha is better off too. She is working in a less stressful job, looking and eating healthier, no longer the anorexic looking girl he turned her into. She was in a better mindset, and by the amount of money she sent him yearly, she was good at it financially as well.

She was still single, but she would find somebody soon. After all, she had many friends and was always popular; in time, she would be married with kids, and he would be laying next to some other greedy bimbo.

With one last drag, he put his cigarette out and looked at his phone to see two notifications there. A text and a notice from the bank about somebody sending him cash. The text was from a number he still remembered.

"You win, here is your reward, Ives. - Agatha." The same thing it read every year, with that stupid money emoji afterward.

The same thing she told him on their first date before she threw popcorn at him. She was a sore loser and whined whenever she lost. He got addicted to her complaints, loving the way she jokingly called him an ass. That's what their relationship was built on, her losing and him enjoying it.

And yet they both lost in the end. And Ivar missed the dynamic so much; he missed her.

"Come to bed, Ivar. I hit two million; we should celebrate." Freydis purred from behind him. He stood up and limped to their bed with a nod where she sat in her lingerie, grinning from ear to ear.

He sent off a text back before he joined her in bed. "Don't pout, Loser, or I will feel sorry. Happy birthday. - Ivar."

[chilling-seavey]

Ok those pictures from the paparazzi video got me feeling some type of way haha I don’t know what type of blurb can be written with those pictures but like some type of errand running with the girls or going to a restaurant or something haha idk honestly but those pictures/video I just can’t handle it haha

I loveee making blurbs from pics it’s my favourite thing omg I had to jump to this ask RIGHT NOW because I wanna write this before my FEELINGS lessen because WOW 🤤 Florence is a lucky lady let’s just say that  🥴

(So obviously in the ABM universe covid-19 doesn’t exist (lucky bishes honestly) so I’m picturing these pics but without the mask lol)

These are (some) of the pictures I was inspired by (you can’t tell me the first one doesn’t look like he could be pushing a stroller):

October 14, 2025

When Lucy was first born, money was really tight – we’ve seen that come up a lot – so when Florence and Daniel’s one year wedding anniversary came around, they couldn’t really celebrate how they wanted to between not being to afford to go out and because they had three little kids around. But by the second year, money was more comfortable and the kiddos were a bit older and Daniel wanted to take his girls out for a nice dinner as a family.

Their anniversary fell on a Tuesday that year so after work, Daniel came right home as soon as he could to make their reservation time. Penelope and Clementine greeted him right away at the door, all ready to go in their little dresses, and he bent down to give each of them lots of kisses. Florence was in the nursery changing the baby into her fresh outfit and he joined them, greeting his wife with a few sweet kisses before turning to the squealing baby on the change table. He took over for her in getting Lucy ready to go as Florence packed the last of the diaper bag. It was all a bit rushed, but they were out the door and headed down the street in no time.

“Oh my gosh.” Daniel stopped in the middle of the sidewalk halfway there.

“What?” Florence turned back to him, the oldest two girls holding her hands.

“I didn’t change from work.” he looked in the reflection of a store window they were passing at his beige t-shirt and grey long sleeve underneath. “You all look so nice and I look-”

“Incredibly handsome.”

“Barely.” Daniel scoffed, ruffling a hand through his hair.

“You look just fine, baby.” Florence assured him. “You could be wearing a paper bag and I’d still think you were the sexiest man in the city.”

“Oh, thanks.” Daniel shot her a teasing glare as they continued down the sidewalk. 

It was sort of a chilly evening, Lucy bundled up in a jacket in the stroller as she tried desperately to get out and walk herself, but city streets meant having the least amount of kids running free was the safest bet. The restaurant wasn’t too far away so they arrived only a few minutes later, Clementine helping herself to the podium outside the front doors and greeted the hostess with a smile.

“I’m Clementine. We’re here for dinner!” she said, going up on her tiptoes to try and see the list on the host stand.

“Tell her your last name and how many of us.” Florence instructed softly, gently pulling her back from newly throwing herself at the hostess.

“Seavey and five!” Clementine said, taking her mother’s hand.

Daniel smiled softly down at his eldest and her proud smile as the hostess found their reservation.

“Dada!” Lucy shrieked with annoyance from the stroller, pulling at the little seatbelt desperately, “Out!”

“We can put the stroller in the back for you while you eat and bring it out when you’re ready to go.” the hostess offered as she gathered the menus in preparation to bring them to their table.

“That’d be great, thanks.” Daniel said, bending down to unclip the fifteen-month-old from the stroller and picked her up onto his hip.

“Down, dada!” Lucy cried, trying to wiggle from his grasp.

Daniel sighed and set her on her feet, taking her tiny hand in his own before she could run off on her own, “Stay with Daddy please.”

Lucy was more than pleased to be walking by herself, her hand wrapped around his finger as they followed the hostess into the restaurant, her little feet scurrying after the grown-ups. She was not a fan of the highchair at their table, pulling a pout up at him as he buckled her into it. With all three girls settled, Florence and Daniel sat beside each other with mirrored sighs and right away he tucked his hand in hers under the table as they looked at their menus.

“I want chicken nuggets.” Penelope said softly, reaching over the table to tap her finger gently in front of Daniel to get his attention.

“You can have whatever you want, bug.” he smiled, reaching out his left hand to let her hold it across the table.

“Mine!” Lucy frowned, stretching out from the highchair to smack her sister’s hand away from Daniel’s.

“Hey, you gotta share me.” Daniel squished the baby’s cheeks before holding out his palm to Penelope again. She grinned at him with those little dimples and wrapped her small hand around three of his fingers, twisting his wedding ring around one as he scanned the menu.

“What are you thinking?” Florence asked softly.

“Not sure. You?” Daniel glanced up at her.

She shrugged, keeping her eyes on the menu.

“Anything you want, okay?” he whispered, giving her hand a squeeze.

Florence smiled at him and leaned in for a quick kiss.

Life with three young kids meant they almost always ate dinner cold, spending most of the time tending to the children; cutting meat, moving sides so they didn’t touch other things, or wiping sticky hands when offered out to them with a pout. But dinner was nice regardless, Florence and Daniel each treated themselves to a small steak and a glass of champagne each, catching Clementine’s sneaky hand around the stem of the glass trying to steal a sip just in time.

With a family fed and a successful debit card swipe, they started to head back home. Lucy was falling asleep by the end of dinner which meant getting her into her stroller was an easier feat than normal. They walked slowly back home, Daniel pushing the stroller and Penelope resting in Florence’s arms as Clementine led their group down the sidewalk.

The city lights sort of made Daniel’s blue eyes sparkle and Florence kept catching herself staring at him as they walked.

“I’m not a stranger, you know. You can come kiss me if you want to.” Daniel chuckled, looking over at her to meet her lingering stare.

“You’re just so pretty that I can make words sometimes.” Florence shrugged, sliding closer to link her arm in his.

Daniel only smiled at her and stopped walking long enough to kiss her, moving a hand up to her cheek to keep her close for a few more seconds, his lips locked with hers.

“Come on, people!” Clementine called from farther down the sidewalk, clapping her hands twice, “Chop chop!”

“Early bedtime for the girls tonight?” Daniel asked softly as they continued walking.

“You bet.” Florence chuckled, leaning her head on his shoulder as they approached home.

[angelofrainfrogs]

One Night at the Ritz

Fandom: Good Omens

Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley

Description: There are a pair of beings that dine at the Ritz so often they have a permanently reserved table. Naturally, this piques the interest of the restaurant staff, and one waiter is determined to get to the bottom of the most pressing question on everyone's mind: are these two a couple, or not?

Rating: G

Genre: Fluff/Humor/Romance

Read on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21303836

The staff working at the Ritz were trained to serve customers with the utmost grace and respect. They were not to argue with or talk back to the patrons, and they certainly were not to gossip about those they served. This was not a hard task, as most patrons only dined at the Ritz once for the experience, and those that were repeat customers did not necessarily come in often enough to warrant interest in their lives.

However, there is always an exception to the standard, and in this case it was a pair that dined at the Ritz so often they had a permanently reserved table, kept open every night on the assumption that they would most likely drop by. None of the staff knew how the pair could afford dining at the establishment so much, and their seemingly endless supply of cash was one of the hot topics of debate underneath the servers’ politely disinterested façade.  

In fact, the pair themselves were the cause of a great many discussions behind the scenes of the Ritz. They were complete opposites, physically- one tall and lanky, always dressed in black and dark greys, the other slightly shorter and round where the other was thin, dressed in cremes and light blues. Their demeanors matched their outfits, claimed the waiters who’d served them, and there would often be a small competition between staff members to see who would get to interact with them that evening to see if this was true.

The most prevalent discussion, though, was not the pair’s fashion sense or what careers allowed them to dine at the Ritz so frequently. What everyone was most interested in was what the pair were to each other. While some employees claimed that they were friends- best friends, surely, but nothing more-, most people had other ideas. However, the lack of requests for anniversary specials, and the more concerning lack of wedding rings, left the waitstaff endlessly wondering just what these two meant to each other.

“I’m going to ask them,” a young waiter said one crisp, October evening, instantly earning a chorus of gasps from his coworkers.

“Oliver, you can’t just go asking people that sort of thing,” one of the chefs said, glancing up from her prep station to give the boy a scathing look. Oliver was the one of the newest members of the Ritz waitstaff and his eagerness to learn anything and everything often irked his fellow coworkers.

“I’m going to be subtle about it!” Oliver replied, rolling his eyes. “It’s not like I’d just walk up and ask them if they’re a couple; I’m not an idiot.”

The chef made a dissenting noise, indicating that she didn’t quite believe that. She placed a ceramic dish of freshly-made crème brûlée onto a small plate and handed it to Oliver. “Well, this is for their table, so good luck; try not to get yourself fired.”

Oliver stuck out his tongue and then flipped his mouth into a smile, plastering on the façade of kind civility that he was required to wear at all times when in view of the customers. Balancing the plate skillfully on his fingertips, he walked to the table where the familiar duo were involved in an animated discussion. Well, more specifically, the blonde was talking nonstop and gesturing wildly while his companion watched him with almost unnerving focus, nodding on occasion.

“Pardon me for interrupting, but I have the crème brûlée you ordered,” Oliver said, gently setting the dish down in front of the one who’d been talking.

“Thank you, dear boy,” the man said, flashing Oliver a beaming smile. His companion merely shifted to rest his chin on his hand, eyes unreadable behind the sunglasses he constantly wore. Oliver wondered, half-seriously, if the shades were glued to his face.

“You’re most welcome,” Oliver replied. He knew that he should turn on his heel, go back to the kitchen, and let the pair enjoy their dessert in peace. However, this was probably his only chance to find out the answer on everyone’s mind; if he chickened out now, he knew he’d never be able to live it down. He cleared his throat and, still addressing the blonde, asked, “Would you or your husband like anything else?”

The redhead made a sort of choked-off noise and slammed back into his chair, as if the words had physically assaulted him. In tandem, the blonde’s entire body jerked as if startled, the spoon he’d just picked up clattering onto his plate. The room seemed to freeze, all sounds lost into a void of uncertainty, and Oliver wondered what in the world he’d just done.

Then, a slow smile spread across the blonde’s face. If Oliver hadn’t been told that this man was as sweet as could be- an angel, his coworkers often said-, he would swear that it was more of a sly smirk.

“No, thank you; my husband and I are just fine for now,” the blonde said, his tone smooth and level despite the furious blush creeping over his cheeks. The redhead made another noise, this one desperately confused, eyebrows creased together in astonishment.

Oliver gave a slight bow and hightailed it back to the kitchen. He stole one glance back just before the door closed behind him and saw the blonde gently grasp his partner’s hand atop the table.

“Well?!” the chef asked once Oliver had turned around to find what seemed to be the entire waitstaff staring at him questioningly. He swept his gaze across the room, taking a dramatic pause before answering, reveling in the fact that in less than five minutes he’d gained the answer to a question everyone had been asking for god knows how long.

“They’re married,” he said triumphantly, and a cheer broke out so loudly that the chatter in the dining room momentarily ceased as the patrons shifted their focus to the closed kitchen doors.

                                                           ***

“I wonder what the fuss is about,” Aziraphale mused, lifting a bite of crème brûlée to his mouth. He hummed contentedly when the sweetness washed over his tongue, closing his eyes briefly. He opened them to find Crowley staring at him more intently than usual. “What is it, my dear?”

“You called me your…,” the demon trailed off, gesturing wildly with the hand not clutched in Aziraphale’s, and the angel couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped his lips. Crowley was absolutely adorable when flustered.

“My husband, yes.” Aziraphale put down his spoon and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “Do you not like me calling you that?”

“No! I-I mean, yeah, I do! I like it!” Crowley stuttered, automatically squeezing Aziraphale’s hand in affirmation. They both blushed at the gesture, still getting used to the physical closeness after 6,000 years of staying just out of each other’s reach.

“Well then,” Aziraphale said primly, his gaze flickering from Crowley’s hidden eyes to their intertwined hands. “I suppose we should make it official.”

Crowley’s jaw dropped open, his glasses sliding down just enough for Aziraphale to get a tiny glimpse of serpent eyes that were completely yellow, indicating that whatever emotion the demon was feeling, he was feeling it a lot.

“Are you… are you proposing to me, Angel?” Crowley eventually asked, slowly. Aziraphale didn’t answer for a moment, lost in Crowley’s utterly vulnerable expression. For the thousandth time, Aziraphale couldn’t believe he’d wasted so many years denying his feelings and, more importantly, Crowley’s feelings as well. The angel gave his demon’s hand another squeeze, his face lighting up in an utterly radiant smile.

“Yes, my dear, I believe I am.”  

[softboywriting]

Mated | Shawn Mendes | Werewolf AU | Anniversary Edition

Summary: You and Shawn find out you’re mates. He’s an alpha werewolf. You’re a human. Together you’ll over come more than you could ever imagine but it’ll take some serious strength and trust to get there.

Word Count: 26k

|Masterlist Link In Bio|

Welcome to Mayfair, population 355. Where the weather is always fairly nice and the people are friendly. Oh and most of the town is made up a werewolves. That’s right, Mayfair is what is known as a pack town. While primarily the residents are werewolves, there are a few humans sprinkled into the mix. Pack towns were becoming gradually more popular across North America although the concept dated back to the late 1800’s in Europe when entire villages would be nothing but werewolves masquerading as humans.

Nowadays werewolves are common place and though there are still people who absolutely detest them, it’s become normal to pass a werewolf on the street everyday. Not that you could really tell the difference between most werewolves and humans. Most often the differences were subtle and overlooked by a person who did not live among them day to day.

Growing up in Mayfair was a little different then growing up in any regular town. Of course you had school, sports, movie nights and everything else kids did throughout their youth. But there were a few things about your childhood that you didn’t know didn’t happen to other kids in other towns.

For example, in your school, which was the main high school for four area pack towns, you never had school on the day of the full moon. Students thirteen years and older were allowed to have three days off of school each month without repercussions, female students were allowed up to seven days off. You attended two different health classes in middle school and your first year of high school. Despite the fact you were a human, and you did not need those seven days a month for your developing werewolf body, you got them. It was only fair that all students were treated equally.

Most of your friends were werewolves and through them and your health classes, since you had to attend the werewolf and basic human growth classes, you learned that as you got older your female friends would go into heat. They would fall seemingly ill and be kept home for several days, thus the seven days allowed by the school board.

Unfortunately for you, most of your friends would hit their heats at the same time and you would be left all alone at school for several days. But it became normal, living it day in and day out. You never thought anything different of your werewolf friends and human friends. Nothing bothered you about them.

Fast forward and it’s your twentieth birthday and you receive a small brown envelope in the mail. At first you thought it was a birthday card from someone out of town, but it smelled heavily of spices and woodsmoke. You open it, curious as to who the sender was since there was not a return address written on the front of the envelope. You pull out the off white paper inside and begin reading;

Your presence has been requested by the village elder, Myra. Upon receiving this letter please report to the elders home on the Oak Grove estate.

Your heart sinks. A summons to the elder’s home was no joke. Though you were a human and not bound by the werewolf laws, she was a well respected woman that helped build the town and it would be rude and cause trouble not to answer her summons.

It’s after six when you decide to go and meet with Myra. You didn’t tell anyone about the letter, in fear that your mother would think something was terribly wrong. Your friends wouldn’t be any help because they would probably just panic on your behalf. You pull your jacket close against you as you walk up the long leaf covered walkway to the old wooden house tucked behind the large mansion nestled in the middle Oak Grove estate, the home of the town’s alpha and his family. It’s mid October and the air was crisp, cool enough to warrant a light jacket, but your shaking didn’t have much to do with the weather.

As you approach you see someone leaning against the railing of the wooden deck in front of the house. It’s Shawn, the alpha’s only son, and Myra’s great grandson. Shawn is pretty hard to miss, what with how he towered over everyone and everything. He was one of those werewolves that you could tell what he was just by being around him. His energy felt different, his eyes were too golden brown to be human but that was because he wasn’t, he was an alpha. There weren’t too many of those in your town. Maybe a handful, two of them being Shawn and his father, Manny.

You and Shawn had gone to school together, you had a few acquaintances in common, shared a few classes. Attended the same parties a few times. Familiar by association. He had never really been on your radar until senior year when he shot up a foot and a half in nine months and filled out, gaining muscle everywhere and going from lanky to fit in no time. He truly was a sight to be seen.

“Hey, Shawn,” you call out, raising a sleeve covered hand in greeting. He’s dressed in jeans and a short sleeve shirt, as if it weren’t a solid 55 degrees out. He waves and gives a little nod but doesn’t say anything until you get closer. “Are you visiting Myra too?”

Shawn rakes a hand through his mess of dark curls, it looks like he just let it dry after getting out of the shower. All mess and no styling. It was pretty attractive if you did say so yourself. “Yeah, uh, she called me and said I needed to come over. Didn’t elaborate.”

You nod, stepping past him and climbing the steps to the porch filled with potted plants, various wind chimes and decorative gourds and pumpkins. The front door is open, screen door pulled back and secured against the house, allowing you to see right into her very small living room.

Shawn follows you, standing close as the two of you step in and you can feel the heat rolling off of him. He greets his great grandmother with a hand on her shoulder as he steps past you and toward the couch on your right. Her whole house smells like cider and wood smoke and you can’t help but notice she has several cups of what actually looks to be cider on the coffee table in front of her.

“Oh I’m so glad you’ve come, dear! Happy birthday, have you had a good day?” Myra asks. Her voice is surprisingly clear and unstrained for a woman who appears to be in her eighties. In fact, for her age she looked amazing. Werewolves were said to age differently than humans, and she was a prime example.

“Yes, I had a great day, thank you. I got your letter and I came as soon as I was available. Is something wrong?” You pick up a cup of the cider as Myra gestures toward it as an offering to get comfortable. You take a seat, sipping the warm beverage and it’s amazing, the best you think you’ve ever had. “Excuse me if I sound rude, but isn’t it a bit out of the ordinary for you to call upon a human?”

Shawn chuckles at that. You’re not sure why, you hadn’t said anything funny. He grabs a cup of the cider and takes a seat beside you, leg pressed against yours. You can feel the heat of his skin radiating through his black jeans. It’s comforting in a way. You hadn’t realized how nervous you were about sitting down with Myra until just then.

“No worries dear. It isn’t often I call upon the humans in our town. I have some very important news for you. For the both of you,” Myra looks over her reading glasses at the two of you. She must have noticed how you shifted uncomfortably at the mention of news.

You’re dreading whatever was coming next. If Shawn was involved you could only assume it meant something has transpired between your families and Myra wanted the two of you to help her sort it out. Your father had once tiffed with Manny, but that was many many years ago. As far as you knew, things were going fine.

Shawn lays his hand on your upper back. It feels hot and it’s just so so big. He rubs up and down gently. It’s a bit strange for him to be so familiar, seeing as the two of you were hardly even friends, just acquaintances at most. But you don’t want him to stop. It felt right. Myra puts her reading glasses aside and sighs softly. “You know that as an elder, I often get visions.”

You nod, hanging on her every word.

“I am often gifted with the visions of our pack’s soulmates, allowing me to match them up to carry on our legacies.”

Shawn’s fingers curl in your shirt and suddenly that comfortable hand had become a fist in your shirt, knuckles resting against your back. “Grandma….what are you getting at?”

Myra smiles a cheeky little smile that only a grandma who knows too much can pull off. “Shawn, it’s not something that can be changed.”

Shawn sits up, legs spreading wide as he leans forward as if he heard her wrong. His leg pushes yours aside, causing you to kind of turn your knees together to the left awkwardly.  He runs his free hand through his hair, expression stressed.

“What is he talking about?” you ask, looking between the two wolves.

Myra opens her mouth to speak but Shawn cuts her off. “We’re mates.”

You blink once, twice, three times. Long slow processing blinks. Time passes in slow motion, the words spinning around in your head. You can’t find the words to process this information. Werewolves weren’t supposed to be mated to humans. At least, that wasn’t common and not with an alpha like Shawn. Not sure what you should say you just blurt out, “But…I have a boyfriend.”

Myra chuckles sadly. Shawn pushes off the couch and gets up without another word. He heads to a room through an archway to your left. The tension in the house could be cut with a knife. “Oh dear,” Myra says softly as something in the back of the house breaks.

_____________________

The glass all over the floor in the hall connecting the kitchen and the back bedrooms of the house is evidence that Shawn had hit the wall with his fist and that was what you and Myra heard in the living room. It was unclear why he had been so angry when you said you had a boyfriend. Did Shawn expect you to just dump Liam, your boyfriend, and be his mate because Myra saw it in a vision or whatever? Because fat chance.

You pick up the broken glass of three picture frames on the floor and place them in a plastic bag Myra handed you when you said you would take care of the mess for her. You look at the photos in the frames. Most of the people you don’t recognize, but there are a few you’ve seen at the cafe on Main St. getting coffee and reading the paper in the morning. They must be about the same age as Myra.

You pick up another photo and it’s of Shawn. He’s smiling, about 13 years old maybe, and he has a rabbit in his hands. You laugh to yourself softly because you know that around that age the werewolf boys were taken on their first hunt. There he was holding the rabbit, still very much alive, and looking so proud. You think he must have caught it and didn’t want to hurt it so he brought it back alive.

“What’re you looking at?” Shawn asks from the end of the hall. He’s got his arms crossed, leaning on the doorframe to a bedroom in a stance that seems like it should be pretty casual but is actually very intimidating.

You put the picture aside, saying nothing, not wanting to talk to him if he was in a mood. You clean up the remains of the frames and keep the pictures in a neat pile to give to Myra when you finished. You feel a little uncomfortable as Shawn continues to watch you clean up his mess. “Wanna help with this? It’s your mess,” you say quietly, more to yourself then to him really.

“I would have cleaned it up.”

“Yeah, sure,” you scoff. There are little bits of wood from one of the frames and it’s broken all in bits as if it had been stepped on. You try to focus on getting each piece instead of talking to Shawn.

Shawn lets out a hard breath through his nose, “I really was going to. I’m not an asshole y'know?”

You look up, his words igniting something inside you. Something about the way he sassed you back had you seeing red. “Really? Because you could have fooled me.”

“Excuse me?” he says, stepping forward as if it would help him hear you clearly.

You stand up, palm full of glass and wood bits to put in the trash bag. “Oh you heard me. I said you could have fooled me about not being an asshole.” You take a step forward, and you immediately regret it. You know that your actions would read as a challenge to Shawn. It was something you knew better than to do around an alpha. Sometimes you could be so dumb.

Shawn emits a low growl like noise, something low and caught in his throat. It’s a noise you’ve only heard maybe a handful of times and usually because a fight was about to break out in the school halls. “You should leave,” Shawn says, voice harsh and raspy.

“Why? Because you’re angry your mate is a human? Because I have a boyfriend already?!” You are surprised at your own boldness and you find yourself stepping forward once more. Inside you’re screaming, telling yourself to shut your mouth and leave before this boy does something drastic. But you can’t, you stand still, back straight.

“I swear to fucking god,” Shawn starts, walking toward you, steps slow and calculated. His eyes are golden amber and you take a step back. You clench your fist as you stumble a little, and the glass bits you were holding go into your skin. Immediately you wince at the sharpness and open your hand as blood begins to flow from several glass pricks. Shawn grabs your hand and you flinch, afraid he’s going to hurt you. But when you look up at him, the tension is no longer rolling off him in waves and his eyes a more normal golden brown. His hand is burning hot against yours as he holds it carefully.  “Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah. I should have dumped it into the bag.” You look at your hand, the blood collecting in your palm, the skin aching.You try to pull it away but he holds it firmly. He picks the debris off and tosses it in the bag hooked on your arm.

Shawn looks at you for a moment, eyes locked with yours and you want to ask what he wants. He touches your bloodied hand with his fingertips gingerly and you grind your teeth because there’s still glass in the cuts. “Do you trust me?” Shawn asks softly.

“I don’t know? Why?” you ask in an annoyed tone. Why the hell was he talking about this right now? There were more pressing issues like your bleeding hand in his. Who gave a fuck about trust right now?

Shawn pulls you into the bathroom nearby and looks closely at the little pieces of glass wedged into your skin. He digs through a small basket on the counter and gets a pair of tweezers. You pull your hand away, holding it against your side. “No, you’re not digging in my hand with those. I’ll take care of it at home!”

“I can fix it. Promise it won’t hurt,” he says grabbing your hand and holding it tight in his own. He picks carefully with the tweezers, getting each piece out. He sets the tweezers aside and puts his palm flat against yours even though it was still bleeding.

“What’re you-”

“Trust me damnit,” he snaps, and you still try to pull your hand away but he keeps it there. It feels hot, and then hotter and hotter and you think it’s burning. It stings and you jerk your hand back hard enough that it slides out from his hold.

“What the hell was that? What’s on your hand? That burned!”

Shawn grabs your hand roughly, jerking you forward a little on accident. He wipes the blood off with a towel on the counter. There’s no more blood beading up to replace it. You look at your hand and it seems as if there isn’t any cuts on it at all. “I fixed it,” Shawn says quietly before releasing your hand.

“Fixed it? What the hell are you-,” you wash your hand off in the sink and there are no marks on your hand. You touch it, rubbing hard over the spots where the glass went in. There was nothing. No blood, no glass, nothing. “What the hell? Shawn what the hell is this?”

Shawn leans against the counter, crossing his arms. “I fixed it,” he repeats.

“So you can just heal people?!” you exclaim, not really meaning to be so loud as you said it. Was that all he was seriously going to say? This was something else. Werewolves transforming was something you’d grown to accept even though you didn’t quite understand how it worked. But magical healing powers was something new.

“I can’t heal ‘people’, I can heal just you.” Shawn pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs as if this is such a difficult thing to explain. As if you should just know exactly what the hell he’s talking about.

“I don’t understand. You can magically heal me?!”

Shawn lets out a frustrated growl, “It’s because we’re mates!”

“Oh,” you say quietly as the silence grows between the two of you in the cramped bathroom. Shawn pushes off the counter and leaves you standing there with no further explanation, and even more questions than before.

_____________________

The walk home was quiet. Leaves rustled around you, blowing in the breeze that cut through your thin jacket. It was all starting to hit you. So you turned twenty and now your life has been set on a path with Shawn’s because Myra saw it in a vision. How were you going to explain it to your parents? Your friends? Your boyfriend?

You pull your jacket tighter against you, wrapping your arms around yourself to keep warm. It wasn’t fair that you didn’t get to choose who you married. It wasn’t fair that you would have to break up with your boyfriend. No. It wasn’t. So fuck it. Nobody can force you to date Shawn, to love him. Nobody can make you break up with your boyfriend. You huff, breath coming out in a little foggy cloud. The temperature is dropping and you still have several blocks to walk until you’re home.

You hear someone jogging toward you. Probably just someone out for some exercise. You step to the left so they can pass you but their steps slow down to a walk. Glancing back, you see Shawn just behind you, casually walking maybe twenty steps back. His hands are in the pocket of his hoodie he must have put on after you left Myra’s house.

“What, Shawn?” you say, still walking and facing forward. You weren’t sure if he’d even heard you. You shiver and put your hands up into your armpits. It feels like it has to be about forty five degrees out.

“Didn’t want you to walk home alone,” Shawn says after a minute or two. He takes a few long strides and catches up with you easily. “It’s cold, and almost dark out.”

You look up at him, his cheeks are a little flushed. “And I’m almost home. Made it all this way by myself.” You roll your eyes and look forward as the street starts to curve toward the turn you’ll need to take to get to your house.

Shawn kicks some black walnuts in their shells that had fallen off nearby trees. He doesn’t say anything else and just keeps walking with you. The two of you get to your house and you see Liam’s car in the driveway. Part of you is excited to see your boyfriend and the other part is terrified of how Shawn will react to seeing him. “I’m sorry about today. I didn’t know that my grandma was going to do this,” Shawn sounds genuinely sorry. It wasn’t his fault though.

“It’s fine. Nothing has to change right? I mean, her vision doesn’t define us,” you say, stopping just short of your driveway. Afraid that if Shawn walked you to your door and Liam was anywhere in sight it might get ugly.

Shawn smiles weakly. It hurts you in a strange way. You can tell it isn’t a good or even genuine smile, more of a placating one, a smile to soften the blow of the words he would say but didn’t mean. “Yeah, right. Doesn’t define us.” There it was. You read him like a book.

“I know this is different for you because you’re actually a werewolf.” You weren’t sure where you wanted to go with this statement. You had no evidence to support this theory.

“Baby! Hey! I’ve been waiting for you!” Liam shouts, waving wildly from your front porch. You turn to look at him and you groan softly. This was just perfect timing.

Shawn puts his hand on your back and grips your jacket. “Shawn…what’re you doing?” you whisper heatedly. He’s tugging you back slightly as Liam starts walking toward the two of you. “Shawn stop, stop!” you hiss thru your teeth. Liam is going to notice and there will be a lot of questions if Shawn didn’t let go of your jacket.

Liam stops in front of you and smiles at Shawn. “Hey man, you her friend?” Liam puts his hand out for Shawn to shake. “Glad you got her home okay.”

Shawn smiles quick, it’s more of a warning flash of teeth than a smile really. Shawn releases your jacket and lets his hand fall to his side. “Yeah, she’s perfect. Glad I didn’t let her walk home alone.”

“I was getting worried, it’s after dinner and I thought we had plans,” Liam looks at you pointedly. You had forgotten amidst the news from Myra. You give a little pleading look and then mumble something about heading inside to get changed if you were going to go out. “I was worried something happened,” Liam says as he tucks your hair behind your ear.

Shawn covers a growl with a cough. Liam didn’t hear it for what it was, but you did.

Liam puts his arm around you and starts walking you away from Shawn with a “Thanks,” and “Have a good night man.” Liam rubs your arm and kisses your temple. “I’m glad he walked you home. I don’t know what I would do if some werewolf attacked you, they can be so unpredictable, like wild animals. They’re just dangerous.”

You feel your stomach knot up. Did he seriously just say that? As if werewolves were out of control animals? They were people too. It wasn’t like when a werewolf shifted forms they became savage blood thirsty killers unless something provoked them. You look back at Shawn and he’s already started walking down the street. You’re glad it doesn’t seem he heard Liam because with the way Shawn was pulling you away as Liam just walked up, you fear what he might do if he heard that comment.

“So, wanna go to dinner? I know it’s a little late but…” Liam walks his fingers up your arm as you walk up the porch steps.

“I’m not really hungry. Can we go out tomorrow maybe? I’m tired from being so social all day with my family and stuff,” you say, lying through your teeth, praying Liam would buy it. He does and agrees, clearly annoyed, but he agrees nonetheless. You watch as Liam’s car pulls out of the driveway and you head to your room in the basement.

You lay awake listening to a playlist someone sent you a couple weeks ago. It’s after midnight and Liam keeps texting you but you’re ignoring him. The comment he made was making you reconsidering what you liked about him. Sure he was nice, he bought you nice gifts for no reason, he even helped you through the passing of your cat a few months before. But the way he said what he did about werewolves, it made you angry. Liam wasn’t from Mayfair, but that wasn’t an excuse for him to think like that.

There’s a knock on the sliding glass door that goes out to the backyard from your bedroom. You think it’s probably Liam. You get up and toss your blanket aside. You pull your makeshift curtain back and open the blinds to see who it was. It’s not Liam. Definitely too tall to be Liam. You grab your bat from the wall to your left before you flip the light on and see it’s Shawn standing there in sweats and a red hoodie with your high school’s logo on it.

“What the fuck…” you unlatch the door, pull the security bar off the track and slide it open. The cold air rushes in and gives you goosebumps all over. Your thin flannel bottoms and old shirt were not meant to withstand this temperature. “Shawn it’s the middle of the night. What could you possibly be doing at my door in your pajamas?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says quietly.

You give him a look of disbelief. Couldn’t sleep so he just rolls up to your house in the middle of the night. Not even your boyfriend did that. Who the hell does that? Crazy people. That’s who. “Go home and take a sleep aid or something.”

“Can I come in?” Shawn asks, voice still strangely quiet. He’s shivering a bit. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him cold. He was alway so physically warm, something you noticed long before today.

You look him over and decide not to make him stand out there any longer. You step aside and he comes in so you can lock the door back up. Good lord what were you doing? Inviting him in like this was so out of character for you. You wouldn’t even let Liam stay past ten at night when he was over. “Are you okay? I mean you’re like shivering, and aren’t you usually warm?”

“I’m sorry I just showed up. I went for a run to tire myself out and I ended up here. I saw your light was on and I-” Shawn shakes his head and drops down to sit on your bed where it was on the floor. Your bed frame broke a few weeks back and you hadn’t gotten around to getting a new one yet. He lays back, legs half sticking off the side of the bed. “I’m sorry. I should just leave you alone.”

You sit down next to him and lay back, staring at the old stick on glow in the dark stars on your ceiling. “You can’t though, right? It’s like you’re drawn to me?”

Shawn looks at you, eyes so tired. “…yeah, how did you know?”

“My friend Ashley got married last year. You remember her right? She married Corey, the guy who opened the coffee shop on Main St. She would tell me all about how she couldn’t resist him, how he drove her crazy. She said she went to Myra for advice and was told he was her mate.” You turn your head to look at Shawn. He’s got a little tiny bit of stubble on his jaw and you smile to yourself. His face was so sweet and soft looking, imagining him with a beard or even just five o’clock shadow was humorous. “I understand more than you might think. Not everything, but somethings.”

“Do you think werewolves are dangerous and unpredictable? I heard what Liam said today and I just...it’s been bothering me.”

“No, Shawn. I grew up here, surrounded by werewolves my whole life. I know they aren’t dangerous. Liam is an asshole who doesn’t understand anything outside his closed mind.”

Shawn turns his head to look at you, eyes falling closed. He keeps opening them halfway and then closing them again, he isn’t long for consciousness. “Then why stay with him?”

You shrug. It’s a very good question actually. Why do you stay with him? This was not the first time he made off hand comments about things that he shouldn’t. Did you stay because it meant you weren’t alone? Was it because he was the first cute guy to give you attention? There were a lot more reasons to walk away then there were to stay.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. That was rude of me.”

“No, it’s fine. You have a point, but I just can’t answer that question yet.”

Shawn makes an attempt to sit up but falls back. He is clearly exhausted and you can’t imagine how long he must have been running before he worked up the courage to stop by your house. Wolves had incredible stamina so you’re thinking he must have been out there for well over an hour. “I should go home,” he mumbles, more of slurs, as he tries to keep his eyes open.

You reach over and push a curl out of his face. They’ve gone wild as they’ve dried from the rain. “I don’t know if you could make it home,” you giggle as his eyes fall closed completely. He rolls onto his side and tugs you close, nosing into your neck. Oh god. You’re not sure what to do. He’s got you in a vice grip and he is now fast asleep. You decide to just close your eyes and enjoy his warmth that’s radiating through you. You can’t believe you’ve just given into him like this. Not even Liam was allowed to stay the night and here Shawn was, barely an acquaintance, sharing your bed. Maybe there was something to this mate deal.

_____________________

It’s just after 4am when you wake up in a cold sweat. Your shirt feels stuck to your skin and you feel a sharp cramping pain in your lower stomach. Oh no, not now. No no no. You sit up, confused by the weight on your body and Shawn’s arm falls on to your lap. Right. He’d fallen asleep and you gave into letting him stay. That makes matters so much worse. You’re sure you have started your period and if you don’t get to the bathroom immediately it was going to be bad. You push Shawn’s arm off and scoot carefully to the edge of the bed. It’s too late. The moment you get your feet on the floor and go to push off, you can feel your uterus betray you.

Shawn stirs, pushing himself up on his forearms. He looks back and forth across the bed before looking over at you. He rolls over off of his stomach and sits up. “Where’d you go?” he asks, voice heavy with sleep.

“I’m fine,” you answer curtly as you slowly inch across the room, praying the blood doesn’t show through your dark flannel pants.

Shawn leans forward and you shuffle quicker across the floor, trying not to look like you’re in pain. “Are you okay?” he asks and you can’t help the little whimper that escapes your lips in response. So much for hiding it.

In a second he’s off the bed, hand on your back, worry in his eyes. You wish nothing more than for him not to be touching you right now. It was embarrassing enough to have started your period while he was in your bed, let alone the spot that was probably growing on the back of your pants. “Why are you so quiet? Is it your stomach? Are you hurt?” He tries to put his hand on your stomach but you push it away.

“I’m fine Shawn. Please go sit down. I just need to go to the bathroom.” You shuffle forward more. Shawn takes a step back, crossing his arms and standing by the side of your bed. A cramp gets the best of you and you hold your stomach for a second, one hand braced on the door frame.

Shawn is at your side in a second, one hand on your back and one on your stomach. “Something is wrong. I should go get your parents.”

You shake your head, letting out a pitiful self deprecating laugh before you say, “No, don’t get my parents. It’s just my period.”

“Your…Oh. Oh!” Shawn steps back and folds his hands under his arms. “Oh my god I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that was the problem. I’m so sorry,” he keeps babbling sorrys and a flush is high on his cheeks.

“Haven’t you ever been around menstruating girls?” you ask, breathing hard through another cramp.

“Yeah sort of, yeah I guess at school. It was different, I didn’t see them like this!”

“How is this different…y'know what, I don’t care. I just need to get to the bathroom.” You let out a little gasp of pain as a cramp grips your stomach tight. You should have known you would be starting soon. The other day you’d had a few light cramps but you ignored them. Usually you would have put on a preemptive pad just in case of this is exact scenario, but you just didn’t.

Shawn moves close again, putting his hand back on your stomach. He slides his hand under your shirt  and you try to push him off as says, “Please trust me.” You give up, knowing he isn’t going to hurt you or anything. He holds his hand there for a second, skin warm against yours. Then suddenly it gets hot, the heat becoming uncomfortable like when he healed your hand yesterday. You grab his shoulder for support, letting out a soft sob, the cramp coming to a full gripping sensation as the heat from him starts to hurt a little. Shawn pulls his hand away, balling his fist at his side. He swallows thickly as he takes a step back to give you space. It looks as if his arm was hurting but you don’t say anything.

The pain is gone. You stand up straighter and open your door to go to the bathroom across the hall. It takes you just a second to realize you haven’t grabbed any underwear or pants to replace your ruined ones. You can’t just get up and walk in there butt naked, blood running down your leg. But you also don’t want to pull your pants back up and go in there either. You would have to suck it up and ask for help.

“Shawn,” you say softly and after a moment you hear a soft hum in response. “Can you grab me some...some underwear and pants?”

There is no immediate response and you wonder for a moment if he had even heard you. But then Shawn knocks on the door. “Here,” he says opening it just a crack and passing through a pair of underwear and your black fuzzy pajama bottoms.

You thank him quietly but you still feel like you could just die of embarrassment. Not only had you started your period, bled through your pants, told Shawn you were menstruating, and let him do some hocus pocus wolf magic on your stomach. He had gone through your pile of folded clothes on your dresser and grabbed your underwear. He touched your underwear. He looked at them, selected them, brought them to your bathroom door and passed them through with nothing but a simple “Here.”

You fix yourself up and take a few deep breaths in the mirror to calm the knots in your stomach. It was nothing. Menstruation was perfectly normal and nothing to be embarrassed about. Shit happens. Shawn was just helping. He probably didn’t mind, in fact he probably didn’t even think twice about it. Yeah. He was chill. It was fine. Once you slip into your room you notice Shawn is sitting on your bed thumbing through a magazine off your floor. “Make yourself at home why don’t you?” you chuckle as you shove your stained clothes in your laundry hamper behind the door.  

Shawn drops the magazine and stands up. “I promise I didn’t go through your underwear, they were just sitting on top. I figured whatever was fine. I didn’t see anything else I promise I-”

“Shawn.”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you,” you smile at him softly. As embarrassing as it was for you, it wasn’t actually that big of a deal. It was just underwear after all. Periods are normal. He didn’t see you naked or something. “I’d like to try and get some more sleep.” You look to the bed and then to the sliding glass door. Part of you wants him to stay, the other wants him to go. You look him over as he stands there waiting for you to make up your mind. It’s hard. He’s so attentive, so sweet to you and you were starting to feel like maybe he felt ‘right’. The more you thought about it, the more you wanted to end things with Liam, even if it wasn’t to end up dating Shawn. Liam had never been so concerned for you, not once could you remember him asking if you were okay or even bothering to call you when you were sick or something. Sure, he had provided comfort after your cat died, but even then it seemed like he had felt obligated to do so. Shawn was showing you that there are better options in this world, that you don’t need to settle.

“Will you stay?” you ask and Shawn’s face lights up. He looks like a kid on christmas as you crawl into the bed and hold the blanket back for him. It was undeniable, the chemistry you had with Shawn. He was easy to be with, to talk to. He was comfortable.

Shawn’s hand brushes against your stomach under the blankets, eyes meeting yours only a few inches away on your pillow. “Can I?”

You nod and he lays his hand on you. The touch is more intimate than just friends but far from scandalous and you can’t help but think about Liam. Everything you had with him was falling apart for you as Shawn opened up the door of what a better relationship might be. Was it considered cheating letting someone you felt comfortable with sleep in your bed? You and Shawn were not doing anything outside of a close platonic friendship. But the feelings you were having for Shawn went beyond being his friend, beyond platonic. No, you didn’t want to just be his friend. Your stomach turns over. Was it wrong to want something, someone, better? You lay there a while longer arguing with yourself before finally coming to a conclusion. It wasn’t cheating to you if you were just sleeping with Shawn, because it wasn’t any different than sleeping in the same bed as a friend. You were not romantically involved. But it didn’t matter because you’ve decided it was going to be over for you with Liam. You want better, whether that be Shawn or someone else. After yesterday, with what Liam said about werewolves and after Shawn being so good to you, showing you that a partner should be there and show compassion and concern and not act like it was a daunting obligation. You know you not only want better, but you deserve it.

_____________________

Four days pass and you haven’t heard from Liam since your birthday. You texted him “Sorry fell asleep last night” after Shawn left the morning after your birthday. You texted him again that night, and then again the next morning, asking to meet up with him soon. He never replies and leaves you on read. It’s rude. Annoying. Further showing that you deserve better.

Shawn would stop by almost every day, always knocking on your sliding glass door to see if you were home. He didn’t stay the night again, didn’t even come in usually. He would just stop by and check on you, one day he even brought you a candy bar. Usually his visits lasted no more than a few minutes, with him standing outside the door while you went over the same questions.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine, very tired.”

“Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m good. Thank you though.”

Shawn would usually nod and mumble that he would see you later on. He didn’t ask about Liam. He didn’t ask to stay the night again. It was just the same couple of questions and then he’d go back home. You wonder if you had pushed the boundaries too far the night of your birthday, or may he thought he had.

You’re watching a movie while taking a break from your homework when your phone starts ringing. You pick it up and look at the name that pops up on the screen. It’s Liam. It seems he’s finally decided to acknowledge your texts. What the hell was his problem? Who blatantly ignored their girlfriend?  It pisses you off. It really did. You had thought about spamming his phone until you got a reply sooner but it just wasn’t worth your time to do so. Four days now you’d been going over in your head every time he’s done this in the past. How he would just go missing for a few days and then suddenly text or call you like you hadn’t been trying to get ahold of him. You always dismissed it because you were just happy to talk to him again, to get to go out, to not be lonely. You had always been a little afraid to ask him why he didn’t call or text earlier because you didn’t want to start a fight. Now you’ve had enough. You didn’t need him or his shit any more. The way that the way Liam left you in the dark wasn’t right, wasn’t how a relationship should work and you were going to tell him.

“Hello?” you answer, putting the phone on speaker and laying it down next to you.

“Hey baby, was just calling to see if you still wanted to get your birthday dinner?”

“My birthday was four days ago. Liam, where have you been?” you ask, trying to keep your voice calm. It’s the first time you’ve questioned why he didn’t reply and you were already angry from reviewing the past times like this in your head so it’s a little hard to stay calm. “Why didn’t you text me back?”

“I was busy. I’m always really tired after work, you know that baby.”

It’s making you sick how he calls you baby. It used to feel cute and endearing. Now it felt wrong. “For four days you couldn’t just shoot me a text saying anything? You were that tired? Really?”

Liam scoffs, his voice taking an annoyed tone. “What’s your problem? I said I was busy. What is with all these questions?”

“Can we meet up? We need to talk about-” you start to say you need to talk about your future, or lack thereof, with him but you hear a female’s voice in the background and you stop. He keeps saying “Hello” over and and over but you ignore him, listening to the female voice. “Who’s with you?”

Liam is quiet for a moment. “I’m at work.”

You look at your clock over your desk. It’s after 7pm. He got off work at 5pm. “No you’re not.”

“Excuse me? Yes I am. I had to work late!” Liam sounds defensive and the female voice in the background suddenly stops. You hear an “Oh! Shit sorry!” just as Liam takes a deep breath and says, “Baby, we need to talk about your attitude.”

Your attitude? Did he actually say that? You were not about to let him hang up until you got some answers. Being a shitty boyfriend was one thing but cheating? Lying about where he is? Oh fuck no. “Liam, your boss would never let you work this late. Who are you with?”

“I’m at a friend’s okay? Don’t worry about it. Did you want to get dinner still?”

“No, I don’t want to get dinner with you. I-I don’t even want to see you!” you shout, not caring you’re becoming irate and emotional. You’re not even trying to hide it anymore. “Liam, are you at a girls house!?”

“What is your problem?! Do you think I’m cheating on you?!” Liam is yelling. He’s clearly angry you’ve just caught him in the act and he was vehemently trying to deny it.

“Yes! Yes, I do! You just lied about where you are, you won’t answer your phone for days! Is this what you do every time you ignore me for days? Do you go to your ‘friend’s’ house?!”

“Y’know what, fuck you! I gave you everything and this is how you’re going to repay me? Go fuck yourself, because it’s not like anyone else but me was ever going to. I hated coming to that piece of shit town you live in anyways, wasn’t worth my time. I only kept dating you because I pitied you. ” Liam hangs up the phone and you’re laying there processing what just happened.

Tears start falling, running down your cheeks and wetting the pillow in your lap. You were so angry and so done with him but it still hurt. He just implied he was only dating you for the sex and that you weren’t worth anyone’s time. Like he had been doing you a favor by being with you. You’d spent the last nine months ‘dating’ him and probably the whole time he was fucking another chick? So what, you were his side chick? His main chick? How long had he been cheating on you? How could you have been stupid enough not to realize any of this earlier?

You sob, shaking and struggling to breathe. You wipe your tears away with your sweater as a soft knock comes from your sliding door. You take a deep breath and go over to it and push the blinds aside and see Shawn standing there in a soaking wet hoodie and jeans. It’s pouring rain and water is pooling in the yard behind him. “Not now, Shawn, please go home,” you sniff loudly, yelling through the glass door, reluctant to open it. You didn’t want Shawn to see you like this.

“Please let me in. I heard your phone call,” Shawn tugs the door open and you wish you had put the stopper bar in the bottom. “I got here just as Liam was saying he had to work late. I should have left but I just couldn’t. Are you okay?”

You shake your head. “I hate him,” you whimper before breaking into another round of chest aching sobs. “He was cheating on me. He only wanted to fuck me,” you’re shaking harder, stomach sick, arms wrapped around yourself, “like he was doing me a favor because I’m not good enough for anyone.”

Shawn pulls you against him. His hoodie is soaked but you don’t care. He holds you against him, hand gripping your shirt. “Fuck him,” Shawn says, lips pressed into your hair. “He’s wrong, you’re perfect.”

“How can you say that? We’re barely even friends,” your voice is muffled by his chest.

Shawn moves back just enough so that he can look down at you. You glance down and notice he’s making a wet spot on your carpet. He brings his hand up and wipes your tears off your cheek. “Believe me, you’re perfect.”

“You’re just saying that because you think I’m your mate.”

“I’m saying it because I know you’re my mate. I wish you could feel the same way I feel drawn to you.”

You leans your forehead against his chest. “Maybe I could learn to,” you let out a breathy half laugh, “Maybe I was supposed to break up with Liam. Is that crazy? Maybe this was all supposed to happen so I end up with someone good like you.”

Shawn shakes his head. “Not crazy at all.”

You step back away from him and look him over. You wipe your eyes again and laugh softly at him. “You’re making a mess,” you point at the damp circle he’s standing in.

He looks down and steps back toward the sliding door. “Oh shit, sorry. I can dry it off if you give me a towel.” He squats down to touch it and see if it’s totally soaked through.

“Maybe we should dry you off first,” you say as you grab a towel from your laundry hamper. “eliminate the source of wetness?” Shawn stands up and peels his hoodie off in one fluid motion, hanging it on your computer chair to dry. You drop the towel and stare at him because holy fucking shit. Who actually looked like that? How was he that ripped? He was not real.

Shawn looks down at himself and then up again, giving you a sort of shy smile. He knew you were blatantly checking him out and he was no ashamed. You bend down and grab for the towel three times before getting it and holding it out to him without saying anything. He takes it and starts rubbing his chest dry as he says, “Gonna watch me take my pants off too? I don’t mind, but you might want to sit down judging by your reaction to my chest.”

_____________________

You turn around as Shawn pulls his jeans off and stare at the far wall, looking around aimlessly at your junk when you catch sight of Shawn in the reflection of the mirror on the back of your door. He’s standing there in his boxers that are clinging to everything, yes, everything, and drying his hair with the towel. He looks up and sees you in the mirror and smiles big, letting out a low chuckle.

“Do you have anything I can wear?” Shawn asks as he wraps the towel around his waist.

You turn around and go to your dresser. “I think I have some sweats and a hoodie maybe?”

“Perfect,” he says as you hand him a pair of your older brother’s black hand me down sweats that are too big for you and an oversized Marines hoodie from your brother that you had folded up on top of your dresser. It’s the only things you have that might fit his huge frame considering your brother was almost the same size. You turn around as he puts them on in case he wanted to take his boxers off. “I’m sorry Liam was such an asshole in the end,” Shawn says softly.

“Don’t be. I should have seen the signs earlier.” You don’t turn around as you talk, you just stare at the wall again. “He had been doing this thing where he would ignore me for days on end and then act like nothing happened.”

Shawn walks forward and stands behind you, “He was cheating on you?”

You turn around at the closeness of his voice, jumping a little when you bump into him. “Y-yeah. God I should have thought of it earlier…I’m so stupid.”

He reaches out and tucks some hair behind your ear. “You’re not stupid. You didn’t want to be lonely.”

Tears sting the corners of your eyes. Your face starts to do that little involuntary frown that happens right before you cry. “I am stupid.” You shake your head, wanting the tears to go away but they don’t. Your eyes fill up and start to spill over with tears, and you let out a shaky sob.

Shawn steps closer and wraps his arms around you. He holds you tight and pets your hair down with one hand. “Maybe we can go for a walk and clear your mind, it’s stopped raining,” he says and you nod against his chest. “Should we tell your parents you’re leaving?”

“Yeah. I’ll tell my mom I’m going out for a bit.” You move away from Shawn and immediately miss his warmth. You go through your bedroom door and yell up the basement stairs that you’re leaving for a bit and you’ll be back in a while. Your mom says something about making beef stew for dinner and that she expects you to eat tonight. You agree and head back to your bedroom.

Shawn’s smiling when you open the door. “Beef stew huh?”

You can’t help but smile a little because his smile so radiant and warming. “Yes, beef stew. No, you’re not staying for dinner.”

Shawn groans teasingly and grabs your jacket off of your bed. You take it from him and put it on, zipping it all the way up and pulling the drawstrings on the hood to keep the heat in. “Let’s go.”

The two of you make your way through the woods a little ways from your house. The rain made it chillier than it had been outside. You walk in silence for a while, just enjoying each others company. Shawn bumps his hand against yours where you have it pulled into the sleeve and you glance down to see if it was an accident. He does it again and you smile a little because you can’t believe he was trying to be sly.

“You wanna hold my hand?” you ask and smirk up at him.

He laughs and rolls his eyes. “If I do?”

You contemplate it for a moment. Would you be comfortable holding hands? Would that lead him on? You didn’t want to do anything to do that, you didn’t want him to think you were already feeling the same. Because you weren’t. Well, maybe a little interested. It was very muddled in your head. In the end you decide to take his hand. You slide your hand out of the sleeve and he threads his fingers between yours.

“So, when did you and Liam meet? I don’t recognize him from school?” Shawn asks after a few minutes of walking hand in hand.

“We met nine months ago. He didn’t go to school with us obviously. He approached me at a the Yankee Candle at the Kingsburg mall. Said I was cute, liked my hair, it was curly that day.” You swallow thickly, remembering how Liam hadn’t always been neglectful of your feelings, but quickly remind yourself it was all for sex in the end.

“I like your hair when it’s curly,” Shawn says with a smile. ��It’s so wild.”

“Thanks, it’s actually naturally kind of curly. I just don’t like it sometimes, too messy.”

Shawn tugs your hood back and runs his hand through your hair. “Messier the better with curls.”

“Shawn…” you look up at him, surprised at his bold move, and he pulls his hand away.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. I forget sometimes, I’m more into you than you are into me.”

You smile at him and shake your head, “It’s not that I’m not into you. It just surprised me.”

The woods ahead are thick, darker than where you were. You pull Shawn to the left, down a path toward the area where the woods connected to the Oak Grove estate, Shawn’s home. “So, how does it feel? Like for you?”

Shawn hums, “How’s what feel?”

“Being mated. What does that feel like?”

Shawn flushes a little bit before he clears his throat and says, “Ah, well, it’s complicated. It feels like I’m always burning up when I’m around you. Like, there’s something inside me that’s fighting to get out when you’re near.”

You raise your eyebrows and let out a half laugh, “That doesn’t sound very good.”

“No, no it is!” Shawn laughs and swings your joined hands. “It feels like…like I’m so happy I could explode. It feels like on Christmas when you know what’s in that one specially wrapped box and you know it’s the one thing you wanted so bad and you’re actually getting it.”

“That’s crazy, there’s no way that’s the same feeling,” you laugh and smile up at him and he stops to step in front of you and grabs your other hand. It feels strange, being so comfortable with him like this when only an hour or two ago you were crying because of Liam. “Shawn..what’re you doing?”

“I wish you could feel it. I wish you could feel how I’m burning up and my body is humming and I can’t see anything but you right now.”

“Shawn…” you say quietly, staring up at him, letting the rest of your thought trail off. You’re not moving, not pulling your hands away and neither is he. You don’t want to move an inch in fear it’ll ruin the moment. It feels so right, standing here hand in hand with him.

He’s looking at you, eyes searching yours for any sign of how you feel. He’s trying to transfer the feeling he’s described to you, you just know it. You can feel his hands getting hotter in yours and you look down, breaking eye contact for just a second. “You feel it?” he asks, voice hopeful and you nod a little.

“I feel your hands burning up,” you look up at him once more and his eyes are golden and so pretty. Last time you saw them like this, you had challenged him out of spite in Myra’s hallway.

Shawn leans in and your heart races. You think he’s going to kiss you and you aren’t sure you’re really in a position to be doing that quite yet. He leans his forehead against yours and his eyes are closed. You close yours too and the two of you stand there quietly while the wind rustles the freshly fallen leaves around you.

“Shawn?” someone calls out from behind you. You open your eyes at the same time Shawn does. He looks up and past you to see who was calling for him as you turn around to see who it was.

A tall girl with long brown hair comes walking toward you. She’s dressed in a very fashionable dark vest and pants with with tall boots on. She looks like one of those girls off the cover of a Fall fashion catalogue. As she approaches you realize who she is. It’s Taylor Velacruz, you knew her from school, the two of you were in a lot of the same classes. “Shawn! Oh, sorry I didn’t realize I was interrupting you and your….” she trails off as she looks you over. “Mate,” Shawn says firmly as he puts his arm around your middle. You swallow thickly, aware of how protective Shawn was being. You decide to keep quiet and wait until she addressed you. “Oh! I didn’t know it’d been announced. I’d thought I would have caught wind of it, since our families are pretty close and all.” “We’re keeping it quiet for now.” Shawn seems different. Cold, guarded, arm tight against you. “A mutual decision.” Taylor makes an ohh face and nods, with a sickening sweet smile, “Cuz she’s a human right?” You frown and start to say something about how Taylor should mind her own business but Shawn cuts you off. “You should keep going, now, Taylor.” “Bossy bossy alpha,” Taylor singsongs as she starts walking past the two of you. “Wish you were that bossy when we were together, makes me feel all warm inside.” She winks and turns away to go about her business. Your cheeks get hot and you feel…angry? Jealous? Shawn was your mate and she needed to back off with that shit. You watch her until she’s out if sight behind some trees. “What’s her problem?” “You’re her problem. We used to date, she thought for sure I was her mate. Turns out she was just obsessed with me,” Shawn releases his hold on your middle and takes your hand, leading you back the way you came. “She thinks because our families are close she had some advantage to being my mate. She wants an alpha so bad it’s depressing.” “She can’t have you,” you say quietly and Shawn stares at you curiously while you walk. “Oh?” He asks coyly. “Shut up…” “Alright,” Shawn says, smiling big. The two of you walk back to your house in comfortable silence, the events that just unfolded, the feelings you were having, all of it swimming around in your head.

_______________________

Shawn stops by almost everyday for the next two weeks. Some days he stays for a while and others he’s in and out because he was just on his way to go do some work with his uncle who owned a custom wood furniture business in town. The days he stays you’ve usually got some reading or a webinar for your online courses you signed up for at the beginning of the fall. He will just come in, no longer waiting to be invited since you leave your sliding door unlocked, and he just lays on your bed with you. Usually he falls asleep curled around you from behind while you’re taking notes or focusing on the demonstration in one of the webinars. It’s comfortable, easy, nice to feel cared for.

A few times he has brought some take out from the only chinese place in town. You don’t know how he found out it was your favorite place, but he did. That or he just guessed, or it was his favorite too. Today is one of those days and as Shawn steps through the doorway, you can see he has a bag of food from the chinese place again, and there is a little extra brown bag with the shop’s logo on it. It’s the bag they use for their special maki rolls, your absolute favorite thing. You become instantly suspicious of Shawn’s knowledge about the chinese place being your favorite. Before it would easily have been a coincidence, but this time…the order was too perfect.

“Do you have maki rolls?” you ask from your place on the bed, eyes narrowing in on the bag.

“Sure do. You like them?” Shawn smiles, sets the larger bag of containers on your desk and waves the little bag at you. “I got extra.”

“They’re my favorite. Who told you? Did someone tell you?” You grab for the bag as he holds it over your head. “Spill the bean, Mendes!”

Shawn laughs loudly at your affectionately angered use of his last name. He keeps the bag away from you. “If I told you how I knew, what do I get in return?”

“Hmm, I won’t kick you?”

“Oh you’re not gonna kick m-” You kick your leg out and knock him right in the shins. “Ow!” He drops down a bit, favoring his leg and you snatch the maki roll bag from him.

“I’m not gonna do what now?” you smile as you pull out a maki roll and a little cup of hot chili sauce. “Now, tell me who told you this was my favorite.”

Shawn drops down on the bed next to you, takes the bag away, and grabs the one you have halfway in your mouth. You manage to bite off most it before he gets it. “Hey, stop that! We’re going out to eat this.”

You furrow your brow in question. “But,” you cover your mouth as you chew, “we’re already here? Why leave?”

Shawn pops the rest of the maki roll he took from you into his mouth. “Because I wanna take you out.” He looks a little red, flushed. Was he asking you out? Like on a date? As if he read your mind he says, “Like on a date. Will you go out with me?”

You nod and close your laptop to put it on your pillows. “About time you asked me out,” you joke with him as you stand up to put on your hiking boots by the door. “You’ve only slept in my bed like a billion times.”

“Six times, thank you,” he says as he gets up and grabs the rest of the food off the desk.

“Hmm, counting the days huh?” you tease him and he rolls his eyes. You pull on your hat with the ear flaps and fur inside, stuff a pair of gloves in your pocket and gesture to the door. “Werewolves first.” He laughs and steps through your doorway with you close behind.

Shawn leads you to a small park by the elementary school a few blocks over. There’s no one around and you see a table with a blue scarf with a circular mandala design draped over it. He sets the food down and you take a seat. He sits opposite and pushes you the foam container with your name on it. “This is pretty,” you say tapping the fabric covered table.

“It’s mine. I have a couple like it, they’re really old. My grandma gave them to me,” Shawn says as he opens his food. Of course it’s an array of sushi and sauce cups. He laughs and says, “Try not to get food all over it.”

“Oh man, now I’m really going to have an accident since you’ve said something. Why not bring an old sheet or something?” You open your box to find your favorite, a massive helping of lo mein with extra shrimp and beef. This man was truly out for your heart at this point.

“I wanted it to look nice,” Shawn looks a little sheepish as he says this. He picks up a piece of what looks like a spicy tuna roll and puts the whole piece in his mouth.

“Shawn, you know you don’t have to impress me, right? I mean, look at me,” you wave your hand down over yourself in your red jacket, old skinny jeans, hiking boots and your hat with the ear flaps, hair beneath unbrushed and pulled back in a messy ponytail. If it were anyone else, you think you’d have probably changed into something better.

Shawn laughs and reaches across the table to tug at your hat ear flaps. “You look cute, like you always do. I just wanted our first date to be memorable.” You take a few bites of your food and he smiles big. “I got the right dish?”

“Mmhmm, how’d you know my order? Are you a psychic werewolf?” You grab the bag of maki rolls from in front of him and shake a few out onto your foam lid, popping open the chili sauce and dunking one before biting it.

“No, not psychic. The owner and I are pretty good friends and he said that him and his wife saw me walking you home the other day, when you left Myra’s on your birthday. So I guess they assumed we were dating and when I went to order, they asked if you wanted your usual? I just said yes and paid for the food.”

You let out a laugh and bite another maki roll. “I must go there too often. It really is my favorite place to eat.”

“Mine too. His wife makes killer sushi.” He holds up a piece between his chopsticks and offers it to you. “Try it. It’s the shrimp tempura roll, my favorite.”

You lean forward and take the piece into your mouth. It’s incredibly good, it’s sweet and spicy from the sauce on top and the shrimp is lightly fried inside of it. “Oh my god, that’s so good!” you exclaim, eyeing the rest of the pieces like it.

“You got a little something on your chin,” Shawn says, pointing at your chin. You try to lick it off but fail. He leans forward, reaches out, fingers under your chin so you don’t pull away, and wipes off a bit of the sweet and spicy sauce with his thumb. Before he pulls his hand away and before you really think about what you’re doing, you lick his thumb clean, eyes locked with his.

Shawn leans forward over the table and guides you forward so he can kiss you. It’s a sweet, soft kiss and he holds your chin gently as he does so. It sends a spark through you and you lift your hand up to rest on his face as he kisses you slowly. You lean up out of your seat to get closer and Shawn grins against your lips. He teases his tongue along your lip and you lick over the spot as he pulls away for a moment.

“You taste like fishy sushi,” you laugh softly.

“And you taste like noodles,” he retorts before kissing you again, this time biting your lip softly before pulling away completely to keep eating. “Don’t you know you should finish your dinner before asking for dessert like that?” he says, stuffing a piece of sushi in his mouth and laughing. You reach across the table and smack his shoulder playfully.

_____________________

Three days pass. Then four. Then five.

Shawn hasn’t come to see you since he walked you home after your date in the park. It went well, everything had been perfect. The two of you kissed again when he left you at your door and he promised to be by the next day. He didn’t show up and you texted him but he didn’t reply. You texted him again and still, nothing.

Day three brings the sick feeling in your stomach. The feeling like you’ve been punched and now it hurts and you want to vomit. The thought of him doing what Liam did to you hurts. It makes your stomach clench, twist, flip and flop. Thoughts of Taylor, his ex girlfriend, fill your mind. Maybe he went back to her since she was a werewolf. Definitely prettier than you. She could handle him, she could handle him for what he was. You start to think of how weak you are compared to a werewolf. How you shouldn’t even be mated to him. You throw up in your trash by the desk. The rest of the day you fight off the shakes and attempt to put the thoughts out of your head by immersing yourself in your school work. Shawn wasn’t Liam. Shawn wouldn’t do that. Shawn wouldn’t go back to Taylor, he was so cold toward her. It wasn’t going to happen.

Day four and you had sent him maybe a few dozen texts by then. The thought of him cheating was still prominent in your mind but now you were worried something bad may have happened. Although, you’re not sure what could harm him that badly. You decide if he doesn’t text back or show up by the next night, you would walk over to his place and talk to him, or his parents and find out what was going on.

Day five, today. It’s after seven at night, the sun is nearly set and you can see the huge old brick house on the Oak Grove estate ahead of you. There’s a light on in an upstairs window and both of the first floor windows are lit up. Someone is home for sure.

It��s cold and you’re shaking. Your thin jacket not enough to ward off the cold air seeping into your bones. Your stomach hurts, cramping, threatening to make you double over in pain with each step closer. Did you want to know what happened? What if Taylor was there? What if Shawn wasn’t who you thought he was? What if it was all a joke? Oh god….oh god here it comes you’re going to-

You’re squatted on the lawn, maybe ten feet from the front door, losing your dinner all over the leaves covering the ground. You’re crying, embarrassed you’ve puked on their lawn, upset you’ve let yourself get so worked up. You wipe your mouth with your sleeve and just stay there, staring at the sick on the leaves and you want to get up but your legs don’t seem to want to listen.

“Honey, are you alright?” Shawn’s mom, Karen, asks from the front door. “Honey…” she’s approaching you, steps hurried. She lays her hand on your back and asks, “Can you get up? Is your stomach alright?”

You nod pitifully. Suddenly your legs want to listen and you stand up. Her hand remains on your back as she assesses you. “I-I’m sorry. I can clean it up. I didn’t mean to…I don’t know what happened. I just-” you stumble over your words, brain scattered. Fresh tears start welling up in your eyes, falling down your cheeks. “Is Shawn home?”

“Yes. He’s not going to be able to come out though.” Karen looks worried as she says this which makes you fear something bad truly has happened. “It’s the full moon tonight, dear. Shawn is…he is having a hard time controlling himself right now, he-”

There’s a loud noise within the house and you and Karen both look to the open front door. There is shouting. A man’s voice. It’s Manny, Shawn’s father you’re sure. Karen grabs your arm and starts walking the two of you away from the house briskly. You’re tripping on your own feet, the leaves making it hard to keep up with her because they keep giving way under your feet when you stumble. “What’s going on? Why are we-” you turn to look back and there’s a very large wolf with golden eyes and rich dark brown almost black fur is standing on their front porch. “Is that Sha-”

“Run! Run now!” Karen screams at you and she starts running fast. Faster than you can keep up and you fall, her hand leaving your arm. She’s at your side in a second, pulling you up but it’s too late. “If he catches you I don’t know what will happ-”

As soon as you get to your feet, you’re knocked backwards. A flash of dark fur only a blur in your vision before the world is spinning as you hit the ground hard enough that your head bounces off the leaves and dead grass beneath. You can make out Karen backing away from you. Your vision clears and you’re met with dark fur tickling your nose. It hurts to breathe, the weight of the wolf on you is crushing your lungs into your body. It’s growling, the sounds reverberating through your body.

“Please, don’t please!” you’re crying, breathing hurts, you’re scared. He’s snarling, teeth at your collarbone. You grab handfuls of fur and pull hard. It does nothing, you feel his teeth sink into your shoulder and you scream. White hot pain shoots through your shoulder. It burns, feels like you’re completely on fire and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. You’re screaming, sobbing, hurting. It feels like you’re dying. You can feel your blood, warm, wet, pooling against the skin of your back, running down your chest. Your hand goes limp in his fur and your arm falls lifelessly to the side as the pain throbs throughout your whole chest. It’s only a matter of seconds before you black out but before you do you hear a loud thud and the weight on your chest is gone as you slip into darkness.

The room you wake up in smells like vanilla and cinnamon and something you can’t quite identify but it’s familiar. You know it but you can’t put your finger on it. The room is warm, quiet, a dim light from a bedside table illuminates the room in a soft yellow glow.

It’s only a matter of moments before your shoulder throbs, shooting pain down your arm. You look at it, you’re in a white shirt you weren’t wearing before and there’s gauze or something on your shoulder. Suddenly everything was coming back to you. The wolf tackling you, Karen yelling, not being able to breath. The pain. God, the pain. You try to move your hand but it just causes more pain. “Hello?” you call out, your voice hoarse and raspy from screaming you assume. How long had you been out? How were you alive?

There’s a door to your left and it opens, Karen pops her head in. “You’re awake,” she says as she comes in, leaving the door open and coming to your side. “How is your shoulder? Is the pain bad?”

You shake your head. It wasn’t unbearably bad, just uncomfortable, “It’s hurting but I can bear it.”

“I’ll get you something for it. Good news is, the wounds didn’t look too deep.” Karen turns to leave and you look at where she’s stopped halfway to the door. Beyond her, leaning against the door frame is Shawn.

“I’ll take care of it,” Shawn whispers and Karen moves past him, saying something like “are you sure?” and he nods as he just stares at you. There is a surge of joy that pulses through you like a shot of energy. He wasn’t with Taylor, he was there, with you, and you realized how much you had really missed him. That joy doesn’t last long, just long enough to act as a painkiller for a moment before you really look at Shawn, actually take in his appearance.

He looks like hell. His hair is messed up, wild, looks like it’s been through hurricane force winds. He looks tired, face sunken, not bright and cheery like usual. He’s shirtless, his arms are crossed but you can see they’re scratched up and his chest is bruised. You can’t help but stare, wondering for a moment why he was in such a way when he could heal himself. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I never meant to hurt you, I couldn’t stop, I couldn’t-,” his voice sounds strained like yours had and he steps into the room, and backs against the wall beside the door, his head in his hands.

It hits you. The wolf really was Shawn. He did this. “Shawn, what happened?” Your chest aches and it’s not from the shoulder wound. It hurts to think that he hurt you like this, it hurts to see him like this.

Shawn shakes his head and he’s crying, his face red as he looks up and walks closer. “I- god, babe..” he touches your wrist gingerly, as if he’s afraid to touch you. Like you might break into a thousand pieces right there in his hands. You start to cry, overwhelmed by it all. He drops to his knees beside the bed and slides his hand into yours, careful not to move it too much and cause your shoulder to hurt. “I’m sorry,” he says again, bringing his lips to your hand in his.

His hand gets hot in yours, that familiar burning sensation building in the tender skin of your palm. The pain in your shoulder lessens but only a little. His hand stops getting hot, returning to it’s normal warmth. “I’m too weak, I can’t heal you, can’t even heal myself,” he says quietly. He sounds broken. Everything about him is broken.

You reach over and thread your fingers through his hair. “I thought werewolves were in control during the full moon.”

“I was, before.”

“Before?”

“Before you. When I wasn’t mated I was fine. The need to make you mine drove me crazy, I blacked out and I don’t remember anything after I shifted. I woke up and you were on my dining room table, bleeding, and my mom was trying to save you.” Shawn chokes up, a sob racking his whole body and he presses his head to your hand joined with his. “I thought I killed you, I thought I- I wanted to die right then and there I was so sick with guilt.”

You’re crying, squeezing his hand. “But I didn’t die,” you say and he shakes his head, still against your hand. “Because you saved me, not your mom right?”

Shawn nods. He lets out another sob followed by a shuddering breath. “It took everything from me, I’m so tired, so drained. I sat there and begged, cried, pleaded with every deity I could even think of, just to give me enough strength to make you strong enough to survive.”

“I would have died if you hadn’t come to your senses.” The thought leaves you hollow. The fact you had come so close to death without truly realizing it was shocking.

“You would have never been in danger if it weren’t for me,” he says quietly.

You’re crying again, sadness and joy battling it out inside you. On one hand, you could have easily died and left everyone you knew in shock. On the other, you’re happy to be alive. Happy to see Shawn, happy to be there with him right now because even though he was the one that caused this, he was the one you should be angry, scared, upset with, you can’t bring yourself to be. You look down at his head, rested against your hand and you wiggle your fingers to get his attention and he looks up at you. “But I didn’t die,” you say and smile through your tears.

“No, you didn’t but I need you to know something.”

“What?”

Shawn stands up and lets go of your hand. He’s looking down as he speaks, voice low and trembling with every word, “You’re going to get very sick. Very, very sick and I’m sorry. You’re alive, you’re not bleeding out, but something worse is going to happen.”

Your stomach drops as he speaks. “What are you talking about? I’ll heal just fine I’m sure, Karen said the wounds weren’t too deep. As long as I keep it clean it shouldn’t get infec-”

“I’m not talking about an infection.”

“Then what are you talki-”

“I bit you. I’m an alpha and I bit you. You’re going to turn.”  Shawn’s shaking again, his whole body trembling. He lets out a dry sob, tears no longer coming. “Your body is going to reject it, human bodies always fight the genetic transformation,” he looks at you and takes a deep breath. “It’ll kill you, it always does.”

“I won’t die,” you say numbly. His words not truly setting in, and you find yourself in denial. “I won’t.”

“Babe, you can’t stop it if your body starts to shut d-”

“You won’t let me die,” you say as you look up at him. He looks confused, his eyes are red and his face is swollen and puffy. “You won’t, right?”

“I-I don’t know if I’m strong enough to stop it.”

“I didn’t ask if you were strong enough. I asked if you would let me die.”

Shawn steps forward and leans down and kisses you. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“I promise I won’t let you die,” he says against your lips. He threads his fingers into your hair and kisses you harder, and you do, you trust him.

_____________________

You call your mom and let her know you’re going to be staying at your friend Ashley’s house for a few days because she is going through a rough patch with her husband. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve gone to comfort her for a few days so your mom buys the lie. Little did she know, Ashley was actually out of town for several weeks on a cruise in the Bahamas with her husband for their late honeymoon.

Shawn wakes you up in the middle of the night on the second night since the accident. He had taken to laying on the bed with you during the day and keeping his hand intertwined with yours while you slept because if you started to hurt, he could ease the pain for long enough to let you rest again. It’s just after 2am if the clock on the nightstand was right. You didn’t hurt, in fact you felt pretty good, no pain at all really, so you were confused as of why Shawn was waking you up.

“Babe,” he says softly from beside you on the bed. “Are you awake?”

“Yeah, you were squeezing my hand so hard it woke me up.”

“Sorry,” he says, sitting up and letting go of your hand. “It got cold, I was worried you were slipping away.”

You shake your head and sit up with him. “Did you get some rest?” you ask sleepily and he nods.

“Must have gotten enough sleep to restore almost all of my energy because…” he leans across you and flips on the bedside lamp, placing a kiss on your forehead on the way back. “My body has healed.” He holds his arms out and they look normal, no longer scratched and his chest isn’t bruised up either. “Which means I should be getting stronger so I can fix your shoulder.”

You rub your eyes and yawn big. “That’s good.”

“Can I look at it?” Shawn asks and reaches for your shirt hem to pull it off. You nod and he pulls your shirt up over your head and you’re completely exposed to him, your bra having been disposed off when Karen redressed you after the bleeding was under control. His gaze lingers for a moment on your breasts and he bites his lip. A blush creeps up your neck and into your cheeks.

“Shawn, my shoulder,” you say gently to remind him. His eyes snap up to yours and then he moves close, straddling your legs and sitting on your thighs so he can get a good look at the wound once he undresses it.

Shawn peels back the tape holding the pile of gauze against your skin. He’s careful not to let it stick to itself as he tugs the cotton pads from the blood dried against your skin. You can’t look over at it since he’s so close, so you just press your cheek to his hair. Shawn sets the bandage aside on the bed carefully and you feel his warm fingertips on your skin. You’re expecting it to sting like it usually did when you accidentally bumped the bandage. It didn’t though. Shawn’s fingertips were smoothing over the whole area and you weren’t hurting.

“You’re nearly healed babe,” he pulls back and looks at you with a big grin.

“Huh?” You crane your neck back to look at the afflicted area and there’s just a big loop of pink scars where his teeth punctured. “How? I noticed it didn’t hurt much before bed, and when I woke up just now.”

Shawn leans forward and kisses over the scars, they’re a little tender as he pushes his lips against you. “I must of had enough energy to heal myself and finish you up too while we were sleeping”

You lift your arm up and it doesn’t hurt. The pain is gone, replaced by a little bit of stiffness. You grin big and kiss his cheek as he gets your shirt ready to put back on. You push the shirt away and pull him back with you as you lay back down. “We can sleep like this,” you smile big and he doesn’t protest, only pulls the blankets over the two of you and remains pressed naked against you.

_____________________

By the third day you feel like you’re dying. You can’t move, your body hurts, you are burning up and all you can do is cry. It feels like you’ve been beaten with a bat, everywhere. You���re so hot, even with the AC on and a fan on in Shawn’s bedroom in the middle of fall, you feel like you’re in a sauna.

Every couple of minutes Shawn takes your temperature and then holds your hand until your body stops hurting. Karen brings in of ice packs every couple hours for you and Shawn keeps them on your forehead and chest. You try to sleep but you can’t, the aches wake you up or don’t let you sleep.

“Shawn, please, I can’t,” you say quietly. You’re so tired, so in pain and he can’t stave it off anymore, you’ve drained him. “Please I want it to stop.”

“I know, babe,” Shawn says, petting back your sweat soaked hair. “I’m sorry I did this to you. You don’t deserve it.”

“Shut up,” you try to swat at his hand but he ends up just holding it. “Stupid….stupid werewolf.”

Shawn smiles softly. “Yes, you’ve told me before. You hate me.”

“No…” you look up at him and your vision is swimming. You close your eyes and try to focus. “I don’t hate you. You’re just stupid.”

“I know. You should hate me though. I forced this on you.” Shawn’s hand gets hot in yours and he’s healing you again though he has no energy to. “We never got to even discuss this. I never would have bitten you, never, even if you wanted it.”

“Do you love me?” you ask softly, smiling at him and you’re finally starting to fall asleep, the ache in your bones edging off from his healing.

“Babe, we’re not talking about this right now.”

“Shawn, if I die I want to know if-”

“You aren’t going to die. We can talk about this later.”

You yawn and fall asleep for the first time that day.

_____________________

You don’t remember much of day four. There’s bits and pieces, you hear Shawn talking to someone now and then. He sits you up for water and some kind of medicine that tastes like licorice. You dream of swimming, drowning, and strong arms pull you out of the water. You dream of being on fire, burning up while you cry for help and Shawn comes and carries you out. There’s a constant stream of nightmares where you’re alone in the dark and something, a wolf, is hunting you and you hide and run so it won’t get you. It goes on like this for another day. Sleep, water, medicine, sleep, nightmares.

On the sixth day you wake up to Shawn carrying you outside. It’s freezing and it’s dark out. The air feels great on your superheated skin. It must be early morning or later in the evening. The way the birds are chirping you think it must be before dawn. Shawn’s shoes crunch on the frosted leaves as he carries you to an unknown destination.

“Where are we going?” you ask and your voice is but a whisper. “It’s cold.”

“I’m taking you to Myra,” Shawn says, looking down and kissing your forehead. “You’re almost done. I promise..”

The moment you are in Myra’s cabin you start sweating again. Shawn lays you on a couch in the living room and sits on the floor next to you. Myra comes over and she takes your hand. “Have you dreamed of the wolf yet?” she asks and you nod. “Has it caught you?”

You shake your head. It felt like days you’d been dreaming about the wolf hunting you, having a new dream of it each time you fell asleep, but you always managed to get away or hide well enough. You were getting tired though, in the dreams, and you were sure it would get you eventually. “Myra, should I let it get me?”

“No. You must hide, or run because the wolf will kill you both in the dream and in the real world. You cannot let it kill you no matter how tired you get.”

Shawn holds your hand and squeezes. “Babe, you have to tame it.”

You look at him, eyes heavy, vision blurry. You’re so tired. “But I’m tired, even in the dreams. How can I tame it?”

Myra kneels beside you and Shawn and puts a cup to your lips to drink from. “This is medicine, it makes you sleep deeper so you can dream more vividly. The wolf must be tamed tonight, your body can’t handle this fever anymore.”

Soon after drinking the medicine, your eyes get heavier and you fall asleep. You awake in the woods. You’re alone and it’s dark, there are no sounds around you. No crickets, no birds, nothing but silence. Then you hear it, a low growling sound behind you. Spinning around, you see a small reddish brown wolf pacing the perimeter of the circle of trees you’re standing in. You pick up a stick at your feet and hold it out, watching the wolf watch you.

“I won’t let you kill me,” you say, backing up as the wolf moves closer. The wolf lunges at you and you jump out of the way. “No!” you yell and you swing your stick at it. “No! You’re not taking me from Shawn!”

The wolf laughs. It laughs and you are staring at it, not seeing it it’s mouth open at all, but you can hear laughter. “Why do you care?” a voice says and the wolf is circling you, staring, as if it was talking to you. “He will be fine. He will move on with another girl, a werewolf.”

“No…no! He’s my mate!” you swing your stick and hit the wolf as it jumps at you.

“You’re a human! You’ll just make him miserable! Human’s can’t be werewolves mates!” The wolf snaps at you and gets your arm, white hot pain shoots up to your shoulder where Shawn bit you.

“Fuck you!” you cry out and lunge at the wolf. It jumps back and you hit the ground, face first into the leaves. You roll over and the wolf jumps on you. You bring your hands to it’s throat and keep its snapping jaws at bay. Your arm hurts, shoulder throbbing, it feels like the wound has reopened and your arm is shaking, grip faltering on the wolf.

Your hand slides in it’s fur and you are sure this is it. You’re going to lose this fight. Suddenly your arm feels hot, strong, and you grab it by the back of the neck, your strength returning and you somehow pull it off your chest and get the upper hand, rolling it over and sitting on it.

“I won’t die. Not like this, not now!” You use all your strength and keep the squirming wolf beneath you still. It’s kicking, claws cutting your legs and chest but you won’t let go. “Stop! Stop it!” you scream and surprisingly the wolf stops, going still under you, face pressed into the ground.

You fall back off the wolf and it gets up, circling a few times before coming close to you. It licks your arm where it had bitten you. The wound starts to heal. It backs up, turning as if it were heading to the trees before it turns around and runs at you. You don’t have time to move before it hits you, a solid weight slamming against your chest.

You wake up, sitting bolt upright and look around. You’re in Myra’s living room, Shawn is on his knees beside you. “What…” you mumble as you look at your arm where the bite had been. “I think I did it?” You look at Shawn and a huge grin spreads across his face.

“Your eyes babe, god they’re beautiful,” Shawn takes your head in his hands and he’s just staring at you. “They’re so golden,” he says and kisses you hard, lips working against yours desperately.

The moment he touches you, you feel alive. It feels like you’re buzzing, your heart is racing and you can’t get enough of him. You grab his forearms and in one fluid motion, you’re crawling off the couch and landing on him, your legs tangled with his, mouth finding his again, desperate to taste him. That drive Shawn talked about, the want and need for you, you think you finally understand.

_____________________

The moment Shawn carries you into his bedroom is the moment you know you have fallen in love. There on the bed is the remains of the area where he held your hand and kept you alive day after day. There’s a couple of empty water bottles on the floor, a thawed ice pack, and some towels. The last five days had been hell, but here you were, in Shawn’s arms, standing at the foot of the bed on day six. Shawn stayed at your side for every minute, only leaving you to use the bathroom or shower. You had made it. You survived.

“Shawn,” you smile at him and he sets you on the bed. “Thank you.”

“No, babe. Thank you. You were the one who was strong enough to survive.”

You tug Shawn down and he catches himself, leaning over you as you kiss him. “I know I’m weak still, but I want you so bad right now.”

Shawn grins and breaks the kiss to nose at your jaw. “I know the feeling,” he says and grabs your hips to push you up the bed more. He kisses his way down your chest, your stomach, and gets on his knees to kiss your growing arousal. “Babe, god, you…,” he tugs your loose pants over your ass  and down your legs so he can kiss up your bare thighs. “So sweet,” he kisses and kisses until he’s hovering his mouth between your legs, breath hot. Your hands go to his hair and you tug, pulling his mouth away from you and you close your legs as best you can. He growls and grabs your thighs a little roughly, pushing you open for him before he is pressing his face back down and licking you through your panties.

His mouth is hot and spreads fire through your veins with each pass of his tongue over your clit. You grind yourself up against his mouth and he licks, sucks, nibbles at you hungrily. This was nothing like Liam. Liam couldn’t eat you out if his life depended on it. After a few agonizing minutes of white hot pleasure, hair pulling, loud moaning and some name calling, you’re close to coming. Shawn has two fingers in you, working you open while he worries your clit between his lips. It’s not long after Shawn starts curling his middle finger on his withdrawals that you’re tossing your head and crying to come.  

You lay on the bed, stomach muscles tired and aching from your orgasm. Shawn left the room after peppering your thighs with gentle kisses and praising you for being “So good for me, babe.” The sky outside is orange tinted, it’s morning, the sun rising slowly and you are smiling because nothing had ever felt that good before. Shawn was something else. You didn’t know if it was because you’re a werewolf now, or because Shawn is just that good, but you feel satisfied beyond belief. After a minute or two, you sit up to get covered up and Shawn walks back into the room, kicking the door closed gently behind him.

“Going somewhere?” he asks and looks you over where you’re sitting in the middle of the bed, pulling your borrowed sweatpants on over your feet.

“No,” you laugh and gesture to your half nakedness. “Just don’t want to be half naked anymore.”

Shawn crosses the room in a few quick strides and tosses your sweatpants aside. He slides his hands under your shirt and tickles your ribs a little as he get your shirt off over your head. “Now you’re not half naked.”

You flush bright red. Shawn’s eyes were raking over you, getting more golden by the second. His attention was not unwanted. But he was acting like you’d never seen before. He was so lust driven, so hot, so hungry for you. You can’t help but wonder how he held this back before. “Maybe I should rest for the day?”

Shawn pushes you back with one hand and your head bounces off the mattress as it connects. He crawls over you and kisses across your chest, licking and sucking every bit of skin he can get his mouth on. He licks a long hot wet stripe up from your collarbone to just past the hollow of your throat. “Maybe,” he licks the tender skin where your neck and jaw meet, “maybe you could rest while I make you mine.”

You tangle your hand into his hair and just run your hand through the bulk of the top of his hair. It’s so soft, so thick, so perfect between your fingers. “Don’t think I’d get much rest.”

Shawn nips and sucks a spot just behind your earlobe. “Promise I’ll be gentle.”

“What exactly are you going to do?” you question, tilting your head back instinctively for him.

“Well,” he starts before returning his mouth to your collarbone. “I wanna taste every inch of you.” He runs his hand up your side and settles it on your hip, thumb rubbing circles over your skin. “I wanna touch every inch of you.”

“Shawnnnnn,” you groan and he just smiles against your skin. “Isn’t there time later?” You really wouldn’t mind his attention. It sounded amazing. But you still needed rest, you only just started feeling better. It was truly an internal struggle.

“I really can’t stop,” Shawn says with a smirk. He moves lower and takes your nipple into his mouth. You jerk, and he holds you down with one hand splayed out on your stomach, pressing down gently to keep you still for him. “Babe, do you know what you are?”

“A werewolf?” you ask and he laughs softly, hand on your stomach now rubbing up and down.

“Mmm, yes, but do you know what kind?” He switches to your other nipple, biting and licking it while you squirm.

“A new one?”

Shawn laughs louder this time, resting his forehead on your chest for a moment. “No, babe. You’re an omega. A sweet,” he kiss between your breasts, moving himself down off of you, “sweet,” he kisses lower, nipping close to your navel, “delicious little omega.” He pushes your leg out a little and slides two fingers into you with no notice. You arch your back and gasp and he rubs his thumb over your clit, slowly massaging two fingers in and out of you. “And you’re all mine,” he says with a grin and you close your eyes, pleasure building quick in your lower stomach. It takes only a few more strokes and you’re coming, body jerking and spasming around his fingers. You absolutely were his. All his.

_____________________

After a night of rest and a morning of breakfast followed by lazy sex with Shawn, you feel loads better, the wolf in you healing you the way it should. You’re nearly home, walking out of the woods when you catch sight of wood boarding up the sliding glass door to your bedroom. Its unsettling as you approach the back of your house and you’re wondering if everyone and everything was okay inside. You and Shawn walk around to the front door and you walk in the house, announcing you’re home. Nobody is in the living room and you walk through into the kitchen to find your mom standing at the kitchen sink, peeling some potatoes.

“Hey! You’re home! We’ve been calling you since yesterday. Did your phone die? It’s been days!” your mom drops her potatoes and pulls you into a hug. “Oh…um, who is this?” she points at where Shawn is standing in the door frame, smiling politely.

“Yeah, my phone died. Sorry, I should have called anyways. I got caught up.” You reach for Shawn and he grabs your outstretched hand. “This is Shawn, we went to school together,” your mom doesn’t seem to recognize him, “…Manny Mendes’ son?”

“Oh! Yes! Wow, you’ve gotten tall,” your mom laughs. “I’m Grace,” she holds her hand out and Shawn shakes it, introducing himself properly. “So, were you really at Ashley’s house?” You shake your head and your mom sighs softly. “You are twenty years old, you’re allowed to make your own decisions. I’m not angry you were with Shawn, just a little annoyed you lied.”

“I’m sorry, Mom. Um, by the way, what happened to my door downstairs?”

Grace sighs and leans against the sink. “The day after you called to say you were going to stay at Ashley’s, someone broke in. We didn’t see any evidence that anyone came into the house or stole anything. Your dad boarded it up and we’re waiting for the glass company to come out and replace the door.”

“What?!” you shout and take off for your bedroom. Shawn follows close behind, tugging you away from your bedroom door as you stomp toward it. “Shawn, let go of me!”

“No,” he says firmly, arms wrapped around your middle. “I want to go in first.”

“Why?” you fuss against his hold and he mutters for you to stop, lips against your ear, the light stubble from not shaving since you got sick scratches your earlobe. “Shawn, why?”

“I want to go in and see if I can tell who it was.”

“How are you going t-”

Shawn steps around you and taps his nose. “I know your scent. If anyone else was in there, I’ll know.” You’re skeptical of him as he opens the door and walks into your room. You step in behind him and it’s cold, the boarded up glass door doing little to keep the crisp air out. Shawn looks around, casually touching your lotions and perfume on your dresser. He stills as he reaches your bed, body visibly tensing up. He turns his head and looks at you. “What would Liam want from you?”

“Liam?” you ask, confused. “I don’t know? Why? Was it him?”

Shawn grips the pajamas on your bed and tosses them at the boarded door. “That piece of shit was in here. I don’t know what he wanted, what he took, but he was here.”

You cross your arms over your chest and look around for anything missing. A sick feeling works its way into your stomach. Liam had come back for something, or maybe you. You try to think of anything Liam ever bought you, and you start checking your dresser for a bracelet he got you for Valentine’s Day. It’s still on the little dish where you kept it. You mentally note to sell it later. Your laptop is on the bed, battery drained, but still there. You check your shoes and the boots he got you were still there. There wasn’t anything out of place as far as you could see.

“Babe,” Shawn says, tone low and threatening. “Don’t get on your bed.”

“W-what?” you step back from your bed and look it over. It didn’t look messed up any more than usual, but there was something on your pillowcase. Something that looked like dried snot. You reach for it and tug the pillow closer by the corner. You look at the blankets as you do so and you realize what it is. Liam hadn’t taken anything from you. Because he didn’t want anything. He had come for you.

“Is this…dried come?” you look to Shawn and he is burning up, eyes golden, body shaking.

“I’ll kill him.”

“Shawn! He’s just an asshole, he is probably just upset because I called him out on his bull-”

Shawn grabs your hips and tugs you against him. “No. He fucking came in here and he wanted you. He broke into your room and god only knows what he was going to do to you. This,” he nods at the bed, “gives me a fucking idea that his intentions were not to talk.”

You’re shaking. Nerves getting the best of you. The reality of the situation sinking in. The thought of Liam coming into your room and doing this. The violation of your privacy. The things that could have happened. You wrap your arms around Shawn and he hugs you tightly, hand in your hair, breathing heavy. “What if he comes back?” you ask, voice muffled by Shawn’s chest.

“He won’t come back.”

You look up at Shawn and he’s staring at the bed. “How can you be sure?”

“Because I’m going to make sure he doesn’t.”

_____________________

Everything hits the fan when you walk upstairs with Shawn and your dad is home. He takes one look and he knows exactly who Shawn is. What Shawn is. His face turns a little red, and you know he’s ready to blow up. This wasn’t exactly how you wanted to introduce Shawn to him, but here you were.

“So, are you the one that broke into my daughter’s room?” your dad, Alan, asks with his arms folded. He tilts his head a little and you know he’s going to challenge Shawn.

“Sir,” Shawn starts with an oh so sweet smile, “I wouldn’t need to break into your daughters room.”

That’s it. That does it. You can see something in your dad snap. Why did Shawn have to be like this right now? He was already heated from the fact that Liam had been in your room and done what he did. Why did your dad have to open with such an accusatory question? You groan, wishing Shawn could have just answered with a simple, “No.”

“Exactly what are you implying?” Alan asks, stepping forward toward you and Shawn. Bad choice dad. Bad choice.

Shawn steps in front of you and straightens his back. The tension in the air was thick enough to cut. “I wasn’t implying anything. Simply stating a fact.” Shawn crosses his arms and looks your dad up and down. Properly sizing him up as an opponent. “I know who did break in though.”

Alan looks Shawn over, squaring him up the same way Shawn was. He fell short by about four inches and several pounds of muscle. There was no way your dad would ever be able to take Shawn on. “And who do you think it was, Sherlock?”

“I know it was her piece of shit ex boyfriend. Liam.”

“Ex?” Alan asks with raised eyebrows, looking at you. “So the two of you are a thing now?” He looks to Shawn with a disgusted face. “You moved in pretty quick then, considering Liam and my daughter were still together on her birthday not to long ago.”

“Dad, Shawn and I were already friends,” not exactly a lie but not a whole truth “and then things changed. We found out we’re mates so-”

Alan holds his hand up and shakes his head. “Excuse me young lady? Mates? Werewolves don’t mate with humans. Now, it’s bad enough you’re dating him, or whatever this is, but mates?”

“Dad, I’m not joking,” you say and try to step out from behind Shawn but he won’t let you. “Myra sent for me on my birthday and said she had a vision that-”

“A vision!? You believe that old woman? Honey, don’t feel like you have to do anything just because someone says they saw it in a dream. If you don’t want to be with Shawn-”

“Alan. Let your daughter speak,” Shawn growls, yes, literally growls this out. He’s radiating heat, his eyes are bright golden amber and all you can do is lay your hand on his back to provide some sense of comfort and grounding lest he snap and attack your dad and his big mouth. Alan takes another step forward, starting in on how Shawn better watch his tone, that this is his house and he will not be ordered around by the likes of him. You can feel Shawn losing his temper. It’s like fire on your fingertips where your hand rests on Shawn’s back, the way he was feeling was unmistakable, it was murderous.

“Shawn,” you say softly just as your dad stops speaking. “Shawn, please. This is not the way to do this.” Your dad watches you as you carefully step around Shawn and place your hand on his chest, pushing him slightly and he walks back against the door to the basement. “Please don’t lose your temper over this.”

Shawn averts his gaze to you and you can see he’s pleading with you. It’s all right there on his face. He’s begging you to let him accept the challenge your dad was posing. You shake your head a little. He looks back and down at you again. Silently asking to at least rough your dad up a little. You shake your head again. Shawn slides his hand into your hair and leans down to kiss you hard, teeth clacking against yours. He’s biting you lip, licking into your mouth. It’s a rough, frustrated, annoyed, angry, possessive kiss.  You lay your hand on his face and pull back as your dad clears his throat.

You turn around and see that your mom has joined your dad where he’s stood across the kitchen. “Dad, what’s happened has happened. Shawn and I are mates.  I-” you stop because you’re not really sure how to phrase it to them that you’ve been turned. “I’ve accepted this, completely.”

“Dear, human’s can’t mate with werewolves. They just don’t reproduce. You’ll never have kids an-”

You cut your mom off as you say, “I’m not human.”

Alan looks like he saw a ghost. Grace looks like she has misheard you. It’s a clusterfuck of babbling as they both try to speak at once. Shawn’s arm slips around your waist and you lean back against him. Finally your mom gets a full sentence out. “I’m sorry, how is that?”

“I bit her. I’m an alpha like my father.”

“You WHAT?!” Alan starts for us and you pull away from Shawn to push him back, hand on his chest, he tumbles backward and you retract your hand quickly. You didn’t know you had that kind of strength. You only wanted him to stop before Shawn couldn’t lay his hands on him.

“I’m sorry! Are you okay dad?!” you stare at your dad laying sprawled out on the tiled floor. He sits up and rubs his head gingerly as your mom bends down to help him up. “I-I didn’t know that would happen.”

Alan sighs heavily. “I’m fine. Just a little surprised.”

“Honey, if Shawn is what you want, and if you’re a werewolf, then we’re just going to have to adjust. Right, Alan?” Grace says, rubbing his back. “There is nothing that can be done now. We can’t make you human again. We can’t take Shawn away from you, you aren’t a child with a toy.” She looks pointedly at Alan and he nods in solemn agreement.

“I’d like to take her home with me,” Shawn says quietly. “I’m afraid Liam may be watching your house and he might try to break in again.”

“Nothing was stolen?” Alan asks, looking at you for confirmation.

You nod. “That’s right. He didn’t come to take anything back. He came for me, we think. There was…dried…semen on my bed.”

“That little prick came into my fucking house and rubbed one out on your bed?!” Alan shouts, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He grips the countertop he’s leaned against and you think the wood trim on the side might pop off. “If that little fuck ever shows his face around here again I’ll-”

Shawn pulls you close to him. “I’ll take care of it. A wolf knows how to clean up it’s mess far better than a human.”

Grace’s eyes widen at this casual talk of a possible murder. “Shawn I know you care for our daughter but-”

“I’ll do what I have to. I will keep her safe no matter the cost.” Shawn kisses your head and you flush bright red. Your parents just nod, knowing that a werewolf’s word to his mate was a guarantee. It would be hard but they were going to have to let you go. You weren’t their innocent little girl anymore.

The two of you head back downstairs after a while and Shawn kisses under your jaw from behind you when you walk into your room. He pulls you against his chest and keeps kissing all along your neck. “Get some clothes, anything you need. I’ll see if we can use the guest house on the estate for a while.” He pushes you away playfully and you start grabbing some clothes and shoving them into your old backpack. “Don’t forget your homework. I’m sure you’re behind.”

“Yeah, I am. Also, sorry about my dad. I didn’t want it to go down like that.”

Shawn shrugs. “I didn’t kill him, so that’s a start.”

“Did you really mean what you said? You think Liam is watching the place?” You wind up your laptop charger and shove it in your bag. Shawn nods and you feel an unsettling sick in your stomach.

When you look back to question Shawn as to why he thought that, he grabs a pair of black lace panties out of your top dresser drawer and dangles them off one finger. “Pack these,” he says, voice low and commanding. “And these,” he grabs your pink and white/gold pairs. You flush and take them out of his hands to stuff in the outer pocket of your backpack.

“I’m almost ready to go,” you say and the last thing you grab is a pair of pajamas out of your laundry basket and Shawn wraps his arms around you, pulling you away. “Won’t need pajamas baby,” he kisses your neck and bites your earlobe. “I’ll make sure you’re plenty warm every night.”

_____________________

The next three weeks come and go so quick you barely remember them. You’re engrossed in catching up on your school work while Shawn goes over everything that’s going to be different since you’re a werewolf now. He says that because you’re an omega via the bite you’ll never have to worry about shifting because your body isn’t made for it the way his is. You won’t have to worry about your period anymore, but you will have to worry about heats. He says you’ll be expected to attend any pack events with him, and to show respect to the elders but you did that already. The two of you stay in the guest house, a small two bedroom cottage on the far edge of the Oak Grove estate. His parents agreeing that the two of you needed some privacy while you adjusted to being a werewolf.

It’s early on a Sunday evening when you start to feel sick to your stomach all of a sudden. Shawn had gone out to help his uncle with some furniture deliveries and you aren’t expecting him back any time soon. You lay your laptop on the pillows and lean back, head resting against the headboard of the large king size bed. The nausea lasts for maybe ten minutes, coming in waves that are so strong you think you might vomit if you moved an inch. Then you start to sweat. You’re freezing cold but the sweat is just rolling off your forehead and into your eyes. It’s all you can do just pull the blankets over you and not throw up.

Dizziness sets in after a while, your head swimming and everything becoming slightly blurry. You couldn’t even get up and cross the room to get your phone off the charger to call or text Shawn. You end up falling asleep, sticky, damp and miserable.

You wake up with a start, a hand on your face and you take a minute to focus on the person standing over you. It’s Myra. “Myra? Where’s Shawn?” your voice sounds hoarse like you had been screaming. Had you been screaming in your sleep? “I need Shawn.”

Myra pets your sweat soaked hair back and puts a rag on your head. “I’ve called him already. Do you know what is happening, dear?”

You shake your head. Your whole body hurts, aches all the way to the bones. It’s almost as bad as when you were turning and you think for a second maybe you hadn’t turned completely and this was phase two but just delayed somehow.

“You’re going into your first heat,” Myra says with a consoling smile. “Shawn will…take care of you…as soon as he’s here. I’ll make you some tea to help ease the aching in the meantime.”

“How did you know I was here?”

Myra stands to go to the door and says, “You were screaming, moaning, begging for Shawn. Any werewolf with ears could have heard you for a mile.”

You wish you had the gumption to feel embarrassed but you don’t.

The front door of the house slams shut, Myra jump a bit and you groan. You shift your legs a little to get comfortable and there is a deep ache between them.  “Shaaawwwnnnnn,” you moan, knowing it was him that entered the house. You could smell him, you nose filled with his spicy rich vanilla-y smell that just screamed Shawn. You watch the door, waiting for him to come in.

Myra goes out as Shawn pushes his way in, murmuring a quick apology to her. “Babe,” he says, out of breath as if he’d been running. “Oh babe,” he leans down, brushing hair off your forehead  and rubbing his hand up your leg. “I didn’t think you’d go into heat so soon.”

“I need you,” you mutter, tossing your head back and forth. Gods did you need him. His hand felt so good on your leg you thought you might cry. “Please, Shawn, please.”

Shawn stands up and pulls the blankets off of you. He makes quick work of your sleep pants, panties and shirt. You’re soaked, ready for him, ready to have him all over you because he felt so good. He tosses his shirt aside and gets his jeans and boxers off before he crawls over you and presses his forehead to yours. His eyes are dilated and bright gold, his breathing is uneven and heavy. You wrap your arms around his neck, pleading silently with him. “Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, voice lower than usual and it makes your stomach tighten up.

You nod and he kisses down your jaw, your neck, mouth hovering over where he bit you. He rubs between your legs and you’re wet, ready, he slides one finger into you with ease. He adds another and you squirm, grinding your hips down to get more from him. It wasn’t enough, you needed more. Shawn licks over your bite scar and pulls his hand away from you so he can position himself against you. You can feel him, cock pressed against you, one movement away from giving you what desperately wanted.

“Shawn,” you mutter and he stills. “Please.”

Shawn braces himself on both arms, presses his face into your neck and arches his hips forward so he can slide into you. There’s little resistance on your part and you feel yourself stretch easily around him. You tilt your head back and let out a long low moan as he fills you up, inching in slowly until he bottoms out. He bites down on your shoulder and you grab his back, dragging your nails against his skin, leaving red marks across his shoulder blades. He pulls back, rolling his hips gently, pulling back just enough, not all the way, before sliding back in.

You grab his hair and bring his face away from your neck. “I love you,” you whisper and he kisses you, eyes locked with yours as he continues to rock against you. It feels amazing and you can’t ever remember being fucked like this. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was Shawn. Maybe you just never had really good sex before, but this was something else.

Shawn lays down against you, smothering you for a second as he rolls the two of you so he’s on the bottom. You shift yourself, not letting him slip out of you, so that you’re sitting on him. He holds your hips and you rest your hands on his chest. You rock your hips against him and lean forward so you can really ride him and he groans loudly. “Fuck….fuck babe,” he slides a hand up your chest and kneads your breast roughly. The motion makes you weak, body over sensitive from the heat, and your arms give out so you’re laying on his chest. He braces his feet on the bed and fucks up into you slowly.

He slides one hand into your hair and one between your bodies to rub your clit. You squirm and buck against him, his finger working furiously against you and you feel yourself starting to tense up. He pulls his hand away and rolls you under him once more. He kneels between your legs and pushes your legs up, fucking into you rougher now, hips snapping desperately against you. You grab the sheets, breath picking up, head swimming and you feel yourself coming and he doesn’t stop. He fucks you right through your orgasm, your mind going blank as you see stars, eyes squeezed shut and a loud moan falling from your lips. It’s only a second after you feel yourself starting to come down that Shawn leans forward and holds your hip, fingers digging into your skin. He’s coming hard, growling low in his chest, head bowed against you. You can see his hair is soaked with sweat and you grab a handful of it to bring him into a kiss.

The two of you lay in the messy bed, tangled together for a while before you start to feel the nausea and feverish sweat start to creepy across your chest and forehead once more. Shawn is ready to go, fucking you three more times until you can’t take anymore and you’re begging for the heat to stop. You’re both exhausted by the end of it. The last time being the slowest with Shawn spooned up behind you and holding your leg up slightly so he could go in deep. Every time felt amazing, no matter how exhausted you were.

Finally your heat ended. The feverish sweats stopped completely and the waves of nausea and dizziness disappear. You and Shawn start to fall asleep with the sheets tangled around your feet, pressed against each other and Shawn mumbles an, “I love you” into your shoulder.

_____________________

It’s a friday night, a few days after your first heat and you’re back home for a few days while Shawn’s parents renovate the guest house for the two of you to live in more permanently. You’re trying on a dress Karen brought over for you and Shawn’s announcement dinner tomorrow. It’s a knee length A line black dress with lace quarter sleeves and it fits near perfectly. The back is a little loose but you’re going to wear a shrug over it anyways because it was so cold out. You dig through your shoes in your closet, looking for the right ones to wear. Boots or flats? Heels or flats? Probably flats. You grab the shiny black pair and pull them out as a knock comes from your sliding glass door. Thinking it must be Shawn, you pull the curtain and then slide the blinds over. It’s not Shawn. It’s Liam.

Your heart drops into your stomach. You’re stunned silent, nerves getting the best of you and you start to shake. Liam just smiles as if he was seeing an old friend. It makes bile rise in your throat.

“Gonna let me in, babe?” he asks and you glance down to make sure the lock is clicked over and the security bar in the bottom of the track is in place. They’re both in a secure position. You back away and he puts his hand on the new glass door. “I just want to talk.” What a lie that was.

You look around your room, trying to remember where you laid your phone down. Liam slams his fist on the door and your heart races, pounding in your ears. Tears start falling and your chest feels tight. Your phone is on the desk and you grab it, fingers fumbling to get the call screen open to call Shawn. You were home alone and Liam made no indication that he was going to leave any time soon. He was yelling, banging on the door, trying to open it and calling you names.

“Yeah baby?” Shawn answers after two rings and you can’t talk you’re shaking so bad. “What’s going on? Baby? What’s that noise?” He can hear Liam yelling and pound on the door.

“L-Liam,” you choke out and you hear Shawn’s phone hit the ground or something. There’s silence from his end and you back up into your bedroom door. You reach back and turn the handle, eyes on Liam as he wraps his hand in his jacket, getting read to break the glass again. The guy had fucking snapped or something. This was not the Liam you knew.

You run up the stairs and into the kitchen to grab a knife. You grab the biggest one in the holder and head for the bathroom to hide. The sound of glass shattering in the basement comes sooner than you thought it would making you change course from the bathroom back to the kitchen to block the downstairs door before Liam could come up. You push a chair from the breakfast nook up under the handle of the basement door to at least delay him.

There is pounding on your front door and you jump and nearly puke because you’re so on edge. “Babe, it’s me! It’s Shawn!” You drop the knife and run for the front door, wrenching it open just to be enveloped in Shawn’s arms instantly. “I shouldn’t have left you, I should have stayed.” He kisses your head, wiping your cheeks with his thumbs and muttering, asking if you were hurt. You tell him no, but Liam was in the basement and he had gotten in. As if on cue, the basement door handle rattles viciously and then there is slamming. Liam breaks through, sending the chair across the tiled floor. You can see him from the entryway where you’re stood with Shawn but he hasn’t seen you yet.

“I’m going to kill him,” Shawn growls and pulls away from you, stalking across the living room and into the kitchen. You hear a loud “Who the fuck are you?” and then a crash followed by low growling from Shawn. You hurry to the kitchen doorway and see Liam grasping the counter, mouth bloody. The dishes set to dry on the counter behind him are all over the floor and in the sink from his impact. Shawn has a bloody lip as well, Liam must have swung first and caught him off guard.

“Little bitch, you think you can sick your little werewolf fuck boy on me?” Liam sneers and you cross your arms, shaking quelled slightly now that Shawn was there.You knew that no matter what Liam did, he couldn’t hurt you. Shawn would never let him.

Shawn flexes his hand and stares Liam down, “You don’t get to talk to her.”

Liam laughs mockingly and says, “I’ll talk to her all I want. What are you? Her fucking owner?”

Shawn steps forward, pulling his arm back and punching Liam in the jaw. There’s no time for him to retaliate as Shawn wraps his hand around his throat. “I’m her mate, asshole.” Liam lets out a sickening gurgle and grasps at Shawn’s arm for leverage. Shawn doesn’t let up, instead he forces him back into the counter, making Liam’s head dent the cabinet door above it. “Breaking into her house the first time was strike one,” he slams Liam’s head back and he goes limp, arms no longer struggling against Shawn’s grip. “You don’t get a strike two.”

You close your eyes and swallow thickly. You couldn’t watch Shawn like this. It was too much, too violent. “Shawn…” you whisper and he glances over at you, hand still around Liam’s throat. “Don’t kill him. It’ll be too much of a mess.”

Shawn growls and you know he won’t go against your wishes, no matter how badly he wanted to snap Liam’s neck and throw him aside like the piece of trash he was. He drops Liam and you open your eyes as he collapses to the floor, blood pooling slowly on the tile from the back of his head where it hit the cabinets. There’s a siren outside and you know your neighbor must have called the cops when your sliding door was broken in.

Shawn crosses the kitchen, wiping his hand on his jeans as he went. He cups your face and leans down to kiss you. “I don’t want him to come back for you, please just let me finish this. I’ll say it was self defense, it’s not entirely a lie.”

“No, Shawn,” you whisper as you wrap your arms around him. “I won’t let you kill him and have that on your conscience. I can’t have it on mine either.”

“In here,” a voice says and you look past Shawn too see Officer Jensen walking through your living room. He was a friend of your father’s, and you had known him for many years. “Are you two alright?”

“Yes, sir,” Shawn says with his arm around you, holding you close to him.

Officer Jensen takes a look at Liam and calls for an ambulance. The rest of the night is a blur of questions and paramedics and officers tromping through your house. You and Shawn sit on the sofa as they wheel Liam out and you holds Shawn’s hand tightly. Shawn pulls your hand up and kisses it, saying softly, “We should probably clean up.” You’re trying not to cry, trying not freak out because this was going to be a lot to explain to your parents but you would manage because you didn’t have to do it alone. You’d never be alone again. Not with Shawn by your side.

_____________________

The announcement ceremony for you and Shawn is huge. It’s a whole town function held at the city hall and you had no idea it was going to be such a big deal, but then again it wasn’t every day that the town alpha’s son was being announced as mated.

You and Shawn had gotten ready together and he could hardly keep his hands off of you. You'd swear he had never seen you naked before or something. By the time you were ready he was dressed in his nicest deep red button down and slacks and you opted for a second dress that Karen brought for you to try on. It fit far better than the black one had and it was longer, a light blush color with short sleeves. An hour later and you were on your way to the ceremony.

Shawn glances over at you in the car as you head toward the city hall. He’s smiling as he takes your hand and kisses your knuckles. “You look like a bride y'know? That dress is stunning.”

“Really? Even though it's not white?”

“Mmhmm. I love it. Too bad this isn't our wedding.”

You smile out the window, wondering if there was really a difference in being mated and married. As far as you can tell there isn't. “What if it was both? I mean, there's not a huge difference in being mates and being married right?”

“Well from a wolf standpoint there is. Being mates is deeper than just signing some papers and being legally wed.”

He's right. It is a deeper level of commitment than just some signed papers and legal garbage. Marriage is nice and all but the option of divorce is always there. Falling out of love is always a possibility. When you're mated there isn't that option. Mates are tied to each other through thick and thin. It's a connection so deep it's in your existential make up and you can't run away from it.

You look over as him as he turns the wheel with one hand, refusing to let go of your hand. He pulls into the parking lot at the back of the city hall and puts the Jeep into park before he finally let's go of you. “For my parents, for future legal reasons, we should get married today as well,” you suggest and watch him closely for a reaction.

He looks over, eyebrows raised. “I know Dad is able to officiate that as well. But are you sure? You don't want a big wedding with all the bells and whistles?”

“Nah, I was never one to want all that attention. This is enough.” You lean over and thread your fingers into his hair, turning him to look at you. “Are you nervous? You seem kind of out of it.”

“I'm incredibly nervous,” he smiles and lets out a half laugh. “I don't know why. I guess I just didn't think I'd ever be here doing this y'know.”

“Me neither, but we're here and we've been through much worse and far more nerve wracking things together.”

Shawn leans in and presses his lips to yours sweetly. “You're right. Let's get this over with.”

“Mmmhmm. Everyone is waiting.”

_____________________

One Month Later…

You start getting sick almost every morning for a week and Shawn becomes concerned. He takes off work to stay home with you while you do your online classes. Nausea hits you in waves throughout the days but you insist it’s just a stomach bug, that you would be better in a few more days.

A few more days pass and you aren’t any better, in fact it’s almost worse. Shawn takes you to the doctor, insisting that no stomach bug should last that long. The two of you sit in the exam room after the nurse had you pee in a cup and then took blood. You’re feeling lightheaded and dizzy, really out of sorts. Everything feels weird and swimmy, like you’ve just gotten off a rollercoaster and you need to puke. Shawn holds your hand, but he isn’t able to heal you. It’s strange, a wolf being so sick. You can’t help but wonder if it was a side effect of your transformation.

“Mrs. Mendes, how are you today?” the doctor looks at the sheet and then to you as he walks into the room.

It was strange hearing yourself called that. Only a month since the wedding and announcement ceremony and it was still incredibly fresh. You can’t help but smile though you feel horrible. “I’m not so great doctor,” you shake your head, putting your hand on your stomach. “I’ve been sick for over a week now with bouts of dizziness and exhaustion.”

“Mmhmm,” the doctor hums as he looks over your sheet. “Well, you’re not sick, not technically,” he chuckles softly. “You’re pregnant.”

Shawn looks like he’s going to faint. He goes paler than you’d ever seen him before. He steps away from you at the exam table and takes a seat in the guest chair in the small room. “You’re sure? I mean, the test couldn’t be a false positive?”

“Not likely. We tested your urine sample against multiple screenings and your symptoms are synonymous with first time early stage pregnancy. I can prescribe you something for the nausea if you like and recommend a prenatal vitamin.”

“Yes, please.” You look over at Shawn where he’s sitting with his head in his hands, silent during this entire interaction. “Could I have a moment alone with Shawn before we continue?” The doctor says of course and excuses himself to go write your prescription. “Shawn, are you alright?”

Shawn covers his mouth and looks up at you, tears in his eyes. “I can’t believe I’m going to be a dad,” he says, voice muffled by his hand. He drops his hand and lets out a half laugh half sob. He stands and pulls you into a hug, almost pulling you off the exam table. “This is the best day of my life.”

You wrap your arms around him and hold him tight. “I was worried you were freaking out over there.”

“I was,” he laughs, “because there’s a little baby inside you right now and it’s all ours!” He squats down and pushes his face into your stomach. “You’re all ours little cutie!”

You laugh loudly and watch as the doctor comes back in to see Shawn nuzzling your stomach. He smiles and talks to you and Shawn about some anti nausea medication and gives you some pamphlets for local werewolf pregnancy/birthing classes as well as recommendations for prenatal vitamins and other supplements you may need as an expecting mother.

_____________________

Six months later….

“Shawn, you can take a rest. My back isn’t hurting anymore.” You look over at Shawn on the bed and he slides his hand out from under your back where he was easing the muscle cramps you had been having lately. He rolls on his side to snuggle against you and lays his hand on your stomach.

“I still can’t believe it,” he mumbles, rubbing your stomach slowly. “Can’t believe you got pregnant during your first heat.”

You roll your eyes and laugh at him. “Hey, it’s your fault. You couldn’t stop fucking me.”

“Oh as if you didn’t need it,” Shawn quips and slides his hand up to massage your breasts. “Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy it every single time.”

“Oh I did,” you smirk as you squirm under his touch. The bad thing about getting pregnant was how sensitive you became, particularly when Shawn touched you like this. Everytime he hand his hands on you, even just rubbing your back, you could feel yourself getting aroused. You’re not sure if it was a general pregnancy thing or if it was because you were a wolf an Shawn was your mate. Either way it was equal parts pleasing and annoying. “Shawnnnn,” you groan and he pulls his hand away from your chest and tilts your head to kiss you.

“Sorry, I forgot,” he smiles against your lips. His hand finds its way to your swollen stomach and begins to rub slow circles. “This is still just the best thing ever. I can’t believe I made this little guy with you.”

“Mmmhmm,” you put your hand over his and he stops rubbing for a second so he can pull his hand away and put it over yours instead. “He’s gonna grow up big and strong and loving just like his dad.” You kiss the side of Shawn’s head and he closes his eyes.

“I can’t wait to meet him,” Shawn mumbles after a while, half asleep with his head on your  shoulder. “Can’t wait to hold him.”

“Me too…” you smile and the baby kicks against Shawn’s hand on your stomach, “Me too.”

_____________________

Four Months Later

You’re laying in bed with your little bundle of joy resting on your chest. He’s dressed in the little black and yellow moon and stars pajamas that Myra gave you as a present in the hospital. You pet back his dark hair and he yawn, nuzzling his face into your warm skin. You can’t believe he’s yours. Such a beautiful little baby, so healthy and happy. All yours.

“There you are,” Shawn smiles as he walks into the bedroom. He kicks his boots off by the door and peels his work shirt over his head leaving him in his white under shirt. “I should have known it was Kit’s nap time.”

“He tired himself out watching the ceiling fan in the living room while I cleaned up a bit. Then I fed him at lunchtime, but y’know, he wanted more.” You rub his back and he stretches his legs out. “It took two bottles plus a feeding until he was satisfied enough to stop fighting sleep.”

Shawn crawls onto the bed beside you and lays his hand on the baby’s back. “He sounds like me as a baby. My mom said she would have to bottle feed me a up to ten times a day on top of breast feeding when she could. How are you doing with that by the way?”

“Good. I’ve been pumping as much as possible when he’s not feeding. It’s never going to be enough and thankfully powder formula exists. He doesn’t like it as much, but he deals.”

“Let me hold him a while, you just rest,” Shawn says as he tenderly lifts the baby over. “Hey buddy, shh shh,” he murmurs, nosing against Kit’s sparse hair as he fusses from the transfer. “Don’t fuss, it’s just me.”

Kit settles down and grips at Shawn’s tee, little hands bunching up the fabric and pulling. “Have you noticed any wolf traits other than the big appetite?”

“Not yet, other than his hair but that’s not necessarily a wolf thing. We’ll have to see when his teeth start coming in. I hope he’s an alpha like me, but if he isn’t then that’s okay.”

You turn over on your side and yawn, the catching up with you. “He’ll be strong no matter what. Just like you.”

“Like me? No, like you. You’re far stronger than me.”

“How’s that?”

Shawn chuckles. “Honey, you survived the transformation of human to wolf, you carried and birthed a baby not long after that. I could never do that. I am in absolute awe of you every single day of my life and I am so lucky to have you as a mate.”

You feel your cheeks heat up and you press your face into the pillows. “You’re being soft. Shut up.”

He leans over and kisses your head. “I don’t care if I’m the softest alpha ever. I love you and I love being your mate.”

“I love you too.” Kit fusses, making a noise of annoyance at the sounds of your voices. “Looks like he loves us as well.”

“Mmm, a very loving family.”

“Not just a family. A pack.”

Shawn smiles big, hand on Kit’s back, he grabs your hand beside him on the bed and brings you hand up to kiss. “Our pack.”

The End.

_______________________________________________

Author Note:

Thank you to everyone who read Mated as a series when I first began writing and uploading it last year. 

Thank you to everyone who sent me messages and asks encouraging me to keep writing it though it was very different at the time. I’m so glad I could be one of the first people to introduce werewolf fics to this fandom and I’m so excited to see it has really taken off. 

Thank you to everyone who reblogged and continues to reblog this fic either as a series or as full fic. Thank you for sharing and helping me spread my work to wider audiences every day.

Please reblog and share this as much as you did the original posting of Mated. It means the world to me to have my work shared via reblogs and recommendations. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Note: I do not give permission for any of my works to be reposted with or without credit to me out side of this website. It may not be included in a collection or series of works on any other website. If you see this or any other works by me posted anywhere but here please let me know immediately. Thank you. 

[evien-stark]

✧I Need You✧ Chapter 71  [Begin: Iron Man 3]

Friday night dates had been a good idea. Until they weren’t anymore. Until he was late a few times. And you were late a few times. And a couple of times the night had been ruined by the now seemingly endless stream of paparazzi that you were sure Christine Everhart was behind. Because if you’d just submit to an interview where you said everything she wanted you to say and none of the things that were actually true… she’d stop calling you. Stop calling Pepper. Stop calling Tony. Stop calling Stark Industries leaving incessant voicemails and emails. And she’d surely stop slandering you to all her fans on the internet- as you’d sadly noticed her show had been moved off primetime air. 

But the internet was the way of the future, they say… so surely it couldn’t have been that terrible for her. 

Still. She was insistent on ruining your lives. So she did. Until Friday night dates were no longer publicly accessible, as you spent them in your home. Safe. Sound. Some part of you knew Tony preferred this. He’d gone further down the rabbithole of being adamant about you not being bothered. About Happy sticking by you- even though you were fully capable of protecting yourself from would-be photographers and campers with microphones.

You were an Avenger, damn it. It didn’t make you feel that nice to be treated like a fragile piece of glass. Sure, more often these days you seemed to jump at every stray shadow and every surprise noise- scaring the bejesus out of Pepper more than once just by being startled by her suddenly appearing. Your gasps would trigger her own fright and then she’d chastise you for being so jumpy. 

Sorry, you’d say. And mean it. But it didn’t fix anything. So it was nice to curl up with Tony in the fortress that was your home. It was nice to just have a dinner in, and then pretend to watch a cheesy movie on TV, while Dvahli climbed into one or both of your laps, often now lying with her tummy up, sprawled out over both of you. 

It wasn’t a perfect home, but it was… mostly happy. As long as you and Tony were content ignoring all the other problems. 

But sometime around the start of November- maybe it was the end of October, it was getting hard to keep track now, he started missing Friday date nights- the ones that were in your house. The ones that he should have been fully capable of making it to, seeing as, oh, he was only ever in the basement all the time.

He’s hurting, you reminded yourself, when he answered your call from the lab instead of walking up a flight of stairs. Telling you he just needed an hour to sort through an accident that had happened. 

He’s grieving, you said over and over again. Grieving his sense of identity, grieving his sense of independence- and suddenly you found yourself grieving too. The loss of… life. Everything. Nothing was as it should have been. 

He’s traumatized, you knew. So that made it okay, right? That made it okay- what he was doing, building all those suits. That made it okay that he stopped answering your calls in the middle of the day. That made it okay, that on the fourth Friday in November- the Friday that should have led into a three day weekend, seeing as how it was only your third anniversary that Sunday- he told you to leave the dinner you’d brought on the table by the door, and barely looked up at you. 

...that made it okay, right? 

A cloud loomed over you almost all the time after that. It wasn’t hard to take notice. Pepper asked if you were okay. Happy asked if you were okay. Random Stark Industries employees- ones that actually weren’t just trying to curry favor for once- asked you if you were okay. Because you looked a little gray. And down. And… 

Sad. 

The entire atmosphere at the office, every floor, started to shift. At first you just thought everyone else must be having a bad time with life, too. But it was the following Friday when Pepper looked at you for too long a time and then just burst into tears that you understood what was really going on. 

And at that moment you wanted to lock yourself at home, too. 

It became an awful reciprocal thing. She was out of her depths, apologizing endlessly, telling you she didn’t know what was wrong with her. And you were just barely hanging on. Just enough to tell her you were going home early, and that she didn’t have anything to be sorry about. Barely hanging on as you climbed into the back of Happy’s car. 

Feeling like maybe you could breathe through this and not just break down- it wasn’t a real breakdown, you told yourself. It was just- you were amplifying everyone around you, and they were just mirroring you. So it wasn’t- it wasn’t real. These weren’t your real feelings. 

Then the car pulled up in the driveway. 

And there waiting for you was a giant- massive, bigger than the driveway- cream colored stuffed rabbit. The crew that had put it there, presumably, was just leaving. And Tony, standing in front of it, waved to you as you got out of the car. Happy pulled back out on the the curb, but stayed. Idling. Watching. 

“Hey- I uh… I know I messed up. Big time.” He was talking to you, more like at you, simply because you were having trouble processing what was going on. What you were looking at. What was happening. He side stepped to wave his arm up at you. “Oh, this? Anniversary gift. Don’t tell me you love it yet. Just wait. It’s cotton with leather. For the uh- ...the uhm… second and third year is supposed to be-” His words were getting lost in a choked fog. 

A wet sheen took over his eyes. 

Raising his hand he almost violently wiped the back against the corner of his left eye. “Why am I-” As if he couldn’t make sense out of what was happening. 

You were infecting him. Just like you’d infected everyone else. 

“I have to go.” Go where? You had no idea. But you needed to get away from him. He was already suffering. You’d just make it worse.

But as you tried to rush by him to the house he grabbed your arm. “Hey- hey-” Commanding just a little as you felt both your threads start pulling loose. “I mean- just say you don’t like it and that’ll be that, but this-?” 

“Tony I can’t do this. I can’t do this right now.” Begging him hard to just let you go. Let you leave. 

It was the worst thing in the world when he did. When his fingers slipped away and he held his hands up in defeat, looking at you with such an open concerned gaze. You were broken. He could see it then. That one moment. 

“Honey-” 

In a mad dash you turned away from him and ran up the steps into the house. Breathe- Into the bedroom. Just breathe through it- Into the bathroom. Just hold on- Sliding down against the now locked door. I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.

You were anything but. And after an hour had slipped by, his gentle knocking came at the door. Followed by a solemn, “Honey… talk to me…” You could hear him kneeling down, could almost feel him pressing his palms up against the door. Trying to feel you. 

But that’s what you did. And you were just at the end of shutting down. Of putting those walls up so high you hoped they’d never come down again. 

The lies started. “I just had a rough day at work- Pepper was completely emotional- I think maybe she broke up with a boyfriend or something- she started crying in my office and- you know how I am.” Lying. With a silent apology, sorry Pep, please forgive me. Not wanting to blame her, but it wasn’t like he’d double check with her. 

He waited. For a moment you thought he knew you were lying so much it must have offended him and he’d got up and left. But, eventually, you heard a soft exhale. “So… you don’t hate the rabbit?” 

Trying. Trying to make you feel anything but this. And to his credit, your lungs huffed out a forced laugh. “I don’t think I really get the rabbit, but I don’t hate it.” 

“It’s an anniversary gift.” 

“I heard that part.” 

“Hey- can you come out? I don’t really like talking to the door. It’s kind of interloping on our conversation.” 

You weren’t sure you were ready yet. But he was asking. And the more you did whatever the hell this was, the more you ran the risk of upsetting him more. He didn’t deserve that. He was already struggling. So you gathered the rest of your courage. A deep breath. Stood, and then opened the door. 

He was standing right on the other side of it, with those soft, imploring eyes. So quick to threaten your hard work. He was going to ask what was wrong with you. You couldn’t let him do that. So instead you cut him off just as he opened his mouth to ask, “Can the rabbit actually fit in the house?” 

“Uh-” He’d wanted to have a real conversation and got cut off by nonsense. But it was his own nonsense, so what could he do but pay it heed? “Good question. I’ve uh- actually got a team tomorrow to come answer that question.” Reaching out, he put an arm around your shoulder, drawing you out of the safe enclosed space that was the bathroom. “Probably gonna blow the front wall out.” 

“Oh how nice.” 

“My calculations might have been a little off.” 

“That’s very unlike you.” 

The two of you slipped into easy banter. Things you knew. Sass and sweetness. Ignoring everything. Ignoring absolutely all of it. “Too true- see, this is the part where I tell you JARVIS had the schematics. I think he misplaced a one somewhere.” 

“Don’t blame me for your mistakes, sir.” His ever-present voice answering a question that had not been posed to him. 

He clamped the fingers of his hand over your shoulder up and down, “Blahblahblah- he’s embarrassed. I would be, too. Anyway…” 

Worried he was going to try asking again, you diverted. “I haven’t eaten today, are you hungry?” Rushing by anything he might have wanted to get into. 

You’d officially turned into him. Putting everything off because you just didn’t want to talk about it. Couldn’t. And couldn’t deal with him caring for you over it. Because that would make it worse. And he had his own problems and- 

...god, the two of you really were in trouble, weren’t you? 

                                                     ------

Yet you had no idea, truly, the scope of trouble you were in. There was no possible way for you know. To even come close to understanding. December came. And right at the beginning you dug yourself a hole about as big as Tony’s. Wanting to stay away from him for fear of causing more trouble. Not wanting to fall to pieces in front of him. But at the same time, he was failing at a balancing act of being just as deeply troubled as you were, yet trying to check up on you where you’d let him. 

It couldn’t go on like this forever. The two of you couldn’t trade positions back and forth until- ...until what? Until one of you actually admitted you needed help? Said you were going to find someone to talk to? Maybe that really was the first step. Maybe you needed to be the one to make it. 

It just seemed very impossible. 

Even more so, when at the beginning of the third week of December, in the middle of a Board meeting, both LUNA and JARVIS pinged you simultaneously with a doubled up, “Ma’am,” in your ear. It got you to stand, and quieted the other voices in the room as you put a hand to your ear. They wouldn’t bother you- especially not in tandem unless something was wrong. 

JARVIS took over. “The Ali Al Salem air base has reported a bombing. Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes is stationed there.” 

Your heart stopped. “Casualties?” 

One of the older, gruffer gentlemen in the room tapped his hand on the table. “Excuse me, Ms.-”

“Shut up.” You held your finger up to him, still pressing other hand to your ear. It didn’t matter what they thought of you in that moment. None of it mattered. None of this fucking mattered if Rhodey- 

“The report only just went public, casualties listed at 39. No soldiers. Please direct your attention to the screen. An unauthorized broadcast is taking over all airwaves.” 

JARVIS turned on one of the big monitors in the front of the room and every pair of eyes turned that way. A high pitched tone greeted the air, and a flat image of multi-colored bars. Like a long forgotten stand-by symbol. Except on top of it were ten rings, each one with a gun inside of it. And a pair of swords at the center. 

You pressed your hand harder to your face, feeling a tremor come over you. “Tony…” Calling out for him, terrified, knowing one of your AIs would make the connect for you. “I’m here.” 

“You seeing this?” 

“Yeah.” His voice was tight. 

The screen flickered to life. A man in long dark robes, his back to the screen, walked down a row of people on their knees. Men toting guns stood by in the background. The location was  remote. In a desert somewhere. As the camera moved around him, his face appeared. He had long hair tied up in a top knot, a long scraggly beard- sporting sunglasses. 

As he walked away from what you knew to be hostages, the camera focused on the men behind him hiking up their weapons and arming on the people kneeling. A voice hit the silence. “Some people call me a terrorist.” The men opened fire. You wanted to look away, but you forced yourself to watch. Because you knew this was your world coming undone. “But I consider myself a teacher.” The footage cut between idyllic images of people and scenery, and that man in some dark room. “America, ready for another lesson?” Images of Native Americans flickered in and out of the screen. “In 1864 in Sand Creek Colorado the U.S. military waited till the friendly Cheyenne braves all gone hunting, waited to attack and slaughter their families left behind, and claim their land.” 

He removed his sunglasses, and intermingled with him talking to the camera, new images emerged. Buildings on fire. “Thirty-nine hours ago the Ali Al Salem Air Base in Kuwait was attacked. I… I…” He appeared again, and a twisted smile greeted the camera. “I did that. A quaint military church filled with wives and children, of course. The soldiers were out on maneuvers, the braves were away.” The camera moved to an unflattering angle, and he looked right into the lens. Between his words more footage of explosions were happening, people chanting in the streets, guns, violence- “President Ellis, you continue to resist my attempts to educate you, sir. And now, you've missed me again. You know who I am, you don't know where I am. ... and you'll never see me coming.” The screen cut out, that high monotone noise accompanied with their logo on the screen before it went to black and a newscaster who looked ghastly pale sat in dead silence. Most likely trying to comprehend what had just happened. 

You turned and walked out of the conference room. “JARVIS get me Rhodey- conference him. Now. Now.” 

Tony spoke first, “Come home. Now.” 

“I’m on my way.” As you jetted down the hall, you caught Happy sitting in a chair by your office and waved to him. He got up and followed on heel. “Tony-”

“I don’t wanna talk about it. JARVIS, you get an answer yet?” 

 Happy’s voice got mixed in with the onslaught, “You don’t even have your stuff!”

“Just one moment, sir.” 

You answered Happy, “It’s fine, we just need to go.”

It made sense, that Rhodey was probably extremely busy. His current base of operations had been attacked. He hadn’t been there to witness it. People were dead- women and children. And now the President of the United States had just been threatened. Which made all the more sense as JARVIS spoke again-

“President Ellis on the line for you sir, ma’am.” 

The both of you answered in sync. “Not now.” 

Finally, Rhodey’s voice filled your ears. “Look guys, I’m busy- I appreciate the concern- I do- I’m flying home in forty-eight hours. We’ll talk then.” There was no dial tone or click to indicate he’d hung up, but you knew he was no longer with you immediately after finishing that last sentence.

You climbed into the back of the car and Happy looked up into the rear view mirror. “Home?” 

“Yes, please…” You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. This was not your mess, right? Mandarin… Ten Rings or not… this was a military operation, right? You and Tony didn’t have to get involved… right? Yet you sensed that was impossible. “Tony… what are you thinking?” Leaning your head against the window as you waited patiently for his answer. “I’m uh… I’m in the middle of a project. What’d’you think? American military can handle this one?” 

JARVIS spoke up. “You already have one voicemail from President Ellis. How many will he leave before either of you answer him?” 

Your hands clenched in your lap. “We’re private citizens, right? This isn’t on us. This isn’t our job. This is… this is Rhodey’s job.” Trying to convince literally any of the four of you listening to you talk that that was the truth. That none of you were going to get involved. 

What a liar you were. Unwillingly, albeit. No matter how much you didn’t want to get involved… there was just no way. There was no way you were going to be able to stay out of it. 

Tony spoke again, much softer this time. “...you okay, honey?” Telling, that he could hear how rattled you were over the airwaves. 

The last brush you’d had with terrorists had… not been a personal one. But it had touched upon your life in a very drastic way. Because it had warped Tony’s completely. For the better- you were mostly sure. But those same people now had a figurehead. And he’d bombed not only Rhodey’s airbase- but a few other places before then. Was this your fault? For not letting Tony get involved sooner, when Ellis and Rhodey had called those months ago? You’d told him to leave it alone- 

“Honey?” 

Why did everything always feel like it was your fault? 

“Stop the car-” 

Happy listened almost too literally, stopping on the side of the highway in a screech. “What? What is it?” 

Tumbling out of the side by the guardrail, you pressed your back against the door as you crouched on the ground, trying to find your breath. Every part of you was shaking- and too soon you heard the roar of engines, of people zooming past- screaming-  you put your hands to your ears-

You heard Happy’s car door open and slam shut, and he paced a yard up on the side of the road and then back. “It’s all over the radio- it’s all over the radio-” 

People were panicking. Everyone in your vicinity was panicking. 

The next sounds that broke through your broken gasps for air were the sounds of compact jets. Ones you were used to. And then a clank of metal on blacktop. The whir of motors as Tony approached and then knelt down, hands reaching up to take hold of your face. You tried to bat him back, “Get away- stop- go away-” What would happen if you infected Tony with nervous madness? 

What would you be liable for then? 

“You’re fine- look at me- honey- breathe-” His helmet slid back and you stopped fighting him, directing your panicked gaze his way. “I’m fine. I’m okay. You’re okay.” 

You’re okay. 

The sound of his voice echoed somewhere deep inside you, and in that same deep darkness, waves that had been drowning you started to die down. You reached up, clasping at his wrists. The frenzied traffic on the highway slowed. Happy’s heavy running footsteps slowed to a stop. 

“I’m- I’m okay…” You breathed the words out in a shudder, eyes dropping closed as the energy collapsed out of you. 

“Take your time.” Still calm and gentle. Still holding you. Keeping you grounded. Like an anchor. 

As reality came back in slow drips, so too did your understanding of what had just happened. The same thing that had happened weeks ago. But instead of infecting your office building with weepiness, you’d now caused a small mass panic on a public road. 

Blinking up at him, you knew one thing. And one thing for sure. “We’re in trouble, aren’t we?” 

“You tell me.” 

But you didn’t have to. He knew. Same as you. 

You were in a lot of trouble.

[hermannsthumb]

18. wine tasting that leads into 9. Ghost tour, drunk ghost tour!!!

from autumn fic meme here: 18. wine tasting + 9. ghost tour

this one was especially fun bc i am a biggggg fan of ghost tours myself, and i got to make up a bunch of fake lore for the “haunted house” hehe. you can decide where this is set……. (content warning for alcohol!)

—————————————–-----------------------------------------

One of the rare occasions that Hermann actually acknowledges that he and Newt are a thing and lets Newt use romantically-coded words like boyfriend or love or feelings to refer to the two of them–instead of just a terse and incredibly vague this is my partner, Newton when he needs to introduce him to a colleague at work–is on their anniversary. Not that he’ll call it their anniversary, of course. It’s always that time of year again or their special day or flowers thrust quickly at Newt and a kiss pressed to his cheek while he’s brushing his teeth in the morning. Anniversary is too serious. Too intimate. And God forbid Hermann Gottlieb be intimate with someone; it took a month after they got together for him to even take his shirt off in front of Newt. Newt doubts he’ll even let him use the word when they eventually get hitched.

Anyway, it’s that special Time of Year again, Their Day, and Newt has taken it upon himself to book them a weekend getaway. Their first weekend getaway. Usually, for Their Day, they just sit at home and make out or something until their forgotten dinner burns in the oven, but Newt’s determined for them to start acting like an actual couple. Actual couples do things for their anniversaries, like go out to fancy overpriced restaurants. Or have beach vacations. Or rent a room in a cozy mountainside inn (surrounded by beautiful autumn foliage) for a weekend for a wine tasting.

“Yes,” Hermann says, “but most couples don’t go out of their way to hunt down a wine tasting in the most–allegedly–haunted inn possible.”

“That’s because most couples are boring,” Newt says. “We’re not boring. We’re cool.” He clinks his wine glass against Hermann’s. “And don’t say allegedly. It is haunted. I did my research.” He takes the suggested tiny sip of his wine (a sweet dessert wine that tastes more like straight-up honey than any wine Newt’s ever had before) and forces a measure of false casualness into his voice. “They, uh, have ghost tours and everything.”

Hermann groans and sets his glass down. “Oh, Newton, you didn’t.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Newt says.

Newt does know, and he did. Wine tastings are fun and all, and it’s a nice excuse to get Hermann to gussy up a little (because that grey suit he’s rocking tonight combined with his tidied hair is making Newt feel all kinds of hot and bothered) but they’re also a little boring. And gross. Spitting into a bucket for two hours while a bunch of wine snobs sniff their glasses and eat tiny crackers? Boring. Newt’s preferred method of ingesting wine is sticking a curly straw into a box of Sunset Blush Franzia and waking up on the bathroom floor twelve hours later. He just thought–well–he could spice up the experience a little. Especially since it’s October. People do these sorts of things in October. It’s seasonably appropriate.

“Look,” Newt says. “The ghost tour starts at eight, right when this ends, and it’s only an hour. Only around the inn. I already bought us tickets when I booked the place–”

“Newton,” Hermann groans again.

“–but we don’t have to do it!” Newt says, in a way that makes it clear he’d really like to do it. “I just thought it could be fun.”

Hermann scowls at him a bit more, but his shoulders sag. Probably doesn’t care enough to put up more of a fight. “We have a gas fireplace and a bathtub the size of a bloody swimming pool in our suite,” he says, “and you’d rather creep around in the dark and play paranormal investigator. I shall never understand you, Newton.” He takes a long sip of his wine. He doesn’t spit this one out. “I’ll be picking where we go next year. Now fetch us more red.”

“Next year,” Newt echoes happily.

“Don’t push your luck,” Hermann warns.

They have more red, and then they have more white, and then they round it out with some rose, by which point Hermann seems to have given up all pretenses of the tasting factor. Hermann is not tasting; Hermann is imbibing. Copiously. “I revoke my earlier complaints,” Hermann declares, after sloshing half a glass of prosecco down his poor clean shirt and grey suit, “this is a marvelous idea, Newton. I’m–” He sloshes more prosecco onto the tablecloth. “Enjoying myself. A great deal.”

Oh, jeez. “Oh, jeez,” Newt says. “Hey, babe, uh, maybe you should lie down for a bit, before–”

“No,” Hermann says. “I feel very fine. You ought to try this.”

He swings his glass towards Newt, and refuses to allow him to push it away until he’s had a sip. “It’s good,” Newt says, because of course it is–every single bottle here has been fucking great, and fucking expensive, as shit. He gets another taste of it (and about three other wines) a second later when Hermann swoops in and kisses him with no small amount of tongue. “Hermann,” he mumbles, “people are staring.”

Tipsy Hermann is a different breed of Hermann that never ceases to straight-up weird Newt out. It’s like all Hermann’s carefully constructed layers of repression finally unravel like a ball of yarn, like someone’s finally popped his cork and tossed out his filter and let every single mushy, horny thought he’s ever had come pouring out. Tipsy Hermann is handsy. Tipsy Hermann is flirty. Tipsy Hermann calls Newt things like lover and pretty thing and even just ooh, Newton with a little giggle and twirl of Newt’s hair.

Newt thinks he probably should’ve been keeping a closer eye on how much Hermann was drinking; he thinks this especially when they move on from the tasting (with two newly purchased, at Hermann’s insistence, and unopened bottles of the prosecco in Newt’s tote bag) to the ghost tour, and Hermann can barely keep himself upright, even with all his weight shifted to his cane, and Newt has to practically hold him. He’s going to be pissed at Newt for his hangover tomorrow. Because of course he’ll blame Newt.

Their tour guide is a young woman, probably an undergrad at the nearby college working the gig part time, dressed up in old-timey Victorian-looking clothing with an actual lit candelabra. She seems to enjoy her job, at least: she explains the logistics of the tour with a lot of enthusiasm and a lot of wild, animated gestures. (It’s an hour long, they’ll be walking up and down no more than two flights of stairs, one of the tour’s usual stops will be off-limits tonight due to construction, please silence your cell phones, she’s excited to be their hostess tonight!) “You sure you can manage?” Newt whispers to Hermann.

Hermann reaches up and tugs at Newt’s earlobe. “Certainly,” he says.

A hard maybe.

Their tour guide leads them to the narrow front lobby, and they file in in a circle around her as she begins to explain the inn’s origin. It was built in 1823 as a manor; it was converted into the building it is now during the 1870s; the room they’re in now was originally the parlor. “The painting above the fireplace is as old as the house,” she says. “It’s been hanging in that same spot since 1823.”

“Bloody ugly painting,” Hermann snorts.

Newt swats at Hermann. “Dude,” he hisses back.

“I’m only saying,” Hermann says. “They ought to burn it.”

Their tour guide didn’t hear, thankfully, and has gone on into describing the paranormal events of the former parlor. “You can still catch whiffs of his cigar smoke,” she says (referring to the original owner, whose name Newt missed, thanks to Hermann), “and some people have even claimed to spot a dark figure sitting in the armchair in the corner–” It’s faded emerald and ratty as hell, with a small velvet rope blocking it off from the rest of the newer furniture, “–also an original piece of the house, and his favorite spot while he was alive.”

The tour guide leads them down to the creepy basement next (haunted by the ghost of a former maid who’d been brutally murdered by the eldest son of the house–her lover–in 1859 and buried there), up to the kitchen (where servant bells still go off, despite the system being nonoperational and purely for show since the ‘70s), over to the bar (hidden behind a sliding wall throughout Prohibition and only recently re-discovered, where stools move on their own and translucent patrons flit around after closing) up more stairs to the former master bedroom-turned-unoccupied grand suite (where faucets turn on by themselves and strange shadows glide across the antique mirror), down the hall to the nursery-turned-honeymoon suite (where toys turn up out of thin air and ghostly babies cry in the middle of the night).

“��S all rubbish,” Hermann declares at that bit. Still not loud enough for their tour guide to hear–not yet, anyway–but loud enough that a handful of people in their immediate vicinity turn and frown at him. “Ghosts are rubbish. Not real. I reckon they put--” He waves his hand. “Speakers, in the vents.”

“We fought off giant interdimensional aliens,” Newt says, grinning despite himself, “and ghosts are what you have a problem with?”

Hermann immediately gets snooty. “Kaijus–” (Newt cringes, because come on, how many times does Newt have to explain you don’t need the s?) “–had a logical reason for being here. And there was proof. Loads of it.”

“Stop being such a buzzkill,” Newt laughs. “This is just for fun, dude. No one gives a shit about proof.”

“That much is obvious,” Hermann sniffs.

“Is there a problem?” their tour guide suddenly says. She looks completely earnest, too, not angry at them for talking–like she’s genuinely worried Hermann’s upset or offended about something. 

“No,” Newt cuts in quickly. He wraps his arm around Hermann’s waist and pinches his side to shut him up. It has the opposite effect of what he wants: Hermann doesn’t look affronted, but instead, very pleased at the sudden touch, snootiness evaporating. Of course. “Forgive my partner. We, uh, just got done with the wine tasting, and he missed the memo on spitting.” He cracks another grin.

There’s a small chuckle throughout the crowd that turns awkward fast when Hermann turns to him and says, in a faux whisper (too loud, too flirty, face too close to Newt’s), “I thought you preferred when I swallow.”

Newt chokes on air; he turns bright red. “Hermann!”

The tour ends on a mildly disappointing note. Their guide takes them up to the attic and passes around quote-unquote EMF detectors, with the promise that almost every group (to date) has caught something up here with them, but after twenty minutes of waving the little boxes around with not even the smallest beep it’s very clear their group will not be joining that number. If Hermann was sober, he’d probably say I told you so. He’s not, so instead, Newt says goodbyes and thank-yous for both of them, and Hermann collapses face-first into their ridiculous canopy bed almost the very second Newt gets him through the door of their suite. He doesn’t even bother to take off his shoes first. Or drop his cane--he’s still gripping the handle.

Newt shucks off his docs and tie, moves Hermann’s cane to rest against the clawfoot bedside table, and flops down next to him. He pokes Hermann’s shoulder. “You are not allowed to blame me for this tomorrow,” he says. “You got it?”

“Whatever for?” Hermann mumbles, sleepily, into his pillow.

“The hangover you’re absolutely going to get,” Newt says, “and for dropping sex life bombs on a group of strangers. That was all you, buddy. All you.”

Hermann turns on his side to face Newt, though he doesn’t bother opening his eyes. “You’re being awfully loud. Will you turn off the light, please?”

“Ugh. Fine.”

Newt has to shuffle all the way across the room to switch off the ancient floor lamp, and by the time he gets back, Hermann is already halfway to snoring, mouth open, drool at the corner of it, dress shirt rucked up from his waistband. It’s impossible to stay mad at him when he looks this cute. “I love you, you weirdo,” Newt says fondly, and leans in and kisses his forehead.

“Mm,” Hermann agrees.

[kristallioness]

2016 | 2017 | 2018

*quietly sneaks back in*... Happy New THIS Year, my dear followers! In Estonia, we have this saying that if you wish someone a 'happy new year' after Three Kings' Day (the 6th of January), you gotta have a bottle of alcohol with you and give them a drink. *lol*

Anyways, I would like to apologize for the sudden disappearance that happened prior to Christmas. I was just busy travelling back home for the holidays, unpacking and putting away my stuff, watching some great, traditional movies or shows on TV, and most importantly, working on those 2 latest masterpieces that I posted (which barely got 30 notes each.. *sigh*).

But as you can (and probably will) see, the year of the yellow earth pig (i.e. my dad's year) was a rollercoaster of emotions and accomplishments, or lacking thereof.

My creative side seems to have suffered the most due to lack of leisure time. I only managed to finish 3 full digital drawings and left behind several sketches or unfinished WIPs (2 of which are revealed here under the months of June and November for the first time, I intend to finish the Korrasami one btw). At least I got to start 2020 with a completed drawing on the very 1st day, ha-ha! Perhaps that's a good omen for this year?

If so, then I hope I'll find the time to finish the rest of the 2019 Inktober prompts, since I only did 4/31 this past October (even though I'd thought of ideas for all of them). I brought all the necessary drawing utensils and sheets of paper with me, so whenever I'm in the mood, I'll try to sketch another one.

*calculates for the nth time*.. I wrote 18,110 words worth of fanfiction, plus 820 words for the UYLD prompts (making the total 18,930). Technically, you can count another 8k+ in there, since it comes from that unfinished story (of Aang taking care of a flu-ridden Katara, as illustrated by the September sketch), which I haven't finished within the last 4 months or so. Plus, I barely wrote 1/5 of the amount compared to 2018.. *hides in shame*

Then again, I was an excellent pupil for picking up an actual book and reading through 150+ pages (which means I have ~300 pages to go). I'm talking about the new Kyoshi novel that came out. As I once said, I haven't voluntarily read a book in years make that 2 years ago (most of the reading I've done in my life is either Tom & Jerry comics, now the Avatar comic trilogies and art books as well as fanfiction online, or compulsory reading during school). But this novel is freaking fantastic superb!

Not only that, I bought all the new comic trilogies and managed to read them through. Damn, did they give me feels.. especially "Ruins of the Empire" (ngl I squeed so hard when I saw the Korrasami farewell kiss on the 1st page of the 2nd part). I can't wait to read the 3rd part this year!

However, I failed to rewatch Avatar last year, and I haven't seen Korra since.. 2016, I believe? Wow, that's 4 whole years.. But I intend to fix that mistake starting from 2020. Hopefully I'm in the mood to start my rewatch this weekend tonight. *fingers crossed*

But as I said, I had much less time to focus on my hobbies since 2019 was the year for finally moving on with my life (sort of, I'm still working on it). I still remember how down I'd been feeling for a while and how valid those emotions really were. The first quarter of the year (+ like a month or two) was a continuous descent into desperation and feelings of utter failure, which already started around the 2nd half of 2018 and only continued to deepen around that time.

Everything began to change when I was first chosen to be part of a 2-month summer internship in an IT company, and I had to start building a new nest in a new location in Tallinn this May. And now, I feel like I've hit the jackpot by getting a permanent job in another IT company this October.

I got the opportunity to work in two different fields, in two different teams within a year. I met some awesome colleagues (a lot of whom are foreigners) and got the chance to really put my English skills to the test.

Thanks to the new job, I also had to go to a free health check, which went really-really well. Despite my nervousness in the beginning, I feel much more relaxed about my physical (and mental) health, cause the results showed that everything's okay (something I'd been worried about since March 2017).

Speaking of health or staying healthy, there were a few sports events that I went to, too. Our team held the first winter team event (it was the first one for me, at least) by going to do archery in a range on the outskirts of the capital.

I watched the football match between 2 teams of our local league at my hometown together with my dad on his birthday. Our home team won the match and came in 4th place overall in the league this year, which is their best result so far (I'm really proud!). And merely days before I started work, I visited the Tallinn International Horse Show for the first time (also with my dad). I last got to watch horses jump over fences or dance to their musical programs ~ 10 years ago, and I loved it!

Event-wise 2019 was pretty full of them. As has become tradition, I went to the Defence Forces parade on our 101st Independence Day (which seemed rather bleak compared to the centennial, even more so since we didn't have ANY snow at the time).

What will hopefully become new traditions, I visited the television tower on the Restoration of Independence Day (where Uku Suviste gave a free concert in the evening), and went to the Veteran's Rock concert (to honour our war veterans) on our Freedom Square on the 23rd of April (since I'm residing in the capital now, I should be able to go again this year).

To continue with the centennial celebrations (yes, some things are STILL turning 100), I saw and explored inside the armoured train no. 7 called "Wabadus" ("Freedom") in the Baltic Station. This armoured train was one of the keys that led our country to victory during the War of Independence from 1918-1920.

There was an even bigger (150th) anniversary to celebrate in the beginning of July, when I attended our Song and Dance Festival. This was a really important, if not the biggest event of the year. I intend to make a longer post about my experience, cause it's something that you foreigners need to see for yourself. I can't simply describe or put it into words, I have to show you some videos and photos.

But while we're on the topic of concerts, I should mention that I went to 2 more at the beginning of June - Bon Jovi and Sting - as well as 2 that were part of Christmas tours in December - Elina Nechayeva and Rolf Roosalu.

Besides that, I went to 6 different festivals, half of which I'd been to several times before, such as the Türi Flower Fair, Jäneda Farm Days (where I went on my first helicopter ride for my 25th birthday present) and the Christmas market in the Old Town of Tallinn.

The other half is comprised of festivals that I'd been considering going to for a while, or which took place for the first time. The latter applies to the Black Food Festival, whereas the "Valgus Kõnnib" ("Wandering Lights") and the duck rally, both of which took place in Kadriorg, fall under the first category.

The duck rally is a charity event held in the beginning of June. Regular people can buy at least one (or several) rubber bath duckies for different prices, which will then be dumped into a tiny stream that'll carry them towards the finish line. This event has grown more popular each year, and the money the Estonian Association of Parents of Children with Cancer (sorry, long name in English!) collects is donated to the Cancer Treatment Fund.

*wipes forehead*.. Phew! I'm surprised, that's a whole lotta positivity for 2019. I think there's one more important, but seriously negative topic I haven't covered yet, but I feel should be mentioned and explained.

When it comes to politics, 2019 was a complete disaster for us. EKRE (Eesti Konservatiivne Rahvaerakond in Estonian, or Estonia's Conservative People's Party in English) i.e. our populist/nazi/pro-Trump party is in the government as of April 2019, thanks to 100,000+ idiots (out of our population of 1.3 million) who voted for them and gave them 19/101 seats in the Parliament.

No, I am NOT going to apologize for calling them a nazi party, because their main leaders have repeatedly supported ideology that's common to nazis (they use aggressive rhetoric, blame the media for making them look bad, downgrade women, minorities, are racist, anti-semitic etc...). And I will not apologize in front of the people who voted for them, because "thanks" to this, EKRE has dragged our country's reputation straight through a mud puddle (not to mention the scandals that have accompanied 5 of their ministers, 3 of who have THANKFULLY stepped down from their positions) and.. *swears like the British*.. it's BLOODY EMBARRASSING.

I am done being nice, I have at least some kind of prejudice about anyone who supports them or their ideals. And I will certainly not let Estonia end up like America. So that is why I participated in two protest events against EKRE and our current government (because the 2 other parties, who were willing to form the coalition with them, are spineless jellyfish that simply seek to hold onto their current positions of power). I'm willing to take bets as to when our government falls (the sooner the better).

*shakes off the frustration*.. Brrr! So besides that, I guess the only downside to 2019 was my spare time falling back in the list of priorities (which shows in the empty square of July).

2020 is gonna be the year of the white metal rat. I can only hope (and take action so) that it'll be just as eventful, and much more creative than 2019. Thank you all for following me (or lurking anonymously) for so long, especially to the bloggers who've offered me support through better or worse! *raises a glass* Here's to 2020!.. *sip*

[purplesurveys]

874

What's something you couldn't live without, other than the obvious? It’d be very hard to have to get by without my glasses. I’d technically survive, but I’ll have to get used to bumping into things a lot and never recognizing anyone unless they’re right beside/in front of me. What's something that will always cheer you up? Dogs. Real life dogs, photos of dogs, videos of dogs, stories about dogs, etc. Who's had the biggest positive impact on your life? My orgmates. They made me happy when I needed it the most, called me out when I needed the help, and idk I’m just happy whenever I get to see them. I can’t recall a time where I felt like it was a chore to spend some time with them. Do you wear flip-flops during the winter? Sigh...moving on... What was the last thing you said out loud? I asked Nina to help me bring Cooper and his stuff up to my parents’ room; specifically, I asked her to bring his food and water bowls.

What's something that irritates you to no end? Backhand compliments. An uncle once congratulated me for getting into my dream school but ended his sentence with “are you sure you don’t wanna go to [2nd top university in the country, (which I also passed the day before)]? You’ll fit better there.” This was like two days after I found out I got into UP, so I was still on cloud nine. I don’t know how my face contorted after that but I wasn’t pleased.

Honestly, do looks matter to you? Yes, but not as much as personality and intelligence. When was the last time you had a girls/guys night out? Not sure. I just have nights out in general; I never plan out gender-exclusive hangouts with my friends. Do you still watch kiddie movies/tv shows? Sometimes, when I get in the mood to. It’s not something I feel the need to do regularly. What's your worst habit? Never learning my lesson and being careless just because everything is going well. Best way I can illustrate this is when a couple of a months ago I started getting regular headaches because I’d sleep at 3, 4 AM – I addressed it by giving myself an earlier bedtime. When the headaches went away and I started feeling better, I went right back to sleeping late lol. Procrastinating is a good example too; I’ve submitted work early occasionally and it’s satisfying as fuck, but I never learn for the most part and stick to doing stuff at the last minute. Do your parents call you by any embarrassing nicknames? No. Byn is a nickname, but I don’t find it embarrassing. Do you have road rage? Yeah but there have to be certain conditions for me to get to that point, like once I’ve seen enough stupidity on the road and I can’t take it anymore; when I’m tense about something; or when traffic has been standstill for too long. Is there a certain word that you always forget how to spell? Not really. I know my spelling pretty well. Are there any books in your room? Which ones? Yesssss but it’s mostly because I owned a lot of books as a kid and I’ve thrown none of them out. My book collection is sorely not updated because I stopped reading as I got older. Do you take too many surveys? I wouldn’t say I take too many, especially considering the fact that I used to take like 7-10 surveys everyday back in high school. I do take them regularly. Write some lyrics from the song you're currently listening to: "You know I’m always coming back to this place, you know I’m always gonna look for your face.”

When it comes to dating, what's your preferred age range? 0-1 year. When was the last time someone gave you a weird look? Continued the next morning, lol. I was dancing in my seat over dinner last night because the fried chicken we had was super good, so my mom looked at me strangely. Do you like to cuddle? Only with a significant other, and an animal if they’re willing to cuddle. Do you like the band Cartel? I don’t think I’ve heard of that band yet. Do you play any instruments? No, but I’m always wishing I could. Do you ever blare the music in the car and dance like an idiot? I used to do that when I drove to and from school. It’s the only time in the day where I’m not working and I’m alone, so I allow myself to let loose. Though I gotta say, most of it is recorded because I always have a dashcam on HAHAHAHA so I definitely have some footage I don’t want getting aired in like my funeral or something. Do you like playing in the rain? When I was a kid.

What's something you miss? Going to the mall is a big one. Anything unpleasant coming up soon? The worst thing I can think of is the first anniversary of Nacho’s passing. It’s not till September, but when I think about how March literally feels like yesterday September doesn’t seem too far away anymore. If you had a pet moose, what would you name him? Probably the name of another animal, like Cow. I’ve seen other people name their dogs the names of different animals and it has always sounded so hilarious to me. Do you often hold back what you really want to say? If it’s gonna make me look unnecessarily blunt and hurtful then yes. Are you currently wearing any jewlery? Nope. What was the last gift you gave to someone? Cooper, for Father’s Day. It was my mom’s idea but I helped chip in with the graduation money I got from one of my aunts. Do you decorate for Christmas? (If you celebrate it, that is.) We do. I’ll probably put a tree and some stockings up once I live alone, idk, just so I don’t feel too lonely. Are you hungry? A bit, but it’s manageable. On that note, I miss continental breakfasts. I’ve been having Filipino-style breakfast for months and I really would just like a goddamn croissant or bread rolls with butter for once, lol. When was the last time you went bowling? Sometime in September and October last year. Can you whistle? Yes. Is there a certain genre of music that you just can't stand? Country. Are you allergic to anything? Nope. How many pillows do you sleep with? Two. I lay my head on one and hug another. If I don’t have a ~hug pillow~ it takes much longer for me to fall asleep. You've just won a free vacation! Where do you want to go? Covid restrictions hypothetically put aside, I’d love to go on the New York/Texas trip I initially planned as my grad gift. Do you have a good relationship with your parents? I have a good relationship with my dad. But it’s not like I feel comfortable enough to tell either of my parents any of my secrets. What's your favorite thing about yourself? Gabie likes to tell me “you’re too selfless, you don’t have to help everyone” in sort of like an annoyed tone because that’s exactly what I do lol - help anyone, even if I have to go out of my way or even if it’ll inconvenience me to do it. But I love it about me. I like when I get to make people go home with one less issue on their shoulders. Do you have any health problems? Scoliosis. Have you ever had a near-death experience? Almost smashed into a car that suddenly braked while I was going 50, 60 kph. Are you extremely picky when it comes to guys/girls? That’s what demis essentially are, lol. Do you ever listen to classical music? It’s my last resort when I’m studying and no other music is helping me get focused. What was the last concert you attended? Paramore. What's a movie you'd like to see right now? (Old or new) Ammonite, it’s an upcoming film with Kate Winslet and Saoirse Ronan. Do you take life too seriously? Most of the time. I just find it necessary that way. When was the last time you were truly scared? This weekend when my mom watched a jumpscare with the sound on, so I heard the loud demon scream that came up in the end. What's the funniest trick you've ever pulled on anyone? I don’t like pulling tricks because I don’t like them pulled on me. The most I’ve done is take Gab’s phone and pretend with her that it’s lost. Do you like orange juice? I’ll drink it if it’s served for free, but I wouldn’t buy one for myself. Do you own any skinny jeans? Yes, nearly all my jeans are skinny. Do you have a diary/journal that you frequently write in? You’re looking at it. When was the last time you had a good workout? November, back when I still had that intense PE class that made me work out for an hour every Wednesday and Friday. Do you like your eye color? I find it too common but I’m not actively complaining about it. I don’t feel the need to change it. When was the last time you played with Play-Doh? Two or three years ago at a cousins’ place. One of them was still a baby then, so the toys they had around were clay and kinetic sand and stuff. What's something that you think people waste too much time on? Fighting on Facebook comments lol Do you think they should outlaw talking on your cell phone while driving? They already have, at least here. Are you embarrassed to burp or fart in front of your friends? For the most part. I’ll burp only in front of Angela and Gab. Do you like peanut butter cookies? Yesssssss, but I don’t get to have it a lot. :(

[shookethbrooketh]

seven days

day four: part one summary: dan is stuck in the wrong timeline. one day, he kisses phil goodnight. the next morning, he’s completely alone. he doesn’t even recognize where he wakes up, and little details in the world around him have changed. he has no clue what’s happening or where to go next in an effort to fix it; all he knows is that he has to find phil.

genre: sci-fi, a lil bit of angst, happy ending

warnings: just some swearing! 

fic word count: 9.7k chapter word count: 1.2k

written for the @phandomreversebang ! inspired by the awesome moodboard/edits by @maybeformepersonally ! beta’d (beginning to end) by @i-might-just-leave-soon !

phil sighed and pulled out a keyboard that appeared to be full of different buttons and switches. he hit a few buttons, input a code, and readied his hand over the switch. “good luck.”

read it on ao3

Dan’s eyes snapped open as air streamed into his lungs. He exhaled, pushing himself up on the sofa he’d woken up on. “Where the fuck am I?” By now he’d learned--his first order of business in the morning was to search for a phone. “You’ve got to be bloody kidding me.” On the nightstand was a flip phone that had to be ten years old. “I’ve got followers younger than this thing.” Dan stared at it for a moment, the events of the previous day coming back to him. “Oh, SHIT!” he shouted, flipping the phone open. Sure enough, the date read October 16, 2009. He groaned, throwing himself back against the side of the couch. “Stupid fucking time machine.” 

Dan took a deep breath and sat up. The clock on the phone read about noon; that was probably about the time he transported back nearly ten years. He had finally gotten at least a few answers; he now had twelve hours to not only convince the Phil of this timeline to listen to him but also to figure out a way to get home, since the last Phil clearly was of no help. Before any of that, though, he had to find Phil. But how? 

As a start, Dan spent a moment taking in his surroundings. He seemed to be in a dingy apartment. It was dark and green tinted; it almost reminded him of the True Lab from Undertale. There was a pang in his chest--what he wouldn’t give to go back to his life with Phil and play RPGs all night. 

He found a pile of clothes that appeared to be relatively clean and put on a t-shirt and jeans. The clothes were much too small for him and were clearly meant for an emo 18-year-old, but clearly that was who was living there. It was 2009, after all. Dan couldn’t help but feel bad for the poor My Chemical Romance fan who just got transported to 2019 in his place.

After he was dressed and looking almost decent despite being completely terrified by the sight of his 28-year-old body in his 18-year-old clothes, he began scourging the flat for a laptop; social media was his only chance of finding Phil, even if it did involve MySpace. 

Ten minutes later, the apartment was somehow more of a mess, he’d found a box of cereal that he was already devouring, and the search for any sort of computer was an absolute bust. Surprisingly, though, he wasn’t discouraged; he’d found Phil in every timeline thus far, so there must have been some way to find him here too. He finished off the cereal straight from the box in joking hope that acting like Phil would help him find Phil, and he was off. 

The apartment door opened straight to a flight of stairs with another door at the bottom. Dan was astonished by what he saw when he opened it. “What the…” The entire room Dan entered into was full of flowers. They were absolutely beautiful, and there were so many of them that Dan could barely find his way through them. Finally, though, he caught sight of a glass door with words written facing away from him. To its right was a counter with a cash register. 

Dan was in a flower shop. 

“What kind of 18-year-old runs a flower shop?” Dan commented into the void before his eye locked onto an ink-coated napkin that seemed to have been slipped under the door. He carefully maneuvered his way to the door, picked up the napkin, and read the words to himself.

“Florist dude,

I don’t know why you’re not open, but I REALLY need some flowers for my boyfriend; it’s our one year anniversary and I wanna do something nice for him. I know peonies are his favorite for some reason, so a bucket--I’m gonna assume they meant bouquet--of those would be great. I hope you see this soon. I’ll be here til five.

-Tattoo artist nextdoor.” 

Dan looked around the room and then back at the note before shrugging. It wasn’t like he had any better ideas. 

He flipped the sign on the door to ‘open’ and went to work arranging a bouquet of peonies. He was lucky there were labels on all the flowers; without them or the Internet, there was no way he could even manage to discern a peony from a carnation. 

Dan found another back room of the flower shop, this one filled with greenery and ribbon rather than living amenities. He didn’t know a thing about organizing flowers, but he did know what was pleasing to the eye. He worked for a few moments to pair colors that looked nice together and add some background green to all the right places before finally tying it all off in a neat, black bow. These were for the partner of a 2009 tattoo artist; he had to assume they liked it a little bit dark. 

He stood back and admired his work; somehow, the arrangement had turned out quite well. “I guess I know what to do if I end up stuck in one of these stupid alternate universes,” he muttered, making his way back to the front of the store. He chuckled for a moment. “I’m literally living in an AU.”

He made his way out to the street and looked left and right before locating the tattoo parlor he was supposed to take the flowers to. “Not just any AU either--I’ve seen all those florist and tattoo artist AUs. What’s the chance of-” He stopped in his tracks as he approached the parlor; on the other side of the glass was a heavily tattooed Phil. He was much younger, but Dan obviously recognized him considering he looked exactly the same as when they met except for the ink covering most of his arms and neck. 

Dan threw himself against the brick wall of the parlor, his breathing heavy. “I’m a florist... and he’s a tattoo artist.”

There was something far too specific about this. It was too obvious, too...familiar. Dan took in a huge breath, and his eyes widened; it was as if he breathed in pure knowledge. “Your timelines are familiar to each other and to you,” he said, repeating what Phil, or, at least, a Phil, had told him the day before. 

“The first day I only had pastel clothes… pastel/punk. The second day I was famous and he was a fan. Yesterday we were both parents. Today…this. Fucking hell, I’m living in tropes.” He scrunched his eyes closed and threw his head against the wall, something he tended to do when under stress. 

After a moment, he straightened his neck out, took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and remembered another phrase Phil had said to him. “If you follow them right, you will find your way home.” 

Dan became immediately aware of the flowers still in his hand. He held them up and made sure they were still perfect, putting on a smile. “Follow the trope.” 

[luckyspike]

more GO fanfic because i can’t decide which colors of yarn to use for my next project

Crowley made it a point to visit Adam semi-regularly, about monthly, after the Nah-pocalypse. He justified it to himself by telling himself it was because he was making sure the kid kept his Hellish instincts in check, but that wasn’t really it, not if he really was honest with himself*.

-

* Which he rarely was.

-

Deep down, it was mostly because he actually liked the kid. And, well, there was a part of him that felt bad for him. Crowley had sprung into existence right at the Beginning, with a vague idea of identity but no real idea of what the Heaven was going on. But he’d been given orders - they all had - and he followed them for the most part. Until, well, until he hadn’t. Because, he had reflected, he really didn’t know what was going on, what was at stake, until it became abundantly obvious that just because you don’t know what’s going on doesn’t mean you ad-lib your way through until things seem alright**.

He couldn’t imagine being dropped into that suddenly, at the age of 11, so young and new and without any real concrete identity. Poor Adam. The kid had learned his true nature, learned the whole truth about Heaven and Hell and the Universe, about destiny and the Ineffable Plan, all in the space of 1 afternoon, and then rebuked all of it. Cast it aside. 

Crowley felt, deep down somewhere, maybe where his soul had been once, that that wasn’t really fair. And that maybe, with enough gentle guidance and someone with ... if not a better idea of what on Earth was going on then at least experience making it up as you go, that he could help Adam avoid some nastier mistakes.

So he kept up with the kid. Once every month, give or take. They met at Anathema’s cottage, because while Adam’s inherent spiritual Teflon was probably enough to keep people from asking questions about the tall man in the sunglasses who visited on occasion, the safe ruse of visiting Newton and Anathema was less fraught with potential disaster. Nobody every really noticed the classic Bentley that was always parked outside.

“How old are you?” Adam asked one time. It was around his birthday, and it was clearly on his mind. “Like, really?”

Crowley hedged. “Uh, well. It’s - well, it’s tricky.” He glanced to Anathema and then back to Adam. Shrugged. “Hard to measure the bit before time got invented.”

“Huh.” Adam considered that. “Like, a long time before?” He nodded when the demon spread his hands, the universal gesture of ‘I don’t know’. “So you’re like the oldest person I know.”

Anathema chimed in. “Unless Aziraphale is -”

“Oh, right, Aziraphale!” Adam put his head to the side while he thought, and then sipped his lemonade. “Who came first, you or him?”

“I honestly don’t know, Adam,” Crowley admitted, staring into his coffee with an expression of consternation. “It was all muddled up in the beginning. Without time everything sort of - there wasn’t a first or a last or, you know, any kind of like, ah, linear measurement of whatever.” He saw Adam’s expression of confusion, and then shrugged. “Listen, the Beginning was really weird, there was a lot going on and then there was a lot of other things going on which were fairly, ah, hectic.” He stopped short of the Fall. Adam hadn’t asked about the Fall, and frankly wanted very little information about Hell. Crowley was more than happy to oblige. 

“So how long have you known Aziraphale then?”

“About 6000 years.”

Anathema sat down next to Adam, and slid a half sandwich over to the kid on a plate. “And you really actually met in the Garden of Eden?”

“Well, technically on the wall around it, yeah.”

“Cool.” They had talked about Eden before, fairly early on. Adam had, gradually, been working his way through history by means of the memories of AJ Crowley. Crowley had found through the process that he didn’t really mind, actually, and honestly there was something gratifying about being told by a pre-teen that you’re pretty cool. 

“Do you remember the date?” Anathema asked, startling Crowley enough to make him look up from his coffee, now cold. She was sipping her own drink, watching the demon over the rim of the cup. 

“I - yeah. It was the seventh day, so on the calendar now it would be October 28.”

“So,” she said innocently, “your anniversary is in October. The 28th.” She pulled out her phone and - Crowley could only assume - put the date on her calendar. “I’ll send a card.” She raised an eyebrow and Adam watched, smirking, around a mouthful of sandwich. It was a game the two of them played, and Crowley had long since stopped groaning when it started. “Any plans?”

“It’s not really our anniversary. We don’t ah - well, there’s not really an anniversary so to speak that we, er.”

“My parents go out for dinner on their anniversary, and then maybe the movies or a play. Last year they rented a hotel room in London and made a whole weekend of it,” Adam contributed, once he’d finished his bite of sandwich. “I stayed with Brian.”

“Right, well -”

“You should go to America!” Adam continued, while Anathema covered her mouth with her hand. “See like, Mount Rushmore or like the Grand Canyon or whatever. People do that on their anniversary.”

“Why would they look at giant carved presidents on an anniversary?” Crowley asked, momentarily distracted. 

“Who knows.” Adam shrugged. “Oh, or what about like, China, with the Great Wall, or Australia and the Great Barrier Reef, or what about a safari in Africa?”

“Been there, can’t swim, was around when the animals were Created,” Crowley responded to each in turn.

Anathema opened her mouth to say something - likely ask a question, she was always looking for information on some lost civilization or another, it was an interest of hers - but Adam continued with his suggestions. “Niagra Falls then. Or Everest. Or Japan?”

“Yeah, all very nice, but like I said we don’t really do anniversaries -”

“But you remember the date,” Anathema cut in.

“Well I mean it was fairly significant for other reasons -”

Adam scoffed. “So was my parents anniversary. They got married on the same day as all kinds of weird stuff in America happened, but they still celebrate theirs.”

Crowley tried to think of a way to explain to a soon-to-be-thirteen-year-old that after 6000 years, a single date on a calendar wasn’t necessarily as important. After all, which dates would you mark? The meeting date, the day they agreed on the Arrangement, the day Crowley saved Aziraphale from the French Revolution, the day Crowley saved Aziraphale from Nazis, the day -

He stopped that train of thought so abruptly Anathema and Adam might have heard the brakes. There was a trend there, and Crowley wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

“We just never have,” he said lamely, at length. Adam shrugged, and finished his sandwich, and Crowley breathed a sigh of relief. He knew that shrug. That was the ‘fine, whatever’ shrug. The shrug that meant, thank Whoever, that Adam was bored with that line of questioning, and would shortly begin another which would be, Crowley reasoned, vastly preferable to this one.

“Something to bear in mind,” Anathema said, though, before Adam could muster up another question. “Might be sweet.”

“I’m a demon, I don’t do ‘sweet’,” Crowley pointed out.

Adam took a gulp of his drink, and asked, “So what was King Arthur like?” and Crowley jumped on it like a drowning man on a raft, rambling on about round tables and wizards and prats in armor looking for Black Knights in a stupid bog somewhere in the middle of bloody nowhere, all the while trying very hard to not think any more about October 28.

Which did come.

Eventually.

Time has a way of doing that. Crowley still wasn’t sure how he felt about the invention of it.

He showed up to the bookshop on the 28th, just prior to closing or, more accurately, exactly at closing, since customarily Aziraphale generally decided to close whenever Crowley showed up. He waited for the angel to shoo the last stragglers out of the shop, pull the shades, and lock the doors. He poured himself some wine while he waited, and considered the calendar on the wall by the desk***. He was midway through the first planned glass of wine that evening when Aziraphale finally joined him, flopping into a chair and grabbing the already-poured glass Crowley had set out for him.

“Got a letter from Miss Device, today,” Aziraphale said without preamble. Crowley’s blood ran cold^. He held up an envelope, and paused at Crowley’s expression. “Are you alright?” The demon managed a nod. “Oh, you looked - anyway. Just a note, you know how she writes. So nice of her to keep in touch.”

“Yeah, really nice.”

“Oh! And she enclosed these.” From the envelope, he produced two tickets - tickets, Crowley realized, distantly, while the high-pitched whine of panic rang in his ears. She’d sent a card, she said she would, and he’d done nothing, as usual, and - “She said she bought them for her and Newton to spend a night in London, but he’s having car trouble again. I suppose she thought we might get some use out of them.”

“Oh? Oh. That’s alright then.” Crowley took a draught of wine and sank lower onto the sofa, relief emanating from every atom of his being. “What for?”

“Royal Shakespeare Company - they’re doing ‘As You Like It.’” He smiled, and Crowley raised an eyebrow, the better to keep his own smile at bay. “You always said you liked the funny ones.” He took a sip of his wine. “You don’t have plans tonight, do you?”

“Who me? Nah, never.” Crowley paused, and swirled his wine in his glass. “Tell you what - what do you say about, oh, I dunno, having dinner first, maybe the Ritz? Make a night out of it.” There was a silence, which Crowley generally was not in favor of, but it was comfortable, and filled with the soft warmth of the bookshop’s ambient noise and the bustling street outside. Aziraphale smiled, and took a sip of wine. “Sounds delightful, Crowley. But a bit convenient. There wouldn’t be any reason for this spontaneous evening, would there?”

Crowley did not panic. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even break a sweat, just took a sip himself and answered, “It wouldn’t be spontaneous by definition then, would it?”

“No, I suppose not,” Aziraphale said, although he was grinning like anything. “Well, it’s a nice night for a little spontaneity. I’ll finish by drink, and then get my coat. Shall we walk?”

“We’ve got time.”

Aziraphale smiled and this time around, Crowley didn’t fight the urge to smile back.

-

** Although they still had, after a fashion. 

*** It was from 1994, not that anybody cared.

^ Colder, anyway.