#got home to find out that the main service line to my house had shorted somewhere underground and must be replaced

[bonefarm]

Holding onto those hinges with my fingernails girlies.

[maddiwrites]

The Hybrid (I)

Pairing: JJ x Reader

Summary: The Pogues rekindle their friendship with their old childhood best friend and JJ’s first crush, Y/N. Old feelings resurface for JJ and Y/N, possibly leading to a summer neither one of them could ever forget. Due to past trauma, Y/N is reluctant to let anyone into her heart, but JJ never backs down from a challenge, even if he knows it will come back to haunt him in the end.

Note: Thank you for being patient with me as I slowly write this series. I had this idea a long time ago and I’m not finding motivation to write it but the inspiration comes and go. I smile with every comment that is left on my fics and I’m so grateful for this community. Thank you for letting me pursue my creative writing without judgement. Love you guys! (Also, yes. If you didn’t see my last note, I based YN’s family off of the Gilmore Girls characters. That’s who I picture as them.)

Word Count: 8k

 Masterlist   Prologue 

You wake up to someone falling on your bed next to you with a dramatic sigh. Knowing exactly who it is, you choose to ignore her and try getting back to the dreamless sleep you were peacefully having before you woke up.

That is, until she sighs again. 

You flip onto your back and stare up at your ceiling fan that’s quickly spinning above you. “What, Rory?”

“How did it go with Andre and that boy?”

You look at her with one brow raised. “You woke me up to hear about Andre’s love life? That hardly sounds like you. You don’t care about high school drama or hookups.”

“You’re right,” Rory says. “But I thought I would ease you into what I actually need to tell you.”

You turn on right side and look at your sister confused. “What?”

She sighs. “The cafe’s basement flooded last night. Mom needs us there to help her clean up and take inventory on what’s salvageable.”

You turn back on you backside and close your eyes, exhaling a deep sigh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Unfortunately not,” Rory says and pats you twice on your covered thigh as she sits up. “Come on. I made you pre-cafe coffee. It’s sitting in the kitchen.”

You throw your sheets off of you and trudge to the bathroom to brush your teeth and clean your face. It’s about 8 a.m. At least you were able to get about six hours of sleep. 

Last night, it was hard to let your brain rest to fall asleep. You kept tossing and turning, thinking about the blonde Pogue who walked you home. You missed how easy it was to talk to someone who you felt truly knew you. Your banter rolled off your tongue easily and you never had to worry about offending him because you knew him like the back of your hand. You knew what he could take and what he couldn't. 

Talking to him brought back childhood memories you had hidden deep in your mind. How JJ would constantly poke you until you ripped into a smile on days that were grey. How you used to steal John B’s bandanas until he was chasing you around his house to get them back. How you would draw a mustache and a unibrow on Pope’s face when he fell asleep by the water. 

Those days felt like they were decades ago. So far away, you didn’t know if you’d be able to reach for them again. If it was even possible to get back. 

You thought about texting him. Thanks for walking me back. We should all get together soon! You had written out. But then you deleted the whole message, telling yourself it was because you didn’t know if he even had the same number. But deep down, you were just afraid of the rejection. 

Its been about three years since the four of you had been together in one place. You don’t know what they’ve been through or if they’ve changed. They for sure as hell don’t know what you’ve been through. You don’t know if they're dynamic has changed. Clearly you and JJ can still joke with each other but what about John B and Pope? You heard about John B’s father disappearing at sea, most people believing he’s dead, but John B holding onto hope that’s he’s alive. You always thought about calling him to reach out and offer your condolences. But for the same reason you didn’t text JJ, you never called. It didn’t feel like your place. They had Kie for that now. A little part of you felt jealous of her, like she had replaced you and any memory of you. She seemed nice, but she wasn’t you.

“Ready?” Rory pops her head in to your room as you slip on a cropped plain white zip up jacket over your cropped black tank. 

“As I’ll ever be,” You say and snag the car keys out of her hands. “Don’t even think about it. I’m driving.”

Rory rolls her eyes. “I want to get there safely.”

“And I want to get there quickly.”

“Fine. But we’re taking my car. It actually has doors.”

For your sixteenth birthday, your grandparents gifted both you and Rory your own individual cars and even let you pick them out. Rory chose a black 2020 Honda Civic for it’s safety features and reputation for longevity as if she was planning on handing it down to her future kids. And you picked out a white 2020 Jeep Wrangler with a hard top that pops off along with the doors for a very open and thrilling ride. Everyone but you called it a death trap, but you found it to be the perfect summer car. 

You park Rory’s boring Honda Civic in the back of the cafe in a lot used specifically for employees. The cafe is already booming with teens and families, waiting for their morning coffees and fresh pastries. Kids your age are running around behind the counter with sweat dripping down their brow bone to get everyone’s orders out in a timely manner. 

In the back of the store, your mom walks up the steps from the basement with two large trash bags and immediately notices the two of you. “Oh good. You’re here. Rory, help the girls behind the counter. The dishwasher’s broken and poor Hailey is hand washing everything. Y/N, come with me downstairs.”

“Why does Rory get the fun job?” You grumble and follow your mom back downstairs after she tosses the two trash bags. 

“Because she’s actually nice to the customers.”

“Treat others how you would like to be treated. Isn’t that what everyone always says?” You smirk. You never agreed with the phrase ‘the customer is always right.’ It’s complete bullshit and being the employee shouldn’t mean letting yourself getting verbally abused by a ‘Karen’ on the other side of the counter. 

The basement is used for the cafe’s storage, lined with wooden shelves Steve put together that hold to go cups, back up espresso machines, boxes of coffee and food and ingredients, etc. Now all the boxes are dark and sopping, creating puddles on the concrete floor. 

“Oh my god. Mom. How did this happen?”

“Jenky water pipe busted in the middle of the night,” Steve walks down the stairs and passes your mom a knowing look. It didn’t surprise you that he was here. He’s the jack of all trades. Owns his own automotive shop, builds a lot of his own furniture, actually cooks a decent meal, and has the same outlook on customer service as you do. He was probably your mom’s first call. “Talked to the plumber. They can’t get here until at least noon.”

“Noon? We’ll be underwater by noon. I might as well turn all my employees into a swim team,” Your mom says.

Steve shakes his head. “I was able to hold the leak until he gets here. You should be fine.”

Steve was the first person that actually helped your mother out when's she moved to the Cut. Six months pregnant, she pushed her car into his automotive shop after it broke down on the side of the road. Their banter was similar to the one you and JJ have. He helped save your mom money by building yours and Rory’s cribs, changing table, and dressers. And ever since, the two of them had been connected by the hip, although they both refuse to admit it. You think the pair are just trying to deny the love they clearly share for each other. And you think the main reason for that is because of the incident four years ago with your mom’s ex boyfriend. No thanks to you.

 “Look at you constantly building your resume,” You smirk at him. 

Steve scoffs. “It’s more than what you’re doing.”

You roll your eyes. Steve is the closest thing you have to a father. He practically helped raise you with your mom. He’s the one you turn to whenever a fight with your mom goes too far, which isn't too often but it happens. He usually lets you stay at his house for the night to let you cool off. But he’ll never sugar coat his advice when it comes time for him to give it. Even if you don’t ask for it. He knows growing up with Rory has been challenging. She was clearly your mom’s favorite, or at least that’s what you thought. She has a 4.0 GPA with a realistic dream to get into Brown University and study journalism. She played by every rule, never got into trouble, and spent most of her free nights getting ahead of her school work or staying late at the cafe with an open book from the library across the street. She was an absolute angel to everyone else, making you look like her evil twin. 

You glare at him before turning to your mom with crossed arms. “What do you want me to do, Mom?”

“Actually honey. Can you go to Heywards and grab more coffee filters and napkins. The water soaked right through the plastic wrapping on our last box.”

You nod, leaving your mom and Steve to clean up the basement themselves. Before heading out, you sneak behind the counter and make yourself a quick coffee to go.

“Where you going?” Rory asks as she reaches behind you to grab a banana for her customer at the register.

“Heywards to grab a couple things for Mom.”

“Oh. Make sure to grab toilet paper while you’re out. I think we’re almost out of it.”

“Got it.” 

Heywards is only a short drive from your mom’s cafe. It’s the closest convenient store that isn’t crazy pricey. It’s where your mom gets all her supplies whenever she runs out of things before shipment gets there. 

You use to always come here when you were younger with the boys, each of you, even Pope, stealing a small bag of chips or a candy bar here and there. Little did any of you know, Mr. Heyward caught your thieving hands every time but never said anything. 

The bell above the door chimes when you walk into the store. You know this place as well as you know the cafe, finding the toilet paper and coffee filter immediately. 

When Mr. Heyward looks up from the counter, his smile grows. He can pick you out of a crowd anywhere, but he hasn’t seen you in a long time. Last time he saw you, you had braces and overgrown bushy brows. Now you had bushed hair and shaved legs. 

“Hi. Mr. Heyward,” You grin shyly at him. You don’t know how he’s going to react to see you, unsure of what Pope might have told him about you. 

“Little Miss Y/L/N? Is that you?” Heyward smiles widely, pulling your own lips into a wider smile. “I haven’t seen you for a long time.”

“Yeah, I’ve been busy with school and my mom’s cafe...” Both of those things were a lie. You just avoid the Cut to avoid the Pogues. 

“How’s the fam?” 

“They’re good,” You say as Heyward hands you your bags. “Mom says hello by the way. I’m actually taking these to her store now.”

“Well, don’t be a stranger. We miss your smiling face around her. Anette, too.” Heyward says, mentioning his wife. 

“Tell her I said hi.”

“Of course, darling.” 

Heyward and Anette always had a special place in their heart for you and Rory. They’re not one for gossip, but they knew a little bit about what your mom’s been through and have heard plenty of stories about your grandparents. They always thought, despite your mom’s background, that you and your sister were raised impressively. Anette always hoped that one day Pope and Rory would get together. Everyone always wanted their child to be with Rory. 

As your about to leave the store, the bell chimes again with another customer. Only it’s not another customer. It’s Pope and John B. They don’t see you at first, and you wonder if maybe you can sneak out without them seeing you. But something about that felt wrong. Especially because Heyward would more than likely mention to them that you were here. 

Pope sees you first and stops in his tracks. “Y/N?” 

“Hey, guys. Long time no see,” You smile at both of them. You bite down on your lip awkwardly when you meet John B’s stare. You don’t know if you should mention anything about his dad’s disappearance. But what would you say? Sorry? What good would that do?

“How’ve you been?” Pope gives you a small side hug, then John B. 

You shrug. “You know, living the dream.”

“How’s life as a Hybrid?” John B smirks. 

You roll your eyes playfully and groan. “Oh god. Never call me that again.”

You may be considered a Hybrid by everyone else, but you would never put yourself into that category. You grew up a Pogue, the same way everyone else did around you. The only thing tying you to the Kooks are your grandparents. 

“Why?” John B smirks. “I wish I was a Hybrid.”

You smirk back. “Maybe you will be one day. I hear you have a Kook of your own for arm candy.”

You saw a faint hint of blush on John B’s cheek at the mention of his girlfriend but you don’t mention it. “Sarah, yeah. She’s not like the other Kooks.”

“I would hope not. Her brother’s a dick.”

“Yeah,” They laugh. 

“We miss you, you know.” John B says. Pope looks at you, trying to read your expression. John B’s not wrong. They do all miss you, especially Pope. He felt like you were the only one who really understood him. Of course his other friends are great, but you actually took the time to try and understand his passions. Like forensic science. 

“I miss you guys too. It’s been a while.”

“Well, hey. We’re actually all getting together tonight at my place. Nothing big. Just a bonfire and a couple beers. You should stop by,” John B says.

“Yeah,” Pope says, immediately getting hopeful that you’ll show up. 

Your smile falters. The invite makes your heart swell and your lungs contract. It’s an invite you’ve been wanting for three years. And now that you have it, you don’t know what to say. It’d be different if it was just the four of you like old times. But now there’s Kie and Sarah and although you have nothing against them, you’re afraid they won’t accept you. The thought of your boys picking them over you terrifies you. 

“Okay. Yeah, sure. I’ll try to swing by later.” 

Pope smiles wide and looks at his friend to see his reaction. John B grins and nods, almost impressed that you had agreed. But he saw the twitch in your lips when the question was asked. 

“Great. I guess we’ll see you later then.” 

You nod. “Okay. Bye guys.”

You suck in a deep breath when the fresh air outside of Heyward’s store brushes over you. Your heart thumps wildly with both excitement and nerves when you’re finally able to collect your thoughts. You don’t know what you’ll do tonight, but the possibilities can change your entire summer.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You spent the rest of the day mopping up the cafe’s basement and rearranging the shelves. You smelled of sweat and coffee grounds by the time you were done and dreamt of the shower you would be taking when you got home. 

Rory drove you home after the two of you closed up the cafe for the day. Neither of you said much. Rory was exhausted from running around behind the counter and you were too busy thinking about whether you’d go back to the place you used to call your second home.

You took a longer shower than usual, still pondering what your night would be like. Your head was telling you to stay home but your heart pulled you in the direction of the Cut. You yearned to hear about what the future held for Pope, and listen to John B retell stories of when you were kids, and be able to stare into JJ’s bright blue eyes without him noticing. 

You changed into a pair of jean shorts and a plain red cropped tank. Rory walks into your room as your brushing out your hair and looks at you as if you lost your mind.

“Are you out of your mind? You can’t wear that,” She says.

You brows scrunch together in confusion. “What are you talking about? I wear shit like this all the time.”

“Not to the Country Club, you don’t.” That’s when it hits you. Today’s been so hectic, you forgot what day it was. “It’s Sunday.”

Sunday dinner at the Country Club is now a weekly commitment forced upon you by your grandparents. Each week, your mom, sister, and you are forced to spend one dinner with your grandma and grandpa. This is basically your mom’s payment back for sending you and Rory to Kook Academy. Only they actually pay for the dinner. It’s usually the longest two hours of your entire week. It’s hard to listen to your grandfather rant about Real Estate and your grandma slyly critique your mother in almost every aspect of her life. 

“Shit. I completely forgot,” You say.

“Well, you better change. We’re leaving in about five minutes,” Rory says then plucks a gold necklace from your dresser. “Oh and can I wear this tonight?”

You sigh. “Sure.”

You change into a baby blue wrap around dress and pin your wet hair into a half up half down due. It’s gonna have to work for the limited time you have to get ready. After applying a thin layer of makeup to look the least bit presentable, you meet your mom and sister by the front door.

“Finally,” Your mom says when she sees you. 

“Sorry. I didn’t realize it was Sunday.”

“It’s okay, honey. I just don’t think I can handle another late remark from Mom today.” She looks you up and down and grins. “You look great.”

Despite the many fiery fights you and your mom can have, she is also your best friend. It’s kind of like a love hate relationship. Steve says it’s because you’re exactly like your mom - almost like a sixteen year old version of her. 

You really hope that isn’t true. You’re not ready to have a kid in two years. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Your grandparents are already sitting at a round table in the corner of the country club by the two tall windows that reach up to the ceiling with a view looking out into the golf course. The best seat in the house for the richest a holes on the island. 

“Lorelai,” Your grandmother grins, but you can instantly tell it’s sarcastic. “Did you have to walk here?”

You speak up before your mom could. “Sorry Grandma. It’s my fault we’re late.”

Your grandparents are hard on your mom but easier on you and Rory, especially Rory.

“Well, you’re here now,” Your grandpa says. He’s usually the mediator between your mom and grandma. Although he’s usually sucks at it. “Sit. Sit.”

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, JJ shuffles through his many coworkers with his apron in one hand and a piece of fried calamari from Miss Carol’s appetizer in the other. 

“JJ -” She scolds and slaps his hand away from going in for a second piece. 

“Good evening Miss Carol,” JJ smirks and makes his way to the area between the kitchen and dining room where most of the servers and bust boys hang out. Some of the boys slap him on the back or shove him by the shoulder, chuckling to themselves. “What’s going on boys? Busy crowd?”

“What are you doing here? You never work Sundays,” His friend, Mitch, says. 

Luke Maybank was behind on several bills - worse than it’s ever been. They already shut off their electricity and JJ wanted to make sure the water wouldn’t be next. 

But JJ shrugs nonchalantly. “Little extra dough can't hurt.”

“Well, you picked a good day,” Raymond walks up to the blonde, rolling his sleeves. “You got Kook Royalty and their Hybrid offsprings in your section.” 

“What?” JJ looks through the small square Plexiglas on the swinging door. He knows exactly where to look and immediately sees you sitting with King and Queen Kook, looking absolutely miserable, pushing around your food with your fork. 

“Damn, Maybank. Almost broke your neck - you turned so fast.”

“Shut up, Easterling. I was just seeing how crowded we were,” JJ lied. He really just wanted to see if you were here. And now that he sees you are, he’s a little nervous to do his own damn job.

Raymond Easterling chuckles. “Yeah, I know what you were looking at. But don’t get your hopes up. There’s a reason Kooks call that girl the Heart Sucker. Not even the high and powerful JJ Maybank could get a piece of that.”

The guys around JJ and Raymond chuckle and nod in agreement, hearing the stories of how you’d reject every single guy that’s ever asked you out. Sometimes you’d go on a few dates, trying to push yourself out of your comfort zone, but then things would quickly become too much, and you’d get overwhelmed. 

JJ didn’t like the way Raymond talked about you or how the others laughed at your expense. His hands clenched into fists, tempted to throw a punch in Ray’s cocky face.  The guy’s just being a jerk because he’s one of the guys that got rejected by you, he thought. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” JJ shakes his head and ties his apron around his waist to distract his hands.

“No?” Raymond challenges him. “You think I’m wrong? You think you could pull the infamous Hybrid over there?”

JJ glances back through the window. You’re looking at your grandma with a clearly forced grin. You’re twirling your hair between your fingers, a habit you picked up when you were little to do when you’re bored. JJ would find you doing that in school all the time. 

You’re gorgeous, he thought. It’s no wonder that almost every guy on this island has tried to make a pass on you, including JJ himself, but his remarks always come off as playful, afraid of actually telling you how he feels about you. His fantasies about you went further than just getting you between the sheets. He could picture getting married, having children, and growing old together. Years ago, the two of you would talk about your future. Neither one of you cared about money or fancy jobs. All you wanted was to be free - of this island, of each other’s families, of responsibilities placed on you from birth. You hold the same values as JJ, and he’s never met another person like you. 

But JJ has a hard exterior. No one other than his best friends know his true heart, and he wasn’t going to let someone like Raymond Easterling find out about his soft spot for you. He would never hear the end of it.

JJ looks at you one last time. You’re talking to Rory, your face in his direction. This time you’re smiling, probably discussing something other than your grandparent’s expectations of you. He’d kill to see that smile every single day.

What’s the worst that could happen? You reject him? Yeah, that might kill JJ inside, but maybe you’d still be his friend, or continue to be acquaintances like you are now. As long as he gets to see you, he’d be okay. There was always the future. But who knows? Maybe you’d say yes? He’ll never know unless he tries. Right?

JJ fakes the same cocky grin that Raymond wears. “I haven’t failed yet.”

The guys around him whistle and shake their heads with smiles. 

“All right, Maybank. Let’s make a bet. I’ll give you one hundred dollars to get Y/N Y/L/N in the sack by the fourth of July.”

JJ scoffs. “You like giving away free money?” He ignored his racing heart at the thought of being that intimate with you.

Raymond nods. “Okay. Let’s put your money where your mouth is. Get her to say ‘I love you’ by the end of the season and I’ll raise you an extra hundred and cover all your dishwasher shifts in September.”

JJ raises his brows with surprise. No one offers to take the dishwashing shift. Sometimes the boys are pulled back there when the kitchen is short staffed and it’s easily one of the worst jobs at the Club.

This bet was almost too good of an opportunity to pass up. “Deal.” JJ says.

The boys shake hands on it and the other guys whisper to each other about how intrigued they are to see this play out.

JJ wipes his sweaty palms against his apron and pushes the door open to approach your table, hoping he can hear you over his thudding heart. 

“Good evening folks. May I take those empty plates out of your way?”

You look up at the voice you know so well and a smile raises on your lips. JJ meets your eyes and he winks at you, splattering your heart in flutters. 

“Please.” Your grandmother pushes her plate away from her, stuffed with filet and red wine.

“JJ,” Your mom grins up at him. Growing up, your mom always had a soft spot for the blonde Pogue. She’s heard the stories about his father, mostly from Steve, who actually grew up with Luke Maybank, his cousin. As a child, he was sent to live with Luke Maybank and his single father. Lets just say, he’s not surprised by the way Luke turned out. “Look at you. You’re all grown up now. Last time I saw you, Y/N was still pushing your head in the sand for stealing her popsicle.”

“Yeah. I quickly learned no one should mess with Y/N and her food,” JJ says.

“Never stopped you though,” You smirk at him.

“Lorelai. Who is this?” Your grandma asks, disregarding the boy himself.

“Mom,” Lorelai gives her mom a warning look. “This is JJ Maybank. He went to school with Y/N and Rory.” Lorelai knew to play it safe with her wording. She didn’t know where you and JJ stood. It’s been so long since you’ve seen him and she knew better than to ask. 

“Nice to meet you,” JJ says politely. “I’d shake your hand but mine are kinda full.” He motions to the plates in his hand.

“That’s quite all right.” Your grandma’s smile is so forced, it makes you uncomfortable. 

“I won’t hold you up. Has your server been around with the dessert menu?” JJ looks at you. “We have chocolate cake tonight.”

Heat rushes up your neck. Not because of the cake itself but because JJ remembered your favorite dessert. Chocolate cake with chocolate frosting and chocolate sprinkles. It was safe to save you were a choco-holic. The boys use to make it for you every year for your birthday. It usually came out burnt, none of them ever remembering how to properly make it. But it was all you needed to feel like a very special girl. 

“Your favorite,” Rory elbows you.

Your grandma cringes. “Sounds like diabetes on a plate.”

“Mom,” Lorelai scolds. 

“What?” She asks, not understanding the concept of a filter.

Now heat rushes to your cheeks for an entire different reason. “He did. We’re not doing dessert tonight. Thank you, though.”

JJ nods but feels disappointed by the way your face flinched at your grandmother’s comment. 

“My pleasure,” He says like he was taught to do and excuses himself to drop the plates off in the back before he can say anything else that would probably get him fired.

Your mom looks at your with raised brows. “He’s cute, honey.”

“Lorelai, please. He’s the busboy,” Your grandma says.

“He’s a good kid, Mom.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” You stand up. “I have to use the restroom.”

Rory gives you a knowing grin as you walk away from the table. When you walk into the hallway between the dining area and the front lobby, you immediately feel like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. Sometimes just the presence of your grandparents and their pompous judgements can be suffocating. You do your best to bite your tongue around them, excusing yourself when you feel yourself getting heated. 

JJ catches a glimpse of your light blue dress out of the corner of his eye when he rounds the corner to collect the plates off a different table. He looks over his shoulder at Raymond, who’s staring at the blonde watching you, and winks.

“Hey, Y/N,” JJ says, walking up to you.

You look up from your phone and immediately smile. “Hey. I was actually hoping I’d catch you out here.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” You nervously tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. “I’m sorry about my grandmother. She can be...”

JJ shakes his head. “Hey. It’s okay. I work for Kooks almost every single day. I’m use to it.”

You sigh. “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“Don’t apologize for something you can’t control,” JJ says. “Besides, that’s probably the nicest she’s ever been to me.”

You hide your face in your hands. “Stop. You’re making it worse.”

JJ laughs and takes your wrists in his hands, slowly pulling them away from your face. Your eyes shoot up to his, immediately feeling a tingling feeling run through your skin, straight to your heart. 

“It’s okay. I promise,” He says softly. His voice is so sincere that you have no other option but to believe him. It almost makes your feel guiltier, wondering how much bullshit he’s been through with ungrateful Kooks that it’s so easy for him to forgive and forget.

“Okay,” Your voice is a whisper, taken off guard by how close he is to you and how he still hasn't let go of your hands. 

In that same moment, JJ realizes he’s still holding you and gently removes his hands. He coughs awkwardly and scratches the back of his neck, where sweat begins to bubble. Why is he so nervous?

“So um...” You say, suddenly feeling nervous too. “You going to John B’s tonight?”

JJ’s eyes shoot up in surprise. How did you know that? “Yeah. I’m heading over there after work.”

“I saw him and Pope at Heywards earlier today and they invited me over. I wasn’t sure if I should come or not.”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

Because it’s different now, you wanted to say. But you didn’t because you feel like the elephant in the room would only grow. And you didn’t want to admit you were nervous to meet Kie and Sarah outside of school. 

You shrug. “I don’t know.”

“You should definitely come. The boys miss you.”

You pretend like a little piece of your heart didn’t just break when JJ didn’t say ‘we.’ 

“What time do you get off of work?”

“Around 9ish.”

You nod. “I can pick you up if you’d like and we could go together?”

Your heart races after you suggest it. What if he says no? Why were you feeling this way? This is the same kid you use to make fun of for pouring milk into his bowl before his cereal. 

“Yeah. That’d be perfect.”

“Great!” Your phone pings with a text from Rory, telling you that your grandparents are wondering where you are. “Shit. I have to get back. I’ll see you at nine?”

“See you then,” JJ nods and turns back to the kitchen. When his eyes meet Raymond’s, he’s reminded of what he agreed to. Almost surprised how quickly he forgot about it. You were able to take his mind off of anything without even trying. He clears his throat to get rid of the giddy grin he was wearing after talking to you, wanting to look tough and casual in front of his coworker. “Easy.” He says to him. But that felt anything but easy. He could vomit with nerves.

“There’s still plenty of time for you to screw up, Maybank.”

JJ huffs. He’s not wrong. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

You drive up to the front of the country club and park in front of the main entrance. It’s 8:57. You’re early and will look eager. So you wait until 9:06 to text him that you’re here.

You changed into a pair of dark washed denim shorts, a yellow cropped tube top, a grey flannel, and navy converse. You changed your outfit about four times before deciding on your first one, not wanting to look too casual or too dressed up. 

For the last three years, you wondered when the four of you would get back together as a group. You wondered if it would ever happen. And now that two Kooks are involved, you feel more nervous than excited.

You jump when the passenger seat door opens, lost in the depth of your own head. JJ smiles, not seeing your reaction.”Cool ride,” he says and looks around the interior. 

“Thanks,” you say, pulling out into the road.

“I got you something,” JJ says.

You glance at him with furrowed brows. What could he have possibly gotten you since you saw him last? A book mark from the Country Club’s gift shop?

JJ reaches into his backpack and pulls out a plate with clear wrap around it. Your mouth drops when you see the chocolate cake on a plate in his hands, the smell immediately hitting your nose with pure delight.

“You saved me a piece?” You jump in your seat excitedly.

“Had to hide it good too or else Miss Carol would have had my ass handed to me,” JJ jokes and even pulls out two forks. He undoes the wrapping and cuts off a piece. He waits until you hit a stop sign and says, “Open up.”

You look at him and immediately open your mouth. He gently places the fork between your lips and you take the piece of cake off with your teeth. Like a baby.

Your eyes close with pure pleasure. “Oh my god. That’s amazing.”

“Miss Carol does know how to bake a mean cake,” JJ says and takes a bite of his own.

“Another one,” You say, glancing at the cake again. Like you said, choco-holic. “Please.” You say when JJ teases you by holding the fork away from you.

JJ laughs. “I like hearing you beg.”

You slap him in the arm with the back of your hand. “In your dreams, Maybank.”

“You got that right, Y/L/N.”

The two of you finish the cake with only a few bites each. Small but rich in chocolate that leaves you craving more. You were gonna have to meet this Miss Carol woman. 

After he puts the plate back in his bag, JJ reaches for the aux cord, but you quickly slap his hand away. “Hey. What do you think you’re doing?”

“You’re seriously gonna make me listen to this the entire way to John B’s?”

You scoff. “I’ll have you know Blink-182 is one of my favorite bands.”

“It’s also soccer moms’ favorite band,” JJ laughs at you.

You turn up the volume, blasting ‘All the Small Things’ and point to your ear. “Sorry. Can’t hear you!”

JJ rolls his eyes but laughs along with you, even bopping his head to the beat. You drive with the windows down, dancing and singing along to a bunch of throwback songs with JJ as if the two of you have been doing this forever. 

You pull up to John B’s and park behind his dad’s old van, better known as The Twinkie. When you turn down the music, JJ looks at you with a shake in his head. “Next time, I’m driving.”

“What was wrong with my driving?”

“We’re in the Outer Banks, Sparky, not NASCAR.”

You scoff and follow behind JJ who’s leading the way up John B’s driveway. As you get closer, you smell the smoky scent of a bonfire nearby and eventually hear John B’s laugh mixed in with a female’s. Your smile falters as nerves gather in the pit of your stomach. 

“What’s wrong?” JJ asks.

“Nothing,” You say, but JJ easily catches your lie and gives you a knowing look. “What if they don’t like me?”

“Who? Pope and John B? I’m pretty sure they like you more than me even after three years -”

“Not them, you idiot,” You shove him playfully by the shoulder as you two let yourselves inside. “Sarah and Kie.”

“Don’t you go to school with them?”

“Yeah, but we don’t talk,” You say quietly, not wanting them to hear you.

“Hm.”

“What?” JJ shrugs. “Nothing. I just didn’t think you cared about what other people thought.”

“I don’t,” You say quickly. “But they're your best friends. It’s different.”

“You don’t need their approval. You technically were here first.”

“Yeah, but I’ve been replaced,” You try to say it as a joke and even throw a smirk in there. 

But JJ stops in his track and looks at you seriously. “No one can replace you. Not even if they tried.”

You open your mouth to respond, but you’re at a loss for words. It’s not a common occurrence that JJ gets all serious on you. Warmth covers you like a blanket and the longer he holds your stare, the weaker your knees become. 

“JJ! Is that you?” John B calls out from the backyard.

“Yeah,” JJ yells back. He opens the fridge in John B’s kitchen. “Want a beer?” He offers to you.

You shake your head. “No thanks.”

For the first time, you take in John B’s home. It looks the same as it did three years ago, only a lot messier. The pull out couch looks like its been used recently with blankets and sheets tossed about on it. Empty beer cans and cigarette butts are thrown messily on the coffee tables and the air smells faintly of old marijuana. 

JJ leads you out to the back where four people are gathered around a fire. Three out of the four immediately smile when the two of you approach them, but Kie’s eyes narrow and her head tilts with confusion.

Shit, you think. 

“You came!” Pope laughs and hops up from his beach chair and embraces you in a hug.

You laugh, not expecting the embrace, but welcoming it all the same. John B’s next, giving you a quick hug and shaking his head.

“I gotta say, I didn’t think you were going to come,” John B says.

“You can thank me for that later,” JJ says jokingly.

“Actually when I heard JJ was coming, I almost changed my mind and stayed home,” You joke and smirk JJ’s way.

“Just like old times,” Pope says, looking between you and the blonde. The banter felt like the yall never separated in the first place. 

“Hey, you know Sarah and Kie, right?” John B points to the girls. Sarah stands up to say hi, and eventually Kie follows her, not wanting to look rude, but stays off to the side, keeping her distance.

“Yeah,” You wave awkwardly. 

“Hey!” Sarah says sweetly. “I didn’t realize you guys use to all hang out.”

“Y/N grew up down the street,” JJ explains and sips at his beer. 

“You want a drink or something?” Pope asks you, not knowing JJ already did.

“No thank you,” You say again.

“You don’t drink?” Kie asks. It was the first thing she’s said to you.

“Not usually,” You say and hold her stare. You try to get a read on her, but she’s had to get a tell on. You can’t tell if she just doesn’t like you or just doesn’t know you. Either way, it makes you uneasy. 

“Here, I’ll go grab you a chair,” Pope says and walks to the side of the house to grab another beat up beach chair. 

As the night goes on, you feel the tension in your shoulders loosen and your body feel lighter. Most of the night was spent retelling childhood stories the four of you shared. Sarah would laugh at most of them, occasionally rolling her eyes at her boyfriend from the stupid shit he would do, although it sounds like he’s no different to you now. 

You talked about the time you and JJ stole a golf cart for a joy ride on Figure Eight, or when you and John B pranked Pope by putting a dead fish in his locker, or how you and John B learned how to play guitar from youtube tutorials. 

Midnight came around quickly and exhaustion was slowly taking over your body. It’s been a long day between the cafe flooding, dinner with your grandparents, and now this. 

JJ was the first to notice you slowly fading. 

“You okay?” He asks you quietly as everyone else is caught up in conversation. 

“Yeah,” You say, lazily grinning at him. 

“We can leave if you want,” He says.

“You’re not staying?” You ask. It sounded like everyone was planning to spend the night here. And as much as you wanted to, you just didn’t feel comfortable enough yet. 

JJ shrugs. “My dad’s out of town tonight. It’ll be nice to have the house to myself.” Before you can say anything, he stands and brushes his hands against his pants. “All right, losers. We’re out of here.”

“Aw, you’re leaving?” Sarah pouts.

“Yeah, I’m beat and Y/N’s my ride home,” JJ says.

You were glad he didn’t call you out for being tired. You didn’t want to look lame in front of everybody, especially Kie.

“Thanks for having me,” You say to everyone. It might have been John B’s house, but it was everyone’s night you intruded on.

John B stands up to hug you. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

You nod. “I won’t. I promise.”

Pope hugs you next. “Text me when you get back safe.”

“I will.”

“Bye!” Sarah waves and Kie exhales a ring of smoke from her blunt.

You wave at them before following JJ back to your car. 

“Nuh-uh-uh,” JJ says. You didn’t realize you both walked to the driver’s side.

“What? No.”

JJ nods and holds his hands out for your keys. “I’m not dying tonight.” 

“You’ve been drinking and smoking all night,” You say. You didn’t think JJ was drunk or even that high, but you were not going to let a teenager with an ounce of alcohol in his system get behind the wheel. “Next time. For now, hold on to the cupholder.”

JJ sighs dramatically and goes to the other side of the car and hops in the passenger seat. 

This time you keep the music quiet, listening to the hum of the radio instead of your phone. 

“Take a left,” JJ says.

“JJ, I know where you live. And it’s not left.”

“Don’t you trust me?” 

You snicker. “Not in the slightest.”

JJ rolls his eyes. “Just take the left.”

You hold your hands up in surrender and take the left turn. He directs you for a couple more miles until he has you park in front of a 24 hour diner. 

“What are we doing here?” You ask.

“I’m in the mood for a milkshake.”

“We just had cake!” You say.

“Come on, Sparky. Show me what that mouth can do,” JJ smirks. 

You go to hit him again but he takes off running to the front entrance and pulls the door open. You chase after him, almost running into his back at the front host stand where JJ safely smirks at you in triumph.

“Two please,” He says to the hostess. 

The old cranky woman leads you to a booth off to the side next to a window without a word. 

A couple minutes later, a waitress walks by and asks if you’re ready to order. 

“Yes. One chocolate milkshake and one black and white milkshake,” JJ orders for both of you, already knowing what flavor you’d want.

“And fries, please.” You say. The waitress nods, takes your menus, and walks off. JJ raises his brow at the extra order. “What?” You shrug. “Just showing you what my mouth can do.”

JJ scoffs. “What a tease.” 

You playfully kick his shin under the table.

“Did you have fun tonight?” JJ asks.

“Yeah,” You answer. “Felt like old times. The girls are nice too.”

You were about to only mention Sarah, but you didn’t want to cause any issues with Kie. Not yet at least. Maybe she just needed time to warm up to you.

“See? I told you they wouldn’t bite.”

A couple minutes later, the waitress comes back with your milkshakes and fries. 

“How’s John B doing? You know, with the whole Big John thing?” You ask delicately, unsure of how JJ would react to you pestering about John B’s business. “I didn’t want to ask and bring the mood down,” You explain yourself although you don’t need to.

JJ shrugs. “He’s in denial I think. Won’t sign a death certificate until he sees a body. He could be worse, though.”

“Yeah,” You say softly. You don’t know what you would do if you were in that situation. In a way you felt lucky that you never knew your dad at all. It would be harder to lose him, knowing who he was.

You take a fry and dip it into your milkshake before taking a bite. This makes JJ freeze and look at you like you have two heads. 

“What?” You say with your mouth full.

“I can’t believe you just did that.”

“Don’t knock it till you try it,” You say and give him a look to do it.

JJ reluctantly picks up the fry and dunks it into his milkshake. He looks at the fry questioningly before popping it into his mouth. Somehow the sweetness of the milkshake and the saltiness of the french fry complement each other beautifully and his widen in pleasant surprise. 

“Oh wow,” JJ says.

“Told you,” You smirk.

You spend the next hour catching up, trying to fit the last three years into an hour. JJ does most of the talking because you want to know more about what John B, Pope, and JJ have been up to. Your life was so boring and depressing, you didn’t want to bore JJ with the details.

You drive JJ home and talk for a few minutes more when you park. He seems to be procrastinating getting out of the car, but you don’t mind. You could talk to him all night, suddenly not feeling tired anymore.

“All right. I’ll let you get home before the sun rises,” He says and opens the door. He pauses when his feet hit the ground and he looks back at you. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“I have to work at the shop, why?”

“Well, there’s a storm coming in. John B and I might go out to surf the surge before it hits. You still surf?”

You scoff. “Do I still surf?”

JJ holds his hands up in surrender. “Just checking. You think you can handle the surge?”

“Let’s not forget who the better surfer is, JJ.”

“I didn’t. It’s still me.”

“You wish.”

“So I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Now you have a point to prove. You have to show JJ that you’re still the better surfer. 

“I'll see you tomorrow,” You agree. 

“Great, it’s a date.” He winks and shuts the door before you can tell him otherwise. 

You giggle to yourself as JJ walks up the front yard and stay there until he you see he gets in safely. 

You pull out of the driveway, wishing he had asked you out on a real date. One that didn’t involve John B.

Tag list: @super-funky-bisexual​ @sunsetswithjj​ @moniamaybank​ @throwawayfish​ @poguestyle17​ @5am-cigarette​ @jjpouggues​ @fly-away-from-here​ @buckys2thicc​

[t-o-m-hollands]

Summary: It’s the late summer of 2004. You are set to travel across the country for university and your best friend Tom is staying behind. You spend your last night together before you leave. 

Themes: Friends to lovers, love confessions, first love. 

Warnings: Drinking beer. One mention of smoking weed. Mentions of parents fighting and also implied neglectful parents. Smut (+18), two spanks?? otherwise pretty tame.  

Word count: 3,4 k

Notes: I don’t know, this might be a bit different? Or it might just feel that way to me. It’s very reminiscent of teenage years and first love and nostalgia. Please let me know your thoughts, I’m genuinely not sure what to think about this one. 

Massive thank you to @augustholland​ who read through it and very kindly reassured me that it wasn’t bad 💖

Also, this fic was inspired by the Phoebe Bridgers song. I’ve never actually listened to it but it keeps showing up in my recommendation and i like the title of it so this is what i imagine that song is about. Mostly I listened to Harry Styles - Fine Line while writing this.

You finish up early that afternoon. Wayne, your old boss, tries not to cry as he hugs you goodbye. He tells you to take care in a gravelly voice close to breaking, as he avoids looking at you. It’s your last shift in the greasy bar, where for the last two years you’ve been selling cheap beer and watered down whiskey to weary old men and rowdy students who come in for a game of pool. It hasn’t paid much, just a few pounds an hour; just enough so that on each thursday you and Tom have enough money for movie tickets at the local cinema. It’s your tradition. Like a religious man goes to church each sunday; you spend your thursday nights with Tom’s arm slung around your shoulders, watching whatever new film they have on, sharing a bowl of popcorn between you. Afterwards you'll have burgers at the fast food joint across the street; talking about the movie long into the night, sharing a bag of fries. 

When you were younger and hadn’t been able to afford to pay Tom had sneaked you both into the cinema anyway.  Your hand in his, he had led the way into the movie theatre when no one was looking. Sitting in the back row he’d sneak you Fruit Polos to snack on, his arm slung around your shoulders, as you watched movies you were way too young for.

Last week was your final movie screening; some light-hearted American comedy, and the entire way through it you fought the lump in your throat, forcing yourself not to cry. Tom hadn’t laughed either; had just held you closer than usual. 

Tomorrow you are set to leave the small seaside town behind you, the place where you have spent most of your life, for a drive all across the country; to start university in a city you’ve only visited once before. You’re not sure when you’ll return.

Thus lately everything has been laced with goodbyes; childhood having reached its end.

Just two days ago there had been the last bonfire where you had watched the Holland boys fight each other while playing football as his parents looked on and laughed, grilling sausages over the open fire. 

It was on the same rocky beach where you have spent many summer days; grilling food on the open fire and throwing back cheap beer with your friends from school. You have scraped your knees on these rocks, burned your skin from both the bonfire and the sun there; have had your heart broken over and over and over again during your school years as you watched Tom kiss whatever girl he was dating at the time by the fire during summer night parties.

Maybe you had broken his heart a few times as well. 

As the afternoon light turns everything golden you drive through the main street in the small town where  everyone knows everybody, and has done for generations. You watch the people as you drive them by. You know everyone’s name, know each crack in the pavement; can find your way home in the dark. 

God knows how many shoes you’ve worn out over the years walking down these streets. 

The radio plays a blink-182 song you know by heart as you follow the road out of the city, through the woods and up to the coast. At the end of a muddy track, on the border to the forest, stands a shabby old caravan. It faces the beach and above the door christmas lights are lit up all year round. 

The Holland family legend says that Tom’s great uncle had won the small patch of land in a bet. Unable to build a large house he had bought a caravan and put it on the lot. The old man had lived in the Shed for the rest of his lifetime, before passing it on to Tom; the youngster of the family, his younger brothers having yet to be born. When he had turned seventeen he moved out of his parents larger, more comfortable house, and into the Shed. His mother had agreed on it on the condition he took on the apprenticeship to become a carpenter that he had been offered. 

You remember when he had told you of his decided future, one late evening as you sat on the driftwood by the beach, smoking weed and watching the sun set over the horizon. It had felt right somehow, you had been able to  imagine him working with his hands, skillfully forming and bending wood to his will; his long and slender fingers knowing just how to fix things. Tom has always been good at mending things. It had been three years now and he was a full time employee at the JBT Carpentry Services. He says it doesn’t pay much, but he’s happy; and that's all that matters.

As you park the car outside the Shed Tom comes out. Standing under the colorful christmas lights he grins widely as he sees you, his eyes crinkling at the sides. The most genuine smile you know. He’s tanned from a summer spent on the beach, his hair a wavy mess; as if he’d just woken up from sleep. It’s a warm august day and the world seems sunbleached somehow; but in the afternoon light Tom looks golden. 

You are painfully aware that it is the last time you’ll see him like this for many months to come.

Walking up to him and he gives you a bear-hug; his warm, hard body pressed against yours, holding onto you tightly. With your face in the crook of his neck you breathe him in and discover that a faint trace of bonfire smoke still lingers on his skin. It all feels achingly familiar and safe. So heartrendingly unlike the uncertain life at university that lies in front of you.

Tom is your safe place.

Your parents had always fought like cat and dog and sometimes when you were younger and  they’d argue you’d climb through your window and walk all the way over to the Holland household. You were always welcomed there and his parents didn’t ask any questions, no matter how late the hour; instead they fed you, treating you like a member of the family around the dining table with gentle teasing and reminders of homework that needed to be done, letting you sleep over when needed. No questions asked. 

With the years the fighting at home got worse. When Tom fixed himself a beat-up old Land Rover and moved out to the Shed you’d call him from the payphone down the road. He’d always answer, telling you to pack up; and that he was on his way. He’d pick you up by the end of the street, a duffle bag with schoolbooks and a change of clothes slung over your shoulder. He’d take you back to his place to sleep. His caravan only had one bed, so you used to curl up next to each other in bed. On the nights when you were crying he’d hold you, and in the morning he’d make you breakfast before you both went off to school. 

Your parents never noticed your temporary absence. 

Tom lets go of the hug, but with an arm around your waist he leads you into his home. There’s a lingering scent of fried food in the air and the boombox is playing the 3 Doors down CD he’s been obsessed with since you bought it for his birthday. You tread the cherry wood veneered flooring with your battered tennis shoes, feeling more at home here than anywhere else on earth.

 “Fancy a beer?” Tom asks, leading the way to the kitchen area. “Warn you though, it's warm. Just got back from the store so they haven’t had time to cool”.

Everything is warm today, and the caravan is no exception. The ancient AC had given in years ago and Tom could never afford having it fixed. You heave yourself up on the countertop, replying a simple “sure” to his question. 

He opens a Stella and hands it to you. He isn’t wrong, the beer is tepid. Yet you drown half the bottle in one big swig; happy just to have something to do with your hands when he’s standing so close to you. Gulping down on the liquid and you cannot help but notice Tom’s eyes on your throat as you swallow. He opens a bottle for himself and takes a swig. 

You smile at the ancient gray t-shirt he’s wearing. At one point there had been a band logo on it, but it has long since been washed out. He notices you smiling at him and as if it's infectious a smile broadens on his face as well. “What?” he asks, leaning against the small counter across from you.

“Nothing” you say, smiling wider. “Just wondered how many times I’ve seen you in that shirt. I mean, it has to be near a couple of thousand times by now”.

“You don't exactly love buying new clothes either” he says, a teasing smile playing at his lips as he looks at your washed out jeans shorts. “I know for a fact that those aren’t new, darling”. His eyes linger on your legs for a moment too long before he looks away, taking a swig from his beer. 

“So, when are you leaving?” He asks, and you can tell that he’s trying to sound relaxed, but leaned against the countertop, his arms crossed in front of him, head bowed; holding onto the bottle of Stella he’s nursing with a tight grip. He looks tense and on edge. 

“Tomorrow morning”

He takes a swig from his beer. There’s nothing more to say, not really. Everything that happens now is just aftermath; you might as well have already left. 

“I’m nervous” you admit, biting your lip, trying hard not to et out the tears you’ve been holding in for days now; embarrassed that your voice trembles on the last word. 

His head snaps up to look at you. Pushing off the counter he takes a step forward, placing himself in between your legs. 

“Hey” he says, with a voice a low and gentle as a whisper, his hand cupping your cheek. You look up at him; long dark eyelashes framing his beautiful brown eyes, his thin lips slightly parted and across his nose freckles are spread out, the result from a summer spent in the sun. His calloused hand strokes your cheek. “You’re going to take them by storm, Pebbles”.

You smile, despite your fluttering heart. He hasn’t called you Pebbles for a long time. It had been his nickname for you when you first became friends, the reason behind it long forgotten. He was the only one to ever call you it, and the name had lingered long into your late teenage years. 

“You took me by storm,” he admits. 

You blink up at him through wet eyelashes. Your family had moved to the town when you were ten years old. This was the kind of small town that strangers seldom came to and inhabitants rarely left; and so the new addition to the small local school had everyone talking. You had felt like an astronaut shuffled into space on your first day, trying to find gravity in the unfamiliar school corridors. You had felt the pull of gravity in form of the brown-eyed boy sitting next to you in english class. He had given you a warm smile as you sat down next to him. He had made you his friend, listened to you and confided in you; had made you laugh until your stomach ached. You found further gravity in his home; surrounded by his family and their endless squabbles and laughter, sitting next to Tom at the dinner table.

It hadn’t taken long before you and Tom were an inseparable item; your names always linked to one another in the mouths of others. 

“You’ve worked so hard for this scholarship” he says, and the corners of his mouth tugs up into a smile, “I mean, I’m pretty certain you’re the only reason I even finished school”.

You had helped him write most of his essays at school. He’d struggled with reading a lot and found the assigned novels difficult. There were evenings where you’d spend hours laying on the bed; twisting the phone cord between your fingers, as you read the books out loud for him. 

Sometimes, in order to be left alone from his parents and younger brothers, he’d walk down to the end of the street and to the payphone there, where he’d spend all his pennies listening to you reading. You had talked and talked until your voice got hoarse; until he ran out of pennies. Yet when he hung up you always felt a tug of longing in your chest, knowing you wouldn’t be able to see him until the next day in school. 

“Well,  I heard you’re doing pretty good as a carpenter” you say, smiling up at him. “I always knew you’d be good with your hands”. 

As soon as you’ve said it you can feel your face heat up. You had heard the rumours at school; Tom Holland is a stellar fuck. Once, while you were in the bathroom stall, you had heard a gang of girls discuss it as they reapplied their lipgloss in the mirror. One of them told the story of her one night stand with Tom, how he had made her come several times over with his hands and mouth; how he’d fucked her so long and so good. You had stood in the stall, your heart in your throat; feeling sick to your stomach, but unable to stop listening.

There were girls that reached out to you in school, knowing you were Tom’s closest friend, and asked you in hushed but awed voices if it was true. If he really that good in bed.

He looks you dead in the eye, an unusual seriousness to his warm eyes. He knows what you’re thinking, knows what thoughts have made your cheeks flush with colour. Letting go of your cheek he places his arms on either side of you on the counter; caging you in. 

“There’s never been anyone but you, Pebbles. Not really.” His tone is heavy with meaning and you feel light-headed; both oddly detached from your own body and painfully aware of the closeness of his. Your heart is beating hard in your chest. 

This is a line you’ve never crossed before. 

“I know I’m ruining everything by saying this, but you’re leaving tomorrow and I’ve been walking around with this secret lodged in my chest like a bullet since i was ten years old; I love you, Pebbles. I’ve always have”.

You should speak. You should tell him that you’ve known for a long time how he’s felt. That it’s been evident in the way his eyes keep lingering on your legs, in the way his arm usually finds its way to rest around your waist. In the way he’s always been there for you. You should tell him that you understand why he hasn’t been able to voice his feelings for you; because you haven’t done it either. Too scared of losing him. But your breath has caught in your throat and all you can focus on is those caramel eyes on you, and how hard your heart is beating in your chest.

“I love you too” you say, voice hardly louder than a whisper. You swear there was music coming from the boom box but all you can hear is the blood rushing through your body. 

He kisses you.

He takes your mouth slowly, kissing you thoroughly until you can’t think straight; can’t remember any other kiss than his. Then his lips move over yours with more fervour; more urgency, one hand around your throat and the other tangled in your hair. He kisses you until you're both moaning and gasping for more. 

This is it. You’ve crossed the invisible line between friends and lovers; and there is no return, no going back from here. When you leave tomorrow you will leave knowing what his mouth feels like pressed against your.

You dig your hands into his soft hair, runs them both up his chest, realising that this is what your hands were made for. He lifts you off the counter and you wrap your legs around his waist. He moves you both across the caravan and into the bedroom. It’s baking hot in there and you can already feel sweat forming at the low end of your back. The room, just big enough for a bed to fit, is lit up with sunlight. His bed is a mess of rumpled white sheets and the walls are the same cherry wood colour as the rest of the caravan. 

You kiss and lick his jaw, his neck, his throat; anywhere you can reach you stroke him. You tug at his hair, kiss his soft lips, and nib at his ear. It’s like the gates have been opened, because even though his arm has always been a comforting presence around your waist; and even though you’ve slept in the same bed more times than you can count, his body curled up next to yours, forming himself like a question mark around your body; he’s never been yours to touch before. Not like this.

His breathing is accelerated, his chest rising and falling in rapid speed, and so is yours. There’s a heat to his eyes that tells you he’s just as turned on as you are. You pull at his shirt before he’s even laid you down on the bed; impatiently craving all his warm, suntanned skin pressed against yours. It’s an almost feverish frenzy, and in the back of your mind you know that you should take this slow. You don’t want this to end too soon, because this might be all you get. But the sun hasn’t even set yet and through the old white-washed curtains you helped put up and light shines through, bathing you both sunshine. 

Outside the waves keep crashing against the shore and in the kitchen his boombox keeps playing songs you’ve heard a million times before. It is like it always has been at Tom’s, except that for laying on his sofa and talking he’s removing your clothes; kissing his way down your body. Wet, opened mouth kisses that leave a trail of heat in its wake that have you bucking your hips up for more. His hands are everywhere, exploring your legs. He’s looking at your skin with wide-eyes adoration. With his body in between your wide spread legs he kisses the soft inside of your thighs. 

“So soft” he groans against your skin, “and so sweet”.

You feel overheated and breathless; aching all over from wanting him. Perched up on your elbows you observe him; his dark hair brushing against the low of your stomach as he kisses the tender skin of your hip bone. He bares his teeth and bites the sensitive flesh. 

His hand cups your cunt. You’re wet and aching and as you presses his thumb to your clit, gently but steadily moving up and down, you feel like you’re going to combust. His strokes are soft at first, before speeding up, making you moan wantonly, spreading your legs wider for him.

“Glad you like that,” he says, a satisfied smile spreading on his face. “Do my fingers feel good on you, darling?”

All you can do is moan in response, arching and moving your hips up to meet his hand. His movements are fast and slippery and it doesn’t take long until your close, so close, so close; on the brink of tipping over and then - 

A sharp slap on your pussy, leaving a stinging bite, and it is like the world splits into two. 

“God” you moan, voice hoarse. You’re shuddering all over; moanes falling freely from your lips. 

He looks up at you from his position in between your legs, his dark eyes sparkling. He kisses the soft inside of your thighs again. “You have any idea how long I’ve wanted to kiss you here?” he asks. “I bet you do, torturing me for fun in those short jeans shorts”. He spanks your pussy again and you couldn’t have stopped the moan falling from your lips even if you tried. “How long I’ve wanted to taste you here?”. And he places a hot kiss on your wet slit. You can feel his soft hair pressed against your thighs; his warm breath against your skin.

His lips part and he covers you with his mouth, his tongue moving over your opening; touching you, stroking you, tasting you. A guttural moan leaves him. He looks up at you through tassels of hair, caramel eyes glued to your face.

You fall back against the mattress, “more” you demand, in a voice that sounds a lot like begging. “Please, more”.

It is as if he’s been unleashed. You have never felt anything like it, but he laps you up, tastes you; his fingers moving inside you; pressing against the place that has you seeing stars. You can’t even look at him now, you’re eyes shut; too overwhelmed by the stimulation. Both aching for more but not sure if your body can handle that kind of pleasure. Your thighs are shaking, and something in your stomach grows tighter and tighter by each flick of his tongue against your clit.

“I’m coming” you cry out breathlessly “fuck I’m coming”

And you do. Hard. He keeps kissing and touching you through it; both grounding you and dragging out the intense sensation. 

His hands, now familiar with your thighs, make their way up to the soft swell of your breasts, as you struggle to regain your breath. He’s cupping them in his hands, pinching your nipples in between his fingers, kissing them with ferveor. Hungry hands move over your breasts, your stomach, your face; cupping it so that he can kiss you with the sort of yearning that comes from years of unanswered desire. 

Your hands move over his body as well, moving over his abdomen chest and arms, defined from long hours of hard work. You kiss his throat and collarbones, kissing at the skin; licking, sucking and biting until you hear guttural moans coming from his throat. His lips are slightly parted, and his glossy dark eyes are fixed on your face; his fingers loosely tangled in your hair. 

He presses you down onto the mattress again, until he’s face to face; his arms on each side of your face, holding himself over you.

“You sure?” he asks, voice hoarse, panting slightly. 

“I want this” you answer him, voice low but clear, “I really, really want this Tom”

He smiles, breathing out the breath he’d been holding and moves away from you, reaching for the side of his bed and to take out a condom from the drawer. 

He places a quick kiss to your lips, your cheek, your belly button, before he sits up. He removes his underwear and you can feel your face heat up again. Because this is Tom, your Tom, whom you’ve been in love with for half your life. But being with him, both naked as the day you were born, feels right. You know everything about this man, all his preferences and secrets; his favourite movie and how he likes his food and why he skipped class every day for a month in year nine. And he knows everything about you. It feels right that he should know this as well; know each curve of your body and the way you like to be kissed and what has you moaning and begging for more. 

He unwraps the foil package and puts the condom on with firm fingers. Leaning over you again he lines up against your opening. His eyes glossy with lust, damp hair falling over his face; his mouth swollen and wet from kissing you.

Then with a sharp thrust and a groan he’s inside you. 

All coherent thoughts go out the window as he starts moving in and out of you. The only thing that exists is his strong, sweaty body above you, moving in and out of you with slow, deep thrusts. He’s so hard where you are soft and you can’t stop touching him, dragging your fingers over his back, pulling at his hair, kissing his arms. It’s like the wires in your brain have crossed, sending out sparks of pure pleasure in your body. 

He hits a particularly tender spot inside you and the groan that leaves you is almost animalistic.

Tom nearly halters in his pace, before collecting himself again. “Fuck” he moans out, kissing your neck. His movements become more frenzied and you roll your hips under him, meeting his movements; trying to get him deeper inside you. 

He pushes himself up onto his hands, pulls back slightly; and pushes in. Starting to really fuck you. 

You can’t stop looking up at him; naked body damp with sweat, muscles moving as he works; arms flexed and cheeks flushed. His eyes are closed pleasure now. Your hands are on his hips helping him set the pace as he fucks into you with fast, hard thrusts. Without warning you clutch around him in pleasure and he groans loudly.

“How the fuck does your cunt feel better than it tastes?” he asks, panting for air. “

He presses a hand over your heart, letting it rest there. You wonder if he can feel it pounding for him. You feel like you’re dissolving into a thousand tiny pieces as you come around him with a choked scream. 

He’s so close and you can practically feel it; aching for him to have it. You want him to come; in you, on you, over you. 

And then he does, his brows furrows; like the pleasure is so intense it hurts him. The sounds he makes when he comes are guttural; almost whimpering. 

As he falls down on the bed beside you he pulls you close, has you pressed against his body, an arm firmly wrapped around you. The sun has set now, but the ocean waves still crash onto the shore, the sound of it the only thing to fill the silence part from your laboured breathing; the music having gone quiet in the other room. 

Neither one of you say anything. You knew the end to this when he kissed you. You’ve regretted nothing that has happened here, and you know that he doesn’t either; but tomorrow you are leaving to drive all the way across the country and he cannot follow. You don’t know what will happen now, and he doesn't have the answer to that either. And so you just let him hold you; wishing with all your might that you could stop the morning from coming.

***

Please let me know your thoughts, genuinely don’t know what to make of this one. 

[listless-brainrot]

Hi! I know you love Haru and I'd love to hear your thoughts on what his personality is like? Not his bending or his ships, but just what kind of person he is. He was super undeveloped in ATLA and I'd love to understand him better and write about him!

hey, i'm glad you asked!! super flattering to have you come to me in regards to this question, and i've analyzed this guy to hell and back over the course of nearly a year now, so i'd be more than happy to give you my characterization of him

granted, it's pretty lengthy, and is heavily based on canon, hence why a lot of it ties to his bending, but i'll try my best to make it so that it's more about haru as a person, rather than his service to the plot

also makes me super happy to hear that people do want to understand and write about him!! that really does mean the world to me particularly, so thank you <3

with all of this in mind, here's a collection of my (pretty lengthy, sorry about that) thoughts:

haru being super undeveloped is actually one of the reasons why i find him so compelling- there’s so much you can do with a character of his caliber because there’s not much canon/supplementary material that can discredit your characterizations. canon, however, does actually supply a characterization of him that i’ve managed to compile and accrue over the course of finding nearly every single little detail i can find pertaining to him. this includes his canon episodes in both book 1 and 3, the videogame he appears in (which is straight up called avatar: the last airbender), and even the silly shorts.

(mild disclaimer, i know full well that the latter two i mentioned are considered non canon, but i like incorporating little bits and pieces of what they have to offer, as i don’t really have any other options. also, the videogames are the only supplementary material where he’s treated as a part of the gaang, so it’s the most personality you’ll ever get.)

i’ll start with main characteristics i try to keep in mind when writing him, and then talk about smaller, more innocuous details that i just find particularly fitting for him.

haru is:

emotionally driven. a lot of his decisions are more driven by emotion, rather than logic. this ties in with his impulsivity and morality. he’s aggravated by his position in the village as the only earthbender left, and this culminates into him still bending discreetly despite the inherent risk. he does this not only for himself, but to preserve the (possibly only) emotional connection he has to his arrested father. this is a similarity he shares with katara, who’s emotionally tied to her mother due to losing her, and haru is the one to understand what that loss really means in this interaction: “this necklace is all i have left of her.” “it’s not enough, is it?” by saying this instead of an apology or some other response, he shows that the feeling of loss she’s experiencing is mutually understood in a way that goes beyond just sympathy. there is nothing that will replace who you’ve lost other than the person themselves, and he understand that more than anyone. it’s also implied that haru doesn’t know if his father is still alive, as no one knows where the prisoners go, but it’s clear that he still holds a sort of hope that he’s somewhere out there, and that keeps him going. it just takes a little bit of outside influence for him to fully believe in that, as well as being reunited with his father again. in general, he’s also pretty receptive of other’s emotions, and is quick to come to their aid.

impulsive. not just impulsive, either- he’s got anger and resentment lying beneath his quiet composure. it’s not as bad as characters such as zuko’s, but it’s still worth mentioning. i’ll mention the impulse part first, though- generally speaking, haru reacts faster than he thinks. upon being spotted practicing his bending by katara, he runs away without pausing to consider the harmful repercussions of being found out (nor followed home). he not only runs away from danger as a first instinct, he also runs towards it in some cases, ironically enough- he’s the first one to notice and immediately run towards the mines once he hears/sees the explosion and suspects that someone’s in trouble. he does this without any prompting by katara, even if the act of actually saving the old man needed some egging on from her in order for him to accomplish. his impulsivity comes to a head in the form of his most dangerous act- him attacking the warden. i’ve already elaborated on that specific interaction here, though i will once again emphasize that haru had absolutely no plans past attacking the warden based on his body language, further fueling the idea that this was just a split second decision, one made on nothing but complete and utter impulse. to bring the anger aspect into this, he’s also unable to hold his tongue and insults the fire nation soldiers and even his town once the former leaves, and his instincts swing wildly between running and fighting on a dime with little in-between.

adaptable. instead of completely shutting down in the face of such a negative situation (and over the course of five years, no less), he brings it upon himself to practice bending, accept his role as man of the house and work in both the shop and on the farm, and other responsibilities that go unmentioned, especially when taking into account that his father is apparently the leader of his village. this is where you could start paralleling him well to sokka, which i have done before, but i will make this more haru-oriented. there is definitely a lot more to be inferred with this particular aspect of him, but i will say that it takes someone of strong will to adapt to the situations presented in his episode, and learning to live with the grim reality of fire nation occupation. to run down what we see again- soldiers freely patrolling the villages, soldiers overtaxing the villagers, soldiers entering wherever they wish unannounced, soldiers stealing away people in the night without much resistance, soldiers forcing villagers to work in the coal mines to gather the coal needed for their ships, and soldiers forcing captured earthbenders to build fire nation ships. this is all off of the top of my head, so i could be missing a lot, but again, seeing haru still be as morally oriented and determined as he is after all of this, it’s pretty impressive and telling of his adaptive capabilities. to take this one step further, he’s also extremely adaptable when it comes to working with others, as in the games he fills his role as a necessary component of the gaang without conflicting sokka or other preexisting roles, and in book 3, he finds his place amongst teo and the duke, taking the most initiative amongst the three.

lonely. a snippet from his personality bio on avatarspirit.net calls him “lonely and brave”, and i think that’s especially fitting for his character. he only had his mom for five whole years after every other earthbender was taken away, and this is without mentioning the ostracization he faced simply being one, given how the fire nation constantly demoralizes his country’s benders and likens them to savages. the village he lives in also appears to be full of old folks, so it’s not very likely that he had friends his age that were even in town, especially if we consider the circumstances of following book 2 episodes with the earth army recruiters. (it’s also unlikely that his friends are alive if they did join the army- take a gander at this line from zuko alone: Gow: Just thought someone ought to tell you, your son's battalion got captured. You boys hear what the Fire Nation did with their last group of Earth Kingdom prisoners? Soldier: Dressed them up in Fire Nation uniforms and put them on the frontline unarmed, way I heard it.  Then they just watched.) furthermore, it’s not likely that haru could’ve left his little village prior to its occupation- the games imply he’d been to omashu previously, but the circumstances of the war make this unlikely, unless he was super young. given his not always pleasant attitude and sullen expression we sometimes see him with, it’s not hard to imagine that the effects of him being so alone without the connections he needs has affected him deeply.

some other things:

-he’s horrible at lying (”they’re crazy! i mean, just look at how they’re dressed” is that really the best excuse you could’ve come up with??). -he doesn’t like keeping his hands/arms still (arms are usually crossed, sometimes gestures as he talks, hands usually balled as if expecting a fight). -he’s pretty outwardly expressive (for someone who’s supposed to be hiding most of the time, he tends to wear his emotions/intentions on his sleeve). -he can’t bite his tongue (especially when it comes to something that goes against his personal beliefs). -he doesn’t know how to react to touch (katara hugging him takes him by surprise both times, and he doesn’t reciprocate often, if anything he reacts stiffly) -he’s particular about his appearance (notably in the games, he makes negative comments about people touching his hair, and there’s also. sokka’s comments in book 3. sigh.) -he’s considered dangerous/sensitive by others (note sokka’s comments in book 1, and katara’s comments in the school time shipping short) -he lives a busy personal life (works both in the family shop and on the family farm, and has probably had to work in the coal mines at some point, though this is speculative) -he’s not above poking/having fun (in the games, he’s not above making fun of sokka and his comments about benders, and jumps at the opportunity to ride the omashu mail chutes) -he’s family oriented (count how many times he talks about his parents, it is many times i assure you, it’s important to note that he’s one of the few atla characters to actually have both parents as well as a decent relationship with them) -he has a tendency to idealize. he talks about his father fighting against the fire nation even when horribly outnumbered. it wouldn’t be surprising if he idealized the ideal of rebellion (which would later bite him given that:) -he’s a part of the first successful earth kingdom rebellion. this is mentioned on the wiki, and is unfortunately not shown in the show. it should’ve been, though. -he’s dramatic. he has an entire cliff he brings katara up to just to be dramatic and spill his sad backstory. he needs to be encouraged to save the old man, but he does it in the most dramatic way possible- he really didn’t have to stop the entire avalanche AND push it back into the mines. drama king. -he is very lucky. this can apply to anyone who encounters the gaang, but honestly, given his personality and a few things i’ve mentioned above, it’s a miracle that he’d survived as long as he did without detection nor suspicion. -he’s creative. (this one is much more speculative, but he does create huge statues of katara and ty lee pretty quickly, maybe he’s done similar things before)

to summarize: he’s a lonely impulsive idealist who isn’t afraid to throw hands if necessary and is also very attached to his dad <3 his connection to his dad makes up at least 75% of his personality

[wayward-dreamer]

Life’s Lessons - Part 3

Title: Life’s Lessons - A Lesson in Faking It

Pairing: Mechanic!Dean x Female!Teacher!Reader (eventual)

Other Pairings: Dean x Lisa

Word Count: 5,342 (song lyrics in italics).

Part Summary: Monday morning is off to a bad start as Y/N’s car refuses to start, but she receives some help from Dean. As an IOU when he refuses to let her pay full price for the car service, Y/N invites him dinner. Realizing what it could imply, she backtracks and invites Lisa, too. 

Warnings: Swearing, some angst, Lisa being aloof, social insecurities, alcohol consumption to deal with nerves.

Music: Out on the Tiles by Led Zeppelin (Dean and Y/N car scene), Back in Black by AC/DC (playing in the garage during Dean and Y/N garage scene).

Life’s Lessons Spotify Playlist 

A/N: Thank you to everyone who has read so far, it’s been so great to hear your thoughts! Any thoughts, theories and feedback you have is always welcome, so don’t be shy to comment! It’s greatly appreciated! Happy reading and enjoy! :)

Dividers by the wonderful @firefly-graphics! Check her out for all your AU needs!!!

Life’s Lessons Masterlist 

Monday arrived too quickly for Y/N to be happy about it.

She had managed to get some revisions done on her lesson plans, so she was prepared for her classes in terms of content. She just hoped for the strength to deal with the kids this week. She really hoped this week would be better than her first.

She woke up as soon as her alarm went off and started getting ready. After her shower, she dried her hair and got dressed into a purple A-line dress, with a collared neckline. She wore her black, pointed toe shoes, that had a short heel, the most sensible heels for school. After applying a little bit of make-up, she fixed her hair and pinned it into a bun. Seeing that she had some time before she left, she made herself a quick breakfast, of yoghurt and fruit and a piece of toast with peanut butter.

Breakfast was a lot different at the Winchester/Braeden household.

Dean was at the stove, working on scrambling eggs. Ben placed plates on the kitchen counter, the bacon already crispy and done, on the counter already. As Dean turned to put the eggs on the counter, he lifted his arms up, as Lisa ducked underneath to get past him. She took out one ceramic mug and a travel mug, filling them both with coffee.

“I’ve got soccer try-outs after school, so I won’t be done until 5” Ben said, pouring himself some orange juice.

“I’ve got a meeting today and it might run late, so can you get him?” Lisa asked, putting Dean’s travel mug in front of him.

Dean took out some eggs on Ben’s plate. “Yeah, I’ll come get ya.”

“Thanks” she mumbled, fixing her own plate of breakfast.

Dean ignored her lacklustre response, as he practically shovelled food into his mouth. He was going to be late if they didn’t leave now.

“And then drop me off at my science partner’s house. We’re working on a project together” Ben explained.

“Sure” Dean nodded, as he ate.

“They’re going to bring you back home, right?” Lisa asked.

Ben nodded but continued eating.

Dean looked between them, practically inhaling breakfast. “Alright” he mumbled around the last bite of food in his mouth. “You ready?”

“Yeah” Ben replied, gulping his juice down.

Dean put his plate in the sink, followed by Ben’s as he grabbed his coffee. “Bye.” He leaned over and kissed Lisa’s head, a habit that he hadn’t dropped even if it didn’t mean what it used to, before walking to the door.

“Bye mom!” Ben called out.

“Have a great day!” she called back before Dean closed the door.

“Fucking start, you piece of shit!” Y/N yelled, as she turned the key to her car in the ignition. All she got back was a grinding sound, and nothing else. It would stutter and die down but pick up again every time she turned the key.

“Damn it!” she slammed her hands on the wheel as she sat back, shaking her head.

This is what she got for driving all the way to Kansas in this piece of crap car, which might as well have been held together by duct tape and dental floss. She got out of the car with her phone, trying to look up a number for a mechanic.

Dean walked over to the Impala and was about to get in when he heard an awful sound coming from across the street. He looked up to see Y/N’s car still in her driveway, which was the source of the noise. He watched as she got out, a frustrated look on her face.

“Hey” he called out.

Y/N looked up, smiling tentatively. That’s not really the mechanic she wanted. Well she did, but she shouldn’t.

“Get in the car” he said to Ben, as he walked across the street to her.

“That doesn’t sound good” he told her as he reached her.

She shook her head, as she frowned. “Yeah, I’m going to be epically late by the time someone shows up.”

“Okay, there’s no freaking way you’re calling someone else, I’ll give you a ride to school and tow this to the shop later” he explained.

“What?” she asked, shocked that he offered without hesitation. “No, Dean, it’s really okay-”

“No, no, you’re not talking me out of this. I’m taking Ben to school; it just makes sense” he gave her a pointed look, letting her know he wasn’t backing down.

“Dean, I really can’t. With Ben… it’ll be really awkward, I’m his teacher” she protested.

“Look, I’ll drop you guys off around back, no one’s gonna see you. Okay?” he insisted.

She was going to be late if she didn’t take the offer.

“Okay” she sighed, defeated but relieved. “Thanks.”

Dean smirked. “No problem, sweetheart. Come on.”

They walked over to the Impala and Y/N admired it as they got closer. She had obviously seen it a few times from across the street, but she was excited to take a ride in it. She loved the look of classic cars because of her dad, and she felt a heaviness in her heart as she thought about him, so far away back home.

“She’s beautiful” she said, as she ran her hand over the smooth finish. The sleek black shone in the sun, showing her that Dean loved his car immensely.

“Yeah, she is” he agreed, grinning.

Ben smiled at her nervously as she got into the car. Y/N just smiled, feeling slightly awkward that she was in a car with one of her students, and his surrogate dad. She just had to avoid conversation about school and hopefully everything would be okay.

They were on the main road to school pretty quickly, the silence in the car too much for Dean to bear. He leaned forward and switched on the music player, his Zeppelin tape coming to life through the speakers. Y/N smiled and bopped her head along to Out on The Tiles. Dean looked at her from the corner of his eye and smirked at her reaction to his music. Lisa didn’t really like listening to his music.

“I’m gonna go back and get your car later” he said, lowering the music slightly. “I’ll take a look at it.”

“I really can’t thank you enough, Dean” she smiled.

“Hey, it’s my job” he shrugged, as he looked out at the road. “Swing by the shop after work and we can sort everything else out.”

“Sounds good” she nodded.

Another silence fell between them, the music the only thing they heard but the lyrics to the song caused an air of awkwardness to fill the car.

All I need from you is all your love All you got to give to me is all your love All I need from you is all your love All you got to give to me is all your love Oh yeah, oh yeah Oh yeah, oh yeah

“So…” Dean trailed off, trying to find something to say. “You uh… you into Zeppelin?”

“Yeah!” she exclaimed. “Grew up on this and pretty much all classic rock, thanks to my dad. I got all his records and his record player when I moved out here. Said he wanted me to take a piece of home with me.”

Dean let out a whistle as he glanced at her. “That’s awesome.”

“Yeah” she sighed, looking out the window. “I started listening to this stuff because of my dad, too” he told her. “Hell, I got a lot from him, the car too.”

“Really?” she asked, surprised. “Your dad gave up a mint condition Impala?”

Dean raised his eyebrows as he looked at her. “You know this is an Impala?”

“Yeah” she shrugged like it was no big deal. “I went to a car show once with dad. I saw one there and knew it was the same once I saw yours.”

Dean, however, thought it was a very big deal. Damn it, just one more thing to like about her he shook his head, getting rid of other things he was thinking of.

“Well… it’s still in the family, so it wasn’t much of a sacrifice” he laughed.

“Still… he must really love you to just give it you” she said, turning to him.

Dean looked at her and saw the small smile on her face. As he thought about it, he knew that she was right. He and his dad had their issues sometimes, but there’s nothing they wouldn’t do for each other. He smiled back at her and then looked at the road. He knew he had to get this conversation back to the safe zone before they arrived at school.

“So, you’re into cars?” he asked, casually.

She laughed, shaking her head. “Only for the look of them. I have no idea about them otherwise.”

Dean shook his head, with a smile on his face. She had a great laugh and he suddenly felt the need to hear it as much as he could.

“Ben’s into cars and this music too. Right, Ben?” he asked the kid sitting in the backseat.

“Yeah” Ben mumbled.

“Lisa not so much though” Dean mentioned, but he realized that he only did that so that it didn’t seem like he had forgotten her about for a second. It scared him how drawn he was to Y/N.

A few moments later, Dean pulled up at the back of the school. They could see the main drop-off area from there, as kids yelled goodbyes to their parents and hurried in.

Dean looked up at the rear-view mirror, seeing Ben gather his things. “See you at 5, kid.”

“Yeah. Bye Dean” he mumbled, as he opened the door and shut it, the hinges squeaking.

Dean watched Ben walk towards the entrance, then turned to Y/N.

“Thanks for the ride, Dean” she said, gathering her bags. She handed her car keys to him, for later.

“No problem” he smirked, as he leaned back, one arm outstretched, his wrist leaning on the steering wheel.

Y/N tried not to sigh noticeably, as she was flustered at the sight of him. Did he know what he was doing to her? He had to know, right?

“I should go” she laughed, trying to hide her nervousness.

“Wait” he said, as he pulled out his phone. “Put your number in and I’ll text you when I’ve picked up your car.”

“Sure” she said, quietly.

She was a little nervous about him having her number. Would Lisa think something of it? It was just two people exchanging numbers, that’s all. Plus, it was about her car anyway. She quickly typed in her digits and name and handed his phone back to him.

Great. I’ll see you later” he smirked, trying not to sound excited at seeing her again.

“Yeah, see you there” she replied, as she quickly got out of the car and walked towards the entrance.

Dean watched Y/N walk away, appreciating the way her hips swayed as she walked. He told himself it was harmless to look. It’s not like he was going to do anything about it. He quickly pulled away from the curb, the engine roaring as he drove to the garage.

Later that day, just after lunch, Dean left the garage with Benny in charge until he got back. He drove back to his street and stopped in front of Y/N’s driveway with the tow truck. He got out of the truck and walked over to her car, popping the hood open. Given the sound he could hear that morning when she attempted to turn the car on, it was clearly the starter and the flywheel that weren’t cooperating with each other. He opened the driver’s side door and put the key in the ignition. When he turned it, he heard the same sound, which confirmed what he thought. The grinding noise also seemed to die down every quickly, which meant the battery was weak, too. Hopefully there was enough in there to get the car into neutral for a tow.

He spent a few minutes trying to get it to start without harming the flywheel, which already looked to have some broken teeth. He got out of the car and walked over to the tow truck, driving it up the driveway. He slid the panels under the back wheels, and then got out to put Y/N’s car in neutral. Once everything was secure, he got into the tow truck and drove back to the garage.

As he drove, his mind wondered to Y/N. The conversation he had with her that morning was so easy, and they had just met last week. It wasn’t that easy with Lisa. Having been with Lisa for 3 years now, shouldn’t they have their easy moments, too? The first year had been great. The second was a little rocky, with its fair share of arguments and apologies. Soon after, as he quickly started to realize the kind of woman Lisa was, he knew the charade was over. She was a great mom to Ben; it was everything else that was a problem. The last year had been filled with distant behavior and more arguing, a lot arguing. To the point of yelling and not being able to hear what the other person wanted. He also doubted whether she told him the truth about something that was bothering him, but he didn’t dwell on that.

If they weren’t fighting, it was mostly quiet as they’d ignore each other or pretend to be the happy couple when people came over. They had tried to fix things, but it had pretty much been useless for about nine months straight now. Maybe things would be different with Y/N…

Dean shook his head. He couldn’t think like that. Just because things were rocky with Lisa didn’t mean he could check out on her and Ben. He still cared about them and didn’t want to do anything to hurt them.

He arrived at the garage and decided to get his mind off things by seeing what to do about the car. Work was always a good distraction from what was going on at home, and it would have to be a distraction from thinking about Y/N.

Y/N sat in the staff room, munching on her salad. It was a slow day, surprisingly, and so she found herself just scrolling through social media and news articles. She was on top of her work for school, so it was nice to take it easy for one lunch. Her phone chimed loudly, showing her she had a message. As she opened it, she smiled down at the screen.

Hey, it’s Dean. Just got back to the garage with your car. Pretty positive I know what’s wrong, but I’ll tell ya when you get here.

She instantly replied back.

Thanks so much for doing this. I really owe you!

His reply came quickly.

You really don’t, sweetheart! That’s what friends do :)

So… we’re friends now? I thought we were just neighbors. She typed back, with a laugh emoji.

You knew I had an Impala. Trust me, we’re friends ;)

She couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face. She bit her lip trying to keep it at bay, but she just couldn’t.

She and Dean were friends now. Maybe that would help in keeping her crush on him from becoming complicated.

“Thanks for doing this” Y/N said, as she sat in the passenger seat of her friend’s car.

Cas smiled, waving her off. “You’re welcome. I should really see the guys anyway. I haven’t in a while now.”

“I didn’t realize you were friends with Dean” she said, trying to act casual. She was dying inside knowing that they were friends. It was like she couldn’t escape him. Not that she wanted to, even if she should.

“Yeah, since high school” he nodded, as he glanced at her. “We drifted a little when I went to college in California and he stayed here, but we reconnected once I got back. I’m friends with most of the guys who work there.”

“That’s great” she said and looked out the window. Hearing how close he was with his people made her miss her people.

“So, how long have you and Meg been together?” she asked, changing the subject from Dean.

Cas smiled as he thought about his girlfriend. “4 years. I never thought she’d go for me, so I know I’m lucky to have her.”

She smiled sadly, longing to have something that would last more than a year and a half.

“I was telling her about you, and she wants to meet you as soon as possible” Cas laughed.

Y/N joined in and nodded. “I do too.”

Cas pulled up to the garage and Y/N could feel her nerves flutter around like butterflies in her stomach, as she stared up at the sign Winchester’s Auto Repair. Dean had that effect on her, and it was scary to think how quickly she had started to like him. The reception area was closed, so they went in through the side door, after Cas shook the front door and found it locked. She walked into the garage, with Cas behind her, instantly hearing buzzing noises in the corners of the garage. She looked around and tried to spot Dean, but was met with a muscular man, short hair and a beard, wearing a white Henley, smiling at her as he walked over.

“You must be Dean’s neighbor” he said, his Southern accent, mostly likely Louisiana, thick and raspy. His blue eyes shined as bright as his smile. “I’m Benny.”

“Y/N” she smiled in return.

“Hey brother” he said to Cas, nodding at his friend with a smile.

He looked at Y/N, the smile never leaving his face. “I’d shake ya hand, but as ya can see” Benny laughed, showing her his greasy hands. “Dean’s just on a call, he’ll be out soon.”

“Okay, great” she said, but just as she did, she saw Dean coming out of the office.

“Hey!” he beamed, as he walked over. “I see you’ve met Benny.” He patted his Cajun friend on the back as he stopped by him.

“Hey man” he said to Cas, as he hugged him. He smiled at Y/N, and she felt as if her heart skipped a beat.

“Your car’s out back. You wanna come with me and we can talk?” he asked her.

“Sure” she replied. She turned to Benny and smiled. “It was nice meeting you.”

“Good to meet ya, cher” he winked at her, causing her face to heat up.

Dean rolled his eyes as he led the way, walking past his friends. “Ignore him” he told Y/N, causing Benny to snicker when Dean was out of ear shot.

Y/N followed behind Dean, as they walked past all the cars inside the shop. They went out to the back, which was a small outdoor workstation, with a few more cars out there. She spotted hers as they walked over.

“Okay, so…” he started as he popped the hood on her car. “The starter wasn’t catching on the flywheel because it had broken teeth, that’s what the grinding noise was. And the noise was sort of dying as well, so the battery’s weak.”

Y/N looked at him blankly, her eyes wide as she tried to understand what he just said. Dean found it extremely cute.

“All I understood was the battery part” she shrugged; her eyebrows furrowed.

He let out a small chuckle. “It’s okay, I forgot that you don’t understand car speak.”

“Guilty” she confessed.

“Don’t worry about it” he reassured her. “Basically, you’re looking at two new parts, which I’m gonna have to put an order in for and uh… it’s gonna cost ya some.”

She sighed heavily, hanging her head. “Great.”

“Hey, it’s all good. I’m gonna do it for half” he told her, with a smile.

Her head snapped up in shock. “No, Dean, I’m not asking you to do that.”

“You don’t have to; I’m doing it anyway. The only thing is, it’s gonna take a week for the parts to get here, so you have to do something about getting places. There’s a good car rental over on-” he explained but she cut him off.

“That I can deal with it, but Dean… I can’t-” she stopped when he gave her a playful glare.

“It’s not up for discussion, Y/N” he stated as closed the hood. He crossed his arms as he leaned against the car. He looked at her and she just couldn’t take it anymore. Damn him and his glorious face for being such a nice guy.

“Dean” she sighed, shaking her head.

“Y/N” he said, smirking.

A silence fell between them as they looked at each other. He wasn’t going to budge on this, so she had to admit defeat.

“Thank you” she said, smiling.

“No problem” he said, still smirking.

Y/N had noticed he said that every time she thanked him so far. It almost like their thing, now. Shit. They had a thing already.

She smiled and leaned into him, wrapping her arms under his as she hugged him. Dean was a little startled but quickly wrapped his arms around her shoulders. He smiled as the smell of her shampoo filled his nose, just as the scent of his deodorant mixed with a hint of motor oil smell filled hers. They both realized that the hug had lasted longer than they expected it to, and quickly pulled away from each other.

“Alright” she moved a few steps away from him, pushing her hair back, awkwardly. “I better head home.”

Dean scratched the back of his head, trying not to think about that hug. “Yeah, I gotta finish up and pick up Ben” he moved off the car and walked her back out. It was quieter in the garage now, and Y/N could hear Back in Black playing from the little speakers in the corners of the garage.

She looked around the room, trying to decide whether she should ask him what she wanted to, before looking back at him.

“Hey, if you’re not doing anything tonight… you want to come over for an early dinner? It’s a school night, I know but I can at least pay you back in food” she asked.

Dean looked at her but didn’t say anything. Y/N realized how that must’ve sounded and immediately back tracked.

“Oh, I mean you and Lisa. Both of you. Not just you, both of you” she rambled.

Dean laughed and patted her arm. “It’s okay, Y/N. Uh, yeah. I mean, I’ll run it by her, but it shouldn’t be a problem. Is that allowed though?”

She knew what he was asking and nodded. “As long as we don’t talk about Ben or any of my other students, it’s fine. I mean, this is a small town. Who else are we supposed to socialize with?”

“Well, he’s going to be over at a friend’s anyway, working on a project. So, coming over to yours will be better than being at home. It uh… gets quiet when he’s not around” he told her, but quickly realized how much he revealed.

Y/N realized what he meant but didn’t say anything. “So, I’ll see you both tonight.”

“Sure thing” he nodded.

Y/N smiled and walked away. Cas insisted on taking her home, but she told him she’d be fine to walk. It wasn’t that far. Dean watched as she said goodbye to both his friends and took her things out of Cas’s car, walking down the road. She had an effect on him, and it was beginning to scare him. He was in a relationship and had made a commitment. He couldn’t just back out because he wasn’t happy. He had to try harder and make more of an effort, and he had tried when they started going through problems, but that hadn’t been enough for Lisa.

Maybe he had to try again.

“I really don’t like this” Lisa lamented, as she fixed her top in front of the mirror.

Dean rolled his eyes, annoyed at her attitude. Ever since he told her that Y/N had invited them for dinner, she had been voicing how unsure she was of going over there.

“Lis, if you’re having a tough time with this then why’d you say yes in the first place?” he asked, as he shrugged on a fresh plaid shirt.

“Because…” she didn’t really have an answer. “I don’t know, I just agreed because she’s new here and she needs people to talk to, clearly.”

“She’s not desperate, Lisa” Dean turned to glare at her. “You’re talking about her like she doesn’t know how to make friends. Plus, she literally just got here.”

“I didn’t mean it like that” she corrected herself.

“Well, that’s sure as hell what it sounded like” he clipped back. “Not everyone has to be out every damn weekend to prove they have a social life.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, frowning.

“Nothing” he mumbled. “Let’s just go.”

Dean turned and walked out of the bedroom, picking up his jacket along the way. He waited for Lisa to pick up her bag, before he walked out of the house, with her locking the door behind them.

Y/N leaned against the kitchen counter, a glass of wine in front of her. She never drank on a school night, but she really needed at least a glass before her company for the evening arrived. She was nervous to have Dean and Lisa over to her house, mostly because of Dean. She was really crushing on him and she had to hope that she could stop herself from looking over at him in a way that would make it obvious how she felt. At least with Lisa there she could control herself. Fake it till you make it, Y/N she thought to herself as she took a big gulp of wine.

When she got home, she had made chicken alfredo for dinner, something that she knew how to whip up quickly.

Y/N jumped out of her skin and her thoughts, as the doorbell sounded. She smoothed her hands down her jeans and fixed her plaid shirt as walked to the door, opening it. She smiled as she saw Dean, trying not to linger on him as he smiled back at her.

“Hey guys, come on in” she said as she looked at Lisa.

She stood aside and let them in, closing the door.

“Wow, looks a lot different without all the boxes” Dean joked, as he walked into the living room.

“Wait…” Lisa stopped next to him, a look of confusion on her face. “You’ve been over before?”

Y/N sensed that Dean didn’t tell her about that and stepped in. Dean didn’t need to be interrogated for something small. “Oh, he just helped me on the first day here, with some of the furniture.”

Lisa nodded. Luckily, she let it go, but still walked past Dean with a glare.

“So, can I get you guys anything? I’ve got beer, wine, iced tea…” Y/N listed but Lisa shook her head.

“I’m fine, thanks” she said, simply.

“Dean… beer?” she asked, with a small smile.

“Sure, thanks, Y/N” he replied, giving her a reassuring smile.

“Well, dinner’s actually ready so we can sit down. I’ll bring your beer over” she said, walking into the kitchen.

Dean and Lisa sat down at the table, next to each other. Y/N took a beer out of the fridge and brought it over to the table, setting it next to Dean’s plate. She sat down across from him and lifted the lid off the dish on the table.

Dean whistled, a dreamy look in his eyes. “That smells amazing, Y/N.”

“Thanks” she laughed. “Let’s hope it tastes good.”

They all served themselves and dug in, and surprisingly, Lisa was the first complement her.

“This is really great, Y/N” she said, after a mouthful.

“Thanks, Lisa” Y/N smiled.

“This is amazing” Dean hummed, around a mouthful. Lisa glared at him, but Y/N found it endearing. He noticed Lisa looking at him and swallowed quickly.

“So…” Y/N started. “Dean told me how you guys met. I think it’s amazing that you reconnected, and now here you are” she smiled, as she looked at Lisa.

Lisa looked at her, her lips pursed as she took in what Y/N just said. “Yeah, it’s pretty great, but um… you know it’s private so…”

Y/N nodded, staring down at her food. “Of course. Sorry.”

“It’s fine” Lisa played it off with a small smile.

As Lisa ate, Dean looked up at Y/N with an apologetic look. He mouthed ‘sorry’ to her and she smiled, shaking her head to tell him it was okay.

“So, Lisa. What do you do?” she asked, changing the subject.

“I’m an accountant” Lisa told her. “Not the most interesting of jobs, but hey, at least the money’s good.” She added in, with a small laugh.

The conversation remained simple and somewhat bleak. Mostly questions about work and brief questions about family, that didn’t require a lot of explanation. It was a civil evening; however, which Y/N was really grateful for. When they were finished, Y/N picked up the dish and started clearing up.

“Hey, Y/N. where’s your bathroom?” Lisa asked, as she got up from the table.

“It’s just down the hall on the left” Y/N instructed.

“Thanks” Lisa muttered as she left the room.

When she was out of ear shot, Dean stood up and helped Y/N clear the plates. “I’m sorry, Y/N. She just-”

“Dean, it’s really okay. Please, don’t apologize” Y/N reassured him as she walked into the kitchen.

She carried the plates over to the sink and didn’t realize that Dean was right behind her, ready to pass the glasses over. She turned around and smacked into his chest. She laughed as he held her steady, joining in.

“Sorry” she continued to laugh.

“It’s okay” he laughed as well, as his hands rubbed along her arms.

Y/N looked up at Dean and realized he was looking at her. Their eyes met; their bodies close to each other. Dean looked down at her lips, beautiful and inviting. She looked up at his, perfect and pouty, begging to be kissed. It would’ve been easy to lean down and press his lips against hers, but they couldn’t. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t. They heard the bathroom door open down the hall and jumped apart. Dean went back to the table and pushed the chairs in, making it look like nothing had just happened.

Lisa walked back into the room, oblivious to what had happened just moments before. She smiled as Dean stood next to her. She put her arm around him and smiled up at him. Y/N looked away, her heart sinking at the scene in front of her.

“Dinner was really amazing, Y/N. Thank you” Lisa told her. “We should really get going, though. I’m sure Ben’s on his way home, too.”

“Of course,” Y/N walked over to them. “Thanks for coming.”

“Thanks for having us” Dean said, trying not to look directly at her.

Y/N walked them over to the door. “Goodnight.”

They both called out ‘goodnight’ as they walked down the steps of the porch. Dean knew he couldn’t look back at Y/N, so he kept walking, resisting the urge to turn around.

Y/N shut the door and leaned her forehead against the wood.

“Fuck” she whispered, as she closed her eyes and shook her head.

That was too close. She can’t believe she almost did that with Dean. That couldn’t happen again.

She began to realize that maybe her little crush on him was developing, and that was a scary thought that she didn’t want to entertain. She couldn’t.

So, she wouldn’t. It would be easy enough. She just had to avoid him.

That was easier said than done.

-x-

Tags: @flamencodiva @deanwanddamons @winchest09 @katehuntington @akshi8278 @hobby27 @michellethetvaddict @spngirl05 @kyjey @halesandy @440mxs-wife @stoneyggirl @deanswaywardgirl @wonder-cole @that-one-gay-girl @redbarn1995 @marianita195 @babypink224221 @deans-baby-momma @parinarain @thoughts-and-funnies @mandalou29​ @castiels-a-winchester​ @perpetualabsurdity​

[andypantsx3]

war paint | 2 | rumors

pairing: Bakugou Katsuki / Reader

length: 27,765 words / 10 chapters

summary: Desperate times force you to disguise yourself and join the kingsguard. When a suspicious string of crimes strike the palace, however, Captain Katsuki Bakugou starts paying extra close attention. (spin off of in cinders)

tags: mulan AU, secret identity, romance, reader-insert

warnings: aged up characters, some violence, eventual smut

The city was nothing like you’d expected it to be.

You’d known of course, that it would be filled with people. You’d grown up only a day’s journey south of the capital - you had seen the caravans of merchants that passed close to your family farm almost weekly, the stream of soldiers that poured endlessly out from the city walls to spread out across the countryside.

But still none of that prepared you. It was loud, louder than almost anything you’d ever heard. Thousands upon thousands of people clamored almost on top of one another, running this way and that, chatting and yelling and selling everything under the sun.

You followed the main road through the city gates, carrying you deeper into the city. The castle stood on a high ledge overlooking the city, and the main road eventually wound into looping switchbacks leading up the steep climb.

It was hell after your long walk all the way to the city, made even more so by the tight fabric you’d eventually thought to wind around your chest under your shirt, but you endured it, eager to be done. The sooner you reached the top, the sooner you could speak to a castle guard about enlistment.

At the top, you found a small troop of soldiers guarding a portcullis signaling the entrance to castle grounds.

“Excuse me,” you greeted a guard, “where would I find the enlistment offices?”

He stared down at you. “A little small to be joining the kingsguard, aren’t you?”

You bristled. “I wasn’t aware that the army turned away able men.”

An eyebrow went up. “Able men, no. Able boys, though, are another thing. Are you sure you’re old enough?”

You stared at him in question, then realized what you must look like to him. Though nearly a spinster as a woman, as a man you must look almost like a child, short and fresh-faced and soft-voiced.

“I’ve had sixteen summers, though I may not look it,” you said, pressing up on your heels. You doubted he would believe you any older, considering how quickly boys grew after that age.

“You certainly don’t look it, no,” he chuckled. He gestured to his left, indicating a small building tucked into the outcropping of castle walls. “Office is over there, we’ll see if they believe you.”

You thanked him, pushing down your annoyance, and followed his direction to the building. The door was already open, and just inside sat what must have been the kingdom’s most harried looking clerk, scribbling away over scrolls of parchment, his shirt and hair rumpled as if he’d had no rest for days.

“Excuse me, sir,” you started, but he cut you off with a long, gusty sigh.

“No, he does not have two heads, nor is he in possession of claws or fangs. He is human by all accounts, was born here in the capital, and as far as I’m aware no winds from hell have ever blown through the city.”

You stared at him. “What?”

The clerk heaved another put upon sigh and looked up at you. “You’re here about Captain Bakugou, are you not? You boys always want the same thing.”

You felt your eyebrows go up. “Captain...who?”

The clerk blinked. “You haven’t heard of Captain Bakugou?”

You looked at him blankly. “Should I know who that is?”

He shuffled his papers meaningfully. “Why are you here then, boy, if not to ask about our Lord Captain?”

You leaned forward eagerly. “I’m here to join the kingsguard, sir.”

He looked you up and down skeptically. “You must be of age to join the kingsguard.”

“I am!” you said feelingly. You hadn’t anticipated this much trouble about your age when you’d planned this. You couldn’t let him stop you from joining the guard; you needed that initial fee to send back to your family quickly. “How can I prove it, sir?”

He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Have you any papers?”

You shook your head. “I’m from the country, sir. A farm. We don’t have any papers there.”

His mouth twisted. “What’s your name?”

“L/N,” you said. “My family name, sir.”

“And how old are you, L/N?” he asked.

“Just sixteen last summer,” you said.

He sighed. “I suppose you could be. And you mean to join the kingsguard, do you?”

You nodded.

He rustled around on his desk, digging through his papers before thrusting a half hand of parchment at you. It was covered with cramped lines in a dark ink, with a small space left open towards the bottom.

“This is your contract,” he said, “can you read or do you need me to read it to you?”

You took it from him. “I can read, sir.”

You scanned the paper quickly, eyes darting over the terms outlining your pay, your meals, and your housing. You picked out phrases like one year and a day, the length of your contract, and the concerning phrase in the service of Katsuki Bakugou, Captain of the Guard and Lord of Musutafu.

“You said this, um, Captain Bakugou...people think he has two heads?” you asked hesitantly.

The clerk waved a hand. “A rumor, nothing more.”

You wondered at that, why a man -- a nobleman at that, if the title of lord was any indication -- would stand accused of possessing an extra head, and from the sound of it, a set of fangs and claws. Was he horrifically ugly? You supposed it mattered not, if he were a good captain.

“Um, I sign here?” you asked, indicating the blank space at the bottom.

The clerk nodded and handed you his quill. You copied out your name in a messy hand, obscuring your first name in a riot of loose loops, and handed the parchment back to him. He looked it over and nodded, handing over a small seal in its place.

“This will get you inside castle grounds. You’re to head straight for the barracks to the east of the palace proper.”

You nodded, and stepped back out into the waning sunlight, following his direction back to the castle entrance. The dark haired guard who you’d spoken to smiled at your approach.

“Looks like we’ll be serving with each other after all, then?” he asked.

You nodded.

He held out a hand, “I’m Hanta Sero.”

“L/N,” you said, taking his hand and shaking it.

Sero gestured you inside the palace grounds, and you set off towards the east, following a wide cobblestone path towards a series of buildings set into the long shadow the castle cast at sunset. Your bindings itched now more than ever, and you looked forward to finding somewhere to sit, eager to get off your feet after a full day’s journey.

As you arrived at the front of the barracks, you were greeted by another soldier. He looked about your age, with large unruly spikes of yellow-blonde hair and friendly features, and he seemed to perk up considerably as you approached.

“I was wondering if we’d get anyone new today!” he said, smiling. “Welcome to the kingsguard!”

You raised a hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m L/N.”

“Denki Kaminari,” he replied, gesturing for you to follow him. “You’re lucky you got here when you did! They just rang the bell for dinner.”

He led you into one of the buildings, down a long corridor that emerged into an enormous mess hall set with high ceilings and studded with dozens of tables and low benches. The din of many voices crashed over you, and you gaped at the hundreds of soldiers spread out across the room, chattering in clusters of brilliant red uniforms. A line snaked around the corner of the room, men of every stature tapping their feet impatiently as the queued up to receive their rations.

You were suddenly struck by what it meant to be here. These hundreds of men, you would be living among them, dining with them, sleeping beside them, training and fighting with them. You would need to remain in disguise for a year and a day, need to hide while you bathed, while you changed, while you bled. The thought was incredibly overwhelming.

“So where you from?” Kaminari said conversationally as you joined the line behind a pair of men chatting in low tones.

“Only about a day south of here,” you said, waving a hand. “It’s a small farm village, I doubt you’d know it. You?”

Kaminari grinned. “Born and raised in the capital! I’m a city boy through and through.”

You laughed. “Have you ever been outside of it?”

He shook his blonde head. “Only for the rare training and once on exchange with the city watch -- Captain Bakugou sometimes loans us out to Commander Iida. Last time, Iida made my troop do a perimeter walk around the city.”

“Commander Iida?” you asked.

Kaminari nodded. “Another of the nobles who took a military position, like Captain Bakugou. He’s much nicer, though. Strict, but he hardly breathes fire like our dear captain.”

You could feel your eyebrows lift. “Breathes fire?”

Kaminari laughed. “Well, he doesn’t breathe it. He mostly just yells his head off. Oh, but he can make stuff explode if he gets really into it. He’s got some amount of magic, like Prince Shouto.”

You nodded. Magic was rare, but not unheard of. One girl in your home village had been born with the ability to turn anything smaller than a cat into dust. The other kids had kept their distance from her, until she’d grown up quite beautiful. Last you’d heard, she was married to the village headman’s son and had a little girl of her own.

“The registration clerk seemed to have much to say about the captain,” you said. “Why are there so many rumors about him?”

The line moved forward as you spoke, and you followed. Your ankle rolled underneath you and you stumbled, colliding hard with the back of one of the men in front of you.

“Oh,” you said, backing up a step. “My apologies.”

The two men turned to you, the one you’d run into eyeing you angrily. “Watch it, pipsqueak.”

You frowned up at him, eyebrows drawing together. “Hey, I said I’m sorry. No need for that.”

Kaminari made a concerned noise beside you, but you paid him no mind as the man drew himself up in front of you. He was dark haired and blue-eyed, with the kind of manner that might have suggested he’d never seen a hard day in his life had the sudden spark of violence in his eye not told a different story.

“What’d you say, you little baby bitch?” he ground out.

Your hand balled into a fist, but Kaminari put a placating hand out in front of you. “Nishimura, it was an accident. No need to fight!”

Nishimura growled. “This little fuck thinks he can tell me what to do. I’ll teach him his place.”

What the hell was this man’s problem? Suddenly, it felt like all your emotions were welling up inside of you. Your exhaustion from walking all day, your frustration with your father, your anxiety at being trapped with these men for more than a year, all of it roiled inside you like the churning waves of an angry sea. The words bubbled up before you could stop them.

“Try it, asshole.”

Nishimura lunged, and he was on you before you could blink. The next thing you registered, the two of you were rolling across the floor, scrabbling at each other like starving animals. His fist caught you in your side and you grunted, hooking a foot into his stomach and forcing him off of you. You scrambled to your feet and backed away, knocking roughly into one of the low tables.

You’d never fought with anyone before, and if this is what it was like, you never wanted to again. Your heart beat frantically in your throat, every fiber in your body snapped to attention. You felt scared, threatened, and so apprehensive you might be sick.

Nishimura, however, did not seem to have the same reservations. He rolled to his feet and lunged for you again, catching you around the waist and bringing you to the floor. His fist drove into your stomach, knocking the wind from you. Frantic, and struggling to breathe, you curled your own fist, catching him in the side of the jaw.

He’d just managed to hit you in the stomach again when there was a blinding flash and a deafening crack like thunder split the mess hall. Nishimura’s eyes widened and he swore, pushing himself off of you as fast as he’d dove for you.

You coughed, curling an arm around your stomach, desperately attempting to take in air.

“What the fuck is going on?” a rough voice growled from behind you. Nishimura stepped back from you, stumbling.

“He attacked me, sir,” Nishimura said, his pupils dilating in something that looked like fear. Behind him, the friend he’d been talking with nodded, though his eyes remained fixed, unblinking, on someone behind you.

“Bullshit,” you gasped out, “you tackled me.”

Nishmura’s eyes darted back to you, but only for a second. You rolled to your knees, turning to look up at whoever he’d been addressing, only to freeze under a blood-red gaze.

Suddenly, all the talk of rumors finally became clear.

Though he had no fangs or claws or an extra head, there was no question who the man in front of you was. Captain Katsuki Bakugou was tall, powerfully built, with ash blonde hair, and a handsome face that could have been carved from stone. He stood at the entrance of the mess hall, looking as though he’d just returned from somewhere, dressed in a dark traveling cloak that mostly obscured the red uniform shirt of the palace guard. Power seemed to pour from him in angry waves, and the hard expression that twisted his features was enough to quicken your heartbeat.

“I don’t give a shit who started it,” Bakugou snarled. “I don’t need soldiers who roll around on the floor like squabbling fucking toddlers.”

Indignation washed through you and you opened your mouth to retort, but Bakugou rounded on you.

“You gonna talk back to me, pretty boy?” he demanded. “Say one damn word and I’ll fucking cook you in your skin.”

A volley of sparks lit off from his palm, and your mouth clicked shut.

He sneered at you before his crimson gaze flicked back to Nishimura. “And you, acting like you weren’t the one winning the damn fight.” He growled. “Both of you, one month of extra training. And if I see you so much as breathe in each other’s direction again, I’ll kill you.”

Your blood pounded in your ears as you nodded. Nishimura was similarly cowed, staring at his feet.

Bakugou’s eyes searched over every face in the room. “That goes for the rest of you. Now dinner’s over. Back to your rooms.”

There was a rustle of indignant shuffling behind you, but no one dared disagree with him. Looking satisfied, Bakugou turned on his heel, pinning you with one last hard look, before sweeping from the room. His boots echoed in the hall, easily audible over the stunned silence of the men around you.

You closed your eyes, the pain from your bruises and the gnaw of your empty stomach finally washing over you.

Fuck. This was not how you’d wanted to start your enlistment.

[talesfromlissom]

A-z sfw for lucio! please ! there is such little content for him!

you're right about Lucio having not alot of content. He's on of my favorite healers, despite the fact that I cannot play him for the life of me without being a heal bot lol

A (Affection) - How affectionate are they? How affectionate are you? When do you guys show affection mainly? He’s extremely affectionate. His hands are all over you whenever they can be. Hugs and soft kisses on your cheeks and forehead are a norm, and something to be expected every time you two see each other. You on the other hand tend to keep your PDA on the downlow. Your affection is mainly reserved for private times. You’re a member of Overwatch, and although he worked with Overwatch once, he’s still technically regarded as a civilian.

B (Breakups) - If they were to break up with you how would they do it? What would their reasons be? He’d probably break up with you by flat out telling you. However, if you did something drastic like cheat on him, he’d write a song about it. Lucio doesn’t like to think about breaking up with you, but his reasons would probably be because you two don’t see eachother often, or because you’re keeping too many secrets from him. You on the other hand, wouldn’t dream of breaking up with Lucio. Although if you had too, you’d probably do it because he’d be safer if you two weren’t together.

C (Cooking) - Who does the cooking? Who's the worst cook? Surprisingly, Lucio does the most cooking. His apartment isn’t very big, unlike most people who think he owns a big one. He actually has a few friends who made it seem like he lives in a mansion, but in reality he lives in a small apartment in Rio that he enjoys very much. You’re the worst cook. You’ve burnt noodles, caught the kitchen on fire more than once. Lucio has refused to let you into the kitchen unless your taste testing.

D (Driver) - Who's the best driver? The getaway driver? You’re the best driver, Lucio didn’t own a car when he was younger. You’re also the getaway driver because of various reasons.

E (Encounter) - How did you two first meet? You two first met when Lucio called for Overwatch during an Null Sector attack. You didn’t travel with the original team, but you had told Winston that you’d meet up with them. You stayed behind on the ship when the ramp was destroyed. Using your teleportation abilities, you and Lucio got out safely.

F (First Kiss) - When was their first kiss? What was it like? Where was it? Surprisingly, you guys didn’t have the usual ‘first kiss’ and then started dating. It was backwards. But it was a date you two went on.

G (Giggle) - How do they laugh? How do you laugh? How do you make eachother laugh? Lucio’s laugh tends to be very loud and genuine. He laughs at alot of things. There was one instance that includes chocolate cake batter and whenever he sees a chocolate cake, or chocolate in general he loses it.

H (Hobbies) - What kind of hobbies do you two do together? You two like music. Lucio makes music, and as you used to be a music teacher, you listen to his tracks and help him improve them. Otherwise, the two of you enjoy going out and playing soccer with the local kids.

I (I Love You) - How often do they say 'ILY'? When was the first time they said it? You two say you love each other quite often. It’s more along the lines of saying ‘I love you’ between playful kisses. But the more genuine ones are said behind closed doors. The first time he said it was when you two went on a mission and had to lay low in a motel room. The lights flickering above you, with you bleeding out before him. He was certain you wouldn’t survive as his tech had stopped working about an hour ago. He said it in a spur of the moment, afraid of you dying.

J (Jokester) - Do you pull pranks on each other? How many inside jokes do you two have? How playful is your relationship? You two pull pranks on eachother pretty often. But they’re not really ‘pranks’ its more like, ‘ha ha. You know how I said I was going to the store to get fruit? Well jokes on you I got fruit, and your favorite ice cream. #epicprank’. You two have alot of inside jokes, as your relationship tends to be pretty playful. Most of them last for a month or two before they aren’t that funny anymore. Minus the chocolate cake joke, that will probably last until you’re old.

K (Kiss) - How do you two kiss? It varies, some are short. Others are breathy.

L (Little Ones) - How are they around children? Do they want children? How many? Names? Lucio is great around children, young or old. He isn’t sure if he wants kids; however, he already gets stressed with how much publicity he gets from being a DJ, and how difficult it is for him to see you without cameras in his face. If he were to have children, he’d probably have 2. As for names he doesn’t care.

M (Mornings) - How are they in the morning? He’s almost like a lazy cat. You can tell he’s awake because he turns to place his forehead against your chest, or your own. This little fiend refuses to wake up by himself, so he will poke you until you wake up.

N (Nights) How are they at night? He absolutely crashes at night. He steals all the blankets, your shirts, and hoodies are convinstated, even if you’re wearing them he somehow manages to convince you to take them off. He goes to bed earlier than you most of the time, as he prides himself with having a good sleeping schedule. He sprawls out like a cat in the sun until you move him around so you have at least some of the bed to sleep on.

O (Oh The Names) - Any nicknames? Pet names? You don’t have any nicknames for him other than ‘Lu’, but Lucio is the exact opposite. He has pet names that range from american ones like babe, and honey. Other times he uses xuxuzinho (sweet pumpkin), or coração (heart), which seem to stick the most.

Q (Query) How much do they remember about you? Is it the little things, like your favorite flavor of ice cream? Or is it big things like important holidays for you or dates? He remembers everything about you. Your favorite tea brand, types of music, ideal dates, etc. Everything. He has it written down somewhere, because he does tend to forget most of it due to his busy job and constantly on the go lifestyle.

R (Remember Me) - What's their favorite memory of you? His favorite memory is when he came home early and found you dancing in the house, vacuuming and pretending to sing to a song. It was one of his songs as well, and he started singing along and laughed when your faced flushed so red.

S (Strengths) - What's the strongest part of your relationship? The strongest part of your relationship is your dedication to eachother. It doesn’t matter where you two are, even if you end up breaking up with each other, you’d still have each other's back through thick and thin.

T (Tall) - How tall are they compared to you, or how short are they compared to you? God, Lucio is so much smaller than you, only at 5’’3, versus your whopping 6’’0. It’s great.

U (Unity) How do they feel about PDA? What is their main type of love language? What's yours? Lucio loves PDA. It makes him laugh when he makes people uncomfortable because of it. Lucio’s main type of love language would probably be words of affirmation, and quality time. Your’s is gift giving and acts of service.

V (Vanity) - How concerned are they about their looks? How concerned are they about yours? Lucio is only slightly concerned about his looks. He’s constantly in the eye of the public. He’s slightly concerned about yours as well, don’t take it as wrong, but he just wants you to look nice. Despite the fact that you look good in everything….and nothing.

W (Weaknesses) - What is the weakest point in your relationship? You being in Overwatch, and him being a civilian technically. As Overwatch is becoming larger and more involved in government similar to the way it was before, you cannot tell him everything about Overwatch. He gets angry at first, but understands, if Talon or other organizations find out about him knowing secrets about Overwatch, he could be in alot more danger than he’s ever known. Needless to say, that anger returns when he knows that he can handle himself and broke into an omnic ship and survives.

X (Xtra) - An extra headcanon. Lucio loves the piano. It’s much softer sounding than some of his more popular tracks that he is recognized for.

Y (Yucky) - What is the one thing they don't like about you? As stated before, he doesn’t like how secretive you can be when it comes to your job, and how you’re gone for a long time. Sometimes he can’t even contact you during that time.

Z (Zaney) - How do they act when they're drunk around you? The reckless drunk. Lucio is very smart and is able to come up with plans on the dot. The thing is, he often goes through this plan multiple times to make sure there’s no flaws in it. When he’s drunk however, that second step is completely skipped, so you end up with all these crazy shenanigans he tries to pull. Thankfully, he’s easy to convince not to do them.

[scapegrace74-blog]

Ginger Snap

A/N  I was driving down the highway today and saw the license plate “I PieGuy”.  By the time I got home, this story was half-born in my head.  I have no idea where it might go, but it’s taking up valuable shelf space in there, so I’m birthing it onto paper.  Modern AU.  Silly fluff.  Claire POV.  First person, which I never write, so watch out for stray pronouns.

The shriek of the fire alarm was the final straw.  I’d just stepped out of the kitchen for a minute, but that was all it took for calamity to strike.  Opening the oven door in a panic, billows of smoke engulfed me before I slammed it shut again.

“Shit.  Shitshitshit.  Shit!”

Waving a damp dish towel back and forth like a flag of surrender above my head caused the head-splitting siren to finally desist.  I blew a rogue curl off my sweaty brow and gave myself a pep talk.

“Time to woman up,” I sighed before donning the oven gloves and cautiously cracking the door once again.  More smoke escaped, smelling of burnt pastry and ruined hopes.  Once it cleared I could see the charred carcasses of what were supposed to be vol au vent shells.  I carefully extracted them from the oven and dropped the cooking sheet with a clatter onto the quartz countertop.

“Dinner is D.O.A, Doctor Beauchamp.  Now what the fuck am I going to do?”

***

Thirty minutes were spent cleaning the evidence of yet another cooking fiasco and ventilating our flat by opening every available window to let in the moist Edinburgh breeze.  I now had less than four hours before Frank and three other members of the university faculty would be descending, expecting a home-cooked meal and polite chitchat.  I was in no position to offer either.

In a last-ditch effort to salvage the evening, I typed “sophisticated home catering in Edinburgh” and started dialing.  The first four numbers yielded either an answering machine or the news (unsurprising) that at least two days’ advanced notice were required to book their services.  Nearly resigned to ordering in Italian and facing Frank’s wrath, a woman’s voice with a thick Scottish brogue picked up at the fifth business I called.

“Ye’ve reached Ginger Snap, this is Jenny speaking.  How may I help ye t’day?”

I poured out my tale of culinary woe, laying it on a bit thick, but I was truly desperate by this point.

“Aye, we’ve a chef available this afternoon.  What sort of menu were ye planning?” she asked.

“Really?  Oh my god, you’re a lifesaver!”

I gave Jenny the number of guests and a broad idea of what I’d hoped to serve, although I was in no position to be choosy.

“Never ye fear, Ms. Beauchamp.  We’ll pick up the necessary items and our chef will be at yer flat by four.  Tha’ should leave jus’ enough time tae have everything ready fer six.”

Thanking her profusely and not even inquiring about the charge, I stood triumphant in the middle of my immaculate yet useless kitchen.  Why hadn’t I thought of this sooner?

***

The buzzer rang as I was re-arranging the decorative objects atop our sideboard.  I was aiming for the artless sophistication featured in Frank’s favourite design magazines, but instead I lined up each item in order of descending size, or grouped them by historical era.  A second buzz had me trotting to the intercom where a male voice crackled.

“This is James Fraser o’ Ginger Snap Catering.  Can ye let me in?”

I stuck my head into the hallway to find four organic cotton tote bags bursting with produce at my doorstep.  Footsteps pounded down the stairs, where I assumed the chef had retreated to collect more supplies.  I brought the first load into the kitchen where I began to unpack foodstuffs the likes of which I’d never seen.  Not knowing what else to do to be helpful, I began sorting them; green leafy things here, round crispy things there.

“Hallo?” the same voice called from where I’d left the door ajar.  Wiping my hands nervously against my slacks, I went to greet him.

Standing in the doorframe, almost filling it with his immense size, was a young man who seemed more suited to a stag hunt or a rugby pitch than haute cuisine.  He had loose tawny curls, two days’ worth of stubble and wore a faded grey henley, dark wash jeans that clung to his muscular legs and utilitarian workman’s boots.

“Claire Beauchamp?” he interrupted my visual inventory.

“Hmm? Oh, yes.  Sorry.  Pleased to meet you.”

Something funny happened when our hands met in a firm shake.  A tachycardic blip, my internal medicine professor would have called it.  There was no time to analyze this response, however, as he was already on the move.

“James Fraser, at yer service.  I’d normally spend more time getting to know ye and yer style of entertaining, but we’re short on time, so let’s get straight to it, aye?”

I gave the chef a hasty tour of our kitchen, stumbling over the names of various implements and opening the wrong cupboard when looking for my saucepans.  I blushed as he raised an expressive eyebrow, but shook it off.  I was paying for his cooking proficiency, not his opinion on my lack of domestic competence.

“I ken ye spoke tae Jenny about yer menu, but I took a few liberties at the market, based on what looked freshest.  I recommend starting with a simple salad o’ nettle and radish, garnished with a wee round of goat cheese and rye crumbs.  Loin o’ lamb with new potatoes and pancetta fer yer main.  An’ a simple rhubarb custard fer dessert.  There’s none with food allergies, aye?”

“Aye,” I replied, then corrected “umm, no, rather,” at his concerned look.  “Are you sure you can manage all that in only,” I glanced at my wristwatch “ninety minutes?   It seems like an awful lot of work.”

“Och, tis no’ much.  Lamb cooks swiftly, ye ken.  Tis why I choose it over pork or poultry.”

My saviour rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, preparing to wash his hands and get down to work.  There was probably something else I should be doing elsewhere in the flat to prepare, but I didn’t want to appear completely useless to this unflappable man.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

He looked dubious and seemed prepared to politely decline, but then his expression shifted.

“Aye.  Ye can wash the tatties an’ chop the rhubarb while I dress the lamb, if ye dinna mind,” he suggested.

“Scrubbing in and wielding a knife happen to be two of the only transferrable job skills I bring to cooking,” I joked, taking my turn in front of the massive Belfast sink.

He emitted a low Scottish grunt of amusement before we each settled into companionable silence, focusing on our respective duties.  I glanced over at him surreptitiously, envying the ease with which he moved from task to task, lean and nimble hands working alchemy where I only succeeded in producing dross.

“Ye’re a doctor, then?” he asked after my chopped rhubarb had been set on the stovetop to stew and the lamb was marinating in a bath of lemon and fresh herbs.

“Umm, well, I was.  My partner and I moved here from Boston, where I trained as a surgeon.  I haven’t yet obtained my license to practice here in the UK, so I’m afraid I’m just a culinary liability for the moment.”

It was a current source of strife in my relationship with Frank.  He liked the idea of me keeping house, entertaining and eventually settling down to raise a family.  I chaffed at this unfamiliar routine.  But until I passed my licensing exams, it was rather a moot point.

“I’m sure ye’re far more than that,” he replied solemnly, before breaking into a sneaky grin.  “I’ve ne’er seen stalks of rhubarb cut quite sae... uniform.  Ye’d have a fine career in quality control, if ye wished.”

I faked throwing a dish towel at him while we both laughed.

“What about you, Mr. Fraser?  How did you get into the catering business?”  It wasn’t polite conversation.  I was really quite curious to know more about him.

“I’ll tell ye, but only if ye call me Jamie.”  At my nod, he continued, “twas my Mam.  She was always a great cook, but then my Da passed suddenly and she with three bairns under the age of ten tae raise. She needed tae work.  We moved tae Edinburgh an’ she laboured day and night tae save enough tae start her own catering business.  Since I was a lad, when I wasna in school I was in her kitchen, watching and learning all the while.”

His striking face took on a faraway expression, and I knew he was remembering those days with a mixture of wistfulness and love.  I recognized the look from my own reflection, when I thought about my dead parents.  Without realizing it, I lay my palm over his forearm where it had stilled above my butcher’s block.  His eyes were the same hue as midsummer blueberries, and they regarded me with silent inquiry.

A timer made us both jump, my hand falling to my side.  What was I thinking, touching this stranger who I was paying to cook dinner for my boyfriend’s guests?  I really needed to find a hobby, so my mind didn’t latch onto any feeble excuse for stimulation.

Brushing my hands against my thighs, I quickly excused myself and left to get properly dressed for dinner.  Only thirty minutes remained before Frank and his colleagues were due to arrive.  

I spent more time than was strictly necessary away from the kitchen, afraid I’d made things awkward with Jamie.  By the time I finally returned, he was plating the lamb and putting the custard in the refrigerator to set.  I tried to think of something to say that would re-establish the fluent rapport from earlier on.

“I’ve opened the wine tae let it breathe,” Jamie said without looking at me.  I wished there was a similar process for blundering Englishwomen.

“Jamie, I really don’t know how to...”

The sound of the front door opening interrupted me and Frank’s nasal voice rang out from the entryway.

“Claire, we’re here!”

“Fuck!” I exclaimed.  Jamie tipped his head sideways in question.  “I never had time to explain to my partner that I hired your services.  That’s the dean of his faculty out there, and...”  I broke off, looking frantically around the room as though a trap door would suddenly materialize.  Quick on his feet, Jamie understood the situation immediately.   The kitchen windows were still open after my earlier catastrophe.  With surprising grace for one so large, he slid through the opening and onto the fire escape.  

“Bon appetit, Claire Beauchamp,” the ginger chef wished from outside, a mischievous smirk lighting his whole countenance.

I stood, mouth open in shock, as he gave an abbreviated bow before scampering down the metal ladder just as Frank entered the kitchen behind me.

“This smells delicious, darling.  We really are going to make a chef out of you yet.”

[absoluteindulgence]

HC: Hot Girl Summer with the Boys

A/N: Hey y’all, I’m back... Let’s party. This is a magical world where the Rona has not taken over the world and summertime was filled with nothing but fun and bad choices ✌🏿. Sorry that it’s long, I had a lot of thoughts lmao. I hope you guys like this~ Characters are aged up⬆🆙

☀ 🌞Mirio🌞☀

Staying home reading a book... just fucking kidding

Mirio couldn't keep his ass still even if you told him to

This man is taking you all over the world, every amusement park to every ride.

Ever looked fear in the face? Well, being in front of every rollercoaster multiple times means you have.

His true daredevil nature comes out as you both try to see who will last longer going down the roller coaster

You've wanted to throw in the towel many times, but persevered, beating Mirio by a landslide. 

Due to all the crowded lines and the fact that you're heroes, everyone lets you skip. You try being modest, but it doesn't work as the other patrons say, "Not only are you my favorite heroes but my favorite couple. You deserve to have fun!"

The willingness of everyone approving of your vacation time is gratifying, to say the least.

After spending time doing all the extreme rides, You guys enjoy all the other stalls.

Ironic enough, Mirio comes across the win-a-prize games and swears to get you one.

You try to tell him not to worry, but that fires him up more. I guess in his blonde brain, he thinks you don't want one, so he wants to prove your cute ass wrong.

And oh boy, did he.

He had accurate precision: Throwing the ball in the cup, throwing the hoop onto the bottle, shooting the paper plate off entirely.

Mirio the Assassin confirmed

After managing to win 4 STUFFED ANIMALS, 3 are for you while 1 goes to Eri.

The feels right in the kokoro~

With enough wins under his belt, Mirio treats you to bubble tea and taiyaki. With no shame, you stuff your face happy to finally enjoy food that won't come up.

"Wow, this taiyaki sure is great! But nothing is as sweet as you, baby."

Heart: ABLAZE

This goofball can't even let you enjoy your food in silence. But his honest smile compliments the moment as your flushed cheeks puff from drinking your favorite thirst quencher.

The day ends with you walking around the amusement park, arms full of toys, and finding a unique spot to watch the marvel of the sunset.

As you hold hands, a glance is shared as you two share a passionate kiss.

❄Shouto🔥

You guys are spending a lot of time reading manga and going to cafes.

Shouto lives to see you get dressed up as you let your hair flow in the wind (no matter how long or short, he knows you like the cool air on your scalp. The smile that spreads across your face is contagious as he stares at you with a similar grin)

Your beauty leaves all the other pedestrians gawking as Shouto, nonchalant but proud holds your hand.

Some fans come up to take selfies with you guys and damn do the photos look good. 

Going to various cafes through Japan has been a bucket list that you've shared since your first date. Rating each and creating a rating system. When all other plans fail, the top-rated are the ones you'll go back to.

The day is mellow, leaving you to stay inside because you feel like it. Cuddling with Shouto has proved to be an all-time favorite.

His light snores turn into light conversations. He has a hard time opening his eyes since he feels secure in having you by his side.

When you finally wake up, you cook together, his fave ofc, Cold-ass Soba. (One time you pranked him by boiling the noodles in strawberry milk, and he retaliated by putting pepper in your tea. On that day, you learned not to come between a man and his soba)

When yearning for a little excitement, you drag Shouto to a karaoke bar

He tries not to get too involved, but then you play one of his favorite angsty songs, and he's singing like one of the greats

You can't tell me that Shouto wouldn't vibe to Linkin Park, 3 Days Grace or The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus (Especially when he hated Endeavor to his core)

Shouto would give an excellent performance to Breaking The Habit, Home, and Face Down. I FEEL IT IN MY SPIRIT!!!

The only way you feel like you'll win…. Is if you rap Monster (Nicki's Verse ofc) or sing My Heart Will Go On lmao

Shouto thinks you're cheating tho because those are your trump cards when all else fails lmaooo

After the scream-singing match is done, you guys go home and drink a bunch of tea, hoping your voices aren't gone by the morning

💥Bakugou💥

If you're going to an amusement park, y'all going straight to the "horror" houses.

You guys usually go in to laugh at the horrible attempts to make you scared. Until there's that one jump scare that makes your heart leap out your chest.

You're breathless with the mocking laugh caught in your throat as you grip close to Katsuki's side.

This fiery bastard laugh gets even louder seeing you cower in embarrassment. Once he's done making fun of you, he kisses your forehead.

"About damn time, you move in close."

Now say you're not at an amusement park? You guys are going to the spa.

Not because you're tense but because it's always funny seeing Katsuki tense up when they try to butter him with complimentary things (thanks to being top heroes).

He hates going to public spaces and getting stuff for free. He wants to pay for the experience so that no one can say he takes advantage of his status.

Although it creates funny scenarios, you respect how committed he is.

His reasoning is that he's a citizen paying another citizen for their service.

Granted, if the service is excellent, the worker is guaranteed a tip (depending on the country since he likes to follow customs).

The funniest thing is him coming from Massage therapy, he's a big ol’ softie.

The cuddles are intense, and his face never changes from the color pink, and his smile is curved too high.

Onlookers seeing him smile are terrified, and yet you are smushing his face between your hands kissing him all over.

"You look so relaxed, Boomer, let's take a bath together~."

Coming back to his senses, he'll grit his teeth a little and retort, "I'm not a damn Boomer!"

He's not mad that you called him that he's just mad you said it in public LMFAO

🌋Kirishima🌋

You guys are spending most of your time at the beach, soaking in the sun and enjoying his thick ass hands rubbing sunscreen all over your body

Don't let him see you enjoying it, he might have to pull you away from the public and give you that good ole sea cucumber

But when he can't get your sweetness right away, he'll have to push his energy into something else

And ofc, Kiri has an active personality, and when you mix that with demolishing opponents while playing volleyball, you too get into your competitive mode.

Anyone playing against you guys will catch HELL. Some cried from the impact of the ball, hitting them. Some deserving for the shit-talking...

Others getting sincere apologies and an autograph or picture lmao

Everyone on the beach knows you two as the power couple, and you win the nicknames, Otters of the Sand.

After kicking so much ass, you guys enter an eating contest as a team. Everyone's surprised to see how many bowls you've cleared. The appetite is already built up, so you guys are willing to stuff your faces until you're waddling back to the hotel.

And with the stamina you've gained at UA, you made it happen. In Second place to Kiri. He basks in his crown, winning first place, and you guys happily waddle back to your hotel room, taking a shower together then cuddling.

Imagine you guys decide to stay lax the whole summer, video, and card games are the vibe.

You try hard to kick his ass in Smash and end up losing... No matter who you main. You even try random (3 times) and still lose.

"Wow, Babe, you're doing well for a sore loser. You almost got a 3 stock victory!"

His laugh ticks you off even though he's just teasing you, and you wanna switch the game. Even in the back of your head, you deem it pointless, but he still obliges you.

No tlk angy frm l0sng😡💢

When you've played your last game, you accept your defeat only to tickle him into submission.

He apologizes and wraps you into a bear hug smothering you in kisses.

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: Forged Through Fire (3/13)

Summary: Amestris. Once democratic, now a military dictatorship. Prohibition is strict; personal freedoms curtailed. All alchemists must be state-licensed or face imprisonment. Foreigners are met with suspicion. It’s a grim place and a grim time, but there are some people able to bring a little light to the world. Behind an innocent-looking bookshop, speakeasy proprietor Chris Mustang has formed an unlikely alliance with unlicensed alchemist Van Hohenheim to provide alcohol to those who want it and medical care to those who need it. When Riza’s newly complete tattoo becomes infected, Roy brings her into this underworld, little knowing the way it will change their lives in the future – uncovering the secrets of the mythical Philosopher’s Stone and the schemes of a Fuhrer hell-bent on achieving immortality, all whilst navigating what they mean to each other.

===

Rated: T

[One] [Two] [AO3]

===

Content warning for this chapter: Self-harm.

===

Forged Through Fire

Three

Riza didn’t think she’d ever been in so much pain. Not even when her father had first put the tattoo on her back. Not even when it had got infected and she’d first trusted Roy with her secret. This was pure and utter agony, and she knew what Roy had meant when he’d said that burning away her tattoo completely would kill her. She felt like she was about to pass out; the cold water was the only thing keeping her in the moment, and even that wasn’t doing its job as much as she would like.

She rested her forehead on her knees in the tub, letting the shower continue to trickle down over her back. She didn’t even know if it was the right thing to do anymore, or if she was making the damage even worse. She grew up surrounded by fire and flame alchemy, but she was being eaten alive by pain and all her knowledge on how to treat burns had completely gone from her brain. It was miraculous that she’d even had the presence of mind to call Roy and ask him to help. Well, it wasn’t as if anyone else could really help; the emergency services wouldn’t be much use in this scenario.

She had known that she was making a mistake even as she’d started bringing together all the tools that she would need. She had known that she was going to regret it, and yet she hadn’t really been able to stop herself doing it, the roiling anger in her veins that she’d been feeling ever since her father had died reaching boiling point and taking over.

Even though she couldn’t see it, she wanted that tattoo gone so badly she was willing to do anything to get rid of it, and if Roy wouldn’t do it – and she could completely see why he didn’t want to do it, she wasn’t blaming him for refusing – then she would simply have to do it herself. It wouldn’t be as easy, but she could do it.

Riza had no skill in flame alchemy. For all he thought her worthy to be the canvas of his masterpiece, her father had never given any thought to actually teaching her about the array he’d inked on her. But she didn’t need flame alchemy. As long as she had a flame. The alchemy was useless without a spark to get it going, so sources of ignition were always plentiful in the Hawkeye household. Find a spark, find some fuel, and she was away.

She was never going to try setting fire to her own back again, that was for sure. The pain was blinding and yet it put everything into sharp focus at the same time. If this was the price that needed to be paid to get the tattoo off her skin then she’d live with it and find a way.

Riza wasn’t sure how long it had been since she’d called Roy and then settled down in the tub to try and perform damage limitation until he arrived, but she knew it couldn’t have been very long before she heard a car pull up outside, running footsteps and doors slamming, before a fist pounded on the front door.

“Riza! Riza!”

She couldn’t move, let alone get all the way downstairs to let him in, and she groaned, closing her eyes. Please let him remember where the spare key was hidden under the long-dead pot plant outside. Actually, she wouldn’t even mind if he just busted the front door down at this point, although it might make trying to sell the house harder.

“Riza!”

The front door was obviously open somehow because Roy’s voice was now inside, and she could hear his footsteps racing around the house.

“Riza, where are you?”

“Bathroom.”

The bathroom door opened and Riza looked up, surprised to find Hohenheim standing there.

“All right, let’s take a look.”

He reached across and turned off the water, leaving Riza shivering in the tub. She hadn’t felt the cold until now.

“How bad is it?” Trisha had followed him in carrying a holdall; Riza could hear the clinking of glass jars inside and she wondered how much of the dispensary she’d brought with her.

“Well, it’s not good, but I’ve seen worse.”

“Riza?” Roy finally appeared, and Riza realised that she couldn’t even bring herself to be embarrassed. She’d been so self-conscious when she’d first shown him her back, but now she was in too much pain to care that she was naked and there were three people in the bathroom with her, two of whom were men.

“Roy, I’ll need you to get some things for me, I assume you know your way around the house.” Trisha was already sorting through bottles. “I’ll need some dishcloths, and some vinegar, and a large mixing bowl, and some salt, and some rubbing alcohol.”

Roy stayed transfixed in the doorway for a few moments; Riza knew that he could see the extent of the damage on her back as Hohenheim’s fingers gently probed her burned skin, every touch feeling like fresh fire.

“Roy.” Trisha’s voice was gentle but persistent, and he left the room with a nod.

“That should keep him occupied.” She turned to Riza. “OK, let’s get you better.”

“You only sent him to get that stuff to get him out of the way.”

Trisha nodded. “He’s frantic, bless him, but he’s not going to be any help in that state. What’s the verdict, Van?”

“I can heal it, but it’ll scar badly; it’s not going to be my prettiest work.”

“I honestly don’t care.” Riza closed her eyes. “I just want it gone. Can you do that?”

“Get rid of the tattoo completely?”

Riza nodded, and Hohenheim shook his head.

“No. The alchemy involved would be too traumatic for your body to handle, even if you weren’t already injured. The burn scarring will obscure it, that’s all I can do. My main concern is stopping it hurting.”

Riza nodded. Stopping the pain sounded like a good first step.

“Can you stand up? It’ll be easier if we get you lying down flat.”

She got to her feet shakily, leaning on Hohenheim, and Trisha came over with a towel to protect her modesty, holding it loosely at the back so that it didn’t touch her damaged skin. Once she was sitting on the edge of the bathtub and he was convinced she wasn’t going to keel over, Hohenheim started rifling through the holdall until he’d evidently moved enough jars to dislodge a sheet.

“Where’s your bed, Riza? I’ll go and get the array ready.”

“Second on the right.”

He left the room and Trisha gave her a small bottle, settling on the edge of the tub beside her.

“Drink that. It doesn’t taste great, but it’ll take the edge off the pain. Enough to get you down the corridor, at least.”

“I couldn’t find any vinegar.” Roy returned with the items Trisha had requested and he set them down in the sink for want of a better place.

“That’s all right. I think we’re all going to need a cup of tea after this, though, so maybe you could put the kettle on.”

“Right.” Once again, Roy hovered in the doorway, and now that the pain from her back wasn’t consuming every fibre of her being, Riza could see just how scared he was. Calling him up in the middle of the day and telling him what she’d told him must have thrown him for a loop, but he’d dropped everything and had not only come to her aid, but also realised that there wasn’t anything he could do to help her on his own and had brought along the people who could help as well.

Something in the back of her mind felt guilty. She wanted to tell him that she’d be ok. She had no idea whether she’d be ok or not, but she trusted Trisha and Hohenheim to know what they were doing. It did make her wonder what Hohenheim had seen and treated that was worse, though.

The pain flared again, bright spots dancing in front of her eyes, and all other thoughts were chased out of her head.

“She’ll be all right, Roy, I promise,” Trisha said.

Roy didn’t look convinced, but he gave a little nod nonetheless and went to make the tea as Trisha helped Riza down the corridor towards her room. Hohenheim was putting the finishing touches on the array as they got there; it was far more complex than the one he’d drawn for her infection.

“I have to warn you that this is going to hurt, but leaving it like this will hurt even more,” he said as Riza lay down. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

His hands suddenly felt like ice on her back, the alchemy so cold it burned in an entirely different way to the flame, and the crackle of the alchemic lightning raced around the edges of the array and over her skin, flashing bright even through closed eyes. Riza couldn’t help crying out with the sensation, and she felt Trisha squeeze her hand. It seemed to be taking forever, but then again, she’d managed to do a lot of damage in a comparatively short space of time.

“There, it’s done.”

There was still pain, but it was a lingering soreness rather than the blinding burn of before. As she sat up, Riza could feel the healed skin stretching awkwardly; the scarring would take a while to get used to.

“I’ll give you some more antiseptic.” Trisha had retrieved her bag from the bathroom and was lining up pots on the nightstand. “And this one is a lotion that will help the scars fade and keep the damaged skin soft.”

“Where do you get all these herbs?” She’d rather focus on that than on her own state at that moment.

“I grow them. It’s interesting doing it in an apartment in the middle of a city instead of a greenhouse at home, but it works.” Trisha packed everything else away. “I think that the tea is ready. If you need a hand with anything, just give me a shout.”

The other three were all in the kitchen by the time she got back downstairs, Hohenheim and Trisha sitting at the table and Roy failing to pretend that he wasn’t pacing up and down in a panic. He stopped in his tracks when he saw her.

“Are you ok?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

He wasn’t just talking about her back. Riza noticed that the kitchen window was open and the smell of the alcohol she’d used as fuel for her fire was fading.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Can we talk?”

“Of course.” He seemed almost relieved as he grabbed her cup of tea and handed it to her, following her out of the kitchen. Her first instinct was to go into her father’s study for privacy, but she paused with her hand on the doorknob, not wanting this to be the first time she went in there since he died and not wanting the reminders of him whilst she was talking about what she had done to try so hard to forget him in the most permanent sense. In the end, Roy steered her into the barely-used living room, ignoring the thick coating of dust over all the furniture.

“Thank you for coming to my rescue,” she said. “It feels like you end up doing this a lot. I’m sorry, I end up dumping you in these situations and you have to claw your way out. First it was the infection, then I made you come to the funeral, now I get you dragged into this.”

“It’s fine, Riza, honestly. I would have gone to the funeral even if you hadn’t asked me. And as for this, and the first time… If you hadn’t come to me then who would you have gone to? This isn’t the kind of thing that you can go through on your own, and if I’m the only person you trust with your back then that’s fine. I’d rather it was like that than something even worse happened.”

Neither of them needed to voice what would be worse.

“Still, it puts a hell of a burden on you.”

“It’s not a burden when it’s someone…” Roy trailed off, and when Riza looked up from her teacup she could see the colour rising in his cheeks. He coughed. “It’s not a burden. Riza, you’ve just been horribly injured; worrying about being a burden really shouldn’t be your first thought right now.”

“I don’t want to think about it. I’d rather think about you. Or literally anything else.”

“Seriously, though, are you going to be ok?”

“I’m never going to be doing that again, you don’t need to worry about that. But the thoughts and feelings that led me to do it are still there in the back of my mind, being ominous. I’m not going to harm myself again, I promise. But I just don’t know what to think anymore. I don’t know what I was thinking when I decided to do it.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I’m here when you figure it out.”

“Thank you.”

“Any time.”

How many times had he said that to her now? How many times had he picked up the pieces? It was getting to the stage where Riza didn’t think that she’d ever be able to repay him, but at the same time, she got the impression that repayment hadn’t even crossed his mind.

“Riza?”

Damn, now she was crying, and she couldn’t even tell him why.

“I’m ok. I’m ok. It’s just…”

“Yeah. It’s been a day.” Roy pulled the dust sheet off one of the sofas and they sat down on it. Even though it was still only the middle of the afternoon, Riza could feel exhaustion settling into her brain and limbs.

“I just feel like such an idiot.” Riza dried her eyes and sighed. “I don’t know why I did it. I can’t even claim ‘it seemed like a good idea at the time’ because it didn’t even seem like a good idea at the time. It’s like I had some kind of out-of-body experience and even though I knew it was a terrible idea, it was the only thing I could do.”

Roy didn’t reply. Riza wasn’t sure what he would have said even if there was an easy reply, but she didn’t mind his silence. It was his presence that she needed right now, reassuring her that despite everything going on in her brain, she wasn’t as alone as she had felt a few hours ago. She had people she trusted to help her. She had people who wanted to help her.

When she woke up later, it was dark, and she was stiff from sleeping in an awkward position. Peering through the gloom, she could see Roy sprawled on the other sofa opposite, and she fought her way free of the blanket that had not been draped over her earlier. There was a note on the living room door, and she padded over to read it.

Riza (& Roy since you’re still there)

We’ve had to leave as we have appointments at the clinic tonight. I’ve left some painkillers in the kitchen for you and if your back starts to bleed, weep or itch, call us at Madam Christmas’s. If we’re not there call us on the below number at home.

Trisha

(PS: Van alchemy-ed the front door open earlier. He’ll fix it on the way out but if it looks different to normal that’s why.)

Riza tiptoed into the kitchen – the teacups had been washed up and everything set to rights – and grabbed the pills next to the sink and the note in Trisha’s same neat handwriting with dosage instructions before returning to the living room. Roy had woken up too and was squinting at her.

“What time is it?”

“Just before ten.”

“Huh.” He eased himself up and stretched the cricks out of his neck. “Want to talk about it?”

Riza sighed, settling herself back on her sofa.

“I don’t know. I probably should. Most normal, well-adjusted people don’t go around intentionally burning themselves, but the more I think about it, the more I realise that there hasn’t really been all that much in my life that’s been normal and well-adjusted, and now I have the opportunity to try and make something normal, and I don’t know how.”

She looked around at the dingy living room. “Getting out of this mausoleum would probably be a good start. I can’t afford to keep it going anyway and it’s a complete dump, but really, it’s been like a prison for so long and I don’t want to stay in it willingly now that I have the chance to go somewhere else. I just don’t know where I would go.”

She thought back to her conversation with Roy in the bar after the funeral, when he had asked her about her plans. Her idea of joining him would never come to fruition, but the need that she felt to protect him and look out for him in the same way as he looked out for her still remained, maybe even stronger now after this latest happening. And with a secret like hers, trust didn’t come easily. Going out into the world and beginning to forge a new life among strangers was something that gave her a great deal of trepidation no matter how much she wanted to get away from her old life.

A thought struck her. It might sound like a desperate thought, but it was still a thought, and the only positive one she’d had for a while.

“Is there anything I can do to help at the bar?”

“Erm…” Roy scratched his head. “Well, Aunt Chris always needs people who are willing to work the front and act as security for us. That would be a good job for you, actually, we need people who are unassuming. Sorry, that came out wrong. What I mean is, we need people who aren’t suspicious. People who look like they could really be working in a bookshop rather than providing a front for a speakeasy. I mean, it would be great if we got someone like Alex Armstrong in front of house; we’d never have a problem with law enforcement, but it would be screamingly obvious that the shop wasn’t just a shop. And you know, it’s always handy for the person on the front to be well-skilled with firearms just in case any unwanted situations do arise.”

Riza nodded. “Yeah. That sounds good.” She’d still be helping out Roy, in a way, and she’d be keeping Trisha and Hohenheim and their work safe as well.

“You know, I think there’s an apartment over the shop. It’s empty and it’ll need a good clean before you put any furniture in it, but I’m sure Aunt Chris would be happy to let you have it. If she’s using it, then it’s only to store the good Drachman vodka in it.”

“I like how that implies there’s bad Drachman vodka.”

“Drachman vodka comes in varying qualities, especially when we’re importing it under the table and we only get it when one of the Briggs’ Fortress crew comes home on leave, but when we get the good stuff, we have to keep it safe.”

Riza gave a snort of laughter. She thought about Roy’s offer of a new home, how he was once again coming to her rescue, but she pushed it aside. She hadn’t asked him to help her in that sense, he had simply offered because he wanted to. At least, that was how she was going to choose to interpret it. He had the ability to help her, so he had offered his help, like any compassionate person would.

Compassion was not something Riza had a lot of experience with.

“That would be good, thanks. At least until I’ve got the house sold and I’ve got back on my feet properly.”

“Hey, even after then if you want, it doesn’t just have to be a stopgap. You’ll always have steady access to booze and gossip if you stay in the shop.”

“That’s true. Will your aunt be ok with it?”

“Yes. She knows you. She likes you.”

“Really? Because I find her terrifying, no offence.”

Roy burst out laughing. “Oh, I’ll have to tell her that.”

“Please don’t.”

“No, don’t worry. Everyone finds her terrifying. Apart from Trisha, because she’s so sweet that no-one can bring themselves to terrify her and she’s the kind of person who sees the good in everyone. Seriously though, Aunt Chris won’t have a problem with it. She’ll be happy to help, I know it.”

Riza smiled. It felt good to be smiling again. “Well, in that case, thank you. Again. How many times have I had to say that this week? I’m starting to feel like a damsel in distress.”

“You’re no damsel. I’ve seen you shoot. And you’re allowed to be in distress, all things considered. Your abusive father just died and you’re having trouble processing everything. You can’t be calm and stoic throughout that. It’s ok to need help.”

“I guess you’re right.”

Things weren’t going to be plain sailing, Riza knew that. There was so much left to go through and they had barely scratched the surface of everything that was going on in her mind, but at least there was a small flicker of hope now, a light at the end of this murky tunnel of grief and confusion.

[captcas]

Screwed (A Destiel AU)

Screwed by capthamm (Part 1 of 2)

Dean inherits the old family inn and has to move home to fix it up for selling. When the work proves to be too much, he enlists in the town's only contractor's help– his neighbor, Castiel. Dean is short on time, stuck in a hometown riddled with old flames, and falling for the man who lives next door. He's screwed.

notes: I'm halfway through season 7 and missing Mr. Castiel on my screen so this poured out. I'm almost finished but here is part one. My first ever attempt in the Supernatural fan fiction world... please be kind. Thank to my lovely beta, Luke <3 (@bawley_bug) read on ao3

At this point, Dean’s left thumb had been hit by the hammer more than any of the nails and he was regretting every single choice he ever made that led him to this exact moment.

Why the fuck did he think he was cut out for restoring an inn? Not just any inn– the inn. The one John ran before he got too old and retired, eventually– well let’s just say Dean isn’t here out of any sort of living guilt.

Dean’s not sure why he’s here.

If he breaks it down, it’s because he received a letter in the mail exactly two months after the passing of his father detailing how Lawrence would have no choice but to tear down the old inn unless someone from his family claimed it.

Sam’s not going to leave his law practice and the life he built for Jess and the twins, out in California.

Dean’s the only one left.

So, taking things extremely literally, he’s here because a bunch of lawyers told him he needed to be.

Another slam into his thumb jolts his train of thought off its tracks and convinces him to pack it up for the night. He snaps the tools back into his massive toolkit and stands back to look at the old built-in shelves he decided would probably be the easiest to tackle on his own. Nodding at the good-enough outcome, he turns to scan the rest of the main floor.

Maybe the built-ins are the only thing he’s going to be able to do alone.

Dean doesn’t like the thought of teamwork– especially not with the grumpy prick who lives next door. His neighbor stopped by the day Dean arrived because apparently it was John’s dying wish that their neighbor offer his services when his estranged son eventually showed up to fix the inn. (Leave it to his father to leave Dean feeling inadequate from the great beyond.)

“No, thank you.” “Excuse me?” “You offered, I’m declining. Debt, paid.”   "As you wish, Winchester.”   Even wrapped in the neighbor’s deep lumbering voice, Dean winces at his last name– it feels just as constricting as it did when he thought he’d be stuck in this town forever, “Dean.” “Whatever.”

Dean thought that’d be the last he’d see of the guy until he marched away and slammed the door just across the small garden. That house used to be for whatever innkeeper his parents had hired, but when the inn closed they rented it out to whichever soul felt like a one bedroom one bathroom home was enough to live in.

Apparently that was this asshole.

They’ve seen each other three more times since then, but never long enough to even exchange names. Dean isn’t sure why he’s keeping track– each time just as unpleasant as the first. Sure, Dean could’ve been friendlier, but warning bells rattled through him every time the neighbor’s stormy eyes met his. Dean may have sworn off unnecessary human interaction for the foreseeable future, but he’s not blind and his neighbor isn’t hard to look at.

But his life has no room for attractive neighbors with an attitude problem.

Convincing himself there must be someone else in this town who knows their way around a fixer upper, Dean heads to the Roadhouse for dinner and hopefully the name of someone else to help him get the inn fixed up enough to sell.

Walking through the front door of the restaurant-meets-dive-bar, the familiar smell hits him like a breath of fresh air. He can’t believe he held out for almost a week before eating here. The Roadhouse is one of the few places left in the town left untouched by rotten memories and painful nostalgia. Nothing but good ever happens once he crosses this threshold and it’s that fact that allows him to relax for the first time since moving back to Lawrence.

He starts to order his usual and Jo winks signaling she remembers even after all these years– Dean can’t believe she runs this on her own now. Jo always swore she’d get out of this town, break the chains of her mother’s legacy, but nevertheless here she is– here they both are.

Jo looks happy, maybe even at home– Dean? Not so much.

The plate drops in front of him and Dean catches his old friend lingering a bit. He looks up and says thank you and that was all it took to spark some small town gossip from Jo. While he didn’t come back to rekindle any old relationships– friendly or otherwise– Dean doesn’t mind her company and before he knows it he’s laughing and taking his last bite of burger. The conversation starts to die and Dean remembers why he came to town in the first place, “Oh! Jo, I meant to ask. I’m fixing up the old inn and I need help. Do you have the number of someone who–”

“Of course, Dean! Chuck retired, but Castiel took over, after Gabriel ran off to Thailand.” Dean raises his eyebrow and Jo laughs, “ That’s a story for another meal. Here,” she hands over a napkin with a number scrawled across it, “Castiel is the best in town and will fix up that inn in no time.”

Castiel.  

Dean racks his brain for any recollection of someone named Castiel from their childhood but the name doesn’t ring a bell— and a name like that definitely would ring a bell. He supposes people must move to Lawrence, just like any town, and resigns it to someone new since he left.

He can’t expect everything to stay the same while he spent the last 15 years trying to change in every way imaginable.

Thanking his friend for the help, Dean pays and heads home for the night. Finally having the name of someone to help has lifted a huge weight off his chest. He sighs as he crawls onto the old mattress in the first floor suite, thankful it’s dark enough that he can’t nitpick all that needs to be done. The sooner he can get the inn fixed up, the sooner he can sell it and go back to Sioux Falls and the life he chose rather than the one his parents forced on him.

Maybe it was the comfort of the Roadhouse or the knowledge that this process will move twice as fast with a little help, but Dean sleeps better that night than he has in years. When he wakes with the sun, he feels energized and ready to continue his work on his family’s property.

He decides to start with disassembling the kitchen cabinets and it doesn’t take long for him to find a rhythm in his work— four screws and a trip to the pile, four screws, trip to the pile. Lost in the easy monotony, Dean forgets his decision to call for help until late into the morning. Hoping to catch the contractor before lunch, he brushes the dust from his hands and digs in his pocket for the napkin Jo had written on last night.

He’s not sure why he feels so anxious as he waits for the man on the other end of the line to pick up, but he supposes it rests on the fact that this man only knows Dean by the reputation he left town with— John’s other son.

Sam was always the golden child— pretty blonde cheerleaders and a full-ride to Stanford are not even an exaggeration when it comes to his younger brother.

Dean, on the other hand, was always rough around the edges, emotional, and different — let’s just say he’d go for the cheerleader or the quarterback.

As soon as Dean was shoved out of the closet— his dad walking in on him and Benny not leaving very much up for debate— John shut him out completely. Dean brushed it off as his dad’s way of fighting every piece of homophobia he was raised with, but the fact is: it was more likely he was disgusted by his own son.

But that was ages ago and, from what Sam’s told him, John died swearing his love for both his boys.

Not that Sam would tell Dean otherwise.

“Hello?” A gruff voice breaks him out of his daze and he’s startled back to the present day.

“Uh, hi. Yeah, uh, is this Castiel?” It’s the first time Dean’s said the name aloud and he can’t help but notice how easily it rolls off his tongue.  

“This is. How can I help you?” The man is all business, clearly not as affected by Dean’s use of his name as Dean was.

“Oh yeah, uh, I got your name from Jo at the Roadhouse? My name is Dean Winchester and I’m fixing up the old Winchester Inn and I’m realizing the job may be too massive to handle on my own.” Dean winces at his blatant request for help, never one to ask outright for assistance, but as he looks at the pile of kitchen cabinets which need to be sanded, painted, and rehung, he knows he can’t do this alone. He realizes the man on the other end of the line hasn’t said anything when he continues, “Uh, that is if you have the bandwidth for that…”

Another pause before the man, Castiel, speaks again, “I can be right over.”

Dean didn’t really know how to respond, he was expecting to bargain for payment or at least for a delay in starting the project. He’s not used to this immediate willingness to help a complete stranger. He’s about to stumble through a response when he realizes Castiel is no longer on the other end of the phone. He shrugs, and sets it on the counter as there’s a knock on the door.

Shit. The only way Castiel could’ve gotten here that fast is if he’s...  

Dean opens the door to the man he’s now seen a mere four times despite his permanent residence on Dean’s property. His neighbor— Castiel— looks different today. The usual softness that accompanies the man overtaken by strong arms, an AC/DC t-shirt, and a tool belt placed perfectly on his hips.

Whoa, Dean.  

“Uh, hi?” Dean isn’t sure how one goes about re-introducing themselves to apparently the only help in town after being an ass before. But he’s here and Dean introduced himself on the phone and he still came.

“Hello.” The man– Castiel– greets Dean so matter of factly as he glances around Dean quizzically, presumably taking in the whole of the inn. Dean is a little taken aback by this whole interaction and the way it’s entirely different than any they’ve shared previously. Castiel’s eyes meet Dean’s and Dean can’t help but notice a hint of playfulness before Castiel speaks again, “So you do need help?”

Dean rolls his eyes and Castiel laughs sending a shockwave through Dean he hasn’t felt in ages. He promptly ignores it before motioning towards the foyer and inviting his new contractor inside. They don’t exchange any pleasantries, but rather head right to work. Castiel asks questions about everything from the crown molding and stair railing to Dean’s plan for the half shattered French doors.

The man is thorough and he knows his stuff.

Maybe teamwork with him won’t be so bad.

They finish their walk through and Dean is relieved to hear that Castiel agrees the upstairs mostly needs some fresh paint. John left some money to fix up the inn, but not enough for a total overhaul. After working through the budget, they decide it’ll be more cost effective if it retains its original charm.

“Well, Dean, I like what we’ve got here and I think we can make something out of this.” Castiel slouches into one of the bar stools near the kitchen island as he surveys the room one more time. Dean does his best not to notice the sweat slowly making its way down Castiel’s collar bone and beneath the collar of his t-shirt, and the way he says Dean, and his implication that this is theirs . Dean hasn’t shared anything for most of his adult life– mostly because he hasn’t had anyone worth sharing something with.

But this inn feels like it’s meant to be shared, and Dean can’t seem to find any reason not to do so with Castiel.

“I’m glad you think so. I suppose we should discuss payment…” Dean trails off as Castiel’s gaze becomes confused.

“I don’t intend on charging you a dime, Dean.” Castiel’s matter of fact smile returns and Dean can’t ignore the way his gut flutters.

He’s not a nun, Dean’s been attracted to people for as long as he can remember being alive. From Lucy Jones in kindergarten to a myriad of characters in his adult life, he’s always been a people person loaded with an innate attraction for the kind of itches you scratch and forget ever existed.

Castiel is beginning to feel like an itch he’d like to scratch.

But that’d ruin everything, especially Dean’s plan to sell the inn for as much as humanly possible and then get the hell outta dodge.

“I appreciate that, but I have to give you something…” Castiel waves Dean off and he realizes arguing would be useless. “Thanks.”

Castiel nods before taking time to study Dean until it almost feels awkward. Dean is typically the one doing the studying, and he feels naked under this man’s gaze. They remain in a silence delicately balanced between comfortable and awkward until Castiel speaks again, “Well, best I get back to my place. I will see you tomorrow morning, Dean.”

As Castiel stands, he adjusts the toolbelt around his waist and Dean forces himself to look away, not willing to tempt himself with the flash of skin exposed during the adjustment. The contractor must notice because he smirks slightly before nodding his head in goodbye. If he didn’t know better, Dean would swear Castiel walks a bit closer to him than is necessary. He shakes it off before heading to the bathroom to shower off the grime of the day before checking in with Sam, Jess, and the kids.

. . .

They work surprisingly well together.

His new partner is a quiet but sturdy presence throughout the day– rarely chatting about more than the weather or whatever task needs to be done– but on occasion Dean will learn a bit more about him. He’s started to compile a list of Cas’s likes and dislikes– for example, Cas likes that Dean gave him a nickname.

“Hey, Cas, can you hand me the socket wrench?”   "Cas?” “Uh, yeah, short for Castiel. You got too many syllables, man.”

Cas nodded and moved on with the task, but Dean can’t help but notice the small smirk everytime he has to call Cas by name. Cas also smiles whenever a screw goes in without a fight and when the first raindrop of an impending storm hits his forehead.

Dean likes it when Cas smiles. (Apparently Dean’s compiled a list for that, too.)

He’s tried to largely ignore the growing attraction for the man he’s working with for more than eight hours a day, but it gets more difficult with each glance to make sure the other is still in one piece and every accidental touch of hands when they pass off a tool.

At least Dean tells himself it’s accidental.

He hadn’t gotten enough out of Cas to even know if he “plays for that team,” as Sam likes to say. Dean is almost positive John wouldn’t have encouraged the two work together if Cas is gay, but there are moments that give him more hope that he deserves.

“Dean!” Cas’s steady voice startles him from the monotony of painting kitchen cabinets and his overflowing thoughts.

He puts down the paintbrush and walks over to the fireplace where Cas is supposed to be sanding down the mantle, “Yeah, Cas, what is it?” There’s that smile– sometimes Dean wonders if he uses his nickname for Cas just to get a glimpse of it.

“I’m hungry and I’m out of sand paper.” Cas looks up from the stool he’s been sitting on for hours with a hint of puppy dog eyes. Dean isn’t exactly paying Cas so he could definitely come and go as he pleases, but they tend to stick to a similar schedule everyday. Checking his watch, Dean sees it is lunchtime and agrees to head into town for a sandwich.

“I should probably get cleaned up a bit…” Cas trails off as he surveys his dusty jeans and sweat drenched t-shirt. Without trying to, Dean gets lost in the unfairly attractive mess of it all for a moment too long. He looks up to speak again and Cas is smirking almost knowingly.

Shit.

“Yeah, sure. You can use the shower here if you want but no promise there’s any hot water.” Dean scratches behind his ear nervously. This wasn’t any sort of purposeful invitation, but he can’t help but feel a wad of want fall into his stomach. Cas simply nods his thanks before heading into the main floor bathroom with a change of clothes he brought “just in case”. Dean laughed when Cas told him that he’s always that prepared and cited the fact that Cas only lives thirty steps away from the inn. He simply shrugged and said “You never know” and that was the end of that. Dean supposes Cas was right and the change of clothes had come in handy.

Though, not exactly how Dean thought they would.

As he hears the shower turn on, Dean goes back to painting kitchen cabinets in hopes of distracting himself from the very attractive, very naked man that is showering in the next room. It works for a while but eventually the knowledge feels stifling and Dean decides to clean up quickly and wait for Cas on the porch.

“What’re you waiting out here for?” Cas walks outside, resting his arm on the doorframe to only accentuate his bicep muscles. Dean knows if he looks at what is probably disheveled and wet hair from the shower it’ll take every piece of willpower he has not to jump the guy right then and there.

“Let’s go.” He leads Cas to his car without looking in his direction or answering his question. As Dean walks around the back of the impala he sees Cas smirk again.

Bastard.

They take the short drive into town before stopping at the hardware store. Dean needs to pick up some new screws so he can finish the cabinets and Cas needs some more sand paper so they decide to split up and grab what they need. Cas cuts right, beelining for the aisle like he lives here– now that Dean thinks about it, Cas probably does come here a lot– and Dean wanders to the left looking for the screw aisle.

He ends up finding them along with a confused pre-teen boy comparing screw sizes to an outlet cover. Dean laughs to himself before offering his help, “Anything I can help with?”

The boy turns to Dean, startled at first, but then relaxing when he doesn’t sense any immediate threat, “Yeah, that’d be great. My mom sent me in here twenty minutes ago, but I don’t know anything about this stuff.”

Dean laughs, “Well, your Dad should’ve taught you screw shopping at the very least.”

“How could he do that when he doesn’t know I exist?” The kid says it so matter of factly, Dean isn’t even sure he heard him correctly. He scans him for signs of distress, but whatever therapy he’s getting must’ve worked because the kid goes back to comparing screws without missing a beat.

“Fair enough. Here, you’ll want these ones,” Dean grabs a four pack of the screws the kid is looking for and hands it to him. “Then you’ll have extras in case you need to replace another one.”  

“Awesome, thanks! My names–”

“Ben? What’s taking you–” Dean winces, he’d know that voice anywhere and the fact she paused means… “Dean?! What are you doing talking to… what’s going on here?”

“Mom!”

“Lisa…”

Ben (apparently) and Dean speak at the same time, both turning towards the woman Dean hasn’t thought about in years. They were something– more than something– for about a year, but John’s pressure pushed Dean out of town and Lisa refused to leave Lawrence... so now they're here, awkwardly looking at each other in a hardware store.

“Lisa, look, I can explain–”

“Dean, I found the sandpaper and I also grabbed some extra paint for that wall in the living–” Dean’s cut off as Cas rounds the corner looking down at the sandpaper packaging and clearly missing all the fun in aisle nine, “Oh. Hi!”

Then Cas waves , an adorable wave that if Dean wasn’t so goddamn turned around probably would’ve sent him spiraling. Dean facepalms to hide his smile and proceeds to rub his calloused hands through his hair trying to decide what to say next. But Ben must be oblivious to the absolute shit storm happening a foot above his current height because he chooses this moment to chime in, “I was confused about which screws to get and Dean offered to help, Mom. That’s all. And look,” Ben holds up the package Dean handed him what feels like an eternity ago, “Got ‘em!”

That kid just saved Dean’s ass.

Lisa still looks a little stunned to see Dean– his return had seemingly not reached the far ends of the town gossip chain quite yet– but then she glances back towards Cas… and then back to Dean.

He’s about to correct her when she surprises him with a hug.

They didn’t exactly end on bad terms, but he probably could’ve been nicer when he told her he was leaving.

Hence why the hug catches him off guard, as does what she quietly whispers in his ear, “I’m glad you found someone that makes you smile like that again.”

Dean can't even formulate a correction before Lisa’s telling Ben to thank Dean for his help and the pair is heading down the other end of the aisle. He turns towards Cas who is staring intensely at a speck on the floor by his feet, but seems to be smiling all the same.

Maybe Dean isn’t wrong about him.

They check out and head back to the Impala in silence. It isn’t until they get home after swinging through the drive thru that Dean even realizes he forgot to grab the screws.

[koinoyokvn]

* / 𝐈 𝐍 𝐓 𝐑 𝐎 𝐃 𝐔 𝐂 𝐓 𝐈 𝐎 𝐍

* CODY CHRISTIAN, CISMALE + HE/HIM  | you know BRADLEY ‘BOOG’ RADWELL, right? they’re TWENTY-FOUR, and they’ve lived in irving for, like, SIX YEARS? well, their spotify wrapped says they listened to INFRA-RED BY THREE DAYS GRACE like, a million times this year, which makes sense ‘cause they’ve got that whole late night 'open’ signs flickering, a dirty car filled with empty coffee cups & a dopey smile with sleepy, drooping eyes thing going on. i just checked and their birthday is november 4, so they’re a scorpio, which is unsurprising, all things considered.

back at it again at krispy kreme — but here’s my second mad lad n after this i will start coming to everyone w my hands open for some plots n interactions <3

trigger warnings: child abuse tw & self-harm tw / omg forgot to add hospital n death tw too

* / 𝐁 𝐀 𝐒 𝐈 𝐂 𝐒

hair: dirty blonde

eyes: blue

build: broad & toned

height: 5′8″ or 173 cm

weight: 163 lbs or 74 kg

distinguishing features: a hand tattoo on his left hand of a sunset, a sleeve tattoo on his right forearm of a yellow and green dragon, a tattoo of a jorogumo (spider-woman) in front of a waterfall on his right shoulder blade, red and white chrysanthemums on his left calf, a light blue ‘x’ on his left collarbone, and dozens of uniquely designed band-aid tattoos splattered on his biceps and thighs

distinguishing style: hoodies and jeans for days, he’s a bit of a collector of ‘irving’ tourist merch, other than that, toques and plaid and chains with darker palettes

* / 𝐇 𝐈 𝐒 𝐓 𝐎 𝐑 𝐘

bradley was born in a small town in maine. at the time, everything he thought was normal for a child to endure. now that he’s older, he knows it isn’t. growing up, he was a trained liar. he doesn’t like lying now but can spit one out faster and smoother than he’d like to admit. his mother was naive and so young and his father was cruel and lived in the world only for himself. never a good combination.

there were a lot of times bradley would go to school with no food. he would always say he rushed out of the house and forgot because he slept in. his father spent all the grocery money to drink. bradley would fall asleep at school. he would always say it’s because he’s scared of the dark. he was actually scared of his father and would spend the night in his bedroom closet that could lock. bradley would cry and flinch at loud noises and the sound of glass crashing. he would say it’s because he’s just like a deer, easily scared. his father would throw things at him if he so much as stepped out of line (but bradley never knew what that line was). he would endure it all for his mother, who would sometimes come into his room, scoop him up in her arms when things calmed down, and sing to him. it’s these moments he’d remember fondly, the moments where she managed to keep some money for herself and get a good supper for the two.

it truly felt like it was him and his mother against the world. there were a few times where bradley would slip up, say something wrong at school, make an offhand comment about home to his friend, and child services would get involved. however, his father would clean up for these visits. his mother could’ve been an amazing movie actress, as well. bradley was also on his way there — but it was his mistake that they all pretended. he would always get punished for it later. 

sometimes the arguing would get too much. when he cried enough tears from inside the closet, he would run. run to his uncle’s house. he’d ask to stay for a few days. his uncle always said yes. but this would always spell trouble in the long run. his uncle was rowdy, always trying to get his sister out of such a terrible situation, and would butt his head whenever he got a chance. his uncle would often make the fighting worse. all bradley needed was a break, though, he promised.

he was almost finished high school. he took up odd jobs if he wasn’t in school so he didn’t pass with stellar grades or anything. some were even impressed that he managed to end up on the graduation list at all. he had saved up enough money, between him and his mother, to eventually leave his father. there was a light at the end of the tunnel. but, once again, the fighting became too much.

this time, he stayed at a friend’s house. he always had his money on him. he couldn’t trust the nooks and crannies of that house, his father would always worm his slimy fingers into them. he always blamed himself for not staying at his uncle’s that night... or even at home. because this time, the fighting really did become too much and things went too far. 

a frantic call from his uncle in the dead of the night sent bradley on a frenzy. his father had beaten his mother so badly that she was hospitalized. put into a coma with extensive head trauma. bradley left his friend’s on account of emergency but didn’t end up going to the hospital. no, no, no. it was the only time bradley could call himself his father’s son.

that same night, his father died in a car crash. the police ruled it as a collision involving drunk driving. though, there were damages that pointed towards another vehicle ramming into the car. there were no other vehicles on scene when they arrived and the road wasn’t monitored to pull up security footage. however, the only next of kin his father had was bradley and his mother. everything fell onto bradley.

his father, at least, had some funds stashed away in a bank account. it was enough to cover the funeral. but not enough to cover the hospital fees. and bradley felt like he was going insane existing in the house he grew up in. he was going insane just being in the same town he grew up in. everybody seemed to know his business.

so, like he and his mother promised, he ran away. his uncle is the only one who knows his whereabouts now and bradley made him promise not to tell anyone else. but, instead of taking the whole amount, bradley only took half of what he and his mother saved. he used the other half to go towards his mother’s hospital bills. 

bradley, now telling people to call him boog, drifted for a bit. picking up odd jobs for a week or two to feed himself. he needed to find a new home. he needed to be anywhere else but maine. now, he thought about the glamourous cities but felt like it didn’t suit him. eventually, he came to irving. and he liked it. so he stayed here.

boog is called boog because he was a bit of a snotty kid. he was constantly ill with the common cold, linked directly to his home situation. he often had sinus infections because of it. so, mean kids would often call him ‘booger’. eventually, booger became boog and it was just a part of him. he was a laidback individual and the nickname lost its insulting meaning by the time he reached high school but by then, most people called him by his surname. bradley feels too personal. 

boog works two jobs, as well as doing several odd jobs around the neighborhood he settled in. he stocks at the local grocery store, working 3pm to 11pm. he also works at a midnight diner, working from 12am to 8am. he gets some sleep for the morning, then gets right back to it. on his days off, he’s often seen mowing other people’s lawn, cleaning cars and houses, and doing small fix-it jobs around properties. he’s a busybody for sure. but not only does he have to support himself, he has to make sure the hospital bills for his mother are being paid. after all these years, it’s still him and his mother against the world. 

in the six years of being in irving, boog developed some nasty coping mechanisms. any time work became too overwhelming or he couldn’t make a payment and was faced with a late fee, bradley felt like a failure to the point where he would engage in self-harm. he was alone mostly, other than at work or out with his friends, so it was a lot of time to wrestle with this idea that he wouldn’t be enough to keep his mother alive. he would cut his biceps and thighs, places he could easily conceal his scars with t-shirts or shorts. he would cut at work in the men’s bathroom or cut in the closet of his bedroom. familiar places, places where he could hide. 

however, it got out of hand when he cut too deep on his thigh and it affected the way he walked. the visible limp raised concern from coworkers, friends, and neighbors. finally done with lying, he admitted to self-harm to those he trusted. his friends encouraged him to go to counselling and to reach out when he felt the urge.

it’s been a year since he’s last self-harmed. since then, he’s covered his scars with band-aid tattoos, each of them a design from someone he’s felt close enough to tell about his progress. there are still some to be covered, but he’s always mused there’s always friends to be made that could help him cover it up.

* / 𝐏 𝐄 𝐑 𝐒 𝐎 𝐍 𝐀 𝐋 𝐈 𝐓 𝐘

boog is hardworking and determined and doesn’t hesitate to push his limits. of course, this all comes to his physicality and his work ethic. he’s not all too bright, otherwise. he can’t contest life’s many questions, he’s too busy memorizing regular orders, the truck order for the next night, and what his friend’s favourite things are. he’s a very present individual, in that he can’t worry about the future or the past too much. and above all else, boog is kind. 

he never asks for anything in return for the deeds he does. he always repays a favour. and he always extends a helping hand. he thinks being a neighborly person is the pinnacle of humanity and does his best to emulate that. however, that makes for some clashes with his dull mind, as he can often be mistaken or say the wrong thing. his gold heart does make up for his lack of brightness.

boog has also learned patience. patience with the world, patience with himself. he didn’t get angry much before but when he did, it was pent up and built over years of being complacent. it was never a good thing to lose his temper. however, over the course of his regular counselling, he has learned to be more self-aware and express his frustrations in a healthy manner. his shoulders still bear a lot of burden but at least, he can learn to take off the load and rest for a while before putting it back on. 

* / 𝐂 𝐎 𝐍 𝐍 𝐄 𝐂 𝐓 𝐈 𝐎 𝐍 𝐒

band-aid crew — this person has designed a band-aid tattoo for boog. he reached out to this person during a time of recovery and trusted him with his journey thus far. this person could have been someone he met at work, through friends, or they live on the same block as him. boog counted and needs 27 band-aids to cover all his scars and is confident that he can get them all covered through others’ artwork. his uncle and nieces already made their mark, and boog designed one himself. ( 0/22 )

upstanding citizen — this person is the parental figure that boog never had and didn’t realize he needed until he befriended this person. they fuss over him and make sure he’s gotten enough sleep. they bring him coffee to work and invite him over for dinner. in return, boog does the same. he tries hard to cook for them— though he’s not great at it. he brings them gifts that reminded him of them. ( 0/1 )

intimacy buddies — boog is kind of pure in that he’s someone who wants to make sure people feel fulfilled. it first started off as a joke, that on the chance that they felt lonely, boog would be of service. however, boog’s pretty dependable and he hides no ulterior motive. so, he cuddles them for hours while watching movies, he holds their hands as they walk through the beach, and he sleeps with them when they can’t stand to sleep alone. he runs his hands through their hair upon request. however, they’re still friends and as thick as thieves. ( 0/3 )

amicable exes — it’s hard for boog to hold grudges. they come in white hot flashes of anger and they leave just as quickly. he’s learned to no longer stew in it. when this relationship falls apart, boog can admit his shortcomings and understand that they just weren’t meant for each other. that doesn’t stop boog from caring about them any less. they’re friends now and maybe friends was always the better option. ( 0/1 )

SPECIAL MENTIONS: as always, i fiend for all sorts of friendly and fwb connections! i also think a rival connection wld b interesting but we wld hav to lay some groundwork for sure!

[queenbirbs]

the open door | Ethan x MC

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x MC

Warnings: swearing, some brief mentions of corpses and body horror, spooks and possible spectres 

Word count: 7.7k

Premise: Bryce invites Sloane, Sienna, and Aurora on a tour of a haunted estate on the night before Halloween. What could go wrong?  

Notes: I’m super bummed that we didn’t get a Halloween-themed chapter for this book, especially since it’s my favorite holiday. Takes place post chapter 11, though I’ve played with the timeline a bit to include Halloween. Re-post because it fell out of the tag, as posts seem to want to do as of late. 

Taglist: @maurine07 @caseyvalentineramsey

 ------

“You are aware there’s no such thing as witches, right?” 

“Well, yeah,” Bryce scoffs. “Maybe. Besides, I said she was rumored to be a witch. That’s a whole different thing.”

“Oh, right, of course it is.” In the backseat, Aurora rolls her eyes. “Just tell that to all the people killed during the Salem witch trials due to mass hysteria.”

“Hey, now -- it’s not like she was killed for being a witch.”

“Right. She pulled a classic Rose for Emily,” Sloane mutters while Sienna makes a gagging noise.

“What?” Bryce asks. 

“It’s a short story by Faulkner.”

“Oh.” There’s a brief pause. Sloane wonders if he even knows who that is. Then: “Is he the dude that had a hard-on for the Civil War?”

“Yeah,” Aurora snorts. “Basically.” 

“Yeah, never read any of his stuff. I think I used SparkNotes for one of his books in undergrad.”

“Same,” Sloane admits, to which Bryce shoots her a look of faux-surprise. “Yeah, yeah, we all had to skate by sometimes.” 

“Well, well, well,” he crows. “Looks like the ‘next generation of medicine’ isn’t so high and mighty after all, huh?” 

“Wait, how did you--”

“Ramsey was four drinks deep at Donahue’s the other day, and one of the interns came up and bothered him about a possible spot on the team. Which meant we all overheard the twenty-minute spiel about what a great doctor you are.” He snickers as she puts a hand over her face and groans. “Yeah, it was real sweet. Real obvious, but sweet.”

She’s saved by the GPS on her phone, cutting through the music playing over the car speakers; Bryce takes the next exit as instructed. The off-ramp spits them out onto a two-lane county road.  Posted across from the solitary stop sign, the blue services sign offers nothing but blank, white squares. 

“There’s a bathroom, right?” Sienna asks. “Because I’m not seeing a gas station.”

“It’s a house, you guys,” Bryce scoffs, “not a cave.” 

“A haunted house,” she clarifies. 

“Well, I mean, I don’t think the toilets are haunted.”

For several miles, there’s nothing but sweeping woodlands and the occasional passing car. Long squiggles of tar decorate the asphalt, snaking across the empty, leaf-strewn road. The setting sun casts a golden hue over everything, spears of light cutting through the tree trunks. It would be a nice, evening drive if it weren’t for where they were headed. 

Forty minutes north of Boston lies the small, nondescript town of Angler. Even under the cover of dusk, Sloane can tell that it’s one of those towns. Pretty Tudors line the main street, their porches decorated with smiling scarecrows sitting on bales of hay; banners along the telephone poles advertise the annual apple festival. The bank and the post office and the dry cleaners are all tucked together in the refurbished general store. It’s the stereotypical, pleasant, all-American town. Which means that it’s the perfect place to hide a dark stain of history. 

Why Bryce signed up for such a thing and how he won the tickets is beyond her. When he asked them all to join him for a haunted house, Sloane expected the typical theme: some dingy warehouse refurbished enough to meet modern building codes, full of tight mazes and masked actors with chainsaws.

“Nah, guys, this is the real deal,” he gloated over lunch the previous afternoon. “Back in the 1800s, this woman -- uhh Margaret, or Maggie, I think, yeah Maggie Angler -- she was one of the Boston Brahmins, owned this estate out in the country, blah blah blah. No one knows a whole lot about her because she was a little weird and she kept to herself. At some point, this dude woos her and they get married. But then, a few years later, he dies. Neighbors drop by to offer casseroles or whatever, but she won’t answer the door, so they give up and leave her alone. A few months go by, and suddenly this dude from town goes missing. Then a year, and another goes missing. This continues for several years and--” 

“So, what, she’s some kind of black widow?” Elijah asked. 

“No, this isn’t one of those Marvel--” Bryce’s brow furrowed and then lifted, realization striking his handsome face. “--oh, heh, yeah, sorry. But yeah, sort of. It wasn’t until word got around that the latest dude was seen talking to Maggie at the store that people got suspicious of her. So, they gather up some people and storm the house, where they find a Satanic Bible and other spooky shit. But that’s not the only thing they find.”

They all glance around at each other, waiting to see who will encourage Bryce to break his silence and finish the damn story. “They also find... the missing dudes.”

“What, buried in the backyard?” Sloane asked, and frowned when Bryce shook his head. 

“No, not buried. She killed them and then kept them in the house. Supposedly, they were posed at the table or sitting on the couch, rotting away.”

 Sienna made a show of pushing her plate away. “That’s disgusting.”

“I know there’s a group of people in Indonesia that keep their dead relatives at home,” Aurora said, “but they’re preserved and cared for. This doesn’t sound like that.”

“Nope.” Elijah shook his head. “Definitely not the same thing.”

“What happened to the woman?” Sloane asked.

“No idea -- get this: they never found her.” Bryce lifted his eyebrows for dramatic effect. “But the story goes that she still haunts the place, searching for her lost lovers, and maybe… trying to get some new ones.”  

Jackie, who had been busy scrolling away on her phone through the tale, snorted into her salad. 

“And you want us to come with you to some evil witch’s house on the night before Halloween to go ghost hunting? I may not believe in any of this shit, but no fucking way.” 

“Yeah,” Elijah sighed, cringing at the crestfallen look on Bryce’s face. “Sorry dude, but I’ll pass. My idea of fun is a John Carpenter movie marathon, not a tour around Jane the Ripper’s house.” 

“Okay, understood.” With that, Bryce looked to the remaining three and turned on the charm, draping his arm across Sloane’s shoulders. “C’mon, ladies, whaddaya say? Hard to pass up the prospect of touring a bona fide haunted mansion with one of the most handsome men you know -- second only to Elijah here.”  

Tapping at her chin, Sienna nodded and grinned. “Sounds fun. I like scary things.” 

Aurora, on the other hand, shot him a skeptical look. “Are you going to shout at the air and act like you’re possessed, like I’ve seen that one ghost hunter do on TV? The one with the spiky hair?” she demanded to know. 

“Uhhh no to all of those things, but especially to the spiky hair.”  

“Okay, then,” she shrugged, “I’ll go.” 

Every eye at the table turned to Sloane; Bryce squeezed her shoulder in encouragement. 

“Alright,” she agreed. “It’d be fun to get spooked, I guess. I’m down.”

Which is how she comes to be in the passenger seat of Bryce’s car, leaning forward onto the dashboard as they take the final turn onto a hidden lane. A thick tunnel of trees swallows them up as they drive deeper into the woods. After several miles, there’s a break in the pines, and then: sprawled atop a hill, looming above them, is the house. Even if she hadn’t heard the backstory, Sloane feels like the place would still give her the creeps. With its filmy lace curtains and its tall windows glowing yellow in the approaching darkness, the house looks like it’s been pulled from an Edward Hopper painting. Worn pavers lead from the semi-circular driveway and up to the front porch. Framing either side of the steps, thin, brittle blades of tufted hairgrass shift in the wind. Two people turn from the front door and raise a hand in greeting.

Bryce kills the engine and twists around in his seat to grin at his compatriots. 

“You guys ready to get scaaaared?”

Sienna wraps her hands around Sloane’s seat and leans forward, her eyes wide as she stares out the windshield. 

“Why does it look like The Amityville Horror house?” 

“Is this a bad time to mention that the Blair Witch Project’s producers used this place as inspiration?”

“Yeah,” she hisses, “definitely a bad time.”

Shouldering open her door, Sloane lets in the cool October air in an attempt to corral their attention. It works; the rest of them pile out of the car with her and approach the couple. 

As the current owners of the property, Jack and Nancy Bell guide them through the main floor of the house, pointing out spots of reported activity. The interior is lovely -- one of those Sloane would see in a Pictagram post of a wedding venue, with all those carved banisters and original wainscoting. Her brother, a successful carpenter in the Twin Cities, would have a field day in here. Most of the furniture is original to the house, as well, and in surprisingly good condition.  

The only aspect setting the house apart from any other on the historical registry are the props. In the front hall, a bulletin board hosts an array of newspaper clippings. The earlier articles blame a serial killer, dubbed the ‘Butcher of Angler,’ for the mens’ disappearances. Then, starting on October 28th, 1892, the headlines change to the ‘Wicked Witch of Winthrope County.’ In the drawing room sits an Ouija board, surrounded by melted candles. A cauldron and a Satanic Bible share space on the kitchen counter; corked bottles of what look like cooking spices and herbs clutter the open cabinets. Mannequins lounge at the dining table or on the sofa, dressed in dusty clothes, their jaws slack, their painted eyes still and dull. Beside them, framed in cheap plastic, are the grainy photographs of the corpses as they were found. To Sloane, it all feels hokey, like a regular haunted house with the strobe lights turned off. 

There’s something else, though, something underneath the fine layer of dust and the creaking floorboards and the shrouded furniture. It skitters across her neck and down her back, making her shiver, which she discounts as a wayward draft in the old house. 

It’s the distinct feeling of being watched.  

“Aside from the big house, there’s a carriage house to the left there. We rent it out in the summer and fall for overnight stays.” Jack gestures to the east as they step out onto the back veranda, where, just beyond the slope of lawn, a smaller house sits with a solitary porch light glowing. “And back down the path there will lead you to the lake. When we bought the place, the deed stated that there was a cabin out near the state park line, but we’ve never been able to find evidence of it.”

“Maggie’s been seen down by the lake, too,” Nancy chimes in. “People say they see her there, inside the boathouse, or walking along the shore with her head down, as if she’s searching for something.” 

“We’ve got lanterns here if you want to use them as you go about the grounds, though you’re welcome to use your flashlights.” Jack nudges a neat row of antique lanterns with his sneaker. “For the optimal experience, though, we recommend turning off all the inside lights and using secondary light sources instead.” He chuckles when Sienna makes a throaty noise of dissent. 

The couple leads them back through the house and into the front hall to finish the tour. While Jack goes over the various rules, Nancy motions for Sloane to follow her out onto the front porch. 

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of your friends,” she starts off in a whisper, “but I wanted to talk to you about our son, Ben.”

For a fleeting moment, Sloane thinks that she’s going to get questioned about his bowel movements or a mysterious rash, that Bryce must have told them he was bringing along his doctor friends. “When he was seven, he nearly--” Nancy cuts herself off, pressing a hand to her heart, “--he drowned when we were at the beach in Florida. I did CPR until the EMTs got there, and they were able to resuscitate him, thank God.”

“I’m sorry,” Sloane murmurs, “that must’ve been awful.”

“It was. But I’m -- the reason I’m telling you all this is because, after that, Ben seems to be more… open. More open than the rest of us.”

“I’m sorry,” Sloane says again, though this time out of confusion, “but I don’t--”

With a huff, Nancy shakes her head and waves her hands. “No, no, I apologize. I must sound crazy. I just wanted to warn you that, due to what happened to you, you might see things or experience things that your friends can’t. That’s all, dear.” 

Sloane opens her mouth to question her further, but they’re interrupted by the rest of the gang filing out beside them. “We’ll be back at one a.m. to lock up behind you,” Nancy says as she follows her husband down to their car. 

With a cheery honk, the little Subaru rumbles down the winding driveway and disappears. The sun having set during the tour, the landscape before them is now draped with the heavy blanket of night. The moon peeks at them from just above the treetops, as if still deciding on whether or not to come out. The only lights are far-off, unmoving: porch lights of the houses back in town; cell towers with their red stars blinking lazily against the dark. A cold wind moves through the trees, rustling the leaves and scattering them across the front walk, the dried edges hissing along the brick. 

“Can you believe he said no alcohol?” Bryce breaks the silence with a whine. “I read about this fun séance thing you do with tequila shots and--” 

“No séances!” Sienna declares. “And definitely no tequila!” 

“Can we argue about this where it’s warmer?” Aurora suggests and steps back into the house. 

As she and Sienna wander off into the drawing room, Sloane wraps a hand around Bryce’s arm and pulls him back. 

“Did you tell her about me?”

His nose scrunches up to meet his furrowed brows. “Tell who about what?” 

“The-- Nancy, did you tell her about what happened to me? With… with the senator, and…” it’s embarrassing how much of a struggle it is to get the words out, even now, even after three weeks and two therapy appointments. 

His face falls from confusion to concern. Bryce reaches up and lays his hand over her own. 

“Slo, I didn’t tell them, I swear. I would never,” he promises. “Did she say something to you?”      

She loosens her hold, frustrated at herself that she even considered he would do such a thing. He’s one of her best friends, the man who handed over the reins to a cutting-edge surgery just to be by her side. 

“Yeah, no, listen: it’s fine,” she stumbles through a paltry reassurance. “She was probably trying to scare me, that’s all.” 

He gives her a quick once-over, lips twisting into a frown as he debates on whether or not to push. She bites back a breath of relief when he relents, his hand releasing hers.

“Okay,” he says, and nudges her into the house ahead of him. “C’mon. Between the two of us, I think we can convince them to turn off the lights.”

------

Although he puts up a good fight, Bryce loses on the no-lights front. 

Which is just as well, because by the time they reach the second floor, Sloane is glad for the light from the antique lamps. To be fair, nothing actually happens: no spooks, no spectres, and no signs from the former resident. Nothing she can point to with any amount of certainty. Whatever it is hovers out of reach, just on the tip of her tongue, but she can’t seem to give it a name. Maybe it lies -- like any good, scary movie -- in the setting. For as grand as the house is, time and dereliction have taken its fine features hostage. Thick, gray dust coats the wooden spindles and curled handrails of the antique staircase. The corridors are tight, the shadows gathering in the space where the lights can’t seem to reach. Small curls of peeling wallpaper look like fingers reaching out from the wall, backlit by the sconces. The cloying scent of wood rot and mold fills the air, like a pile of papers left to curl and yellow with age. The rooms are small, cluttered with furniture and trinkets and artwork. 

Sloane stares at such a portrait in the master bedroom, where a couple stares down at her from above the fireplace. The man sits in a chair, the woman standing beside him with her hand on his shoulder. It would be any other family portrait, if it weren’t for the unsettling glaze over the man’s sunken eyes. 

“Bryce, please don’t-- aaaand he’s sitting on the bed.” 

“You do know that’s where they found her husband, right?” Sienna points out. “That’s why there’s a mannequin on it. And a picture of his dead body on the nightstand.”

“Maybe Maggie will see what a catch I am if I’m laid out for her. I’ve never met a woman over the age of sixty who could resist my charms.” Bryce waggles his eyebrows as he bounces once, then twice on the mattress before stretching out. “What’s up, bro?” he asks the mannequin beside him before doing a double-take. “Hey, it’s Annie!”

He snatches off the ugly wig and fake beard, and lo and behold, an old CPR dummy gapes up at them all. Sloane snorts and shakes her head. 

“Looks like the years haven’t been kind to her.”   

“Probably saddled with student loans just like the rest of us,” Aurora mutters as she wanders over to inspect the photograph. “Had to get a second job here.”

“Hey, that was a joke!” Bryce commends. “And a pretty good one at that.”

“I do jokes.”

“You so do not.” 

A muffled bang from somewhere in the house stops their banter. Everyone glances at each other, verifying that everyone in their group is indeed in the room. 

“What was that?” Sienna whispers. 

“Probably the pipes,” Aurora says. “It is an old house.” 

As if on cue, the lights flicker once, then switch off, sinking them into complete darkness. There’s a flurry of noise as everyone digs out their phones; the bedroom seems even creepier, now, under the white glow of their flashlights.  

“What do we do?” Sienna hisses, scurrying from the window to latch onto Aurora.  

“We could always search for the breaker,” she suggests. 

“Which would be where?”

“In the basement, most likely.”

“Um, no,” Sienna balks. “Hell no.”  

“Are you guys serious right now?” Bryce hops down from the bed and pokes his head out the open doorway. “This is so cool! Who wants to go downstairs with me and grab the Ouija board?”

“If you bring that thing near me, I will break it in half.”

He grimaces at Sienna’s threat. 

“You’re not really supposed to do that with them. It’ll keep the door open for the spirits to come in.”

“It’s a toy made by Hasbro,” Aurora scoffs. “It’s not going to ‘let in’ anything. And the planchette doesn’t actually move on its own. That’s due to the ideomotor effect.”

Moving over to the window, Sloane presses her temple against the pane’s edge and squints. Just past the eastern wing, she spots a faint halo of yellow light on the lawn. 

“Hey,” she raises her voice over their bickering. “It looks like the carriage house still has power.” 

“Great!” Sienna squeaks and pulls Aurora with her towards the door. “Let’s check it out. I… love carriage houses.” 

They push past Bryce and start back down the hall. Turning from the doorway, a coy smile spreads across his face, a single eyebrow lifting at his wordless request. 

“Oh, no.” Sloane shakes her head as she crosses the room. “I’m not staying up here so you can play Twenty Questions with a ghost.”

She ignores his good-natured grumbling and leads him to the staircase, where Aurora and Sienna are waiting on the landing. Aimed at the ground, their flashlights slice at the hand-carved walls; dustmotes dance in the twin beams, kicked up by their feet. The air feels heavier, mustier here, too, like breathing through wet wool. They tromp down the stairs and across the first floor to the kitchen. Being at the back of the group, Sloane can’t help but glance back now and again at the shadowed recesses, searching for the source of her uneasiness. That she finds nothing amiss doesn’t seem to curb her anxiety. 

The sensation wanes when she closes the door behind them, sealing up the house once more. 

“How is it warmer outside than in there?” Sienna asks as they start cutting across the lawn for the carriage house.  

Bryce zips up his coat and shrugs. “I’ve heard that ghosts tend to suck the energy out of a room, creating cold spots when they mani--”

“Please stop talking,” she begs. “At least until we’re somewhere with electricity that actually works.” 

“Aw, come on, you’ve got nothing to worry about. You’ve seen enough scary movies in your life to know that we’re safe if we travel together. Besides, everyone knows the funny guy goes first.”  

“I think that honor belongs to people of color, now, sorry.” Aurora chuckles when he spins around to wince at her. 

“Yeah, fair point.” 

Coated in fallen leaves, the ground crunches loud underneath their shoes, blocking out the night sounds as the four of them approach the smaller house. “But for real, I don’t think we have much to worry about from Maggie here. I mean, almost all ghost stories are about little white girls from Victorian times named Sally or Sarah or Kate.”

“That’s because of the spiritualism boom in the late nineteenth century,” Aurora answers.

Bryce sighs and quickly changes the subject, uninterested in a history lesson. 

Converted into a proper guest house sometime after the turn of the twentieth century, the carriage house lacks the severe decay of the main house. Though not as grand, the wallpaper here is intact, the dust not as heavy. It might just be the comforts of amenities such as central heating and electricity, but the inside of the house feels much more benign. As they complete a loop around the building, though, Sloane realizes that the feeling of being watched still remains, growing stronger when she passes or glances out one of the windows. With the glare of the lights, though, it’s hard to see much of anything past the panes. None of the others seem to be frightened -- or if they do, they keep quiet. The same can’t be said when Sienna flips the light on in the parlor.  

Toddler-size dolls lean against the walls, their porcelain hands cupped around their faces. Each wears a pretty, pastel dress trimmed in white lace, their hair falling down their backs in long, springy ringlets of dark brown, cherry red, and honey gold. Bryce makes a noise of disgust when he spins one around, its face blank: no eyes, no nose, no mouth. Time-out dolls, Sloane tells them, remembering her grandmother’s friend who owned several back in the early nineties -- though hers were all dressed as clowns. 

“People actually rent this place out? They pay money to stay here?” Sienna shudders. “I’d rather sleep in the other house, even with all the cobwebs and mannequins.”

“And the ghosts,” Bryce adds. 

“Ghosts don’t exist,” Aurora says. 

“Okay, Scully, that’s enough out of you.”

------

As the clock ticks closer to ten, Bryce votes to go check out the lake. Aurora and Sienna, however, vote to stay in the warm, well-lit kitchen. The plan is decided to split up and then meet back at the main house in time for midnight. 

“You know,” Bryce explains as he and Sloane make their way across the lawn, “because it’s the witching hour.”

“I thought it was three a.m.” 

“It is if you’re taking into account REM cycles and all that, but I’m not. All the legends I’ve read say…” he trails off, frowning as he jogs up the main house’s back steps. “Hey, you shut the door when we left, right?”

Her phone’s flashlight sweeps up the French doors; one of them is ajar, standing open several inches. She reaches for the handle and shuts it, listening for the snick of the latch.  

“I guess I didn’t pull it closed enough.”   

“Or,” he taunts as he grabs two of the lanterns from the porch, “something else opened it.” Ignoring her scoff, he pockets his phone and hands one of the lanterns to her. “These are nice. Do you think they’re original?”

“Bryce, they bought these from a Cracker Barrel. And besides, they’re battery-powered.” 

“Oh.” 

The back of the estate has been left to run wild. Overgrown swath rolls along the ground like dunes, snagging dead leaves between the dry blades. Thickets of barren shrubs creep out from the distant tree line. The path to the lake is marked by an old fence post, tied with a tattered ribbon. They make their way across the wide expanse of lawn, the trees ahead towering higher and higher the closer they get to the forest. Sloane can’t help but check over her shoulder. The house is just as they left it, though the moonlight is too weak to see if the door is still closed. 

Gravel crunches under their feet as they step onto the trail. The quiet night is broken by a ding from her phone. 

How goes the ghost hunting? 

She hooks the lantern in the crook of her arm and taps out her reply: Fun so far, lights went off by themselves. Very spooky 10/10

Ethan: What do fractions have to do with what you’re doing?

Sloane: Nvm 

Ethan: This isn’t 2002. You do have a full keyboard under your fingertips. 

Sloane: so?

Ethan: So there’s no excuse for using T9 acronyms.       

Sloane: Never thought I’d see the day you reprimand me for texting 

Ethan: I’ll spare you the lecture and let you get back to your witch hunt. Text me when you get home, please, so I know you returned safely. 

She hits send on the next message. Several seconds later, a red bubble appears beside her will do!, informing her that it refused to send. A quick glance at the top of the screen shows the one measly bar of service her phone is clinging onto. With a sigh, she tucks it away.   

“How’s Dr. Ramsey?” Bryce asks.

“Preparing a TEDtalk on prehistoric cell phone etiquette.” 

His nose scrunches up. “What?”

“Nothing,” she chuckles, exhaling through her mouth just to see her foggy breath. 

The light from the lanterns casts an eerie, yellow glow across the tree trunks and underbrush. Creaks and knocks echo up out of the dark -- branches smacking against each other as a cold wind sweeps through the area. The last vestiges of October skitter along the ground; the leaves almost sound like footsteps, dragging across the dirt behind them. The trail tightens as it winds down a small embankment and into a hollow. Their pace seems to pick up, though neither of them mention it. Sloane burrows into her scarf at the sudden dip in temperature.   

“How’s Keiki?” she asks, more so out of need to make conversation than actual curiosity.  

“Probably eating her way into a food coma with the pizza money I left for her, and beating all my high scores on Need for Speed.” He’s grinning as he says it, though, which Sloane finds encouraging. “I invited her to go with us, but she said no.” 

She doesn’t miss the crestfallen expression that crosses his face for a moment. 

“Trust me when I say this, because I speak from the experience of having a younger sibling, but she didn’t say no because she doesn’t like you or anything. It’s because she thinks you and your friends are dorks.” 

He sputters at the insult. “I’m not a dork!”

“You so totally are.”  

“Am not.” 

“Are too!” she argues. “Ethan thinks I’m bad, but you -- you come in on your days off and you like it.”

“That’s called dedication to the craft.” 

“That’s called being a dork.” 

What little she can see of the path ahead is more winding turns, more endless seas of bark and brushwood. But just when she thinks that they’ll never reach the end, that they’ll wind up stumbling upon Elly Kedward’s house -- there’s a small dot of light and then a break in the trees, where the path spits them out onto a rocky shore. The lake glints under their lanterns, the pearlescent gleam of the moon dancing on its surface. 

“Oh, hey, that was nice of them.”

Sloane’s gaze tracks along the shore and over to where he’s gestured. A solitary lantern sits in front of an old boathouse, illuminating the weathered cedar shake.  

“Too bad they can’t install lights along the path,” she mutters as they make their way to the structure. 

“What part of ‘bona fide haunted mansion’ did you not understand? This is the thrill of it!” 

Bryce shoulders open the door to a dim room with a half-sunken rowboat in the center. 

“Thrilling,” she drones, side-stepping his attempt to whack her arm. “Right.” 

They poke through the dirty raincoats and rusted tackle boxes. The wooden planks under their feet jostle and flex. Everything smells of wet and mold, the walls slick with grime. “I can think of several better places to haunt.” 

Bryce hums his agreement as he prods at a stack of old hunting magazines, the pages sealed together. Sloane steps over to look down at the boat, where minnows dart underneath the oars to escape her light. 

“Watch where you step,” she tells him as she crosses to the starboard side. “Some of these boards are really falling apa--”

The rest is lost to her shriek as the floor underneath her snaps. Her foot goes through the wood. She drops the lantern and scrambles to stay upright. The soggy planks slip from her grasp as she falls backwards, and then: water, the icy rush of it closing over her head. 

She fights back a gasp at the sudden cold. With her knee trapped in the joists, she can’t get her feet under her to kick to the surface. Her hands sweep out, flailing desperately. Something hard slams against her neck. She twists at the waist; the sunken lantern illuminates the long shadow of the boat. She digs her fingers into the wood. The cold saps at what strength she has, her muscles refusing to work as she tries to push herself out of the water. Her lungs ache; her heartbeat thuds inside her skull. Down in the murky depths below, a long shadow reaches towards her. Fingers, then hands seize her waist; her skin hits the cold air. Sloane blinks away the muddy haze that coats her eyes and sucks in a lungful of blessed oxygen. 

“Sloane!” Bryce shouts, as if he was expecting to pull out someone else. He ropes an arm around her back and helps her up out of the water. “Jesus, you scared the shit out of--” the rest of his words are lost to an undignified oof as Sloane wraps her arms around his neck. 

“Thanks.”

His hands come up to rest along her back, gently rubbing there to warm her frozen skin.

“I would say don’t mention it, but please do. The notoriety of me saving your life needs to make its way back to the hospital, so Rahul will finally go on a date with me.” 

She fights the urge to roll her eyes. 

“You would be concerned about getting a leg over while mine is still stuck.”

“Oh, whoops. Sorry, here, I’ll...” Sitting back on his heels, he steadies her against him and helps her shimmy out of the hole she’s made. Despite how saturated the planks are, her jeans are torn along her knee, where blood wells across several scratches. “Ouch,” he hisses. 

“Nothing a few bandages and a tetanus shot won’t fix,” she assures. Wobbling as she stands, Sloane limps over to the storage chest in the corner. The blanket she finds is tattered and smells of mold, but it’s better than braving the night’s chill in just her soaked sweater. “Alright, I want out of this place like yesterday.”

Bryce picks up his lantern and nods, following her out onto the shore and back onto the path. 

------

“And, I don’t know, he’s also distant with me sometimes, ya know? He’s hot, then he’s cold. He’ll flirt with me and agree to a date, but then he bails at the last second.”

“I get you.”

“That’s why I’m coming to you, oh wise one,” Bryce says with a grin. “Teach me your ways of dealing with difficult guys.”

Sloane laughs, the sound echoing through the quiet forest. Tucking the blanket tighter around her shoulders, she shakes her head. 

“Trust me, if I knew how to, I wouldn’t have such problems with my own.”

The cell phone in her pocket burns at the reminder of Ethan -- not that she could contact him if she wanted, given that the freezing water had zapped the last of its battery. 

“Yeah, but you could at least give me some pointers on how to wear him down.”

“Oh, my god, Bryce--”

“Okay, okay, not… ‘wear him down’... more, like, encouraging than that, I guess....” he trails off with a shrug. 

Humming as she thinks over her plan of attack, Sloane slows her pace to drop behind Bryce to skirt around a fallen tree -- until she can see it no more. “Fuck!” Bryce curses from in front of her, rattling the lantern as if abuse will bring it back to life. “Batteries must be dead. Let me…” There’s a rustling of clothes, a brief, hopeful inhale, then: “Fuck. Phone’s dead too. Must be the cold or something.” 

Sloane closes her eyes and opens them again, hoping that they will have miraculously adjusted to the dark -- but no such luck. With what little moonlight seeps through the canopy and the dusting of fog that’s rolled in, it’s hard to see farther than a few feet ahead. It will make this slow-going trek of theirs even slower. She scans the woods surrounding them and stops when she sees a pinprick of light back down the trail.

“I have an idea,” she says, “but you’re not going to like it.”

He does not, in fact, like her idea. But even he can’t argue against it. Besides, they’d only made it about a half-mile up the path, and the boathouse wasn’t that far back. 

Which is how Sloane comes to be sitting on the log, trying her best to ignore the darkness pressing in on her from all sides. If Aurora were here, she would be explaining that being afraid of the dark is just a concept carried over from early hominid days. Then again, if Aurora were here, she wouldn’t have had to send Bryce back for the other lantern, and they’d be back at the house by now. Sloane knows she should keep moving to stay warm, but she’s cold and wet and her knee is throbbing something awful. 

She’s uncertain of how much time passes before that silly bundle of nerves in her stomach morphs into the proper weight of worry. Bryce should be back by now. She knows he made it to the boathouse because the light through the trees is gone now. Her eyes have since adjusted to the night, which means it’s been at least thirty minutes. Maybe that lantern died, too, she reasons. Sloane listens for his familiar cursing, or his footsteps on the path -- but there’s nothing. The nighttime noises of the forest are gone: no animals, no birds, no wind. The stillness is nothing short of eerie, especially when she feels that now-familiar sensation of being watched.   

“Bryce?” she chances. 

From out of the black, she can hear someone walking down the path.  

“Bryce!” she shouts, struggling to her feet. “Sienna? Aurora? Is that you?” 

Whoever it is doesn’t respond. She starts down the trail towards them, cursing when she nearly trips over a rock. “Seriously, guys, I’m not in the mood--”

An awful sound echoes out of the dark, like a high-pitched whistle played over radio static. 

She freezes, pebbles and twigs skidding across the dirt at her sudden halt. Every hair on her body stands on-end, her muscles locked as adrenaline races through her. Sloane swallows and clenches her blanket tighter.  

The high-low tone of the whistle sounds again. Whatever’s out there is just beyond the reach of her vision. Sloane wheels around, her gaze darting across the shadows, as if she’ll be able to even see-- a light. It’s several hundred feet out in the forest, back in the direction of the house. It’s too far away to make out who’s holding it. It has to be Bryce, though -- playing a prank on her, as if she’d find this sort of thing funny in the state she’s in. 

She bites back a curse and hurries after him as best she can, keeping low to the ground in an effort to hide from whatever animal is out here with them. The trail becomes rougher, more overgrown as she trudges through the leaves and shoves away sticker bushes. Forced to waste precious time watching where she’s going, she glances up only to keep track of the light that grows closer every second. 

The whistle comes again -- louder, closer now. Whatever it is, it’s still following her. Sloane pushes through a thicket and stumbles into a clearing. Tucked between a small grove of pines in the center is a cabin. With the caved-in roof, sagging porch, and front steps that form nothing more than a woodpile, it’s obvious the place has long stood abandoned. Sitting on the porch and casting a glow into the open doorway is a lantern -- the same make as the others. Approaching the steps, she slowly leans up and snatches the lantern from the porch.  

“No fucking way,” she mutters to herself. “I don’t care if it is a bobcat out here, I’m not hiding in the Evil-Dead-looking-ass cabin.” 

The dark silhouettes of the trees rustle under the cold wind that blows through the glade. Carried with it is a different sound: voices, all slurred together, but forming one syllable. She steps away from the cabin and back towards the forest, straining to make it out. Her name, she realizes with relief. They’re calling her name.        

She sucks in a breath to yell back when movement catches her eye. Something dark curls away from the tree line, only to dart into the tall grass when she swings the lantern in its direction. Sloane squints at the underbrush it disappeared into, waiting for it to appear again. For a few, blessed moments, she thinks it’s run off, that it’s finally given up.   

Until a black shadow crawls out of the underbrush towards her, shrieking, braying like an animal in pain. It’s an ear-splitting cry, echoing across the clearing. Sloane tightens her grip on the lantern and bolts. Ducking back into the trees, she heads in a single direction, knowing that she’ll either hit the lake or the house -- of, if she runs far enough, the town. 

Shoving through low-hanging branches, she glances over her shoulder to see the shadow chasing her, peeling itself out of the shadows as it moves between the trees, somehow darker than the black surrounding them. Her foot hits a patch of wet leaves and she slips, skidding down the hillside and tumbling out onto a stretch of asphalt. She grits her teeth against the pain in her leg and crawls forward into the middle of the road. With no time for hesitating, she pushes to her feet and runs, hoping she’s picked the right direction. 

It wails again, in the trees to her left, scurrying across the hillside after her.   

“Fuck off!” she screams.

Another noise comes roaring out of the dark, drowning out her cry. Lights -- searing, blinding -- swing around the curve. Brakes squeal as the car swerves, narrowly missing her; glass shatters as Sloane staggers to the roadside, her lantern cracking as it hits the pavement and rolls off into the grass. The guard rail is like ice beneath her palm where she clutches it, using it to stay upright as her heart threatens to vacate her body through her throat. The hillside is drenched in red from the car’s tail lights. 

“Sloane!” 

Ethan -- it’s him, his car, he’s here, but he should be in Boston, shouldn’t he? He was when he texted her and that was only an hour ago so why is he here and how did he-- all of her panicked thoughts cease when he folds her into his arms and hugs her tight. The night around them is still, save for the purr of the engine and the soft dinging of the door ajar warning. 

“What the hell were you thinking, standing in the middle of the road like that?” he hisses, pulling her back to pin her down with his glare. “You could’ve-- I could’ve killed you.”

“You’re here,” she whispers. 

Her lips are numb from the cold and shock. She reaches up for the blanket, then realizes that she must’ve lost it somewhere along the way.

“Of course I’m here. You really need to stop scaring the hell out of me, you know that.” His brow furrows as he frowns, taking in the state of her. He slips off his own coat and bundles it around her. “Honey, you’re freezing. Let me--”

“We have to go,” she urges, remembering what’s waiting for her, out in the forest. Grabbing hold of his hand, she starts tugging him towards the car. “There’s -- in the woods, there was -- I don’t know, this thing, and it kept screaming, it was horrible--”

Ethan shushes her rambling and guides her into the car, buckling her seatbelt when her hands won’t stop shaking. She tucks her nose into the collar of his coat, breathing in the comforting scent of his cologne. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he backs the car up and turns back towards the estate. With one hand on the wheel, the other finds hers and holds tight. 

“Your friends called me when they couldn’t find you, wanted to know if I’d heard from you, in case you’d made it to somewhere with a working phone. I called you-- well, more than I’d care to admit, though it was obvious your phone was dead.” 

“How did you get here so fast?” she wonders aloud. 

“I got here around twelve-thirty, did a sweep of the woods. Around one I started driving around, hoping that I’d come across you in case you made it to the road.” He gives her a worried glance before returning to the road. “The others have been out with the sheriff’s office and the owners, searching the woods.” 

“But I… that doesn’t make any sense,” she tells him with a shake of her head. “It wasn’t even midnight when me and Bryce started back, and he was gone for twenty, maybe thirty minutes. And then I saw him-- well, not him, but at the time I thought it was him being an asshole-- and then that… thing chased after me and I got turned around, sure. But it couldn’t have been more than an hour.”

“Sloane, it’s nearly three in the morning.”

Her immediate reaction is to protest, but the concern in his tone and the clock on his dash render her mute. Which is for the best, she realizes later after pulling up to the house and seeing the driveway choked with cars: Bryce’s, the Bell’s, and several police cruisers. Modern floodlights tucked below the eaves turn the dark house into a bright beacon. Blue and red lights of the cruisers swirl across the lawn. As soon as they pull up, her friends race over to the car and wrap her into a hug. One of the cops takes her statement, ignoring Ethan’s insistence about getting her home and taking it over the phone instead. 

“Must’ve been a coyote,” the cop tells her after she’s finished. “We get a lot of reports of them out here, being so close to the state park.”

“A coyote,” Sloane repeats. 

“Well, sure,” he says with a shrug. “Unless you think it was something else?” 

She doesn’t have an answer for that. Having dealt with her fair share of wildlife coming down from the mountains and into her backyard growing up, she can’t remember ever hearing anything similar. Even her grandfather’s tales about the Wampus cat, her favorite spooky story as a kid, didn’t hold a candle to… to whatever was out there. 

After the cops leave and the Bells lock up, her friends pile into Bryce’s car for the ride home. Though not before Bryce shares with her his own experience with the mysterious shadow. However, he’d gotten a good look with the lantern. 

“It wasn’t an animal,” he whispers to her. “It was her. It was Maggie, I swear it.” 

Sloane didn’t know what to say to that. So she hadn’t said anything, just squeezed his hand and hugged him goodbye. Returning to Ethan’s car, she settled into the passenger seat, thankful for the change of clothes he had in the trunk -- and the first aid kit, of course.  

With the classical music floating out of the speakers and the warmth of his hand in hers again, it would’ve been easy for Sloane to close her eyes. She can’t help it, though, when they back out of the drive. She looks up to the long row of windows. It could be a trick of the headlights, but something watches them from around the lace curtains. As they start to pull away, it slinks back into the shadows of the house. 

------   

Author’s notes and what-have-yous: 

The inspiration for the Angler Estate is the abandoned Uplands Mansion in Baltimore, MD. If you like urbex stuff, I highly recommend looking up some videos of it on YouTube. It’s a gorgeous place, despite all the vandalism. The owners’ surname being Bell is a fun nod to the Bell Witch Cave, my state’s claim to supernatural fame. The mention of The Evil Dead cabin is another poke, since the 1981 original was filmed an hour away from where I live. 

The “watch where you step” line is pulled directly from Uncharted: Drake’s Fortune. 

[yanara126-writing]

The Adventures of Hildraed Dawnsbane -  Fucking Morals and Damnit Fine (5/?)

Farmer, Pirate, Menace, Captain, Dawnsbane. Hildraed has many titles, she really could have lived well without Watcher.

-

Hildraed meets a certain chanter and is faced with the uncomfortable revelation that she might be making friends.

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Read here or on Ao3. (3224 words)

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

-

The keep was… something. Something for sure. Even from a distance they could see the broken, rotting walls. How fitting. Certainly reflective of her mental state.

Mud stuck on her boots as she dragged them over the moist ground, not bothering to lift her feet. She could practically feel the elf boy’s disapproving glare. Well too bad for him, if she had suffer she’d at least look like it too, so nobody got any dumb expectations. Thankfully that message seemed to come across to her companions, because no one bothered her until they finally reached the outer walls.

Well, technically none of them bothered her then either, instead it was someone else, an island aumaua happily humming at a crumbling wall. Alright then. Sure there weren’t all that many fortresses in the Deadfire, but still this decaying pile of stones could hardly be that interesting.

“Fascinating brick wall, I’m sure.” Some distant part of her brain told her it probably wasn’t her greatest idea ever to immediately antagonize every random stranger just minding their own business, but she really, really didn’t give a shit right now. She winced at another painful pulse shooting through her head.

Fortunately the stranger didn’t seem to mind either way.

“Oh, it is! Or the wall itself maybe not, it is a very traditional build. But here look! An inscription! The builders most likely, signing their work. Isn’t it fascinating?” The aumaua was smiling at her now, his terrible sincerity completely frying Hildraed’s brain. That and the Rauataian accent. That was a bit unexpected.

Once again the stranger didn’t seem to mind her undoubtedly rude, mindless stare, for he didn’t even wait for an answer before continuing his excited babble.

“But the truly interesting part is in there." He points a piece of charcoal in his hand at the gates. "...and I haven't had much luck in reaching the keep itself. I hoped to find the master of this place - a man by the name of Maerwald - but it seems that he either holds his privacy most dear or else has been devoured by his houseguests.” Somehow, not even his with sharp teeth infested grin he seemed threatening. How could a humanoid shark look so cuddly? Oh wait, he probably expected an answer.

„Mjam. Old man, delicious.“ Oh well, not the worst thing she’d ever said. That opinion quickly changed when the stranger’s loud, bellowing laugh nearly made her go cross-eyed from the headache.

“For some fellows I’m sure! But personally I’d prefer a talk over making a meal of him. You see, I’ve travelled far and wide over Eora in search of the Tanvii ora Toha. You know it?” Unfortunately. Though she hadn’t encountered a ton of Rauataians (or at least not many willing to have a talk), there had been a few. And they tended to talk when drunk. Often unbidden and at length.

Okay that was a lie, Hildraed had always sucked up knowledge like a sponge, so of course she had interrogated everyone in reach for anything interesting or useable. Not that this guy needed to know that. Why had they been talking about that again? Oh yes. Wait what?

“Sure, sure. But why should it be here?” Still undeterred his grin grew even wider.

“Now that is the question isn’t it? I have no idea! But still the traces are leading me here. Unfortunately I haven’t had much luck breaching the defences, however unintentional they are.” For the first time during their conversation something other than rampant enthusiasm appeared on his face. If she hadn’t known better Hildraed might have called it sly. Oh who was she kidding, she didn’t know any better. “There must be some reason you’re here, is there not? I’m certain together we’ll have better chances to reach the fort than alone!” His eyes wandered over to the side. Oh yes, she wasn’t travelling alone. If she was forgetting this already the headache was slowly becoming more dangerous than annoying. Still very annoying though. “That is, if your companions don’t mind me joining.”

The elf boy did look miffed, but when did he not? And he didn’t seem inclined to deny the protection another party member would bring, so Hildraed counted him on board. She doubted the farmer would be an issue, but then again what did she know about these people. She turned around to him. And promptly did a double take at his dopey grin.

“’Long as you don’t try to hang me off a tree, I’m square.” Hildraed blinked. Perhaps it wasn’t actually her, perhaps people just talked to this man like that. And from the way he STILL grinned that was probably not farfetched.

“That I believe is a promise I can make. I don’t even think any of the trees left here would be able to hold you.” Yep, that settled it. Everyone else here was just as insane as her. How comforting. “Now to official introductions, my name is Kana. Kana Rua. At your service.” What followed was hat flourish that made Hildraed actually home sick. How come everyone had an awesome hat except her?

Introductions were quickly done away with (or so Hildraed thought, at this point she couldn’t be sure of anything), and they set off for the keep. The sooner they were inside the better.

Unfortunately the mentioned house guests apparently disagreed with that sentiment. As soon as they set foot into the courtyard they were set upon by multiple shades, followed by some phantoms, all of them very angry.

And at this point Hildraed was too. Her head was hurting like a bitch, nothing made sense in this damn place, and even the fucking wildlife wanted to skin her. She was tired. Oh so tired. But she was also absolutely livid.

The shades swarmed them, phantoms following up close and the banter died down. Swords slashed against strange, mist like flesh in an uncomfortably screeching noise, spells were muttered and let loose in stabbingly bright flashes of colours.

And Hildraed screamed. As soon as the creatures were within range she let loose howl so disharmonic it could barely be counted as a chant. The spirits, hanging dark and heavy in the air, almost seemed to screech along with her as they were pushed back, but they had no chance to compete with Hildraed’s pure rage. There was no one around anymore, just her and (soon to be) dead bastards.

Feet on moist earth, cool air of the evening brushing almost gently across her cheek, thuds in her ears, red in her eyes, heavy breath from her throat. Gravity pulling at her she fell into every swing, using momentum to rip her broadsword back up. A deadly dance accompanied by her furious chants. One she had danced and sung many, many times. One she had not actually wanted to dance and sing again.

And that cost her. She was tired, angry, frustrated. And also no longer used to solid ground as her dance floor. She stepped forward, swinging her sword upwards in anticipation of a wave that didn’t come. The sword went wide. The weight pulled her along, eyes wide as her balance tipped. Her breathed hitched, a second to long for the chorus, and her next verse slipped out of her grasp. The familiar sensation of an ended chant was just as horrifying as her fall. A lost chant was a lost life in battle, be it hers or her crew, most likely both.

Her back hit the ground with a heavy thump, her sword clanking right next to her, ripped aside with a well-trained reflex to not impale her. Not that it would do her much good anymore.

One more clank, this time from above her. A back to her, broad, and blond hair on the head above it. What?

Suddenly her head burned hot for a second, and the world was back in sharp focus. The farmer in front of her fending off the phantom she’d attempted to decapitate, from behind her a chant. Her chant. Well not anymore, now with a halfway clear head again she could feel that chant had not dissolved when she’d lost hold of it, instead someone else had picked it up and continued it. Somebody who sounded like they had shark teeth.

The light of a Minoletta spell stabbed her eyes for once she was glad for the headache it caused (strangely reduced now from before), as it finally triggered her fighting instincts again. She rolled over, carefully avoiding the sword (and getting grass stains all over herself for it) and dragged herself back up.

She allowed herself one glance backwards, which told her that indeed the newcomer was a chanter, and not a bad one at that, and also that she should most certainly remain on the front line with the farmer. The elf boy looked both determinedly terrified and very squishy, and though the sharkman could probably take a hit, there was no need to risk the chant breaking again.

Ripping her eyes away from the first chanter she’d seen in a long, long time, she heaved her sword back up and fell into a defensive position between their main fighter and the squishy wizard. Not a position she was used to, but she would manage.

The fight didn’t continue for much longer, as her companions had made short work of the spirits while she’d been in a bloodthirsty (smokethirsty? Aetherthirsty? Maybe ask the wizard later) rage. Few hits managed to get through to her, and though she would have been hard pressed to admit it, it was probably for the best. The voice from behind her was deeply distracting. He wasn’t singing her phrases anymore. Neither did he sound much like her. But she- she liked it. It was nice. Unfamiliar.

The last shadow disintegrated and a loud collective sigh moved through the group. The wizard was obviously very desperately trying not to hug his grimoire for comfort, the fighter was drenched in sweat like he’d been dropped into the sea, and the- the chanter’s hat was close to falling off, much like his by now wavering grin.

And they’d made it barely through the courtyard.

Fuck.

Hildraed was very tempted to just let herself fall into the giant, overgrown flowerbed next to them and wait for the ground to just swallow her. But then again, she’d lead a crew for too long to give in to that impulse. The close house it was then. The keep itself would definitely be infested, but perhaps, hopefully, the house had been spared this fate. They’d see. At the very least it couldn’t be too many in the enclosed space, and Hildraed really, really didn’t want to camp again. Or at least she didn’t want to camp outside in the cold anymore.

“Ladies, we’re trying our luck in the house.” Despite her desperate need to fall over again, she waited for the others to shuffle past her, in the elf’s case with a badly suppressed glower at her word choice. Which was indeed very funny and Hildraed could feel her lips twitch upwards. And though in other situations she would have relished in the mirth, perhaps right now wasn’t time for this. Sadly.

Thankfully, no one had any other objections (in fact she was almost sure the singing shark had found it funny.) and they made their way over to the house with only their general grumpiness as an obstacle.

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The inside of the house was hardly comfortable, but Hildraed had slept in worse places. She certainly didn’t want to stay in this shithole, but it was acceptable for a night, if it would keep her out of the wind.

That was what she kept telling herself, continuously plucking out gravel from her ass and back, as she had made the grave mistake of attempting to lie down. Or more accurately, she had flopped down and immediately cursed herself. Loudly.

That in turn had made the elf into a blushing, stammering mess, and he’d fled into a corner digging his nose into a book. Which he had from… somewhere. Hildraed wasn’t quite sure where, but she wasn’t about to ask. Mostly because she was curious how long it would take him to admit that he was sitting on a sharp stone.

“Ow.” She grimaced and winced as she pulled out (probably) the last pebble. She hoped these weren’t like sand. Sand you’d find in the weirdest places days later. Much like companions apparently.

One of which had left to check out the stairs up and had yet to return. Strange noises were coming from the direction of hallway, but as none of them were growls or shouts, Hildraed was willing to ignore them. She didn’t know what the lonely farmer was doing in the back that would cause minor rockslides, and frankly she had no intention to find out.

A fire was lit in the middle of the room, next to the broken fountain. The structure might have been beautiful once, but now it was barely more than a heap of rubble. A shame really. Not that Hildraed cared. It wasn’t like the thing reminded her of the old church, the only impressive construction in her old village. It wasn’t like they’d had anything like it there, a small pool in which she’d played with the other children during her childhood. Nope, not at all.

With that thought she slumped down on the ground (carefully making sure to not repeat her mistake), her back to the structure, and poked the fire a bit. It crackled in front of her, warm and bright, while at the same time dousing the room in an ominous shadow, flames dancing on the walls in a constantly changing rhythm.

“Are you alright?” The voice sounded genuinely concerned, which surprised Hildraed more than the sudden words. She looked up through the flames, and her stupidly poetic with exhaustion brain tried to jumpstart another ramble at the sight of the aumaua’s changed skin colour. She was tempted to try and find a stick to beat her head with, but somehow, she didn’t think that would be very helpful. She sighed.

“Are any of us?” Another dumb thought she hadn’t wanted to voice. The crew didn’t need to know her own insecurities. Thankfully, the awkward silence was broken by another one of their companions.

“The stairs up are completely collapsed. Before anything from up there could attack us, it’d break its neck coming down.” Edér stepped out from the side room, rubbing his neck, rubble stuck all over his clothes and his hair. At least he hadn’t broken his neck. With whatever he was doing. Since his clothes only seemed dirty and not actually all that dishevelled though, she felt almost bad for her inner monologue’s implications. Only almost though, because obviously he’d still been dumb enough to crawl around there.

He flopped down next to them, giving Aloth and his book a cursory glance. Only to immediately grimace in regret again. Hildraed snorted.

An awkward silence followed. Hildraed stared into the flames. But really what should she say to these people? She didn’t know them, not really. She was just sitting in these fucking pebbles with them. Right? And why would she want to know them, knowing them brought responsibilities, knowing them would mean having to take care of them. She was done with that life, she didn’t have a crew anymore and didn’t want one. The fact that she had referred to them as such meant nothing. Old habits, nothing more.

“Would you sing with me?” What?

“What?” Hildraed blinked at- at- Kana. His name was Kana.

“Would you sing with me?” Nope, not any clearer, not even with his grin restored. “Your form in the fight was fascinating, and I would be honoured if you were to give me the opportunity of a chant with you.” He was looking at her over the fire with this shining, honest smile, and for a second Hildraed could feel her heart break. Gods be damned he was cute. He was a full grown man with the enthusiasm of a child. No she couldn’t keep looking at this, his excitement might actually melt her.

Unfortunately, for some reason, turning away didn’t help. On her other side sat- Edér. And though he wasn’t quite as high level excitement, he looked terribly derpy with his dusty face and clothes, and also intrigued at the concept of show. Which she was not giving. She wasn’t a fucking circus horse.

And the- Aloth, sitting across the room, doing a horrible job of subtly eyeing them with interest over his book would change nothing about it. Not even his embarrassing blush at having been spotted.

Oh who was she still trying to lie to. She had tried to keep her distance and had failed, now she might as well enjoy what she got out of it.

The self-revelation came and took the last bit of her adrenaline though. If she was going to give them a show, it would at least be an impressive one. She sighed, and for some reason it felt strangely liberating.

“Fine, boy, but not right now. First a nap. I couldn’t hit a note right now if I tried.” Now that was probably a lie, but she still wouldn’t be good. She almost didn’t dare look up, in fear that he had also mastered the sad puppy look, which might just be fatal for her conviction. Regrettably, her eyes drifted over on their own, and though he looked a little disappointed, Kana either couldn’t or didn’t want to utilize the sad puppy dog look. For Hildraed there were reasons to hope for both.

And while she was already looking at him, she couldn’t help but eye him.

“You know, you could bolster your chances for tomorrow by being my pillow for tonight.” He stared at her with surprise, and Hildraed wanted to bite herself. She was mushy enough, no need to make it worse! (And what if she’d made him uncomfortable now?)

The moment passed though, and his grin returned full force. Instead of giving a verbal answer he just opened his arms expectantly. Before he (or she) could come to their senses and realize just how stupidly mushy they were being, she turned to the side, putting her head on his thigh. (Which was exactly as comfortable as it looked.)

This however put her into the uncomfortable position of having to see Edér’s slightly jealous glances, and Aloth’s now more frequent shifting. She rolled her eyes.

“Fine, come here, bear, we don’t want anyone getting pneumonia here. And kid, please just come to the fire at least, there’s no need to skulk. And also pull that stone out of your bum, you’re proving nothing.”

Before she could see their reaction she turned into the other direction, entirely ignoring the shuffling behind and beside her. She didn’t care what they doing. Okay she did, but at least for now that was only her business.

Which is why she definitely didn’t ask: “How about a demonstration if you’re still so fit?”

Which is why she definitely didn’t feel vindicated at the excited answer.

Which is why she certainly didn’t fall asleep to the velvety tunes of a Rauataian hymn.

[rachelkaser]

Stay Golden Sunday Reissue: The Heart Attack

Note: This is a repost of an older Stay Golden Sunday that had to be redone for housekeeping reasons.

Sophia becomes very ill one night and is convinced she’s going to die. The Girls confront the idea of mortality.

Picture It…

The Girls bid farewell to their guests as a storm rages outside. They praise Sophia for the meal she cooked for everyone, and Blanche says it was even better than the food she ate in Italy. The Girls tell Sophia to take a load off in the living room. They start the dishes in the kitchen, while Rose talks about her family’s Scandinavian cooking.

Back in the living room, Sophia says she’s got a “bubble” of pressure in her chest. Rose thinks it might be gas, but Dorothy says her mother isn’t looking so good. Blanche goes to call the doctor. Sophia clutches her chest as the bubble turns to pain. Dorothy lays her down, while Sophia worries she could be having a heart attack. Blanche says the doctor was out, so she called the paramedics.

DOROTHY: Ma, you know, you don’t look good. SOPHIA: I’m short and I’m old. What did you expect, Princess Di?

The two discuss their family’s deaths – which include a fall from a donkey and misfiring a gun while taking out the garbage – to rule out the possibility of heart disease. Blanche and Rose talk about how death should come without pain or illness, getting sidetracked until Dorothy shuts them up. They go to make coffee, while Sophia begins to worry she’ll die. She starts giving Dorothy instructions on what to do after she’s dead, and says Dorothy was always her favorite, even if she never showed it.

In the kitchen, Rose and Blanche discuss death. Rose says her family members live to their 90s and 100s, which Blanche attributes to the Minnesota cold slowing down the aging process. They also discuss cremation vs burial: Rose wants to be buried with all her sentimental items, while Blanche wants to be buried in Arlington Cemetery because it’s full of men. Sophia tells Dorothy she loves her. When Rose and Blanche return with the coffee, she thanks them for keeping her company. She decides to rest while Blanche goes to call the paramedics again.

BLANCHE: Do you want to be buried or cremated? ROSE: Neither! BLANCHE: What do you want to be, flushed down the toilet like a goldfish?

Rose tells Dorothy it’s probably not a heart attack, as she’s seen one and they’re bigger. She recounts Charlie’s heart attack to Dorothy, which happened while they were making love (she told Arnie this back in Episode 3, but this is the first time she’s told one of the other Girls). She dressed him before emergency services arrived, and his last words were that he loved her. Blanche returns and says the paramedics are held up by the storm, and they’ll just have to wait… and pray, as Rose adds.

The Girls crowd Sophia, who wakes up and tells them she had a near-death experience and saw Heaven. She describes seeing her husband and asks Dorothy to get her rosary. Blanche’s main interest is if there are lots of men in Heaven (which… why wouldn’t there be?), and eventually goes to help Dorothy. Left alone with Sophia, Rose bugs the crap out of her by recounting farm stories.

BLANCHE: What about men? Are there lots of men in Heaven? ROSE: Oh Blanche, come on! BLANCHE: Well you asked her about God and Jesus!

In Sophia’s room, Dorothy’s going through Sophia’s things, looking for the rosary. She tells Blanche that she’s not ready for Sophia to die, and that she’ll still feel like an orphan at her age. She breaks down in tears at the thought, and Blanche comforts her by saying Blanche and Rose are her family too, and they’re there for her.

In comes Dr. Harris, presumably Elliott’s replacement as their house-call doctor. He inspects Sophia and finds her side is sensitive, so he asks her what she ate recently. The girls list a truly disgusting amount of food, including scungilli, fried mozzarella, and two boxes of Milk Duds. Dr. Harris says it’s not a heart attack, but more likely a gallbladder attack from overeating. Sophia is instantly relieved, but takes back what she said about Dorothy being her favorite now that she’s not dying.

Later that evening, the Girls minus Sophia (who’s presumably resting) talk about mortality in the kitchen. They question the reason they worry about things like dieting when they’re going to die eventually – a thinly veiled excuse to eat some chocolate cake and ice cream. They do eventually get turned off of the dessert when they realize that, while they are going to die eventually, they’ll feel the negative effects of overeating immediately, like Sophia did. They decide to go out for a walk (one hopes the storm is not still raging), and Blanche brings it back around to her favorite topic:

BLANCHE: Let’s go for a walk. ROSE: Right, burn it off! DOROTHY: Are you kidding? After what we ate, we’d have to walk to Canada. BLANCHE: Oh, Mounties! I love Canadian men!

“You couldn’t say ‘belch?’ What is it, a Viking curse?”

This is the first episode that centers around Sophia, and given the multiple references to her age and health in the preceding nine episodes, it’s fitting that it’s about a health scare. Estelle Getty, who has mostly played comic relief up to this point in the series, gets her shot at carrying the dramatic half of an episode – and she definitely delivers.

To be a little real with you, this episode has been hard for me to watch the last few years, ever since my mother died. She was the one who introduced me to Golden Girls, and episodes like this hurt both because I know now she and I will never have that Dorothy-and-Sophia rapport in old age like I always assumed – my mom was not even 60 when she died – and because I was basically in Dorothy’s position at the time. If I could have chosen a quote to describe the months of my life after my mother died, it’d probably be this one:

DOROTHY: It doesn’t matter. You lose a parent, you might as well be six. It’s scary. And it pushes you right up to the head of the line.

I appreciate that, when confronted with the possibility that she might die, Sophia’s not accepting or serene even though she’s very old. I think there’s a perception that, when you get old, you just have to accept that you might die soon and be okay with it because you’ve “lived a full life” or some such nonsense. Instead, Sophia outright says “I’m not ready” and that she’d take even one more day of life.

I leave it to other shows to try and teach people to accept death with grace. I prefer Golden Girls’s way, which is to say “Screw that,” and portray the octogenarian matriarch as not wanting to die. There’s something very real in Sophia saying she never really thought she would die.

SOPHIA: 80 years old, and it would come as a complete surprise.

There’s quite a bit of real-world backstory to this one, too. Originally, it was intended to be broadcast live, which is why it’s the first episode since the pilot to take place entirely within the confines of the Girls’ home. According to Golden Girls Forever (quite a treasure trove), NBC had done a live episode of Gimme a Break and attempted to replicate its success with a night of live shows, ostensibly to promote Saturday Night Live. Golden Girls would have been one of about five shows to air its episodes live.

At first all the other shows were onboard, but then showrunners protested the final offering of the night, a detective show called Hunter, couldn’t be filmed live. So the live plan was scrapped. Director Jim Drake remembered it as being for the best, since the actresses weren’t really equipped to do the show in a single live, continuous taping. While their shows were filmed in front of a live studio audience, they still had the option of doing multiple takes. Somewhat relevant, but here’s a video of Golden Girls bloopers:

The other real-world issue that influenced the filming of this episode was one that also cast a pall over the previous episode – the death of Bea Arthur’s and Betty White’s mothers. But while it seemed to throw off the chemistry of the previous episode to a certain extent, if anything it helps this one. There are differing accounts as to whether Rose’s monologue about Charlie’s death was drawn from the deaths of White’s mother or her husband, Allen Ludden. I suspect it’s a combination of both, but you can see she’s genuinely crying while talking about it.

My only real criticism of this episode is that the final scene doesn’t really seem like it’s attached the rest of the story. The Girls talk about their own mortality, and how the fact of dying makes things seem trivial. They don’t even mention Sophia, despite the rest of the episode revolving around her. It feels like a discussion they might have after a friend died – or, more accurately, a scene inserted by a writer who wanted to opine about death for five minutes.

That’s not even mentioning the fact that the way the Girls behave in this scene is very at odds with the rest of the episode. It’s just strange to me that they’d come to the conclusion that, since they’re going to die, they might as well gorge themselves on rich food, when doing so is the exact reason Sophia had a gallbladder attack – and they just heard a doctor tell her that.

Regardless, this is another great Susan Harris episode, and the first episode that puts Sophia front and center. While it’s a bit melancholy there are enough jokes interspersed throughout to keep it from being a downer.

Episode rating: 🍰🍰🍰🍰 (four cheesecake slices out of five)

Favorite part of the episode:

The Girls crowd around a sleeping Sophia (see the image at the top of the article), and she wakes with a shout, scaring them all. When Dorothy asks her what’s wrong, she says:

SOPHIA: What? You’re sitting on top of me. I open my eyes, I see pores like that, I think I’m on the moon!

[jwood719]

Thurmond, West Virginia: a Rail Road Town that the World Passed By, Then Found Again (sorta’) - Updated.

As I explained recently over a dinner with friends in town (for the first time in how long?!), Thurmond, West Virginia was south and west of Pittsburgh, so it seemed like a good option for a kind-of side trip on the way home from Pennsylvania.  Little did I know how long the trip south would be, but glad I was to have done it.

A CSX coal car drag passing the Thurmond Depot, as seen through the window of the yardmaster’s office. [1]

The town was founded by one Capt. W.D. Thurmond in 1873, the same year the Chesapeake & Ohio Railway completed main line track building through the New River Valley.  The New River Valley was scene to intensive coal mining in the latter half of the 1800s and first half of the 1900s, and Thurmond was literally and figuratively at the heart of it all.

I believe the tall structure visible through the coal smoke and vented steam is the coaling tower. [2]

Thurmond in 1988.  Conspicuously absent now are all the structures on the left side of the tracks -- as well as the tracks to the left. [3]

The New River Valley was also the scene of some of the worst of the “coal field wars:” the operators paid by weight, ran company towns and stores, and lured unsuspecting laborers into the valley with promises of good wages -- promises that never materialized.  Instead, coal weight was shorted, company rents and store fees were exorbitant, and rules were enforced with extra-judicial posses, bought-off law enforcement officers, and state militia at times.  Miners were repeatedly denied recognition of their unionizing efforts, scabs were thrown in between the simmering, or boiling, antagonists, and strikes devolved into shooting matches.

Thurmond in 1988. [3]  Two generations of water towers (near center) holding hundreds of thousands of gallons of water for the thirsty steam-powered engines, and the post office building (at right)  CSX removed the water towers in the 1990s.

Concrete footings for the water towers seen in the 1988 photo above.  The post office building still stands (at far right), and is still U.S.P.S. property, though it is no longer in operation. [1]

Thurmond was the vital hub for the C&O and for all the various people who moved through the Valley throughout the coal mining years; in 1910, Thurmond  moved more freight and passengers than any other town the rail road serviced.  It’s hard to imagine today, but from its founding until the early 1920s, Thurmond could only be reached by rail, and thousands of people moved through or lived in the town, going to work in a mine, working for the C&O, or providing goods and services.

The Marilyn Brown house, with the roofline of the Fatty Lipscomb house beyond. [1]

At one time, Thurmond boasted many commercial structures, scores of houses (like those above), and was also a service hub for the C&O’s engines and rolling stock.  Steam-powered rail road engines require daily maintenance, work that was effected in a large engine house that was perched above the river.

Thurmond in 1988. [3] The engine house is right of center in the mid-ground, behind the trees.  Some of the remaining private houses can be seen uphill behind the commercial buildings, as well as the one “street” that wound across the face of the hill.

Like so many towns built around 19th century industries, Thurmond’s importance declined dramatically as the 20th century proceeded.  The use of diesel rail road engines left steam engine mechanics unemployed; many of the mines played out, and those that remained (and remain still) employed far fewer miners to pull the coal from the seams -- or blast it from hill tops; and people who would have been passengers on the trains began driving automobiles.  The world, if you will, moved on, and Thurmond dried up.

Two views of the Fatty Lipscomb house. [1]

As coal mining declined, though, tourism increased, and in the 1960s and 1970s, enthusiasts of outdoor sports found the U.S. Congress receptive to the idea of setting aside some of West Virginia’s landscapes for boating, hiking and camping.  In 1978, a substantial swath of West Virginia was designated as the New River Gorge National River, and later, lands along the Gauley and Bluestone Rivers were conserved, designated as National Recreation Areas in 1988.

Another house, here perched on the hillside above the commercial district, and a stretch of the local roadway, looking downhill. [1]

Once the land along the rivers became national reserves, Thurmond basically passed into federal control, though up until the early 1990s, up to 50 people still resided there.  The Chesapeake & Ohio had also declined, and became a foundational holding of today’s CSX Transportation rail road company.  CSX still moves coal through Thurmond in long drags of hopper cars, either full and destined for power plants, or empty and heading back to the mines.

In 1988 (above) [3] and in 2021 (below). [1]  The view below is perhaps the best known angle of the old commercial buildings.  From right, these are: the Mankin-Cox Building, the oldest of the three, which housed a druggist and a bank; the Goodman-Kincaid Building, which housed a dry goods store as well as offices and apartments; and the National Bank of Thurmond Building; all held a variety of business concerns before business fled.  To the upper right is the Erskine Pugh house.  The track in the foreground has been removed.

Circa 1900 [2]  The engine house is right of center, with the commercial buildings to the left.  The large building at far left was a hotel, but it burned down and was replaced by an Armour meat company building -- which also burned, in 1963 . The depot (seen following photo) is at the far right, with the rail road trestle just in view.

The 1904 passenger depot, now the NPS visitors center (as of 1995), and yes, Amtrak does have Thurmond as a stop! [1]

The NPS owns most of the remaining buildings, and efforts began in the early 2000s to keep them from deteriorating further, with roof repairs and seals to keep out the weather. There are still 5 residents in Thurmond, all are on the town council, and in addition to being active within the park, they are also seeking ways to keep the town alive.  

The red house at left is new construction, but on an old foundation, and where possible, older building materials have been recycled in its build-out.  A project of Thurmond’s residents, the hope is to have it available for seasonal leases; my guess is it’ll wind up with a long wait-list -- and my name will be on it! [1]

Old rail road ties in the dirt: now an access road, the C&O service track that led to the coaling tower were once mounted here; the engine house would have been to the extreme right and partially out of view; the depot is dead ahead, and my road-weary car is parked near the trees. [1]

Maybe I was taken-in by the town because of the setting, nestled as it is among the hills and above the river; maybe it’s because the old buildings have that “certain something” that makes history buffs like me snap more photos than is reasonable; maybe it’s the potential that I can see in them (provided anyone ever coughed up the money to really rehabilitate them); if I was to get metaphysical about it, maybe it’s because of all the lives and history that occurred in the area and the energy left behind calls out still (y’know if I got metaphysical about it -- past lives anyone?); perhaps it’s all of those.  What-ever the reason, I’ve been thinking of making a trip back in mid-Autumn, take a long weekend as the leaves are turning and it’s got chilly -- and shoot yet more photos than is reasonable.

The 1922 coaling tower (above), built by Fairbanks Morse (as noted on the sign below). [1]

The reason for the coaling tower: a pair of the last steam engines in Thurmond: 1953. [2]

I briefly stopped at the New River Gorge visitors center where I got directions, and figured I could at least find out where I was going before getting off the highway for the night.  I arrived in Thurmond just before 5 PM, but even that later afternoon hour left plenty of daylight to walk about and take photos.  My thought had been to simply find Thurmond, then make my stop-over somewhere nearby (Beckley, WV is less than 10 miles away) then return in the morning.  That thinking quickly became “Oh! I can come back for more in the morning!” 

Up the hill: the old church. [1]  The church grounds now host the local triathlon and reunion events for those who once lived in Thurmond.

What I realized as I strolled around in the afternoon, was that the light would be dramatically different if I arrived early the next day (yeah: a “well duh!” moment if ever there was one), an effect of the changed daylight hours mixed with the topography that proved itself quite wonderfully -- and is why the images here show both the golden glow of evening and the cool white of morning.

Amtrak’s Cardinal route-train, on-time (or nearly) on a Friday morning. [1]

Standing by my car, having a sip of coffee, looking around as other visitors arrived or departed, I just, well -- “sighed with contentment” is an apt description. 

A view of the ticket agent’s office. [1]

For more information on Thurmond:

The National Park Service’s web page for Thurmond, WV.

Thurmond, WV on Clio, a history and culture website.

Both of these share some of the same information, and each has additional images, both historical and contemporary.  

A view of the New River Valley from the west side, across from Thurmond (note the houses and rail road cars on the far bank below the hill). [4]

The historical narrative written here was gleaned from the NPS hand-out for Thurmond, as well as from the Summer 2021 issue of National Parks magazine, published by the National Parks Conservation Association (“Miner’s Angel” concerning Mother Jones and the coal field wars of West Virginia, by Nicolas Brulliard).  Identification of the Marilyn Brown house made possible by access to a PDF of the NPS’ structural assessment report of buildings in Thurmond, revised edition, published in 2002.

A view of the yardmaster’s office [1]

Atlas Obscura’s “22 of America’s Best Preserved Ghost Towns”  Sorry, Mental Floss, you were forgot.

Looking south toward the depot past the three old commercial blocks. [1]

[1] Photographs by R. Jake Wood, 2021.

[2] Historic photographs displayed on-site by National Park Service, photographed on-site and edited for this posting by Jake Wood. 

[3] Photographs by Jet Lowe, 1988, for the Library of Congress’ Historic American Building Survey/Historic American Engineering Record; retrieved from the Library of Congress’ Prints & Photographs Online Catalog, with minor editing by Jake Wood.

[4] Photograph by the Detroit Publishing Co., circa 1910; from the Library of Congress’ Prints & Photographs Online Catalog, with minor editing by Jake Wood.

The depot, alongside CSX trackage. [1]

CSX coal drag outbound with hoppers full of coal.  The post office building is visible just beyond the engine. [1]