#i did lose like three pounds from what i usually am which kind of concerns me

[bluebayard]

i feel like to outside perspectives it is a miracle i am not fifty shades of deceased from the way i live

[writtenmemxries]

I fell for you, Dean.

So today, 18th September 2020, it's Dean and Castiel's twelfth anniversary, and who am I not to post something in celebration?

Actually, this ficlet has nothing to do with their first encounter, it's just a love confession because I'm a sucker for that stuff.

I sincerely hope you like it! xx

[2060 words]

Jack is nineteen. Well, actually he's three, but, you know, he's in the body of a nineteen-year-old boy. And like all guys, he wants to experience stuff. New things.

When he walks around the city, accompanying Sam to the grocery store, and he sees kids his age, he always feels weird and odd sensations that he cannot quite define. They hug, sometimes they kiss, hold hands. And he doesn't understand.

Of course he knows about love, and he thinks he has felt it. After all, he loves Castiel, and he loves Sam, and he loves Dean. He loves his family. But that, that is a different kind of love. He sees it. But he can't quite understand it. He would like to, but he doesn't know how.

He may have the body of a grown boy, but deep inside he's still a child, often disoriented and confused, despite having had to endure more burdens and tragedies than anyone his age. But Jack, Jack was never a normal kid, of course. Although sometimes he would like to be. He would like to feel like them, like normal kids.

When he entered the bunker library that afternoon, Dean was sitting at the table, absentmindedly leafing through a book about rugarus. He sat down next to him and watched him for a while without saying a word. Jack looked at him and wondered if he had ever fallen in love. If Dean ever felt that kind of love.

"You okay?" Dean asked, feeling his insistent gaze on him.

"Yes," Jack said, and continued to stare.

After a few minutes, Dean closed the book and turned to the boy. "Why do you keep staring at me?"

"I was thinking."

"About what?"

"Have you ever fallen in love?" Jack asked innocently.

Dean's eyes widened. "Come again?"

"I said, have you ever fallen in love?"

Dean shifted awkwardly in his chair, a confused expression on his face. "Why you asking, kid?"

Jack shrugged.

"You met someone?" Dean asked smirking.

"No," Jack replied simply. "I just wanted to know if hunters were allowed to fall in love."

Dean looked at him in surprise. He certainly didn't expect that. "Kid, what do you mean, allowed? Everyone's allowed to fall in love, no matter what their job is."

"But, hunting-"

Dean cut him off. "I know. Believe me, I know. We lose people, especially the ones we care about. And it hurts. We gotta man up and face the situation. We just deal with it, somehow." He sighed. "But sometimes, you bond with someone. Could be someone you saved, someone you helped, another hunter... we travel all the time, we meet hundreds of people. It's inevitable, you know." He nodded, as if he was satisfied with his own speech.

"I understand," Jack said, despite his brow furrowing.

Dean smiled at him and started to get up, before the conversation turned to something more embarrassing that he was absolutely not ready to talk about with Jack. It wasn't his job to give him The Talk, right?

But then Jack spoke again. "So you have fallen in love."

Dean sighed, moving his gaze to the large bookcases surrounding them. "Yes, sure. I fell in love sometimes."

Jack looked at him in surprise. "You can fall in love more than once?"

Dean laughed. "Sure. Sometimes people fall in love, get together, but for some reason they break up." He swallowed, trying not to think too much about his past relationships. "But there's always some sort of... affection. That always remains."

Jack was silent for a while, deep in thought. Then he spoke again. "Are you in love now?"

Dean licked his lips, his heartbeat strangely increasing. Jack stared at him with his big blue eyes, his genuinely curious gaze. He cleared his throat again. "And who am I supposed to be in love with? Sam and I- we don't get to know many girls like we used to," he said, forcing a laugh. His heart was still pounding in his chest.

Jack thought about it. "What if it's not a girl?"

Dean blushed violently. "What- what do you mean?" he stammered.

"Can't you fall in love with a man?"

"Um-" Dean ran a hand through his hair. "I mean, sure. I mean, um- some- some people, they- they like same-sex people, you know- and it's okay, I mean, it's normal, perfectly natural."

Damn kid, why did he have to keep asking questions?

"But you don't," Jack noted.

"I- I don't, what?"

"You are not attracted to men."

Dean licked his lips again, his discomfort was palpable and he found himself mentally blaming the boy and his naivety, which made him ask all those stupid questions.

The boy just needed to understand how life worked, that's all. Dean could do it, could help him. It was fine.

But at that moment, Castiel entered, greeting Jack placing his hands on his shoulders and squeezing lightly, in a fatherly manner. He smiled at Dean, a warm smile that made his insides melt.

"What were you talking about?" Castiel asked with a loving smile.

"Dean is telling me about love," Jack replied cheerfully.

Dean took a deep breath through his nose.

"Have you ever been in love, Castiel?" Jack asked.

Castiel looked at him first, then moved his gaze to Dean, letting his eyes wander over the features of his face before answering, "Yes."

Dean jerked his head up at him, looking at him with eyes full of amazement and some other emotion he didn't know or didn't want to acknowledge. "Really?"

"Yes, Dean," Castiel replied with a sigh, sitting down opposite to him. "Really."

Dean swallowed. "Good. I mean, good for you. I mean, um, I'm... happy for you. And, um, who- who's the- the lucky woman?" He tried not to look him in the eye. Anywhere, but not in those damn blue eyes.

Castiel looked down at his hands, fidgeting. "It's- it's not a woman."

Dean didn't speak. He stood there, staring at him, his lips slightly parted in shock.

It was Jack who broke the silence, as always. "Don't worry Castiel. Dean said there's nothing wrong with that. It's natural." He smiled.

Dean blushed. God, how he wanted to run away, disappear, be locked up in their dungeons and never get out again.

Castiel didn't reply, continuing to fidget with his fingers, avoiding Dean's gaze. Avoiding his deep, playful green eyes.

"I gotta go," Dean muttered, standing up abruptly. He couldn't bear to be there, at that table, sitting in front of an angel of the Lord who claimed to be in love. Who was he in love with, anyway? Who the heck could he have met? Was it a hunter they'd worked with a few times, or a stupid dude he met somewhere? Whatever. Dean didn't care. He could feel a lump in his throat and his stomach turned upside down with jealou- no. It wasn't that. He didn't care. He simply had to walk away.

Castiel watched Dean leave. He listened to his footsteps echoing in the corridor, then nothing more. He sighed.

Jack watched him. "Are you alright?"

Castiel just nodded, giving him a forced smile.

"Did Dean... did he say something? Is he... in love?" he asked shyly after a while.

"He didn't say it. He kept blushing."

Castiel nodded again, swallowing. It was okay. He wasn't actually hoping for it after all. He got up slowly and gave Jack's shoulder one last squeeze before disappearing.

And so, Jack was left alone, with the terrible feeling that he had just unleashed something big.

At dinner, they all gathered at the table as usual. It felt like a normal, quiet evening, but the tension was so thick it could be cut with a knife.

Sam glanced at Dean and Castiel, who kept avoiding each other's gazes. "Did something happen while I was away?" he asked.

"No," the two said in unison.

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, sure."

"Nothing happened, Sammy, okay? Everything's just fine. We're all happy and in love," Dean snapped, raising his voice at every word. Then he got up from the table, walking away with heavy steps.

"Dean-" his brother called.

"I'm not hungry anymore."

Sam looked at Jack and Castiel for some explanation, but they both looked as shocked and concerned as he was.

"Maybe I should go talk to him," Castiel said quietly, getting up from the table. "Excuse me."

He knocked on Dean's bedroom door, from where he could hear music coming.

"I said I'm not hungry, Sam."

Castiel opened the door slightly, peeking out. "It's me."

Dean stiffened. "What do you want, Cas?"

"What happened Dean?"

Dean sighed, running a hand over his face.

Castiel entered the room, closing the door behind him. Dean gritted his teeth.

"Dean. Talk to me."

He closed his eyes, clenching his jaw even tighter until it hurt.

"I can't," he said so quietly that Castiel wasn't sure he had actually spoken.

"What?"

"I said I can't," he repeated, raising his voice. He looked at him bitterly. "I can't, okay? I don't know why- I didn't want to snap like that, okay? I didn't want to blame Sam. Damn, he's got nothing to do with it."

"So, what is the problem?" Castiel asked gently.

Dean sighed again. "Me. Just me. I am the problem, Cas. Me, my damn mind and that damn man you're in love with. Who is he, huh? A-a guy you met in a bar? And you fell in love with him? Really, Cas? Then why don't you go to him, go to the love of your life, or whatever it is." He was yelling and he didn't even realize it.

Castiel stared at him in shock, and Dean felt like an idiot. What right did he have to blame Cas for falling in love? Just because he felt something for the angel - because yes, damn, he felt more than just something for him - he didn't have the right to interfere in his life. He clenched his fists and closed his eyes, ashamed of himself.

"Dean-"

"No, Cas. I don't- I don't know why- I'm sorry. Really. I'm sorry. I have no right to- It's none of my business."

"Dean. Look at me."

Dean looked up with difficulty. He had his nails pressed into his palms. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears, the pounding of his heart.

"Dean." Castiel walked over. "I am with the love of my life." His eyes locked with Dean's.

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it again. It was dry and his thoughts ran so fast that chasing them and being able to give them a voice was impossible.

"Don't you understand, can't you see?" Castiel continued. "It's like everyone has always said. I fell for you, Dean. I fell for the Righteous Man in every way imaginable. And I would do it again. Over and over and over."

They were so close that Dean was sure Castiel could hear his heartbeat. It was deafening, it was painful, it was almost inhumane. Every inch of his body quivered, eager to reach out and feel what he thought he couldn't have, touch what he thought he didn't deserve.

But Castiel, oh, Cas... he was so tired of Dean's stubbornness, so tired of his own feelings, so tired of repressing everything, he couldn't stop himself. He reached out and took Dean's face in his hands, touching it with a kindness that Dean hadn't felt on his skin in a long time.

He closed his eyes, letting Castiel's thumbs softly caress his face, with slow but firm movements. He let a sigh escape from his lips as he completely melted at the angel's touch.

"It's you, Dean. I'm in love with you. I can't even tell you since when, I just know it happened."

"Cas-" Dean whispered. A whisper that tasted of unspoken words, words he couldn't say, words he felt inside himself and that devoured every cell, causing him to collapse inside himself. A star that implodes and creates a galaxy.

And as Castiel brought his face close to his, breathing against his lips before closing the distance with a desperate kiss, Dean saw it. A galaxy of pleasure within which he felt reborn.

And just like that, he kissed Cas back, and the galaxy exploded, leaving him breathless.

[kyle-valenti]

burnout only feels like burning

2.7k / Summary: kyle valenti doesn't have the same quarantine as his friends; an exploration of kyle's trauma during covid as a doctor. (tw depression & other triggers you’d imagine with this subject)

read & comment/ ao3

A little like the virus itself, Kyle’s relationship with his mask begins with worry, annoyance, and then pain. He’s more than happy to have the proper N-95 mask as they begin to get their first case at Roswell General but then a couple more patients trickle in and within a few days his skin is irritated and itching. Maybe it’s the news, maybe it’s the texts from his friends that he’s increasingly missing, but when the Regiment starts spouting off about how COVID is a joke he thinks it might be affecting his nerves too. By week three his former red mark left by the mask has become a permanent feature to his face and by week five it’s not a mark but a bruise instead. Blisters and cracks in his skin litter his hands from over-washing. His feet become so overused the pads of his feet feel numb and bruised and he wears through an entire pair of shoes.

Positivity has fled from his life by week seven and now he’s inside of a survival mode he’s never experienced. He thought after last year he’d be used to anything the world (or universe, rather, given all these aliens) could throw at him. Now what feels foolish, he had believed that there was nothing that could be worse than the previous pain of losing a patient or finding out his father had experimented on people’s lives. 

When he’s out of ventilators and CPAP machines because Albuquerque needs them more and he has to choose whether or not to save the life of an eighty five year old or a thirty two year old he remembers from high school, he breaks.

 Guilt is one thing, grief is another, but the pure rage he feels knowing that Max Evans is out on the town patrolling as some fucking cop and not someone who could heal most of this hospital makes him want to commit actual murder. Maybe trading the blood of an alien on his hands would feel less heart-wrenching. But no. Max had brought back Rosa and had paid the price. Quelling his anger, he went back to work.

 He slept at the hospital most nights in the height of it. Sure the couch was rough, but it was better than the other on-call doctor beds down the hall. Three twelve hour ER shifts of a usual work week doubled to five days of thirteen hour shifts. Soon there’s a week where he pulls double shifts for an entire week when one of his nurses is urgently hospitalized herself. Hospital directors had left them with no PPE except contaminated masks to reuse. Maria, Isobel, and Rosa are in the forefront of a drive to make and donate masks to his hospital after some social media posts that he doesn’t even see until the cloth masks arrive and his medical assistants give him their handwritten note. It makes him smile, but smiling feels so foreign that he almost wants to break from that.

 Visitors are no longer allowed which means Kyle isn’t allowed to use his bedside manner to comfort the family of patients. He has to facetime mothers, spouses, and children and hold the phone over a patient who can’t breathe without machine assistance and pretend that everything is fine and that there’s still hope despite the hypoxia and lack of rising vitals. Ignore that if the patient goes into cardiac arrest more than once, the kindest thing to do given prognosis is to let the patient pass. Resuscitation and DNR (a patient’s begging request to not be resuscitated) becomes a word he uses in his daily work and not simply for intense surgeries.

 Exhaustion isn’t a deep enough adjective to describe the fugue state he goes into. File to file, room to room, ventilator to next… he isn’t surprised when his body starts to wear down. When he no longer feels hunger and instead feels all too hot and dizzy. Telling himself it’s just because of how much he’s exerting his body while covered in layers and layers of protective clothing doesn’t help the fact that he’s starting to have more trouble breathing as he walks the hallways at a fast pace. When he begins to cough, he does what he promised himself he wouldn’t do and drives out post-shift to the desert cabin of Max Evans.

 Part of him is too desperately tired to knock, but when he arrives on the property with the cop car idle and the house dark and at peace for the night, his fury greets him with the embrace of a long-lost friend. Knuckles pound at the wood and Max answers the door with surprise and a general look of defense, and Kyle tries not to immediately punch him in the face at the fact he looks like he had woken up from a comfortable sleep.

 “Heal me.” Kyle manages to spit out.

 “I—what’s wrong?”

 “Beginning stages of respiratory distress, fever, nausea—what do you fucking think?”

 “Kyle—,” Max starts to say, the hesitation deepening, and that does it.

 “No. I have not asked you for anything in all of this, Evans. Anything!” He shouts, voice hoarse. “Not when people got sick, not when they started dying, not even when we started having to let people die on purpose. And you know what? I wasn’t going to even come and ask you now, but I can’t get sick when I’m the one here fucking saving lives out of the two of us and you’re just cruising the streets handing out goddamn traffic tickets.”

 Max’s face isn’t stony like it usually is when Kyle’s yelling at him; this time it’s crushed and guilty but not nearly enough. “What kind of hours you work this week, Evans? A nice 8 to 4? Did you get facetime with Isobel or your mom, maybe binge through a few books and movies after you’re home? Did you sit down and eat a nice dinner and or go over to drink a few beers with Guerin since you can’t get sick? Even get a nice eight hours of sleep in your own bed in your nice quiet home?”

 No response.

 “I am not asking to sequence your DNA like Liz. All I am asking is for you to let me heal people since you don’t want to.”

 A night breeze is all that makes noise for a moment as Kyle catches his breath and glares at Max, who stands quietly but is staring down at his boots before he finally looks up and nods. Max steps forward then, and Kyle sees that his eyes are actually filled with tears. Temper deflating, but still not subsiding entirely, given that not much else is able to be done; Kyle lets Max place a hand on his shoulder and feels the extremely weird feeling spread throughout his body. Something more electric than anything else, which God knew made a lot more sense concerning his powers and how the body operated with electrical nerve impulses, but that is a train of thought better left for another day. He wants to just walk away, and he almost does, but he still mutters a “thank you” before he does so.

When his nurse dies a few days later and he watches as the staff double bag her body to take to the morgue, he escapes to his office and crashes on his couch with sobs. There’s no one here to support him. He can’t go to his mother’s home and collapse into one of her comforting embraces without risking infecting her. He can’t get wasted at the Wild Pony with Maria when it’s closed. He can’t visit Rosa or Arturo at the Crashdown. Keeping his friends and family safe meant keeping them away from him. Keeping them safe meant he needed to stop pushing his head into his hands to try and control the sound of his crying and get back to work at saving the lives around them.

He gets put on leave by the hospital administrator when he’s almost arrested for decking Wyatt Long in the hospital parking lot as the idiot stood outside with a sign rallying Regiment members to make sure the hospital was told it was killing people on purpose for the election. If Jenna hadn’t been the officer on duty he would have been cuffed and put on record, jeopardizing his license, but there was some self-preserving part of him that desperately wished for his practice to be over anyway. He’s not even sure how Jenna handles it, honestly, all he remembers is her dropping him off at his house from her patrol car like she had been nothing but an uber. No matter how angry and adamant he gets, his boss refuses to bend, saying it’s for his own good given the connections the Long’s have in the town and how Kyle has worked almost 74 of the past 76 days.

Alex is the first to visit him, unannounced. When the doorbell rings Kyle is mindlessly pretending to watch some tv show in his living room that’ll distract him from his consuming thoughts about patients, so he doesn’t get up to answer. He checks his silent phone to see if he was forewarned of a visitor but sees nothing. Unsure if it’s his boss or a patient’s family, he forces himself up onto his sore feet and opens the door after grabbing a regular mask off the coffee table. Black face mask on and standing further out from the door on the porch is Alex, the usual gruff hello turned into something soft. “Hey.”

Kyle heaves a sigh. He had wondered when the pity visits would begin. “Hey. You really shouldn’t be around me, you know.”

“I’m clearly a minimum of eight feet away in an open space while masked.” Alex smarts back. “Either way, I’m worried about you.”

Scoffing, he shakes his head. “Don’t fucking worry about me. Worry about getting sick, because if I have to see another person I care about die, I--,”

“Kyle.” the other says too kindly, the sort of pacifying voice Alex reserved for only the most dire situations. “I have no idea what you’re dealing with in specifics, but my experiences do overlap with yours in some places.”

“And?”

Maybe it came out a little too rude, because Alex raises a brow, but then sighs instead. “And I’m just checking in to make sure you know people care about you.”

“Thanks, Manes.” Kyle huffs in return, managing not to roll his eyes because focusing on being blunt and abrasive was so much easier.

“Just be careful.” Alex interjects before Kyle could close the door and turn back to his show. “Dealing with the trauma of what you’re dealing with gets dark very quickly.”

“Because I punched Wyatt Long?” he spits back sarcastically.

“No, because the suicide rates for healthcare professionals are drastically increasing along with the rates of PTSD diagnoses.” Alex says flatly, ever one to be unfazed by sarcasm. “And I’ve lost more active duty members to suicide than I have combat.”

Kyle pauses, caught. Maybe Alex had known he would be, because there isn’t some way he can give a smile and reassuring wave with him like he could his mother or Liz. While Kyle hadn’t actively thought of a plan, he couldn’t pretend he had noticed signs of depression the second he was alone in his house. 

“The quiet is the worst part, right?” Alex says, all but reading his mind. “Not always because of the flashbacks, although those are horrible, but because if things are quiet then--,”

“--people are dying.” Kyle finishes, his voice raspier by the end of the three words. “Yeah, well, mine still are.”

“They’re going to.” Is what felt like a cold response, but somehow gave Kyle the understanding he’s been craving. “They’re going to die and because of your profession you’re going to be able to save some of them. Which will make you think you’re responsible to save all of them and because you’re a good person you’re going to feel guilty in ways that no one will understand for being human and failing to.”

“Failing is all I do lately.” Kyle replies. “Usually the wins feel higher than the losses as a doctor, but with this-- and no one outside of it cares. They go outside and yell about how this is about a fucking election and when it’s not the patients, it’s the hospital pretending they don’t have enough money to buy us proper protection. Or the government saying this will all go away and that it’s just a light cold.”

Alex gives a small nod. “I know. I also know telling you the same advice that you’d give another doctor of trying not to burn out and instead taking a small rest is useless. So I’m just going to drop off these dvd’s and make you report back to me the difference when you’re done.”

Star Trek and Star Wars. Kyle finds a smile tug on his lips. Alex leaves with one on his as well.

When he gives a response to Alex a few days later on how Star Wars is better not more than a few minutes later Deluca is texting him with recommendations on joining her Buffy the Vampire Slayer rewatch. There’s something sweet about the fact that people have been clearly talking about him, even if definitely borderline creepy with how nosy his circle of friends can be, but he sighs and lets Maria add him to the group chat she has with Rosa and Liz where they review each episode after the fact and even chimes in every now and then. Isobel gets added not long after due to an Instagram story Maria shares and then the group has moved onto Friends after everyone shoots down Liz for suggesting Grey’s Anatomy on behalf of Kyle. Alex is also in there, even if it’s rare he chimes in with an opinion, but once they start Friends his commentary about how much he hates Ross that gets the entire group riled up does tend to make him laugh. Even Kyle agrees with Forest-- whose opinion had been shared by Alex-- that Chandler had all too many queer-coded scenes with Joey.

His mother facetimes him daily, which given how they both don’t exactly go out much starts to become monotonous, until she begins to give in and talk about memories she has of their father. Tidbits she never would have shared with him about their adult life when he was a child or teenager. He in turn facetimes Rosa and shares some of the memories of their father as well, which as much as she tries to pretend she doesn’t want for Arturo’s sake she clearly does with the million questions she asks every single time and the small smile she gives him at the end of their calls.

Liz updates him on her work which is a nice reprieve from everyone’s normalcy and lack of medical jargon sometimes, especially when she gives him inside info on covid vaccine studies not yet published to the general public yet. Everything in him wants this more than anything else in the world right now and he texts her almost every day asking if she’s heard more news even when he knows things take time. She’s a good sport about everything, even when he shares in a very angry rant about Max Evans and how they could have helped so many more people so much more quickly with his DNA-- however selfish that might have been.

When he goes back to work, he feels refreshed, even when it makes things hit like a freight train once more. Lost in a sea of inadequacy, his feelings extend past the pandemic. Even when things return to a level of normalcy and the cases subside he gets alien medical drama thrown in his face once more, and he starts to wonder if he’ll ever recover. If he was wrong to choose this calling. If the fact he can’t help Max or Maria is a sign from above or his father that it’s time to make some career move or change location like his mother and Liz. But, like he tells Michael Guerin. He can’t think he can face his future children and say he walked away from this. Or let people die by quitting, just like Rosa warns. And so he stays and tries to heal both other people and himself.

[hellsfanatic]

hi guys this is what i do for fun (please don’t take this seriously it was a joke)

Love Sus

We were young. We couldn’t have known loving someone before you even left high school could be so damaging. So hurtful. But here I am, telling you the story of how I met Cyan, and how I ruined my future.

It was early, and I was tired. Just like every morning. A good cup of coffee always helped wake me up, and Shartbucks knew exactly how to make that bean juice. Strolling in, I bumped into none other than Cyan. I apologized profusely to this tall, dark, mysterious man. Well, ‘tall’ is how I’m describing him. He naturally clocked in at 3’6” like all the other crewmates in the godforsaken place, but that flower pot on his head… it gave him another few inches!

Cyan was so… forgiving. He didn’t seem scared at all, even though we’d never met. Usually when you meet a stranger you’re wary, what if they’re the imposter?! But Cyan… Cyan was different. He didn’t jump and cower, he was sweet and kind, even offering to have our coffees together. I accepted. I liked Cyan.

It was almost like a date. And then things progressed. We started talking outside of Shartbucks. We went on REAL dates. He tore that “Dumb” sticky-note off of my head, saying “Darling, my dearest crewmate friend, you aren’t dumb. You’re perfect, Brown.” We even… we even kissed sometimes. But DON’T tell Red. He’d kill me if he found out I moved on already. I even told Cyan about Red. He did NOT like Red.

We’d been official for a week or so now. Boyfriends, I mean. He asked me out!!! I said yes, of course. Cyan was… perfect! He was kind of closed off about what he was doing when he snuck off, but that was it. What can I say though, everyone needs a little privacy. He started sneaking off more and more, which did raise a few concerns.

I decided to confront Cyan. It was almost… sus… with how often he snuck around. As soon as he came through the door I said, “Cyan! What’re you doing?!? You’re always out late and you NEVER tell me what you’re doing!”

Cyan stopped dead in his tracks. “Darling… baby… sweetpea… I promise it’s nothing… just some work…” he whispered, making his way to me, fixing the new sticky-note he gave me. “Boyf” was written on it this time.

“Cyan you have to tell me! It’s dangerous at night with that Imposter out there! I need to know what you’re doing!” I was almost yelling at Cyan, certainly not using my inside voice.

Cyan grinned. “Tsk… that ‘Imposter’ guy hm? Y’know I think he gets a bad rep from people like YOU, Brown. Ever think of that?” He reached for something.

“I-I guess I haven’t… But he’s a murderer Cyan… What if he kills you? I can’t lose you… you’re the riend to my boyf baby.”

Just like that, like something I’d never guess, Cyan had a gun in his hand. “Am I? Or is the murderous Imposter your little Riend?”

My heart was pounding. HE WAS THE IMPOSTER!! How was I so dumb?! And how was I in love with the Imposter?!

“Cyan I-I can’t believe it… You’re the Imposter?” He nodded. He was the Imposter. “Please, please don’t kill me. I didn’t mean any of what I said I promise!”

“Oh my sweet little crewmate… I’d never kill such a pretty face. You’re mine.”

He went to the bedroom. How could he leave it at that?!?!? Ugh! I swear he was just toying with me.

The night went by. I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t. He’s the Imposter! He’s the Imposter and I don’t even hate him. That’s the worst part. I couldn’t hate him. It was just so… confusing. It shook me up really bad. But…

About three things I was absolutely positive. First, Cyan was the Imposter. Second, there was a part of him-and I didn’t know how potent that part might be-that thirsted for blood. And third, I was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him.

[anika-ann]

Attached: Hurtful Words Pt.3

Type: (mini)-series,  Modern-college-professor AU… aka the wrong attachment AU ;)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader   Word count: 6420 + 280 (you’ll see)

Summary:  Graduation day, yay! Says no one, ever.

Except for Penny, who practically drags you to enjoy one of the most important days of your lives. You go along, just because. Hell, who knows - maybe you’ll like it in the end.

A/N: Attached: Hurtful Words is an addition that loosely followes the Attached series. You don’t necessarily need to read the mini-series as a whole, but you will understand much better.

Warnings: mentions of name calling and humiliation,swearing, some angst and lots of talking and maybe... ;)

Story masterlist

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦ ✉ ◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

You had been through several phases of dealing with what happened and they came and went and came and went, one blending into another, other times changing so sharply and quickly as if you flipped a metaphorical switch.

But what stayed for the majority of the time was that you simply had no idea what should you do.

One moment, you were certain that this was a sign from above telling you to break things off with Steve, because no matter the beautiful moments you had shared, continuing the relationship was an epitome of asking for more trouble and even though you had never met a guy so close to your dream man, you wondered if it was worth it.

The next minute, you mentally yelled at yourself and called yourself a dumb ungrateful bitch, convinced that this was in fact a trial, an ordeal by fire; a test you had to pass so your relationship came out stronger from it. Your faith was rock-solid that Steve was it, because after all, he was the closest guy to your dream man that you had ever met.

Your emotions were bubbling, the order of stages of grief all messed up, a mixture of self-pity, anger, resignation, denial---shame.

And shame seemed to be a theme that stuck, because the longer you were stalling and leaving Steve’s kind supportive and pleading messages without reply, the worse you felt, ashamed to reach out now, after such a long and pointed silence. Because Steve hadn’t relented, keeping in touch and very obviously staying convinced that you two could push through; the stark contrast of your doubts and his unshakable belief was breaking both your heart and mind.

How did you even deserve him? He stood by your side, at least as much as he could… while his name was in the poem too and he was probably dealing with so much shit right now and yet he didn’t cease reaching out while you left him in a lurch and really, you must have been the worst girlfriend ever.

If you even still were a girlfriend… though Steve appeared to still consider you one and it was making you want to tear your hair out, frustrated with your own stupid overthinking ass.

Penny, bless her, was there the whole time, loyal by your side instead of drinking herself into oblivion in a celebration of her bachelor degree. She was there as well when you received a text yesterday morning, followed by longer-than-usual silence.

I know this has little chance of reaching you, but know this: say the word and I will leave you alone to the point of not going to the ceremony at all despite my presence being formally half-required. Or I’ll be there and stay away. Anything you want, anything that helps you to enjoy your special day. You deserve to celebrate such a great success and I’d hate to be the reason for you to miss out on a memory that will last a lifetime. You deserve the world, sweetheart; and if you don’t want to me to be the one who gives it to you, I’ll have to accept it. Congratulation.

The text had to be split into three separate units, but the message was clear and you had a good thorough cry at it, your shaky conviction growing firmer and earning a solid base.

He had hit a nail on the head – you had been considering not going and then definitely going and then not again, back and forth for various reasons, but mostly because of him; too excited, too hopeful and too scared to meet him.

And to think you had been once afraid of facing him after you suspected that he had read your smutty story about him… this was so much more terrifying than that and now you were biting on your lips, slightly redder due to the lipstick you had applied for the ceremony, and you glanced up to meet Penny’s narrowed eyes in the mirror.

“Don’t you bail out on me now. You promised yesterday that you’d go,” she reminded you, half-concerned, half-strict.

You sighed, knowing fully that she spoke the truth.

“I know. It’s just…”

It’s just that I haven’t replied to Steve, AGAIN, and I don’t know if he’s gonna be there. And what I am going to do if he is.

And what I’m going to do if he isn’t.

Penny charmed a supportive grin, walking to you and putting her hand on your shoulder, squeezing it in comfort until you managed to swallow your nerves for a brief second and return the smile weakly.

She squealed and pulled you to her side, a happy twinkle in her chocolate-coloured eyes.

“We did it, girl! We fucking made it to the end of bachelor studies! And we’re gonna enjoy every moment of that mummery that comes with it!”

You couldn’t but snort, amused at her exclaim, while tears burned in your eyes, a mixture of nerves, grief and happiness.

“Yeah. I guess we should.”

“That’s my girl!”

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦ ✉ ◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

For all you wanted to enjoy this day with your friend since your family wouldn’t be able to make it, the first thing your eyes searched for in the crowd getting ready for the ceremony was a broad figure with blond hair, a beard and the most beautiful eyes you couldn’t but fall in love with.

Your stomach, tight from nerves and anticipation, dropped to your feet and you had to focus on keeping the tears at bay.

Steve wasn’t here.

The professors were always seated together, expected to hang out in a group – which somehow provided them safety from both students in the gowns and the few individuals who didn’t understand the dress code and arrived in jeans and sweatshirts – and you couldn’t see Steve among them. You even caught a sight of Bucky; and if Steve wasn’t with him, well, then it was clear that he decided to stay home.

Home. You had felt at home with him too, but that was over now.

What did you expect though? You ignored him for almost a week and even a guy like Steve, so amazing and understanding, would lose his patience with such inconsiderate and downright bratty attitude.

Your heart weighted a ton, heavy in your chest, pounding anxiously at the thought.

Was this how you parted ways? Just… fading away? Two lovers, two people in love – and you had realized over the past few days that Steve must have truly loved you – falling apart for the lack of communication? What a cliché.

But really, how could you have kept your hopes up that he would show up? Because it was sort of expected from the professors? Please. Because he had asked you to let him know if you didn’t want him here… and you hadn’t responded? Again? Right.

Yes, you hadn’t requested that he stayed away – then again, you hadn’t exactly begged him to come either. All that because you let yourself fall into the pit of doubts and allowed them to eat at your soul and ruin your relationship with the best man you had ever met instead of holding onto him for a dear life.

You guessed it served you right, more so now, in this very moment.

Because right now, your resolve and faith that you had been meant to be with Steve felt more solid than ever. By the laws of human nature, by its very essence, you were certain of what you wanted the moment you understood that you lost it.

A tug at your hand snapped you from your gloomy self-depreciating thoughts, your head automatically turning the direction the intrusion came from. Penny’s face came into view and she frowned as she saw you blink away tears.

“Hey! No brooding today! Today is a great win of our lives. You hear me?” she scolded you lightly, her eyes twinkling with true happiness and you gulped, nodding obediently.

“Right. Sorry. You’re right of course.”

“Damn right I am.”

You charmed a pathetic smile for her and looked at the other students in the black gowns to distract yourself from one single thought – Is it a win? Or is it the final prove of my loss?

You desperately tried to believe Pen and forced yourself to focus on the bright side, on what you were supposed to be delighted for; you finished your bachelor studies. Yay!

Yet, despite your best efforts, the ceremony and the speeches from the professors and the officials of your university, all the ‘mummery’ as Penny called it, happened in a strange haze.

Perhaps that was how everyone felt, drunk on euphoria instead? You guessed. You thought you might have smiled at some point, fuelled by a brief moment of true victory.

You stood there among other students, your eyes on the stage where Sharon Carter, a student at the top of your class, walked to the stand to give a speech.

You weren’t exactly friends with Sharon – you talked sometimes, more of a common courtesy exchanged simply because you were classmates. Still, you were mildly curious about what she had to say; she was marked a great student for a reason and she tended to have the ability to catch attention and awake something in others when she talked. An excellent choice for the speech – however, you caught yourself nervously toying with the cap of the case with your diploma, feeling fatigue of the past days catching up with you.

God, you wanted to go back to your whining and misery, not because you revelled in it, but because in the safety of your dorm room, you didn’t have to put up a front of a student excited to graduate. Not that you were any good at the pretence.

“Good morning, everyone. Mr. President, Mr. Dean, Professors… and most importantly, students. For some of us, the journey ends here – we are about to leave the not-so-safe space of the university and try our chances out there, in the open and much more dangerous world,” Carter started, a mild smile on her lips. “That said, it doesn’t mean that our school days were exactly easy.”

“Oh, you had no idea,” you mumbled under your breath, a pang in your ribcage reminding you just how harsh university space could be – not just because of the professors and their impossible tasks.

And they said high-school was the nightmare.

You noticed several people muttering under their breath too, for various reasons. For a brief moment, you felt shame – the pain others had been through could have been even worse, because illness and death had little regard for waiting for when it was more convenient. Who were you to complain?

Then again, you felt like you suffered enough too, your pain just as real as theirs.

Sharon looked around the audience and took a deep breath, her smile turning almost wistful as if she could hear your thoughts.

“While I’m up here, I would like to do something… a bit unconventional. I know this day shouldn’t be dedicated to one person and that is not what I want to do, but I have to speak up. After all, that is what history taught us – that we have to speak up. I want to talk about something everyone who stands here know – sadly, because it was perfectly wide-spread at the university.”

Whispers rose in the crowds along with your pulse skyrocketing.

Fuck. Fuck, she wouldn’t.

Right?! This was something else she was talking about, something you had missed, because you were too busy sulking.

You grabbed Penny’s hand at your side, squeezing harshly and shot her a panicked look, wordlessly pleading her to tell you this was not happening and you were just projecting, imagining this was some nightmare coming to life.

She gave you a side-eye and beckoned her chin to the stage again. Your breathing picked up, your knees feeling weak.

Oh my god, oh fucking shit this was happening.

Why the fuck Sharon wanted to open this can of worms publicly?! Did she hate you?

Granted, you weren’t paying much attention to other people’s faces, but you were hopeful that the mess was slowly dying down and people weren’t necessarily staring at you.

Now, the small circle of people around you who obviously knew where you were, glanced at you pointedly.

Hadn’t your ears been ringing and your panic rising, you might have found it weird that they were smiling at you – and not in a condescending or malicious way.

“Come on. Listen to what she has to say,” Penny whispered to your ear and you eyed her, shocked to find her smiling as well.

A terrible realization hit you like a train.

“Wait, you knew about this?” you hissed angrily, your stomach somersaulting. The actual FUCK?! “You knew she was gonna talk about that? What the hell? Why?!”

Was that why she made you come here?

“Oh honey, you have no idea what was happening these past few days, do you?  Just listen.”

Huh?! What the fuck did Penny meant by-

“I just want to remind to the people feeding bad blood that the girl I’m talking about – a smart young woman who had accepted her diploma today, one of us – she earned her degree. In fact, she probably had to work even harder, because that’s the policy, a sort of a reverse favouritism. The records of her exams are much more detailed and she was under scrutiny, she had to prove that she was nothing the self-proclaimed experts were calling her.”

As outside your body as you felt, in this surreal moment where Sharon Carter talked about your dirty laundry during your damn graduation ceremony, the word ‘whore’ still popped in your mind in angry red letters and chased tears into your eyes, the humiliation you had felt when you first spotted the poem overwhelming you again.

“She had to face every evil glare people sent her way, glares she faced for something as simple as being in love. And just so you know, I have it from a reliable source-“ she pretended to cough while saying Penny’s full name, “-her roommate, that for the long months she’s been with her favourite man, it was in fact Professor Phillips whose name she was whispering in her sleep, because we all know he’s a real hard-ass; my condolences to Professor Rogers.”

Chuckles erupted in the crowd and you felt your lips twitch involuntarily. More and more people were turning to you as their colleagues elbowed their ribs to subtly point in your direction.

You lowered your gaze, embarrassed by so much attention – a positive one, it seemed.

When the hell did that happen?

“Also, all kudos to Nelson and Murdock, who accepted our request and are now suing the hell out of the Expert One and Two, possibly Three, for defamation and possible attempted assault.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

A breathy “Wait, what?!” fell from your lips.

“They offered to do it for free, but I think that a small donation never hurt anyone. You’ll find the link on the forum dedicated to our girl. You’ll find the link to that forum in your inbox if you haven’t already.”

There was a forum dedicated to you?! To hate you or to support you? How could you… not know about that?

Probably had something to do with how you shut off the whole world… social media included. Hell, especially those.

And the people who wrote the poem and sent it to everyone on uni could actually… be sued? It was that serious? From the legal side, not yours, you were sufficiently ruined about that you had no doubt-

“Let’s clap for Nelson and Murdock as they wave at us. Thank you, gentlemen!” Sharon called out and everyone’s head turned to a pair of lawyers you couldn’t hope to see – but you really had to in the future, because what?!

However, you did reluctantly join the deafening applause the people present dedicated to them.

Seriously, what was happening?

“Why I’m saying all this… I know she’s here with us today, because she deserves it just like everyone else. I would like to invite her to stand to the very left of the crowd. Please, come on, our brave soul.”

Sharon’s eyes unmistakably found you as if she knew where you were standing the whole time – which she probably could. Because of Penny. And obviously, few others.

Penny nudged you with a grin and you gulped as several onlookers sent you encouraging smiles.

You felt your face burning with all the eyes on you, your head spinning.

Oh god, oh god-

“Go,” Penny whispered to your ear. “You’ll like it, I promise.”

I’ll like what exactly?

“Uh-huh, sure,” you mumbled but gave in, your shaky feet carrying you outside the line of chairs to your left – it was probably no coincidence that you didn’t have to cross the aisle, already standing on the left half.

Everything was planned, that you were starting to understand… but to what end?

“You see, I want her to understand that maybe two or three people in this damn school made a fuss, but there’s quite a lot of people who don’t think any less of her, of people who are in fact happy for her and Professor Rogers. Also, I want her to be easy to find for later purpose,” Sharon explained as you reluctantly approached the aforementioned spot.

For later purpose? Easy to find?

A hunch slowly crept up your back and you couldn’t decide whether you wanted it to be true or not.

What were the chances it was something else though?

Pretty big, in fact. Because you had no clue what a surreal world you had found yourself in and how, but it seemed like everything, even the most absurd thing you wouldn’t even dare to think about, came to life here.

“You know, the best thing about her story is that… it’s a story of all of us. I mean, not in such a great detail, gosh, we wish to own a heart of such fine man, but…” More laughter erupted from the crowd and you choked on the sound ripped from your throat, something between a chuckle and a sob.

Wasn’t that the truth…

”But in the end, there is no great difference. We’re standing here today, because we pushed through. We stand here today, because this is our story of love and passion – for things, for people. It’s a story of working hard and losing sleep for something that truly matters to us. It’s a story of fighting off sticks and stones and overcoming obstacles, of fighting for our future,” Sharon said ceremonially, her voice fuelled by true yet not theatrical passion. One corner of her lips rose in a sad smile as she lightly shook her head, sending her blond hair flying. “And folks, I hate to break it to you, but it ain’t always gonna be easy. But the fact that we’re here today, in these ridiculous outfits we secretly love because they are a testimony to our success… it tells me that the future might not be the worst either.”

Sharon Carter made a pregnant pause, eyes searching in the sea of faces watching her, until her gaze fell at someone near you and her lips spread in an almost cheeky smile, one you hadn’t know she was capable of.

Before you could try and see what was the cause – even if the rapid beats of your heart already seemed to know the answer – she delivered an explanation.

“Isn’t that right, Professor Rogers?”

Hushed voices and shocked exclaims reached your ears, but you couldn’t quite hear them over the pounding of your pulse in your temples.

A tall figure with broad shoulders cladded in an unfamiliar hoodie was making its way to you, the crowd parting like a sea with each step he took. Even though he did, he didn’t have to lose the hood for your benefit – you had inspected his body thoroughly on many occasions, you knew his gait, and until now, you had believed that you were aware of every hoodie he had in his closet, because you had borrowed each and every one of them at least once when staying at his place... often.

Ruffled blond hair appeared first and then everything you had eyes for was his lips, curved in a hesitant smile and the beautiful eyes, so deep you could drown in them.

Your fingertips tingled with anticipation, your chest heaving in quick shallow breaths full of anxiety.

The expression on Steve’s face was unreadable – and yet, just seeing his face after the series of unfortunate events, was enough to chase tears into your eyes and for your feet to twitch with the unstoppable urge to run to him.

It was only the fear of his reaction that prevented you from making the tinniest move.

A pointed clearing of a throat sounded through the microphone, but you couldn’t tell if it worked on people, if they turned their attention to the person on the stage or kept watching your reunion. Reunion with Steve – who naturally hogged all your attention and as he approached you, his presence assaulting nearly all of your senses.

A sight for your sore teary eyes.

The barely audible yet deafening whisper of your name.

His natural scent mixed with his cologne and the detergent he used – even standing two feet away, you would swear you could smell it, perhaps a mirage created by your wishful memories.

The ghost of his skin and hair tickled your fingers as you had been running your hands through his hair and beard and roamed his body so often that you could practically feel it even now.

Half of the things you sensed must have been a figment of your imagination; yet, they felt very real, as did the rapid staccato of your heart hammering in your ribcage, the butterflies both pleasant and unpleasant occupying your stomach.

“Now, let the lovebirds figure it out and listen up, people…”

“Hi,” he greeted you softly, a single caress of his voice encouraging the flipping of metaphorical wings in your stomach.

“Hi,” you replied automatically, unable to think about anything better to say.

What were you supposed to say?

You had already made your peace with him not coming… to a point. You forgone all hope; so now you were desperately unprepared for him showing up, all casual-looking in jeans and a hoodie and so damn gorgeous as always.

An attempt at a smile graced his lips, his hand rising to the back of his neck in his typically bashful gesture as he self-consciously looked around.

“I’m sorry. I had no idea they would make such a fuss. I just followed the instructions and showed up-“

You heart sank to your gut; your body, warming up in his presence alone as he was your personal sun, suddenly felt cold with the metaphorical bucket of icy water his words provided.

He came here because someone told him to – someone who planned this stunt, this ridiculous and utterly stupid show. What was next? Were you supposed to kiss for the audience?

The same nausea you remembered feeling when seeing the poem hit you all over again; Steve didn’t want to be here.

He wasn’t here for you, he wasn’t here because he wanted to set things right.

The pain erupting in your chest was shocking and burned like a flame fed on gasoline. You truly were over and his words-

“No, wait, that came out wrong!” he hurried, crossing the short distance between you in three long steps and you would have taken a step back, hadn’t your feet rooted into the ground. “I came… I’m here because I wanted to see you. I missed you, sweetheart.”

Tears rolled freely down your face, the endearment sending a shiver down your spine, the admission sparking a warm light within you again.

You met his gaze, your knees shaking slightly in weakness, threatening to give out as you feared what exactly you would see in his eyes.

You could melt right there when you were met with the same softness he always observed you with, a blue-green sea of wonder and love, tainted with reluctance and regret.

You pressed your lips together in effort to stop your jaw from quivering.

Regret you were more than familiar with; conflict, sorrow, self-pity, anger, resignation, shame… those were the other emotions which you guessed he could read on your face.

His brows furrowed and he closed his eyes, shaking his head.

“I’m not here to guilt trip you. Actually-“ Steve started again and finally, as his hand disappeared in the front pocket of the hoodie, you found your voice, interrupting him.

“I missed you too,” you sobbed, covering your mouth as soon as the pathetic sound left your lips.

Steve’s own lips parted in awe, his gaze somewhat lighting up with a new hearty emotion.

But once you started talking, finally, finally speaking up, the dam broke and the waterfall of words couldn’t be stopped.

“And I’m sorry, Steve, I’m so sorry for shutting you off like that, you didn’t deserve that and you were probably in a small personal hell too, I don’t even know if your job was affected and how are doing and it’s not right, I wasn’t supposed to ignore all your calls and texts, I was supposed to-“

“-reach out when you’re ready,” he finished for you, completely differently than you had intended.

It shut you up effectively.

“Look… I understand. It was tough and it still is and if you want this to be the last time we ever talk-- then it will,” he rasped, his voice breaking towards the end of the sentence, your heart squeezing painfully at both the premise and at hearing him hurting.

God, how much he must have been hurting for the past few days and now he was talking about understanding you and forgiving you for ghosting him and still offering you an out and--- Jesus fucking Christ, you were going to drown in your own tears.

And Steve reached into that damn pocket again and even if you had no idea what was there, you had a hunch it was some kind of a gift – either a parting gift or something for your graduation and you simply couldn’t--- you didn’t care for some materialistic shit right now-

You just needed to feel him again.

Taking one single step at a lightning speed, you let the diploma case fall to the ground and threw your arms around Steve’s neck, burying your face in his chest, drawing a surprised huff from him.

A box dug into your stomach, the content of the front pocket, but you didn’t give a fuck.

Not when Steve’s arms sneaked around your waist and shoulder with no hesitation, engulfing you, his nose burying into your hair—and cursing when the cap got in his way.

You chuckled madly into his hoodie, your fingers clutching the fabric when his daring lips awkwardly found a way to your temple.

You felt like you were touched by an angel, delighted laughter that shook both of your entangled bodies ripping from your throat along with a sob.

“Shit, Steve, I’m so sorry, I missed you so much, please forgive me, please, please, please-“

“No way. Nothing to forgive-“

“Like hell it isn’t-“

“It hurt, but I get it. I truly do,” he whispered frantically, his hands moving to push you away just enough to frame your damp face with his big warm palms. “You just needed time to process what happened.”

You nodded and then lowered your gaze in shame – because you were incredibly embarrassed for your further cowardice, sobbing like a stupid five-year-old. “And then I—I was scared that you wouldn’t care anymore- that it was too late-“

God, now when you said it out loud, it sounded even more pathetic, but that was now, in his arms, when everything made so much more sense-

He shook his head, causing you to look up again just in time to see the flash of hurt in his brilliant irises disappearing. With a brief smile passing his lips, he held your face more firmly in attempt to maintain eye contact.

“No. It would take a whole lot more for me to stop caring and there still would be no guarantee it would work,” he promised, gaze so intense that you couldn’t but believe him, no matter how unreal his words sounded. “You are not what they called you and you are mine, as long as you want, because I love you. Okay? I love you, because yeah, I still think you’re really freaking amazing.”

You chuckled at his choice of words, your heart bursting with their message. The heavy burden resting upon your shoulders dropped at last – and you felt as light as a feather, bound to the man staring into your eyes as if they were the last thing he wanted to see should he turn blind the next second.

He still loved you. Steve still loved you and both your heart and mind were enamoured of him, overwhelmed with his declaration.

You were not good with your words – in fact, in that moment, you were certain you forgot all the words in English language and in every other language you had ever tried to learn too.

There was only one language left to use then; the universal one that could fit thousands of words into one single second.

You let go of Steve’s hoodie, grabbed his face instead and pulled, rising to your tiptoes in hope to reach his lips with yours.

Luckily for you, he got the message before you could pathetically kiss only the patch of skin under his chin and allowed you to move him as much as you wanted.

And by Gods, did you want, finally adding the fifth sense into the play. Taste. You missed how he tasted and how his beard scratched against your sensitive skin-

Your tears spiked your kiss with salt, but neither of your cared as you pushed through the seam of his lips, letting him know what you desired before passing on the lead to him, an open-mouthed kiss full of desire, longing and raw emotions causing you to forget all about your surroundings until a low wolf-whistle sounded on your right, bringing you back to reality.

You parted involuntarily, foreheads resting against each other, warm tears still rolling down your cheeks, but now getting lost in your content smiles.

“I love you, Steve. I love you and if you love me too, then we belong together and whoever thinks otherwise can shove their opinion where the sun doesn’t shine,” you echoed his words from almost a year ago, words that stuck with you, because they were true.

You and Steve, you were the ones who mattered. These were your lives, your relationship, and you had done nothing wrong.

Because you loved each other.

Steve’s mouth caught yours for a short moment, nothing but a nip at your lips – a silent agreement followed by a warm smile, mirroring your own.

“Will you let me give you a little something now?” he whispered, sounding slightly amused as that would be the third attempt that day and the urge to slap his arm for being cheeky felt like a surge of pure life into your veins. The familiarity made your heart sing.

You glanced up at him, retreating and eyed him from head to toe in an appreciative and yet teasing matter. “Haven’t you already? How do I unwrap you, mister?”

Steve chuckled and pulled out a rectangular box, holding it out for you.

“Here. Congratulation to your bachelor degree. And know that if you don’t like it, we can always pick something else.”

You were only human – and curiosity might have killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back and the curiosity was killing you now as well. You bit down on your lip, not quite succeeding at masking your excited smile; even if you weren’t exactly deserving of a gift from Steve at the moment, which he would probably argue with, you couldn’t deny that you were touched by the gesture and who were you kidding, you did enjoy receiving a gift. And it was your graduation ceremony, you deserved to celebrate in every way imaginable.

You carefully took the box from Steve, tender fingers caressing the bow stuck on top. Hesitating only a second, enjoying the brief intoxicating anticipation, you lifted the lid.

Your breath got stuck in your throat as you revealed the necklace.

The chain, probably silver, was very delicate, carrying a simply decorated heart with a winding line in the middle, as if the heart was broken. Despite the symbolism, you couldn’t but revel at its beauty.

“Steve,” you breathed out shakily, unable to tear your gaze away from the jewellery, tears, dried at last, threatening to escape your eyes again. “This is… so beautiful. So much-“

You lifted your gaze, only to meet his twinkling eyes. “You like it?”

You nearly choked at the absurdity of the question. Liked it?

“Steve, it’s—like it? It’s breath-taking. You shouldn’t have- that’s-” Shit, this must have been so expensive- but you had seen it now and you loved it and you didn’t want to part with ever.  “-but I absolutely want to keep it now.”

Steve chuckled lightly at your antics, but you took no offence since you were being a bit greedy.

You reached out to brush the pendant with the softest of touches – and sucked a breath in fright when it fell apart, causing you to realize for the first time that the heart could be divided in two, each part having its own loop on the chain.

“Oh,” you let out in surprise, your mind racing. Now that definitely was symbolic. Not a broken heart. Two parts of one heart. “That’s… does this mean one half is for you?”

As you asked the question to make sure, you looked up to Steve’s face, only to find a blush creeping up his neck.

“Uhm… I mean-“

“That’s so cute! And cheesy. So sweet though! I guess we do fit…” you mused, a goofy smile from the swirl of emotions today a testimony of how mushy the lovely and meaningful gift turned you. Steve’s blush deepened, but a delighted smile spread on his lips, eyes soft, so you assumed he was simply happy you liked it. “And we do complete each other.”

“Oh sweetheart,” Steve whispered, clasping your free hand in his, caressing tenderly before bringing it to his lips and dropping a barely-there kiss on its back.

“Would you wear it?” you queried, slightly nervous. “One of the halves I mean.”

It might have been his idea, but did you read him correctly?

“If that’s what you want. Give me your half and keep mine,” he offered, one corner of his lips higher in a cheeky and yet tender smile.

“You got a deal, Stevie. Thank you.”

“I’m glad you like it, sweetheart. I was going to give you a key to the apartment officially, kneel on one knee and all that-“

“WHAT?!”

He wanted to do what?!

“-to ask you if you want to move in permanently, but I understand that we’ve been through a lot, you’ve been through a lot, so while the offer stands, I don’t want you to feel pressured or-“

Oh really? Then why did he even tell you about it?

Your heart felt like beating its way out of your chest, the widest grin spreading on your lips. Staring at Steve as he was stuttering, you couldn’t decide whether he was nervous about asking, trying his luck, or was teasing you, knowing all too well what you were about to say.

Oh god, your head was spinning, again-

“Yes!” you blurted out before you could think twice, shocking the stammering mess of Steve into silence.

“Really?!” he shot back in awe, his lips left parted in genuine surprise – and his expression was pure relief.

“Yes. If you mean it – and God help you if you don’t-“ And you were serious, if he was messing with you now— he wouldn’t, right? Steve wouldn’t joke about such important topic, about your life together.

“Of course I mean it-”

You squealed, closing the box you had nearly dropped in shock and hugged Steve as tight as you could, causing him to huff for the second time that day. Oh you were never letting go of him!

The crowd you entirely forgot about cheered and you jumped away from Steve as if burned, horrified that they had been following your reconciliation and displays of love this whole time-

And then you noticed the graduation caps in the air, a tradition celebrating the success of your year. You grinned at the image, catching Steve’s gaze.

“Go on,” he encouraged you, mirroring your grin when you reached for the square cap, swinging and sending it high in the air.

A yelp escaped you as you found yourself in the air as well in a blink of an eye, nestled in Steve’s arms as he laughed madly, pure delight shining from his eyes; and love. So much love.

You barely caught the cap, not really caring for it when in the arms of your man. You dropped a kiss to his lips, earning one in return and a few more, as you couldn’t get enough for each other after such a long time apart and so much unnecessary heartbreak.

You rested your foreheads against each other, tender meetings of lips, brushes of noses-

Steve winced and hissed in pain, causing you to withdraw and frown as you studied his face.

“Sorry, just… my nose…” he mumbled, seemingly embarrassed, “...tender.”

“From…?” you questioned, absolutely baffled. Steve sighed, but just one glare from you told him that you were not letting it go. You didn’t want him in any pain – you both lived through more enough of it in the past few days.

“Bucky punched me.”

“What?!” you blurted out, shocked to the core, and you braced yourself on Steve’s shoulders, your gaze automatically flickering through the crowd to find the culprit.

Why the heck would Bucky-

“Long story, tell you later,” Steve promised with a peck to your lips, signalling that the conversation was over. For now.

You had better things to do after all. So you only smiled in agreement – you couldn’t seem to stop smiling for some reason.

Wonder what that could be? Maybe because it finally feels like today is a win?

“I’m sure you will.”

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦- Bonus: -◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

It was the day after her own graduation when the blond was sitting on a park bench, light summer dress with cherry blossoms gently swirling around her knees, absentmindedly swiping through the apps on her phone, looking up every now and then to smile at the image of families enjoying the weather and freedom of summer.

She merely paused in her idly actions when the redhead woman she was waiting for seated herself next to her on the other end, sliding an envelope with a promised reward her way.

“As promised,” the redhead said disinterestedly, barely on a lower volume than a normal conversation would be and tugged a loose strand of her hair behind her sunglasses. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

The blond smiled softly, reaching for the envelope and subtly hid it in her purse. “Same. It was rather fun, actually.”

This time, a smile broke on the redhead’s lips as well, cocky, satisfied, but by any means false.

“Well, I heard you’re staying for your master’s. You contact Danvers if you want any more of that fun, da?”

“You better count on that, Rushman.”

“It’s Romanoff, actually,” the redhead smirked, side-eyeing the blond as she rose to her feet again, ready to go where her orders would take her. She spent one more glance at the other woman though; she had carried out her task perfectly, in a way that seem very natural. She’d make a good addition to their growing team and since Natasha was anything but unpolite… “Looking forward to working with you in the future, Carter.”

Sharon Carter felt a surge of pride and couldn’t but return the courtesy before the woman would walk away from her life for god knew how long.

“Feeling’s mutual.”

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦ ✉ ◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

Attached masterlist

Attached: Words Lost in Translation 

S.R.masterlist

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦ ✉ ◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

Thank you for reading ♥ We’re over 40k into the series, so thank you if you stuck around :-*

Lemme know your thoughts?

You might have noticed a to-be link for another addition to the Attached series called Words Lost in Translation. It’s more of an idea in my head, very little of the actual story written, but it will hopefully involve a bit jealousy… and smut. Just FYI.

Stay happy and safe!

[justauthoring]

No Reason To (44/50)

Prompt: “And I guess… when it comes down to it, I trust you.”

A/N: So, a couple days early! I couldn’t wait until Monday to post this chapter cause i’m so incredibly proud of it and I’m gonna be spending the weekend playing TLOU2, so there won’t be too many requests adn I hope this makes up for it :)

Also, because Tumblr is stupid, I added memories from past chapters as Y/N remembering Stiles in italic, but for so reason on mobile it switches between italics and not. I’ve broken it up though, so hopefully it’s not too confusing!

Nonetheless, I am incredibly proud of this chapter and I really hope you all love it as much as I do!

Send me a little comment in the ask section or leave it below on what you thought of this chapter. As usual, I hope you all enjoyed!

AGAIN, remember if you’d like me to continue this series, just leave a little comment or an ask letting me know. I will NOT continue the series if no one wants me to.

Please don’t plagiarize my work!

Pairing: Stiles x McCall!Reader

Based off of: Teen Wolf 06x09 & 06x10

“So, how cold does this thing get?”

“Cold enough for a Hellhound,” Lydia explains with a puff of air, slightly breathless from both of you running around to make sure everything’s locked and prepped. “It’s not the same as the ice bath you gave Isaac but, it can lower your core temperature past anything a human can survive.”

“So, what does freezing our asses off have to do with our memories?”

“It’ll slow your heart rate,” Lydia explains to Malia with a breath, “and put you in a trance-like state.”

“Like hypnosis,” Scott adds, to which you nod.

“Hypnotic regression,” you agree. Then, slowly, you turn to large machine, swallowing thickly. “If we can figure out how to work it.”

Malia turns, glancing around before something catches her eye. “This says ‘start’,” she calls, pointing at the side of the machine. “So, maybe it not’s that complicated.”

Upon further glance, however, there’s a... lot of dials.

Meeting Scott’s gaze, you sigh. “It’s complicated.”

“So, optimistically,” Malia prefaces, “how much time do you think we need to do this?”

“As much time as Liam and Stilinski can buy us,” Scott answers, nodding at the three of you. Then, he turns, unlocking the latch before pulling open the door. It almost looks like a coffin, in a more technical, supernatural way.

-

Scott elected to go first.

And for that, you’re very thankful.

You blink in surprise as the machine starts to hum, clearly doing... something. It’s definitely on, that you know for a fact. Which means...

“Okay, it’s doing something,” Malia calls, meeting Scott’s gaze. “You ready?”

He meets your eyes briefly, as if for reassurance, which you offer the best you can, before nodding. He grabs hold of the door, stepping forward and into the machine, shutting the door behind him. You’re close behind him, waiting until you’re sure he’s completely in and ready, before locking the latch. He watches you carefully from within the machine as you do, and even though he tries to put on a brave face, you can tell he’s scared.

A little apprehensive, at the very least.

“Remember,” Lydia calls as you continue to lock and prepare a few more things. “This’ll get cold enough to kill you. So, if something feels wrong or like, it’s not working...--”

“It’s going to work,” Scott cuts in gently, voice muffled from behind the door. You frown at him, swallowing thickly.

“I hope you’re not saying that because you think I know what I’m doing,” you call, glancing over at your brother, before turning round to Malia and Lydia. “Or that any of us do.”

“I’m saying that because I know you can figure it out.”

His words are sure and, somehow, there’s no doubt in his gaze as he looks back at you. You only hesitate a moment longer, making sure that he doesn’t change his mind or get freaked out in the last second (which, you wouldn’t blame him for either) before moving to turning all the dials all the way round. There’s three, and you turn them quick before you change your mind yourself.

Almost instantly, Scott reacts.

“Oh, okay,’ he gasps, “all right, yeah, that’s cold. Really cold.”

Your eyes widen as the inside fogs up, blurring your image of Scott.

“So,” Malia speaks up, voice hushed. “What are we supposed to do? Talk to him? Help him remember? Wait till he turns into a werewolf freezy pop?”

Turning to Lydia with wide eyes, you wait for an answer.

“We need to guide him,” Lydia mumbles, nodding over at the both of you. “Keep him focused.”

They both look at you expectantly. And, even though you really have no idea what you’re doing, you step forward without fault. You inhale sharply before speaking, trying to get a good look at your brother. “Scott?” You call gently, but firmly, loud enough for him to hear you. “You have to think about him. Concentrate on Stiles.”

Through the fog, you watch as he nods.

“Try to picture him in your head.” Lydia adds, “think about what he looks like, things he said.”

The machine then hums, whirring.

“I don’t like this,” Malia calls instantly, shaking her head. “Something’s wrong.”

You move forward to stop it, but Lydia catches your arm, halting you. You turn to her in disbelief, but she simply keeps her gaze forward, head-on at Scott. “Wait,” she explains, “give it a few more seconds.”

“Lydia--”

You’re interrupted by a loud thump. Your attention is pulled in front of you at the sight of Scott slamming his hand up against the glass of the door, a gasp of pain, discomfort, something leaving his lips. You waste no time in stepping forward once more, worried and panicked for your brother, your hand reaching for the latch, “i’m getting him out of there,” but Lydia holds tight.

“Wait.”

You glance back at Scott, and you watch as his tense shoulders ease. His hand slowly pulls away from the door, and his face relaxes.

“Scott,” Lydia calls, “can you hear me?”

Slowly, his eyes flicker open and they’re glowing red.

But then his eyes start to weigh and you watch as his head lulls, as if he’s about to fall asleep.

“Scott,” you exclaim, pressing your hand on the door. “You can’t fall asleep. You have to stay awake.”

“I’m trying,” he mumbles, half-coherent.

“Wait,” you call after a moment, mind clicking with realization. “You’re not sleeping. I think you’re losing consciousness. And if you do that, I think we’re gonna lose you.”

“Scott!” Malia orders from next to you, her voice louder then your own. “Stay awake. Scott!”

His eyes flicker, his head rocks, but he doesn’t say anything. You watch with panic, concern, worry and all the above, heart racing, pounding madly against your chest.

But then he snaps awake, suddenly. His body stands straight, and he glances around, as if in search of something.

Someone.

“Scott. Try to find him.”

“Try...” You hesitate, thinking. “Try to find him in your memories.”

His eyes flicker every which way. His head shakes as if his mind runs a million miles per hour. He’s searching. Desperately searching. But Scott hasn’t found Stiles yet.

“Find him in any memory. Good or bad.”

And he starts to look panicked. Worried. Frightened.

“What’s happening to him?” Malia asks, panicked herself.

Lydia shakes her head; “I don’t know.”

“Well, he doesn’t look good,” you explain, “he looks... lost.”

“I think he is,” Lydia exclaims, frustrated. “I think maybe it’s too much information. Like, he’s getting buried under all the memories. Being overloaded by them.”

“So, what do we do to help him?”

-

“Did you hear that?”

You glance back, watching as Malia leaves your side and rushes over to door. She halts by it, hand hovering over the lock, her ear pressed against the door as she listens carefully.

“Thunder?”

Turning back to the both of you, Malia frowns; “maybe.”

Sighing, you turn back to Scott, your frown deepening at the distressed look on his face. He presses the palms of his hands against his ears, as if trying to block the noise from his head. You can’t even begin to imagine the amount of noise, memories more specifically, running through his head rapidly. Can’t even begin to imagine how that must feel.

“This isn’t working.”

“Then,” Malia says without hesitation, making her way back over to you and Lydia. “We have to figure something else out.”

“I know,” Lydia snaps, before easing. “I-I know.”

But Malia doesn’t relent, worried for Scott. “Is he gonna freeze to death in there?”

Frowning, you swallow thickly. “If his memories don’t kill him.”

“There has to be another way to do this,” Malia exclaims bluntly, turning to Lydia specifically. “Isn’t there?”

“I don’t know,” Lydia sighs, “this is my first attempt at trying to open a dimensional rift in space-time. So, i’m kind of fumbling around in the dark, okay?”

“Okay,” you call, trying to ease the tension. “It’s okay. Let’s just... think. We just have to think, okay?” You glance back and forth at the two of them, as if to make sure they’re at least trying to keep calm. It’s a lot harder then it looks. But then, something occurs to you.

Fumbling around in the dark.

That’s it.

“You’re not the only one.”

“What?”

“You’re  not the only one fumbling around in the dark,” you explain, nodding over at Lydia, hoping she’ll understand what you mean..

“What does that mean?” Malia shakes her head at you.

But Lydia turns to you  bright-eyed in understanding. “That’s exactly it, Y/N,” she nods at you.

“What?” Malia calls again, voice firmer in bafflement.

You turn to her with a nod. “I think we have to treat this more like actual hypnosis,” you explain, “they use images to guide you through memories. Like... a stairwell. Each step represents a new year. That’s how they regress you back.”

Malia’s eyes ease in realization. “I get it. So he needs to imagine something.”

“What do we tell him?” Lydia asks.

Pausing, you think for a moment, before stepping forward. “Scott?” You call gently, trying to grab his attention. “Can you hear me? Scott, listen. Imagine this.” You fumble for something. “Imagine you’re in the... high school. Visualize yourself in the high school, in the corridor where all the lockers are. Just try to imagine standing there. That’s where your memories are. They’re all in the lockers. They’re locked away behind each one.

“Every memory of Stiles is in a separate locker. Scott, you’re there. In the high school. You’re standing there now.”

And then, just as you finish speaking, his eyes snap open.

-

“It’s getting too cold.”

Your head snaps to Lydia at her words, before flickering your eyes up to the dial, lips parting.

Turning round to Malia, Lydia calls out; “he’s getting too cold.”

“What if it’s not enough to remember him?” She asks, baffling you at her words. “What if it’s some kind of a connection he’s supposed to make because of a memory?” Malia adds, your face easing with realization and understanding of what she means.

Lydia nods, “like an emotional connection?”

“That could be why it worked for Stilinski, right?”

Glancing back briefly at Scott, you nod; “he wasn’t just remembering something. He was remembering his son.”

Rushing forward, Malia calls out for Scott instantly. “Scott?” She calls gently, “Scott, can you hear me?” He doesn’t reply, but she continues anyway. “Listen, I remembered something. At the start of the year, Stiles said he was looking for a place for you guys to live after graduation.”

At the lack of response from Scott, she turns to the both of you panicked, asking for reassurance. You nod, quickly, eyes soft.

“He said you were getting an apartment together?” She recalls, voice doubtful. “And I remember saying something to Stiles. Something like... it’s not always a good idea to live with your friends. Even your best friend. But Stiles said it wouldn’t matter because you weren’t just friends.

“You guys were more like brothers.”

There’s a pause. Scott’s face eases, and you think it might’ve worked.

But then;

“His heart’s dropping.”

“What?”

“His heart rate is dropping, fast.”

“We have to get him out.”

“Quick, quick!”

“Get him out!”

Your fingers pull hastily at the latch, practically yanking the metal door open and just managing to catch Scott before he falls to the ground. You pull him round, meeting his eyes as he glances up at you in confusion, shaking his head. “What--What happened? Why’d you pull me out?”

“Your heart rate dropped,” you exclaim, shaking your head. “You were gonna die.” 

Leaning forward, Malia nods; “we had to.”

Glancing back at the machine, Scott’s lips part. “But then,” he breathes, breathless. “But then, nothing happened, did it? It didn’t work.”

-

Malia tried. And it nearly worked.

Just... not enough.

You turn off the machine with a frown, turning all the dials back down to zero and locking the latch with a heavy click and a heavy heart. You really thought this would work. You thought Scott would be able to open the rift, and if not him, maybe Malia since Stiles was her anchor. But... it hadn’t. And you were two steps behind again.

“What are you doing?”

Turning to Scott with a frown, you shake your head; “it’s too dangerous,” you say simply. “We’re not going to save anyone by freezing you guys to death.”

“But it was working,” Malia reminds, voice firm, desperate. “Wasn’t it?”

“There was a light and a strange noise,” you explain with a shrug. “No Stiles.”

“But I can remember him now,” Scott argues, stepping towards you, letting his hands fall from Malia. “I can see him in my head.”

“So can I,” Malia nods.

“He’s more real now than he’s ever been.”

Brows furrowing at Scott, your lips part, trying to say something but not sure what.

“If we can bring Stiles back, we can bring everyone back.”

“There’s a huge difference in being a vivid memory and an actual corporeal human being,” Lydia explains for you, standing up beside you, to which you nod.

“I know,” Scott nods at Lydia, before turning to you, eyes never leaving your own. “Which is why I think it should be you.”

“I won’t last two minutes in there,” you say simply, shaking your head. You may be a witch, but you couldn’t heal and withstand the same things Scott and Malia could as werewolves and werecoyotes. That thing would kill you in seconds. It had nearly killed them.

“We’ll think of something else,” Scott says quickly, gesturing to Malia. “Malia’s right.” Then, his voice softens and so does his gaze as he meets your eyes firmly. “It’s all about the connection. When I was remembering him, I was also remembering the two of you together. I don’t think anyone had a connection like you guys.”

Lips parting, your shoulders fall. You’re... not sure what to say.

“I saw it, too,” Malia nods, looking solemn as she nods at you. “You have to try, Y/N.”

“But it nearly killed you two,” you whisper, “and it’ll kill me.”

“Well then,” Lydia speaks up, you turning to her in bafflement as she quirks a brow. “We have to do it the old-fashioned way. We’re going to have to actually hypnotize you.”

-

“My mother had a hypnotist who helped her quite smoking.”

You inhale sharply at Lydia’s story, glancing down at your hands, swallowing thickly.

“She had me see the same on when I was ten,” Lydia adds.

Scott turns to her, baffled. “You had to quit smoking when you were ten?”

“No,” she calls, appalled. “I bit my fingernails. Just find a lighter or a candle, please.”

Just then, Malia turns, a blowtorch in her hands. “Too much--?”

“--Found it!”

You glance over, eyeing the candle in Scott’s hands.

Lydia nods, and the three of them make their way over to you, at the table. Scott sets the candle down in front of you, Malia lighting it instantly, as you eye it nervously. Scott and Malia stay stood in front of you, watching you carefully, but Lydia takes a seat in front of you.

Meeting her eyes, you inhale sharply. “Is it scary?��

She instantly shakes her head, “you’ll be fine.” Then, she smiles softly, nodding. “I promise. Now, just... breathe. Take a deep breath.”

You listen without fault, inhaling deeply and slowly, trying to steal your nerves. Your shoulders fall as you do, and your face relaxes as you focus on calming yourself.

“Look at the candle.” Your eyes lower, falling on the lighted candle, licking your lips as you listen closely to the rest of Lydia’s words. “Feel the muscles in your body begin to relax. Your hands relaxing. Your eyelids relaxing.” At that, your eyelids fall shut, instinctively. Out of your control. Oddly, you don’t feel panicked.

You truly do feel relaxed.

“As you relax, imagine you’re sitting in your room.”

When you open your eyes, you blink at the sight of your bedroom. You’re sat on your bed, on the edge of it.

“In your lap is a photo album.”

Glancing down, you frown at the closed photo album held in your hands.

“Each photo holds a memory of your life. You can choose whatever photo you want to look at it. It gives you total control. All you have to do is turn the pages.”

Inhaling sharply, you slowly turn the page, and almost instantly, voices echo.

-

“Y/N... Are... Are you okay?”

-

And it’s almost like the picture comes alive before you.

-

You step forward, falling into Stiles’s arms. He doesn’t respond right away, almost as if surprised, then, his arms are curling around your waist, pulling you close.

The hug seems to last forever, but it can’t be more than a few seconds, before you’re interrupted by Jackson.

-

Turning the page slowly, you focus on the voices and the memory. Trying to stay calm. At ease.

-

A choked sob leaves your lips as your hands go to cover them. Shaking your head, you cry out; “i’m sorry,” taking a step back. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t-I-”

“Hey,” Stiles calls, keys falling on your counter, rushing over to you. He envelops you in his arms, holding you close as you move your arms around him, clutching onto the back of his sweater. You feel like a fool, acting so weak and letting your emotions get the best of you, but after spending a night in an empty house, without the comfort of your brother and mother and terrified that your father would come waltzing through the front door any second, you can’t help yourself. “Hey, it’s okay.”

“It’s not,” you whisper, “I don’t… I don’t know what to do.”

Stiles pulls back, grabbing your face by the cheeks and pulling your eyes on his own. He looks just as rough as you, just as fragile, and it’s clear as day he’s putting on a brave face for the sake of you. “We’re gonna get them back, okay?” He whispers, “my father, your mother… it’s gonna be okay.”

“What if it’s not?” You question, shaking your head. “What if this time we fail? I mean, Scott’s with Deucalion. Deucalion…”

“We’re gonna find them,” Stiles says again, and you’re not sure if it’s to reassure you, or himself. Either way, the words to help calm your nerves just a bit.

“Stiles,” you call, “my father…-”

“We’re not worrying about your father right now, okay?” Stiles interrupts, his grip tightening ever so slightly. “I won’t let him near you. Not again.”

-

“Try to find a memory of Stiles.

“A memory where you felt a connection with him.”

-

“I’m sorry,” you say instantly, shaking your head. You force your body to ease, trying to ignore the slightly race in your heart. It hadn’t been Stiles’ fault, you repeat in your mind. He hadn’t had any control of his body and Void had done what he did best, cause chaos. He used your fears and Stiles’ against the both of you. “I’m sorry,” shaking your head, you sigh. “I shouldn’t have, I… I know that it wasn’t…”

“I hurt you.”

Your words halt, lips left parted as your eyes fall on Stiles’ own. He’s not staring at you, instead, staring down at his lap; at his hands.

“I… hurt Scott, I hurt Coach and so many others. But… I hurt you.”

“No,” you argue, shaking your head. “No, it was Void. Void did all of that stuff, not you, Stiles.”

“But it was my body,” he whispers, forcing the words out of his mouth. Slowly, he raises his gaze to meet your own, shaking his head. “It was my hands that stabbed Scott. My hands that set up the trap that hurt Coach and the bomb that blew up the police station. It was my hands that wrapped around your throat.”

It’s obvious Stiles is staring at your neck, tears in his eyes as he shakes his head.

“God, he… after everything with your father and then I–”

Taking Stiles’ hand in your own, you squeeze it tightly, keeping your gaze trained on his. “It wasn’t you.”

-

“It was Void,” you mumble, the words leaving your lips unconsciously. “It... It wasn’t you. Wasn’t... Wasn’t... you--”

“Find another memory,” Lydia cuts in, words echoing. “Keep looking for Stiles. Find another memory”

-

“Don’t ever do that again... I thought... I thought I’d lost you.”

-

You turn the page.

-

“I’m gonna go talk to my dad. I just gotta go talk to my dad.”

-

And another.

-

“I know that, uh, holding your breath could stop a panic attack. When I kissed you... you held your breath...

-

And another.

-

“I’ll always come back. I promise.”

-

And then...

You blink, and you’re in Stiles’ jeep.

-

“Y/N...”

-

“That’s when I remembered...”

Lydia, Malia and Scott blink, hoping flickering in their eyes.

“When... When I realized...”

-

“I’m going to be erased, okay?” You can’t say anything, your head shakes and your lips part, but you’re stunned silent. “Just like Alex. You’re gonna forget me.”

“No,” you cry, the word just spilling from your lips. “No, I… I won’t. I couldn’t forget you, Stiles.”

“Y/N… you will.”

-

“Y/N? What? What did you realize?”

“I tried to convince myself,” you mumble, eyes sliding open, slowly, lips parting. “I tried to pretend that I wasn’t...”

-

And you blink at that, heart breaking at the fact that he’s right.

“Just… try to find some way to remember me, okay?” His hand slips into your own again, threading his fingers through your own, gripping onto you tightly, firmly. “Remember… that it’s always been you… Remember that it’s never been anyone but you, from the first minute I saw you…”

Swallowing thickly, you let the words sink in, never tearing your gaze away from Stiles. These are the words you’ve been wanting to hear for months, wanting to know if you’re feelings for Stiles were one sided. If you were still the one he loved…. and now that you are hearing them, he’s about to be taken away from you.

“Remember that you saved my life.”

Lips parting, you whisper; “you saved me life too…” And then you shake your head, small, stiffly, and you feel your eyes water. “Countless times…”

He’s silent for a moment, gazing back at you, as if taking it all in for the last time. And then,

-

“Wasn’t what, Y/N?”

-

“Just remember… Remember that I never stopped loving you and…” He blinks, eyes never wavering from your own. “I never will.”

-

“Still in love with him.”

-

There’s an echo of silence, and then, he’s being ripped from you.

-

Meeting Scott’s gaze, you swallow thickly; “That I wasn’t still in love with Stiles.”

“Y/N...”

“I was there,” you cry, words choking. “I was there. I was the last person to see him.”

Lydia leans forward; “where? Y/N, where?”

“The Ghost Riders,” you explain with haste, eyes blurring as tears stream down your cheeks. “They... When they took him...”

Remember...

The candle burns out. And it’s silent.

Then, “I never said it back...” Swallowing thickly, you shake your head at Scott, biting your lip. “I never told him that...”

There’s an echo of silence, then, a rumble echoes. It intensifies by the moment, rumbling the entire ground beneath you.

Slowly, you stand up, making your way over to the door. You slowly unlock it, pulling up the latch, and then the door. Your lips part, eyes widening when you notice the bright light.

It’s the rift.

Rushing forward, you slow to a stop and you swear... you swear you see Stiles.

On the other side.

But... But right in front of you.

“Stiles?”

-

That night...

That was the night I realized...

I tried to convince myself, lie to myself...

that I wasn’t in love with you.

But I was.

I am.

I’m in love with you, Stiles.

“I can see you, Stiles! Don’t stop!”

Your hand reaches out before you, your feet inch forwards, because you can see him. See his outline. His figure. And you know it’s Stiles; without a doubt that it is. And he’s so close you can almost touch him, Almost reach out for him.

“Keep going! Stiles, keep going!”

But then, the light fades, and so does Stiles.

Your hand falls back down to your side, and it feels as if your heart is breaking.

“Stiles?”

But there’s no response..

“Y/N...”

You shake your head at your brothers voice, swallowing thickly. “Where is he?” And then you turn, spinning round to face your brother and your friends, nodding quickly and hastily. “It was working,” you explain. But you falter when you see the looks on their faces. “You... You saw him, right?”

With a sympathetic look in her eyes, Malia shuffles forward; “we didn’t see anyone.”

“No,” you argue, biting your lip as you turn back towards the tunnel. “He was here. I know it...”

A hand falls on your arm, and slowly turning your head back, you frown at Lydia through blurred eyes. You swallow thickly, trying to hold back your tears; your desperation whilst she simply just squeezes your arm, trying to offer any comfort she can.

All you can manage is the bleak mumble of; “Stiles was here.”

-

They help guide you back inside the room, making sure to keep a close eye on you.

And while you appreciate the support, you don’t notice it, your mind occupied with other thoughts. You found yourself doubting yourself again, because no one else had seen what you had. Not Malia, not Lydia and not even Scott. You were the only one. And it made you wonder if you were going crazy, if you had just imagined it all because you were so desperate to have Stiles back.

But you know you saw him. You know you did. And you swear you heard his voice, so...

“Liam!”

Spinning round at your brothers voice, your brows furrow at the sight of the younger boy. You would’ve thought he’d be taken. Like everyone else.

“There’s something you need to see.”

“You’re still here...”

“Yeah, but everyone else is gone,” Liam pants, shaking his head. “All of them. They’re all gone. Look, you have to come with me.”

Shaking his head, Scott’s brows furrow in confusion. “What is it?”

“I can’t explain it,” Liam stammers, “I have to show you.”

“Uh, all right,” Scott stammers, turning back to look at the three of you. “You guys stay here. Just in case.”

You just nod, numb. But Malia speaks up; “in case Stiles comes back?” And her words catch you by surprise, glancing over at her before meeting your brothers eyes who nods firmly at you.

“If there’s any hope,” he explains, “you need to keep trying.”

-

Your brows furrow when Malia rushes forward, not even a few minutes after Scott’s left, and opens the door.

Lydia seems just as confused; “what are you doing?”

She turns back to the two of you with a smile. “We’re gonna go find Stiles.”

“Scott told us to stay in case he shows up here.”

“Stiles isn’t coming here,” Malia argues gently. “If he was, he would’ve, and he hasn’t, so he’s not.”

Stepping forward, you bite your lip. “You believe me?”

Never wavering her gaze from your own, Malia quirks a brow in question. “You still think it worked, right?”

You nod without hesitation, “I know I saw him.”

“And I trust you,” Malia encourages, “you’re always right.”

Pursing your lips, you hesitate; “I wouldn’t say always.”

Shaking her head, Lydia steps forward; “but, right now?”

Meeting her eyes, then Malia’s, you nod, slowly. “Right now,” you begin, “I’m not wrong. Stiles is out there, I can feel it.”

“Then,” Malia grins, “what are we doing standing here?”

-

“These look fresh.”

“It’s from Stiles jeep,” Malia explains, “it must’ve just left here.”

Lydia pauses, brows furrowing. “Without his keys?”

You shake your head; “half the time he got it started with a screwdriver, so...”

“Then, he’s here,” Lydia nods, “we have to tell Scott.”

You glance over at Malia, but her gaze is caught on something else. Slowly lowering to help you up to your feet, Malia keeps her gaze ahead, frowning. “We should probably tell Scott about that, too.”

Your brows furrow in confusion, but a simple glance in the direction she’s looking and you understand.

There’s... train tracks in front of the school yard, leading into the school itself. Which just makes absolutely no sense. And definitely doesn’t mean anything good either.

-

Eyeing the many people sat in the library, now apparently a train station, your heart falls with the realization that the Wild Hunt was a lot further into turning Beacon Hills into a Ghost Town then you thought.

“Why is there a train station in the middle of the library?”

Turning to Malia, you sigh; “there’s also a train station in the Wild Hunt.”

“Any chance they’re connected?”

Stepping forward, you shake your head. “I would say high,” you begin, before glancing back at her and Lydia. “Like a hundred percent.”

The two follow after you quickly, though you’re not really sure where you’re headed or what you aim to do. It’s mainly the blind leading the blind.

“If there’s a train station,” Malia continues, “then there’s probably a train.”

Spinning around to the two of them, you meet Lydia with a similar look as her face falls with realization. “And if there’s a train,” she begins, “it’s going to the Wild Hunt.”

Turning around to the crowd of people, you swallow thickly; “they’re all going to be taken.”

“We can’t let them be taken.”

Malia’s face falls with panic and stepping forward, her mind races for a plan. “Um,” she mumbles, before raising her voice so everyone can hear her. “Okay. Listen up, everybody. We’ve all got to get out of here. We gotta go right now.”

Glancing round, no one moves. Or even really acknowledges Malia.

“It’s bad! We have to go!”

Stepping in front of someone, you crouch to meet their eyes; “hello!” She doesn’t move. Like, at all.

“Uh, hello? Sir!” Malia calls to another man, Lydia trying the same thing to another person. No one responds to either of you. At all. “How do we get them to leave if they can’t hear us?”

“Uh...” Lydia mumbles, before something -- or rather someone -- catches her eyes. “Maybe there’s someone who can.”

Following her line of direction, your eyes widen at the sight of Peter.

-

“Peter!”

Pressing a hand against your forehead, you watch Malia uselessly snap her fingers in front of her father’s face. It clearly does nothing. As everything else she’s tried does nothing.

“Malia.”

“What?”

“The only way we were able to break through the Hunt,” Lydia begins to explain, “is with an emotional connection.”

Malia sighs, shoulders falling with defeat. “Dang,” she whispers, “wish I could help.”

Meeting Lydia’s eyes, you sigh, before stepping forward. “Malia,” you call, voice firm, clear on what you mean.

She seems to understand quickly. And instantly, she shakes her head. “I’m not saying it,” she argues, determined. “I’m not saying it.”

“Okay, well,” Lydia shrugs, spinning round to walk the other way. “I guess everyone dies.”

Letting out a growl, Malia halts Lydia.

Turning to the former, you meet her eyes with a reassuring glance. “It’s okay,” you whisper, smiling gently. “You’ve got this.”

She only hesitates a moment longer, inhaling deeply, letting her eyes fall shut as she tries to prepare herself. Then, slowly glancing down at Peter, the word leaves her lips; “dad.” But not at all in the way you or Lydia meant it to. “Dad. Dad.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

Slowly crouching in front of Peter, Malia takes deep breaths. You don’t say anything, giving her the moment she needs to muster the courage to say it. It might just be a short and small word, but you understood probably better then most how hard it is to accept the man that’s supposed to be your father as your actual father. After everything he’s done.

And that’s why you understand how hard it is for Malia.

“Dad.” She whispers, voice soft, desperate. “Please wake up.”

He drops the newspaper, his eyes shifting. They become less distant.

Malia turns to you and Lydia with hope in her eyes, slowly standing up just as Peter does himself. Then, still silence echoes, uncertainty, and then, you watch as the edges of Peter’s lips curve upwards.

-

“Attention, all passengers, the train will be arriving in twelve minutes.”

You watch as all the passengers get up, circling around the four of you. Their feet seem to just lead them, having no real control over their bodies.

“Me?” Peter speaks up, pulling your gaze on him as he gestures to himself in disbelief. “You want me to stop them? You know how many there are?”

“Yeah,” Malia nods, “a lot of them. So get going.” Stepping forward, she grabs his arm, pulling him off his seat on the bench.

“There are hundreds of waiting rooms in this train station,” Peter explains, whilst letting Malia pull him. You and Lydia follow closely behind. “Which apparently now also serves as a high school library. It’s impossible.”

“We can try.”

“Where do you get this implausible optimism?”

“Definitely not from my father.”

Shaking your head, you rush forward, breaking the two apart. “We don’t have time for this,” you remind, grabbing onto Malia’s arm to pull her attention on you. “We need someone to just hear us.”

“I think we already did.”

It takes you a moment to process Peter’s words, and when you do, your eyes widen at the sight of a Ghost Rider right in front of you.

-

“We have to go!”

“But--”

Pulling Malia with you, you meet her eyes with a shake of your head. “I’m sorry about Peter, but we have to go!”

She chances a single glance back at her father, who currently is being held up off his feet by his neck by a Ghost Rider. He nods at her, encouraging her to follow you and Lydia and with that, she finally follows your lead, though reluctant, allowing you to help pull her along before simply just following you.

However, just as you rush out the door, she stops. And you don’t notice til you’re out, and when you turn back, the library isn’t there.

Meeting Lydia’s eyes, she nods at you, with the intent to follow after Malia and find her. But, just as you take a step forward, a feeling courses through you. And it’s a feeling you’ve felt before, many times. It’s Stiles.

It has to be.

“Y/N?”

Turning back to Lydia with a dazed expression, you shake your head. “Find Malia, get somewhere safe.”

She shakes her head, brows furrowing in bafflement. “Where are you going?”

“I’ve got to find Stiles.”

You rush off without another word, ignoring her bleak call for you as you pick up the speed in your step, all but running down the hallway. Your feet keep leading you, the feeling growing stronger and stronger by each step, until you find yourself in front of the girls locker room. Without hesitation, you push the door open, the first thing your eyes fall on is one of the Ghost Riders.

And then, you see Stiles.

Your lips part, and a yell leaves your lips as a burst of power flows through your body. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before, unlike anything you’ve ever done before. Your powers feel stronger, unbelievably powerful as you push the Ghost Rider away from Stiles, knocking it back against a set of lockers. The glow of purple surrounds you, surging from your hands, and directed at the Ghost Rider only and completely.

It’s unlike anything you’ve ever done before and it’s more control you’ve ever had over your powers.

And, to your surprise and great shock, the Ghost Rider burst into a cloud of green smoke itself. Just like all the innocent civilians it’s taken over the years. You’re not sure how you do it, how you had that much strength and power to destroy a Ghost Rider. But maybe that’s why they’d been afraid of you, like they were Lydia. Only unlike Lydia, or really anyone apparently, you could... destroy them.

Then, you ease, and you feel your legs grow weak beneath you as a result. Your body feels exhausted, your mind as well, and your eyes dull for a moment as you feel yourself falling, but arms catch you before you body thuds against the ground.

“Y/N? Y/N, are you okay?”

You move your hands to hold onto the arms holding you, finding enough strength in your body to finally look up and meet Stiles’ eyes. The eyes of the man you’ve been searching for for the past few months.

“Stiles,” you breathe, hands falling to his cheeks. “Stiles, you’re here. I... I found you.”

His lips curve upwards gently, eyes never leaving your own as he nods.

“I love you,” you whisper, that being the first thought to leave your mind. You needed to tell him. You just had to. “And I never stopped.”

And, Stiles shifts, holding you closer up against himself as he lets out a gentle laugh. “I know.” He uses his right hand to brush back strands of hair that had fallen into your eyes, gently tucking them behind your ear with a soft and adoring looking in his eyes. “I love you too.” Then, he’s leaning forward, pressing his lips against your own. Something you’ve been craving this entire time, his touch. And he’s here, holding you, kissing you...

You instantly return the kiss, without hesitation, your back curving into him as you pour every bit of feeling you’ve felt for him since he disappeared.

Since you broke up.

His hands run through your hair and you hold tight to him, afraid that’ll he’ll disappear from your fingers once again.

But, he never does.

He’s here. He really is.

“How sweet.”

You pull back in surprise at the voice, eyes blinking over only to find Isaac. Or rather, the phantom Isaac that the Ghost Riders had created. That you knew now. Alarmed, Stiles helps you up to your feet, the both of you shuffling back in response as Isaac approaches, his eyes clearly set on you.

And only you.

“Is that Isaac?”

“I sort of brought him back...” You glance back at him, wincing lightly, “it’s a long story.”

“I hate to ruin the moment,” Isaac continues, his voice contorting, turning darker and muffled. You blink and suddenly, his face isn’t his own, messed up, and it’s then your thoughts and fears of the past couple months are confirmed. That wasn’t Isaac.

And you didn’t love what every he it was.

“But I thought you loved me.”

“Stay back,” you whisper to Stiles, pushing him back behind you. 

Stiles glances down at you in concern, shaking his head. “Y/N, your powers--”

“I know,” you nod, continuing to shuffle back. “But I have to try.” Then, meeting his eyes steadily, you nod. “Be ready to run.”

He takes a moment, hesitating, before slowly nodding, stepping back to give you the room you need. However, he doesn’t run off yet, he sticks close, obviously worried for you as you slowly raise your hands up before yourself, inhaling sharply and deeply in preparation.

Isaac steps forward, a twisted smile on his lips; “don’t you love me?”

Letting your eyes fall shut, you harden your eyes, shaking your head. “I love the real Isaac,” you mumble, “but not whoever you are.”

And then your lips part and your hands jut out before you as a glow of purple surrounds you. Another cry of pain and exhaustion leaves your lips, forcing out everything you have within you. Everything you have left. Your muscles strain and contort painfully, and you feel your legs start to give out beneath you, but what keeps you going is the fact that it’s working.

If the panicked look on the phantom Isaac’s face is anything to go by.

With one last push, using all that you have left, you knock the phantom back. It slams against a set of lockers, and with just one final push from you, it burst into a cloud of green smoke.

Instantly, you’re falling once more. And like before, Stiles catches you, keeping you steady.

Your head lulls and your body is screaming at you in exhaustion. But you don’t much care now because you’re back in Stiles’ arms.

“How in the world did you do that?” Stiles breathes, glancing in the direction Isaac had all but disappeared. “And what the hell even was that?”

“It’s a long story,” you whisper, repeating your words from earlier, voice tired as you lean on Stiles, letting him guide you back up to your feet. “But, at least I know why the Ghost Riders are afraid of me.”

Staring back at you, astonished, Stiles blinks. “Afraid of you?” Then, a small smile curls onto his lips, and he almost looks proud. No, he definitely looks proud. “I love you.”

Laughing, you nod; “I love you too.”

He glances in the direction of the exit, wrapping his arm around your waist. “We should go,” he suggests gently to which you nod, trying your best to not let all of your weight fall on him. He helps guide you out of the locker room and down the hallway, however, you don’t make it far. Because just as you both reach the doors and Stiles moves to open them, a voice echoes.

“Stiles?”

Turning in the direction of the voice, you stare at the empty hallway.

“Stiles, is that you?”

“Mom?”

You shake your head when Stiles takes a step forward, gently pulling you with him.

“Stiles,” you call, voice weak. “That’s not your mom. Just like that wasn’t Isaac.”

“I know who it is,” Stiles mumbles, “I know her voice.”

“No,” you argue, desperate for him to understand. “That’s the Wild Hunt. They’re tricking you.” He only continues to walk forward, towards where the voice had originated, looking both astonished and lost at the same time. “The Wild Hunt brought her back, but she’s not real.”

He turns to you, confused; “what do you mean, ‘brought her back’?”

Before you can speak, Claudia’s voice echoes once more; “Stiles.”

And turning, you frown when she steps through the doors.

“I know what you’ve been through.”

Your grip tightens on Stiles, trying to pull him back. But he holds fast, relenting you.

“I know how much you love your father.” Claudia continues and then, like Isaac, there’s a shift and her face becomes contorted. Darkened. Not her own. And her voice does the same. “But I love him more.”

Swallowing thickly, you let out a shaky breath.

You don’t have the strength to fight her off. Not for the third time. And if you tried, you’re sure it could kill you.

“Even through the hunt,” she continues, voice distorted and echoed, “you somehow worked your way back into his memory.”

“Yeah,” Stiles nods, trying to stay strong. “Worming is one of my skills.”

Standing up a bit straighter, you pull Stiles’ gaze on your own. “That thing,” and you spit the word venomously, “is conjured from your dad’s pain. If he remembers you, he can’t believe in her.”

“That’s why you have to go.”

It happens in a second. Claudia steps forward and you move to stop her, even if you know you can’t, but her hand wraps around your throat, squeezing painfully. It blocks all air and you scramble, scratching at her hand but she’s too strong for your weakened state. And then Stiles steps forward, quick to help you, trying to pull her hands away from you.

“You shouldn’t treat your mother that way.”

You slump against the ground, a groan of pain leaving your lips in response. However, your focus soon turns on Stiles as it’s now his neck being squeezed by the phantom.

“You’re not my mother,” he whispers, voice straining.

She steps forward, quick, slamming him up against a wall. You try to climb up to your feet, hating how weakened you were by your own powers and desperate to try and help Stiles. But you can’t move fast enough. You entire body screamed at you in pain, your head banging in agony, your throat screaming out in discomfort.

“He believes in me. Dreams. So hard to kill.”

But then a figure steps past you, and your eyes widen in hope in realization of who.

“But not impossible.” 

Stilinski attempts to shoot Claudia, but regrettably, it does nothing to her.

“Noah,” she calls, shaking her head. “Your bullets can’t hurt me.”

Finding your strength, you force yourself up. You ignore your own pain and suffering for the sake of Stiles, and the fact that you refuse to lose him again. Not again. You won’t let it happen.

Falling next to Stilinski, you swallow thickly, “fire again.”

He listens without fault, and with the help of his bullet, you push your hands forward, forcing your powers to surge towards her and guiding the bullet there as well. The bullet hits her, right in the chest, and like Isaac, she disappears in a cloud of green smoke, letting go of Stiles.

You slump forward, trying to keep yourself upright. The ground begins to rumble beneath you and you nearly fall, but Stilinski wraps an arm around you to keep you upright, helping steady you.

You glance around as everything continues to rumble, shaking violently, trying to find the source.

-

“Looking for this?”

Stiles jumps, surprised by your voice as he spins round fast to face you. You bite your lip to fight your smile at his reaction, pressing a hand against your lips to muffle your giggle. “Sorry,” you mumble at his half-hearted glare he attempts to send your way. “Your dad let me in.”

Setting down the book in his hands back on his dresser, Stiles turns to you completely, hand set against his chest. “You could’ve at least knocked.”

You only shake your head, electing not to say anything as you walk into Stiles’ room. You cross the distance between the two of you, slowing to a stop in front of the boy with a soft smile, before leaning down to gently grab his hand. You pull it up, turning it so his palm is pointed towards the ceiling, before slowly lowering the necklace his father had found for you into his hand.

Stiles glances down at the necklace, his eyes widening when he realizes just what necklace it is. “What...”

“Your father found it when you were...” You trail off, a light frown curling onto your lips at the memory of it all. “Well, you know. And he said you left it for me.”

Swallowing thickly, Stiles eyes the lily necklace in his palm for a moment before glancing up to meet your eyes. His gaze is soft as he glances up at you, reflective as well. There’s seems to be hundred of thoughts running through his mind as he stares back at you, emotions that you seem to understand well enough but can’t exactly place. 

While things were better, much, much better... You and Stiles haven’t really discussed any of it. Any of it being what had happened before he’d disappeared. There seemed to be this wall that existed between the two of you, this wall that stopped you from talking about it; about the break up, about the secrecy and the lying... But you didn’t want to go on never talking about it. You didn’t want it to be a forbidden thing in your relationship.

If the two of you were going to do this, you had to be better about being honest.

About it all.

“Stiles--”

“Y/N--”

Letting out a laugh, you shake your head. “You go first.”

Stiles hesitates for a moment and he even looks a little shy as his lips part to speak, but he stammers for the right words. You let him take his time, listening carefully as he swallows thickly, mustering up the courage. “I was going to give this necklace to you at graduation,” he explains, “it was going to be my way of apologizing to you for how I treated you. About the way I treated you about Donovan and the Dread Doctors and Theo...”

You frown at the mention of his name.

But Stiles is quick to pull your gaze back on his own, hand falling under your chin and gently pulling it up. “I wasn’t there for you when you needed me and for that, i’m sorry. I should’ve told you, but I felt like I couldn’t tell anyone. I couldn’t even tell my own dad... And I didn’t stop to think that you were going through things of your own...” His hand moves, cupping your cheeks as his thumb softly brushes away the lone tear that had manage to fall past your defenses. “You deserved better then that. Better then me.”

You adamantly shake your head, without hesitation, taking his hands in your own firmly. “I don’t want anyone else but you, Stiles.”

His lips part, and he hesitates, then; “even after everything?”

“Our life is crazy, Stiles. Our lives have been crazy since Scott got bit... And yeah, we’re graduating, and I don’t know what the future holds.” You lean into his touch, your hand falling over his own with a soft smile. “But the one thing I do know is that you’re what got me through it all. And I don’t ever want to not have you by my side again.”

An echo of silence passes, and then, you lean forward, letting your forehead fall on Stiles’ own.

“You’re it for me, Stiles,” you whisper, “you’re all I want.”

Placing his hands on your waist, Stiles tugs you closer. “Good,” he mumbles, “cause you’re all I want too.”

You pull back with a smile, a bright one. There’s this race of happiness flooding through you that you haven’t felt for months. To have Stiles so close again, without all that tension that had once existed between you... it felt like a dream come true.

“Here.”

You blink at Stiles’ words, before understanding his meaning. Pulling back from his touch, you turn, pulling your hair out of his way as he slips the necklace around your neck before locking the clasp for you. Once it’s on properly, you turn to him with a bright smile, letting out a soft laugh as you eye the pendant. “I love it.”

“And,” Stiles begins, pulling you close. “I love you.”

-

“Hey.”

“Hey, Y/N.”

Smiling softly at the sound of Isaac’s voice, you glance down at your lap, biting your lip.

“How are you, Isaac?”

“I’m good,” he responds back cheerfully. “Things are really good.”

“Yeah?” You question softly in response, “i’m glad.”

There’s a pause, then, “how are you, Y/N?”

“I’m good,” you whisper. “I am. I promise.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” you nod, even though you know he can’t see it. “I just really wanted to hear your voice.”

His actual voice.

“You sure everything’s okay?” Isaac hesitates, seeming unsure. “You seem off.”

“I’m good, i’m good,” you laugh lightly. “I promise. I’m just tired. Today was the last day of school and I still have no idea what I want to do for college.”

“You don’t?”

Shrugging, you fiddle with the sleeve of your shirt. “No, but i’ll figure it out.” Then, you brighten up. “What about you? You should be done school in France as well, right? What are your big plans?”

Isaac lets out a soft laugh. “I don’t have too many big plans.”

“No?”

“Well, actually... I sort of... maybe met this girl...”

“You met a girl?” You exclaim, excited. “Who? Who is it?”

“Slow down, Y/N/N,” Isaac chuckles, and you can imagine him rolling his eyes at you. “It’s just some girl from school. But I've taken her on a few dates and things are looking good... Really good.”

“Oh, that’s amazing, Isaac. I’m so happy for you.”

“Yeah, well...” Then he pauses, “what about you? Did Stiles realize the big mistake he made?”

Rolling your eyes, you glance back at the past out image of Stiles next to you, curled up in his blankets. “You could say that,” you snort, “we’re better.”

“You guys together, then?”

Smiling down at Stiles, you nod. “Yeah,” you whisper, “we are.”

-

Part 45?

Tag List: @potterheadbbc - @sunsetblake - @mythicalamphitrite - @loverofwaytoomanythings618 - @minuteandahalf - @mnk - @gazebros - @colie87 - @quilliamfears - @quellum - @pessimisticbullshit - @kaylinfayezink - @maiabiovillage - @tr1chst3r - @arkcangel - @quirkytwinkles - @thegirlwhoimagined - @noones-girl1980 - @illumminated - @fairchild345 - @all-will-be-well-love - @animemes-trash - @starryrevelations - @literallyhelpme - @theskytraveler - @jinandtion1c - @ilovemymoose - @bibliophilesquared - @stilessarcasmqueen - @mersuperwholocked-lowlife - @newtsshelbys - @wyattgoleft - @pancakefancake - @saturno-in-the-night - @pizzamelon7384 - @riskregretting - @mdgrdians - @ravenclawnerdfromnarnia - @franchisefan14 - @lovingpeterparker - @audreysduvxl - @kararanae23 - @alioop3818 - @a-gir1-has-n0-name - @andyl394 - @sclestial - @jayymocha - @2ptonpt - @itsfangirlmendes- @deafeningmusicdetective - @alex–awesome–22 - @nicholerodz  - @kellbell44- @serrahruby - @agentmarvel13 - @egg-in-a-spork - @nickigv - @vxidnik - @marvelousgab - @emmaleighrose- @danielag1969 - @digicharr - @shantayok - @cherry3bombshell - @thatprofessionalfangirl - @itsjaynebird - @grippleback-galaxy - @dafukbish - @randomfanfictiontime - @unicorn-sparkles123 - @sammyrenae68 - @myfanficlibrarium - @liveforthenight130318- @booknymph02 - @smileyouresopretty - @fionnthebandersnacc- @voidsarahh - @kal-pal - @darlingimmafangirl - @burningmusicmarchi - @celacaveremo - @maolhy71706 - @supernatural-kinda-girl - @wherever-life-takes-us - @natalien-92 - @letmebeyoursforever - @lonelyforeverlina - @parkerschurros - @seninjakitey - @runway-to-my-aid - @weirdowithnobeardo - @missleahlin - @your-typical-giggle - @wandascarlett - @multifandxm353 - @moonliightbabes - @lemontenciulek - @smokingperfume - @where-art-thau-romeo - @1teen1dream - @standing-onthe-edge - @moresimsforme - @used-avocado - @hotel-colson - @lovingchildperson​ - @10minutesofscreentime

[belit0]

Pregnancy sex with Indra HCs plz? Also if it's not too much can you it for the each different pregnancy they have? So much variety X3 (single, twins, triplets)

Indra: “Don't you know how discourteous it is to ask about other people's privacy, anon?”

Bee: “Don't be so severe my love, you are well known, they want to learn about you! Go on, Izuna, tell them.”

Me: “SIKE.”

Indra: “BUT-”

Another gif from the amazing @art-blocked-gremlin !

Kuro and Hikari (Twins)

The first time Indra feels the urge to be careful while having sex with Bee. The fact that she carries his heirs inside her is something that does not escape the constant concern, and suddenly the only thing he wishes is to take care of her at all times.

It is the couple's first pregnancy and Indra's sexual desire only increases in monstrous quantities as he watches his wife's belly begin to grow, knowing that, in a short time, their two children will be in his arms.

There are certain positions that they had to give up since the twins claimed a lot of space inside Bee, making her belly practically explode. Indra's brutality and savagery had to decrease drastically since she was no longer in a position to bear it, and he would never risk his babies out of pure desire.

Bee's hormones are something he feels secretly blessed with. Being a couple that used to spend a lot of time in the bedroom, now his wife can't keep her hands off him, claiming him all the time, even when he doesn't expect it. It has become routine for her to sneak into his office for a quickie, to slip into every shower with him, or to meet him during each training session he does when he's shirtless.

Contrary to the popular belief that pregnant women lose their self-esteem as progress is made, Bee suffered a beastly increase through her man. The Ōtsutsuki changed his usual sexual brusqueness for pure love and praising, letting her know how beautiful she looked every time she received his cock.

Shingetsu, Tsuki and Mangetsu (Triplets)

Oh no, this one was hard. The twins' pregnancy felt like heaven next to the hell that came with the triplets, but the worst part was left to Indra.

The docile, peaceful, gentle and purely loving Bee became the female version of the Ōtsutsuki due to the number of hormones, and suddenly, helping three little lives unfold within her felt so overwhelming that she needed some kind of release........ her man.

Accustomed to always being the dominant one, Indra was widely shocked when it was his wife who slapped him in the face while riding him, expressing her pleasure with moans never heard from her.

After repeating similar situations on several occasions, he understood that she needed this, and tacitly accepted to be her sex toy for the duration of the triplets' pregnancy. He would pass on the bill to her later.

Indra got deprived of orgasms, was tied up, beaten, touched until reaching the point of over-stimulation, forced to eat pussy until she was done more than three times, degraded, spat out, cut, and the list goes on. Bee put into practice all the kinks he played with her during those months, taking advantage of his complacency to satisfy her sudden sexual appetite. I don't need to clarify that when the 3 children were born, Indra took responsibility for each of the tortures he was subjected to, which brings us to...

Ame (youngest daughter)

Finally, a child without a companion, Bee can finally get through a pregnancy without feeling like she's going to pop, and she's certainly still embarrassed by what she got her man through during the triplets. I should point out that she is still paying for it too, at least she was until Indra noticed the little chakra source in her tummy.

Taking up his tender stance again, the Ōtsutsuki won't deny missing the image of how his cock pounded so hard on Bee's insides that it made her belly rise up. But now, instead, a beautiful round shape full of life is between them, and it seems the most beautiful union product of their love.

It is Bee who begs several times for a little intensity during their sexual encounters, tempting him to release his momentarily caged beast, but Indra refuses, and with each request for violent sex, he dedicates himself to please her for hours with only his tongue as punishment. Although there is no punishment in that.

Hormones are calmer this time, something for which he is grateful. He doesn't mind being in the receiving end, but he would have loved to lay her down on her back at every opportunity and turn the game around. Of course, he never did it out of fear of hurting his unborn children, but now that Bee is hormonal and relaxed again, Indra realizes how much he missed that.

The encounters are full of intimacy and foreplay, and they are completely dedicated too caressing and professing their love for each other. The fact that she carries another of his children inside her makes him proud, and he needs to express it constantly. Not being good with words, he uses his hands, filling her with affective touches. During this pregnancy, it could be said that Indra and Bee do not have sex, but make love every day.

[annakie]

Patchy

A little under two years ago I made this post, a chronicle of Patchy, the outside feral, turned inside kitty who took ten years to learn to love being petted.

Today we got some bad news.

TW for pet illness under the cut.

Patchy’s always been a bit of a puker, usually oh, say, once a month or so she’d have a good puke for no reason.  I’ve had other cats that are pukers so it’s not that surprising.

In the late winter/early spring I started to notice more frequent pukes.

I’d decided around that time that I needed to find healthier food for my cats, with Leela, the oldest turning 16, Fry turning 11, Pemily turning 7 and Patchy turning, I don’t know, 12 or 13.  No way to really know.  They already got decent food, but I did my research and had started looking at Blue Buffalo, American Journey and Dave’s canned food. 

Patchy had been on a mostly canned food diet since she went to the vet back in early 2020 and had a bunch of teeth pulled.  Also, as a note, Patchy’s brief flirtation with hanging out in the rest of the house ended after like a month.  She and Fry fought too much, and eventually he claimed the rest of the house is his.  He also still thinks the master bedroom should be his, but, Patchy defends that territory well if anyone else encroaches. (The door just stays closed most of the time.)  I really wish they could have all gotten along, I loved having Patchy out, but both Fry and Patchy agreed it wasn’t going to work.

The food she’d been on was pretty junk-food-ish though, which she did love and eat. But I wanted everyone on more or less the same diet and the highest quality food I could readily get them.  So I bought a lot of cans of different kinds of food, and kept a list of which ones seemed to be hits and misses. (I still have a dozen cans of the kind nobody liked -- Blue Buffalo Wilderness Salmon -- I’ve been meaning to take to the city shelter).

Around halfway into this experiment I noticed Patchy puking more, so I decided to try to stick with her favorite kinds, which, I thought was helping.

But once I was fully vaccinated this year, it was time to get all the pets to the vet.  I noticed Patchy had still lost some weight, I thought it was due to switching around her food too much earlier, and tried to stick with the things I felt she really liked.

Then, of course, Leela got sick, spent two and a half days in the pet ER and almost died back in April, and then it was like... yeah we’re done being afraid of COVID, we’re done waiting.  It’s time to get them all their checkups.

My regular vet was doing COVID restrictions so no pet owners inside the clinic back then, so they took Patchy (and the others) in without me.  I thought Patchy had lost some weight, but Dr. B. sounded alarmed when he called me with how much lost she’d lost in the last year, about five pounds.  He wanted to do some bloodwork for Patchy, and I said of course go for it.  

He called back, sounding much calmer and was like “her bloodwork couldn’t be more perfect.  Let’s try switching up her food, get her on some sensitive stomach food and let’s see how she’s doing in a couple weeks.”

So two weeks later it did seem like she was doing better, I called Dr. B back and he said to bring her back in a month.

It was my plan to take her back next week when I had some PTO coming.  I admit, later than planned... my last couple of months have been mucn more focused on Leela... who, thankfully, continues to thrive.  But feeling like my time with her is running out, she’s been my main area of concern.

The last few days though, Patchy has really not been eating well.  Sometimes she does OK, sometimes nothing at all.  And then puking every day.  I swapped her back even to a few cans of the Junk Food (Whiskas) I still had laying around.  She’d eat it... and then puke it up.  And also she... stopped sleeping with me.  I thought... well, it’s summer.  It’s probably too hot to cuddle.  But she stopped laying on the bed.  She stopped coming up for pets when I come to bed and hang out for awhile specifically to spend time with her and pet her.  She runs under the bed again when I come into the room.  It’s like we regressed to three or four years ago... just two weeks after our two year anniversary of getting to pet her.

So this afternoon we went to the vet.  Getting her into the carrier sucked.  I tried nice methods, then I had to scare her into the closet by running the vacuum, and then pretty roughly grab her.  I have scratches and a pretty deep bite on my thumb which either maybe hit a nerve or is infected, may have to go to the doctor for it tomorrow. (Yes, washed it thoroughly with soap as soon as I could.)  I also hated betraying her trust that badly, but it’s for her own good.  But it was rough.

Dr B. wasn’t working so I saw one of the other vets.  I liked him. Also COVID restrictions are gone so I got to go inside. But after talking to him for a few minutes, going over her history and what changes I’ve made, he spent a long time rubbing her intestines (Patchy was perfectly behaved, at least.)   Then he looked concerned.  Then he said let’s do an ultrasound.

A few minutes he came back in and showed me her scans. 

Lymphoma.

I was a bit stunned for a second so I missed a bit of the technical speak he said next, but it came down to the best thing we could do is give her some medicine that may buy her more time.  It doesn’t sound like Chemo or Operating is even really an option.  I’m going to call back tomorrow and see if Dr. B or the vet I talked to can talk me through it a little better now that I’ve had a chance to digest.

If I can get Patchy to take the medicine, and if she responds well to it... she may have 3 - 6 months left.

If she won’t take it, or if she doesn’t respond, it’s at this point, a matter of her comfort and quality of life.  So... weeks.  And I’m worried about getting her to take the medicine, especially since she won’t even come let me pet her and we just had a huge trust betrayal today. I don’t know if I could take her spending her last few weeks hating me, especially if the medicine doesn’t work.

The vet also told me that... I didn’t do anything wrong.  And we did the right thing six or so weeks ago by changing her food and seeing if a few other things worked. Especially with how good her blookwork looked.  He barely felt the cancer today, he said six weeks ago Dr. B wouldn’t have been able to feel it at all.  And for this particular type of lymphoma... there’s not a lot to be done, anyway.  That made me feel better, at least.

(As a really dumb side note, after I got her home, I sat down to eat dinner and watch an episode of Star Trek to take my mind off of all of this since I’d been crying since I found out, paid my bill, and drove home, stopping at a drive through so I didn’t have the mental load of cooking.  And I’m in the middle of my rewatch of Enterprise.  I bet any trekkies reading this can guess what episode was next in my rewatch because yep I’m in season two and A NIGHT IN SICKBAY started playing, of course, so obviously I NOPED THE FUCK OUT OF THAT EPISODE.  For the non-Trekkies.... the Captain has a dog on board, an adorable beagle, Porthos.  The dog gets sick and almost dies and spends his night in Sickbay.  He does pull through.  But the ONE episode centered around a beloved pet getting sick and almost dying... and that’s the episode that fate decreed I was supposed to watch tonight. I did not.  I don’t know if I can watch it anytime soon.)

So now for the next few weeks I will spend my time being grateful that Leela is alive and thriving and pray she keeps doing so -- I will continue to give her extra love and care and attention, and also I will need to do the same for Patchy.  I can’t even do it at the same time because Patchy will not come out here, and will not allow Leela in her room. 

I am low-key freaking out that there’s the possibility of the nightmare scenario happening to me again.  In winter 2016, after months of being sick, I woke up on Christmas morning and my 16-year-old cat Jim had died overnight.  It was terrible, and traumatic, and I had to deal with everything all alone because anyone who could support me was... well, it was Christmas morning and my family was all out of town, too.  Posting about it on Tumblr... actually really helped me, since it’s the only place I felt like I could talk about it.

That Christmas was on a Sunday.

Wednesday morning I woke up to hearing my dog, Cebu, moaning in pain.   I rushed him to the vet, but whatever happened overnight, it was too late, maybe there wasn’t anything we ever could have done even if I’d been awake when the puking started.  The vet said the kindest thing we could do was put him to sleep.  And we did.

Also I just, JUST now realized that the vet who helped put Cebu to sleep was the same vet who I saw today about Patchy.

But I lost two of my pets within 3 days of each other.  I was very lucky that my job let us have the week between Christmas and New Years off that year.  I had a few days to pull myself together, and I needed it.  It took months to recover totally, though.  Every once in awhile I think about that week and I still cry, though.  I miss them both so much and they both had deaths that were less than ideal.

I remember thinking then “I have like, five years of reprive.  Leela will be sixteen in five years, and that’s when I have to start to worry again, when I have to be ready to say goodbye again.”

I thought then that even after that I’d have two or three years until Patchy would leave me, and two or three years past that until Fry.  And then five more years with Pemily.

Right now I’m realizing that I will likely lose Patchy, very best case in six months, but possibly before July is over.

I need Leela to keep thriving.  I don’t know how I would handle losing another two so close together again.

Patchy is... she’s the one who chose me.  I chose my other cats.  Fry and Pemily I plucked from the backyard when they were tiny kittens and brought them inside.  They didn’t have a choice.  Leela I adopted from a rescue, she didn’t have a choice.  Patchy chose to stay.  She chose to stick around when she realized I’d feed her.  It took years but she learned to trust, she chose to come inside when it was cold, when it was hot, when it was storming, and when she was pregnant.  She chose me to help raise the last litter of kittens she’d ever had.  (My entire Rescue Kitties tag is full of adventures in finding, raising and usually adopting out strays. Lots and lots of posts about Patchy and her final litter.  Been awhile since I’ve done it, though.)

I used to joke that Patchy was my roommate, not a pet.  She ate, drank, did her business, and kept to herself for a long time.  Don’t get me wrong, she was a very good, quiet, considerate roommate and I loved her.  But it wasn’t until that wonderful day she let me pet her that I felt like she was my pet. 

I loved having her just hanging out living in the house since 2014, but the last two years especially have brought me such joy.  I’ve tried to never take Patchy’s trust in me for granted.  It was EARNED.  Every small step forward was a milestone to be celebrated. I worked for every bit of trust and love Patchy has given me, and have been rewarded.  And it was worth it.  Every minute.  Every long, patient year.

Even now I’m telling myself... without me, she would have died years ago.  Probably violently, or starved, maybe frozen to death.  Getting to die of cancer brought on by older age is not something that most feral cats ever get to do.  Getting to become an inside kitty where she’s loved, and comfortable for the second half of her life was something remarkable, brought on by her wiles and will to survive for so many years, bolstered by the food I left out for her.  She’s had this much time, this much life, this much comfort and love that she would have never had otherwise, and that’s something to be happy about.

I’ve watched dozens of ferals come and go through my neighborhood throughout the years.  I feed them, I work on seeing if I can get them to trust me enough to let me TNR them, but even those that I have, I don’t keep seeing for much longer.  There’s one right now, I jokingly call him Patchy’s Boyfriend.  He still won’t trust me and never has fallen for the trap when I’ve tried.  But he’s there most nights when I feed him around 11.  He’s getting terribly thin despite the quality food I leave out.  I’ll miss him.

But none of them were Patchy.  None of them became what she is to me. None of them survived long enough to adapt and decide to live another life.

Also?  I wouldn’t have Pemily without her.  Pemily is literally Patchy’s Granddaughter and that is one more thing I love Patchy for.

I feel guilty sometimes, both because I don’t spend nearly enough waking hours with her I feel, but I have three others who need me, as well. One who’s time is growing short, as well.  And they don’t get to sleep with me, she does.  What a joy it was all winter when I would wake up and she’d be sleeping on my chest.  I’d get a bit annoyed when she’d sleep with her backside to my face and her tail would tickle my face and wake me up.  I’m a side-sleeper half the night and she hated that it was harder to get comfortable on me that way.  She still doesn’t want to have my hand just stay on her, she wants pets and skirtches, no long-form touching.  That’s ok.  I sleep better with her weight on me.

I don’t know what the next few weeks or months will hold, but at least pet-wise, it’s going to be rough.  I’m going to wrap this up and give these three out here a good pet, then go hope Patchy comes and asks for love, too.  Tomorrow is one more day with all four of them, and for that, I’ll be grateful, for every remaining day.

[dancing-the-hellfire-rumba]

Seen ✓ - 1

REWRITE OF “Can You See The Stars”

Pairing: Sam x Fem!Reader Warnings: fear of being kidnapped Word Count: 2.4k Series Summary: On her way home, Y/n finds an abandoned, cracked phone on the sidewalk. Anxious about the well-being of its owner, she picks it up and texts the first contact she finds; Sam.  A/N:This is my second attempt at the story everyone loved, with an actual pllot in mind this time. So, attempt number two, better writing, better story. Have at it kids.

I have tagged the old taglist for this first part. Let me know if you wanna be removed/ added

Beta: The lovely @percywinchester27​ . Thank you so so much hon :) Masterlist

Chapter One: you sure know how to fuck me up on a friday night

Y/n   |  Sam

The road to independence is uphill, and Y/n knows this better than anyone. She’s done it all. She’s gone through jobs at a similar speed with which she goes through books, worked two or more of them, while also studying for college… She knows how it works, and it’s really fucking difficult to balance emotional baggage the size of a city, an underage sister and college, while also trying to keep, not only yourself, but another person, alive, under a safe roof with food in your stomachs.

Currently, she’s only working one job, at a dive bar owned by a friend of a friend as a waitress.

It’s a difficult job, and Y/n has struggled with it, but the hardest part is not the endless knowledge one needs to mix drinks –on the nights Joel takes time off and she has to take his spot behind the bar- or the carrying up to twenty pounds of glasses and drinks and delivering them at the right table without soaking herself or anyone else with copious amounts of alcohol. Any minimum wage worker will tell you the same thing- clients of any kind fucking suck. Especially if you’re a young woman at a dive bar after midnight.

Another thing she’s struggled with is not having too much money, which is why she’s needed multiple jobs in the past, so she has to use public transport- buses specifically, to go to and from work. And that is exactly where she finds herself, a couple hours after midnight, at her bus stop, five minutes from the bar, when she finds a phone which, unbeknownst to her, will flip her world upside down.

It sits on the pavement of the bus stop, limp and sad. The screen is cracked a significant amount, and for a second she figures someone got rid of it and was too much of an asshole to throw it in the trash. But the second that thought crosses her mind, the screen lights up with a concerning text.

dude where the fuck are you?!

The contact reads “Sam”, and Y/n stands over the phone staring at it. She’s concerned. What if the phone’s owner is in trouble? The device may have fallen from their pocket on the pavement and cracked because they were running from someone and never made it home, and now whoever is texting them is worried for their well-being. Anxiety grips her heart.

It’s instinct that brings her to kneel down and pick it up. She can’t possibly know when the owner lost it, or how long the phone has been sitting there, but there’s an overwhelming urge to contact this Sam person and let them know what’s going on. Of course, the voice in Y/n’s head tells her that this all could just be a product of her anxiety, but it beats leaving it there and having it be stolen by a passerby.

Whatever, right? Best case scenario, she contacts the owner, who is perfectly safe and sound, and they take their phone back. She’s not really planning to pocket it. It’s fairly damaged anyways. Her own three year old, beat-up, 100$ phone is in better condition.

The bus arrives, and Y/n picks up the phone and boards it.

As she sits in her usual seat in the back, alone in the bus apart from an elderly man asleep with his head on a window and a cap on his head near the front, she starts speculating, eyes glued to the black device in her hands. Who’s the owner? Who is Sam to them? Perhaps a partner? A friend? How did the owner lose their phone? Why would this Sam sound so concerned, and most importantly, is the owner okay?

The heavy weight of dread weighs her chest at the thought of the phone’s owner being in trouble and without a phone. She must contact Sam immediately.

Hey, is this Sam?

As she awaits for a response, her curiosity is killing her. The intrigued part of her, reasons that she should snoop, it’s alright, she’s only looking for more information about the owner. Like whether or not they’re a woman or a man- which, sadly, matters when you’re walking alone in dark streets like the ones around this area- and perhaps their age –because, again, it matters if they are a teenager or a forty-year old adult.

The lack of passcode indicates someone older, with nothing to hide, or perhaps someone less technologically savvy, again, someone who may not be very young. The lockscreen is the most popular Led Zeppelin icon, and she instantly respects their music taste, and the home screen is some generic western movie from the 90s with Clint Eastwood. The chances of this belonging to someone younger further decline.

There’s a grand total of four downloaded apps in the phone. There’s an email app, a scrabble app, a microphone recorder and a dating app, no other sign of social media. Someone over 18 years old, definitely.

Soon, she’s tapping on the dating app, and opening their profile page. Holy shit, she thinks.

A guy, the tall, dark and handsome kind. Spiky hair and a smolder-like smile, sharp edges everywhere on his face apart from his gentle, olive-shaped and colored eyes. His lips are full, his nose straight, and his eyelashes long, dark and thick. He’s a real-life dreamboat, the kind you see in movies and Cosmopolitan articles about sex. He’s sitting on a black muscle car, a Chevrolet, with his thick thighs barely contained in blue jeans.

Dean Winchester, the app writes. 28. Male. Likes: old cars, beer, hard rock, westerns, she figured that much, bacon burgers. Dislikes: pop music, modern horror movies, uncomfortable beds. Not looking for anything serious, just a night of fun ;), and wow, okay, he sounds a bit like a dick. The very Red-blooded American Male kind, that enjoys BBQs and winking at women from across the bar. She’s had enough of those during her line of work; she can recognize them from a mile away.

Whatever the case, her moral compass couldn’t allow her to pass up on the opportunity to possibly help someone in trouble. She ignores her urge to roll her eyes, and scrolls a little, finding other pictures of the same guy, when suddenly two separate notifications appear, the phone itself vibrating. One is from the app, which has now received a picture from this girl, Jamie, one which she certainly doesn’t plan on opening, seeing as it’s followed by a winky face. The second one is from Sam.

jesus dean how drunk are you

yes it’s sam. your brother? remember?

No, this isn’t Dean, uh.

My name is Y/n. Your brother lost his phone at a bus stop, near a bar.

i should’ve figured. dean rarely ever uses punctuation.

nice to meet you i guess

Nice to meet you, too.

So basically, uhm, I thought you might help me return his phone to him? I got worried, because this was dumped on the sidewalk, I thought he may be in trouble or something.

knowing him he probably dropped it while being too shitfaced to function.

gotta admit i’m impressed though. most people would’ve pocketed it by now.

I mean, it’s not much use to me with such a cracked screen haha.

yeah i guess.

i don’t know about getting it back to him though. i’m in kansas right now so i’m not close by. i don’t think i can help you.

he doesn’t use social media either.

Crap.

What the hell am I supposed to do with this phone then?

keep it probably.

You sure there’s no other way I can reach him?

i mean i can give you his email but i’m not sure he’ll respond.

I’ll take it. Thank you :)

no problem :)

As she looks up the bus stops, and she quickly realizes this is her stop. Throwing profanities loudly enough to wake the older man at the front of the bus, she scrambles for her things, haphazardly thrown in the seat next to her, and gets off the bus. She pats herself down, making sure she hasn’t forgotten anything as the doors of the bus shut, and starts down the road to her apartment complex.

She could probably navigate this road blind. There are many ways to reach the apartment she’s renting from the bus stop, but her favorite goes through the park. It’s a large area, full of big trees with thick foliage and leaves that brown in the fall. The paths are paved and winded, and the park benches are stained with dark wood stain and curve comfortably. She enjoys coming here in evenings she has off, watching the sun descend behind the top of the trees with a good book.

The air smells like oncoming rain now, and with headphones deep in her ears, she walks taking deep breaths and enjoying the clear atmosphere that seems so unlike the roads that surround the park. As soon as she spots the first raindrop falling from the sky, she pulls her hood over her head and smiles.

It’s minutes later, when single drops have picked up to a drizzle, that she gets a sinking feeling, her hair standing up on edge at the back of her neck, shoulders knotting closer to her ears. Someone is close to her.

With the wire pinched between her thumb and index, she pulls one earbud off and pays attention to the surrounding sounds. Sure enough there’s a second pair of footsteps behind her.

Fuck, if she gets kidnapped or attacked right now, she’s fucked. There are no witnesses, and at this time of night screaming for help would be futile. She checks her bag, but her paper spray is nowhere to be found.

Yeah. Definitely fucked.

Her hands go deep in her pockets, going for her phone, but as she hears the footsteps behind her picking up speed along with hers, she panics and grabs Dean’s instead. She doesn’t look for her own, there’s no time for that, so she does the first thing she thinks of.

She texts Sam.

I think I’m being followed.

what?

Yeah

wait what’s going on? are you okay? who’s following you?

I’m walking home from work. I can’t see who it is, but they’re definitely on my tail.

how are you even typing right now??

is there any buildings around?  somewhere public to get in?

It’s 3 am. Everything is shut and I’m in the middle of a fucking park, Sam.

Fuck, I’m fucked.

what are you doing at 3 am in the middle of a fucking park then?!

A hand falls on her shoulder and she goes to scream, before she’s quickly spun around. Her free hand is curled in a fist, ready to fall on the attacker’s nose, when they speak.

“Y/n! I thought it was you!”

“Connor?!” She squints and pushes her hair away from her forehead, heart just about ready to fail out of the fright she’s gotten. “Fuck’s sake, dude, what the fuck are you doing sneaking up on me in the middle of the night like this?!” Rain still falls on her, grounding her to the present, the fact she won’t have to fight for her life and corporeal integrity sinking in slowly.

Her neighbor smiles a crooked smile, watching her place a hand over her heart and taking a deep breath. His fluffy blonde hair is damp under the light rain, light green eyes glowing under the street lights. She’s so angry at him right now, she legitimately thought she was gonna die for a second there.

“I’m sorry for scaring you,” he says, dropping his hand from her shoulder. “I didn’t think to call out to you.” A shrug.

“It’s okay,” it’s really not, but there’s no point in staying angry at him. Besides, she figures she’ll be a little safer with him walking next to her all the way back to their apartment complex.

On the way back, they catch up. Connor is back in town after a long week and a half at his sister’s wedding. He’s in a brand new relationship with the guy he’s been pining over for like 9 months now, and he got a job at the bookstore, close to their building, he’s starting next week. He was out for a drink, he offers as an explanation, and was returning home, when he bumped into her. The park is also his favorite route to take.

The key dangles from her hands and finds a home in the lock and twists, while Y/n waves at her neighbor.

“Have a good night, Connor.”

“You too, Y/n.” It’s delivered with a wink and a bright smile.

The motions of dropping her bag by the kitchen counter, dumping the keys in the small bowl and hanging her coat on the hanger are delivered on autopilot in quick succession. Shoes toed off, hair pulled out of her lazy bun, she falls unceremoniously on her thrifted couch, feet suspended on the hand rest. Emmy must be asleep, the only lights on in the house are the fairy lights over the couch, setting a soft glow over the furniture. Y/n sighs. What a day.

Seconds before she falls asleep on the couch, a phone vibrates and it’s definitely not her own. Her eyes snap wide open, and she curses, fumbling with Dean’s device.

The messages are seven, and they all share the same panicked tone. Upon reading them, Y/n facepalms and curses, guilt weighing her down. Poor guy.

y/n?

what’s going on?

are you okay?

y/n

what the hell is going on.

you’re not replying.

please text me if you’re safe.

My God, Sam, I’m so sorry.

It was a neighbor/friend, he sneaked up on me.

you sure know how to fuck me up on a friday night.

I’m genuinely so sorry, Sam, I had no idea it was him.

it’s okay

you were scared.

i am starting to question your choice in friends though.

Y/n grins for the first time that day. It’s wide and full. Sam sounds like a guy she’d hang out with.

Hahahah yeah.

I promise, Connor’s odd, but he means well.

well i have to go

but i’m glad you’re safe

Again, I’m really sorry to make you go through that.

it’s fine really.

Thank you.

Goodnight :)

Night :)

 ---

Part 2

A/N 2: Tell me how you’re liking the rewrite! 

Old Can You See The Stars taglist: @shutupiminlooove​ @sammysgirl1997​ @kymberlytorres​ @bambi95-blog​ @demonic-meatball​ @thekarliwinchester​ @littlekay15​ @li-m-ii​  @thinspo-isuppose​ @carryonmywaywarddemigodwitch @ellen-reincarnated1967 @moonlitskinwalker​ @marichromatic​ @illuminatus42​ @lazy-author​ @mirandaaustin93​ @hauntedsiriel​ @pilaxia​ @devilgirlsarah​ @nobodys-baby-now​ @captiveties​ @calamitychaos @midiocris @wordswillscream​

Sam taglist @kymberlytorres @theboykingsam @depressed-moose-78 @andi-mendes-barnes​ @captainmarvelcorps​ @nerd-in-a-galaxy-far-away​ @nellachain​

[yandere-society]

True Love

Prompt: Can I have a delusional Jungkook who is obsessed with fairytales and the whole idea of “prince meets princess and falling in love at first sight”, and is convinced that y/n is the princess and he has to “save” her in order to achieve a happen ending?

Admin: @psycho-slytherin 🐍

Warnings: Yandere-themes, stalking-themes, and profanity.

»»————-　♔　————-««

It was all coming together. Jungkook swiped through his phone, checking and rechecking his plans. Tomorrow, between 9:14 and 9:18 AM– depending on foot traffic– she’d round the eastern corner of 14th and Park. She’d be carrying her purse and a coffee, but she’d be finishing her drink by the time she reached the corner. The point, the most crucial part, is that her hands would be full. He’d bump into her, she wouldn’t be able to catch herself, and he’d swoop her up before she fell. She’d have to fall in love with her Prince Charming, and he’d, at last, have his princess. His y/n. Everything would be perfect.

They were destined to be together– Soulmates, Jungkook was sure, he’d known it since he’d first laid eyes on y/n. She was his true love. 

»»————-　♔　————-««

You check your watch, careful not to twist your wrist enough to spill your coffee. 9:12. Finally, it looks like you’ll get to work early today! With a spring in your step, you weave through the usual crowd of hurried suits and turn the corner. You have a meeting that you’ve been preparing ages for, and you’re thinking of nothing but your various talking points, everything you’re going to present, when–

“Oof!” You bump into someone, hard, and lose your balance. Shit, shit, your hands are full. You drop your coffee and purse in an attempt to catch yourself, but instead of solid concrete, you feel the contact of strong arms holding you tightly.

“Are you alright?” You look up at your rescuer and see gorgeous dark eyes full of soft concern. The stranger helps you to your feet and hands you your purse. “That was quite a fall.”

“Ah, thank you– I’m okay. Appreciate it, man.” You breathe deeply to calm your pounding heart. The handsome stranger seems to be waiting for something. What else can you say? “Er… thanks again.” With that, you turn and begin walking to work, your pace increasing. Dammit, you really hope this won’t make you late. 

“W-Wait!” The stranger grasps at your wrist, his eyes bright, his voice revealing an emotion you can’t understand. “Do you believe in… love at first sight?”

“Uh…” Aaaand he’s crazy. You pull your arm from his grip and hurry away, flustered. Love at first sight? What fairy-tale bullshit. Sure, he’s cute, but the creepy-to-cuteness factor is way off balance in this case. Love at first sight… When you were a kid, you dreamed of being a princess and riding off into your happily ever after. But you’ve grown up since then, and you know fairy tales aren’t real.

You glance backward. He’s staring after you, and you feel a rush of guilt. He looks like a kicked puppy… or a wounded prince.

Prince? “Gah– stop it!” You scold yourself, blinking hard. The guy messed with your head, distracted you with that love-at-first-sight stuff. Whatever, you’ll forget about it soon enough. In the meantime, you’ve got your meeting to think about.

“And now I believe y/n, head of our innovation department, has the latest proposal?”

You stand. “Yes, thank you. With help from our customer surveys, we’ve noticed there are a few flaws in our current system.”

“Do you believe in… love at first sight?”

“We, uh, have devised a few options: First, we could begin requiring browser logins and game downloads for individual accounts– that will cut down on incidents such as the one that went viral last quarter. Additionally, we could consider removing ourselves from the browser-based gaming market entirely and shift to a downloaded application-type medium. We predict a decrease in traffic but profits should remain largely steady–”

His eyes, his lips, his hands, his skin, his voice...

“Due to ad revenue and potential membership opportunities.” You continue. “We could also consider discounted subscription packages, which seemed popular in our surveys.”

He was really cute. Maybe you were too hasty? You don’t even know his name.

“...We believe that changing the medium of the game presentation will improve security, decrease online harassment, and increase profits within the next three quarters. I will now take questions.”

Usually, creeps gave off a vibe, the type of thing you could sense right away. This guy didn’t give you that vibe.

“Very well said, y/n.” The company president clapped several times. “What software changes do you propose making for this to work?”

You beam. “It’s rather simple, we only need to move our content offline to an external database– we already have games in development using this system. The cost for the whole switch would be a fraction of potential profits.”

“Do you believe in… love at first sight?”

“The board members will give it some thought, y/n, and I’d be very optimistic. Great work.”

Yes! “Thank you.”

At the end of the day, you leave the office grinning. The meeting went really well, and if you pull off this project, you’re certain to be looking at a promotion. You’ve been working on the proposal for three months and now that it’s looking so good, you could sing.

“Y/n?”

At the summons, you turn around– and then stop dead. “You again.”

And it is the love-at-first-sight stranger from the morning. He waves awkwardly, breaking into a cute bunny-like smile. “Hi.”

“H-hi.” You brush some hair out of your face, suddenly self-conscious. “Uh, how did you know my name?”

The guy winks. “Magic.”

“Or stalking.”

“Or…” The guy hands you a business card. Your business card. “Maybe you dropped this in the morning.”

»»————-　♔　————-««

In truth, Jungkook had your business card for a few months. He couldn’t say that, though, and he needed an excuse to know your name and place of business.

You look at him with your beautiful doe eyes, the kind of eyes that a man would kill to protect. “Why were you waiting for me?”

Jungkook smiles. “I think we got off on the wrong foot earlier. I saw you dropped your card and, well… it seemed like a second chance.” A chance to be your prince, my love.

“Oh.”

“I’m Jeon Jungkook by the way.”

You smile shyly, that smile he’s seen a hundred thousand times, directed at everyone but him. You’re active on your social media accounts, and he’s seen all your photos. When you’re with your friends, your family, even today at your meeting– when you smile, you shine, a princess without a throne. It’s one of the things Jungkook loves about you. He can’t wait until your smile for him alone.

“I’m y/n. But I guess you knew that.”

“I did. Y/n, I’ll be honest, and I hope this doesn’t come off as too forward.” Jungkook leans towards you, his princess– his queen. “I’d love to get to know you better.”

“Um…” You hesitate, and a hint of fear makes its way up Jungkook’s spine. He really hopes you don’t reject him. In the months since he’s first noticed you, you’ve remained single. If you were to reject him, he couldn’t leave you to prance around in front of other men. If you, Jungkook’s princess, didn’t want his love, well… something would have to be done about that.

“Sure. That sounds cool.” You nod, a light blush coloring your cheeks. 

Something akin to joy floods Jungkook’s psyche. The first step achieved. She said yes– she must see that what they have is true love. 

Jungkook has always loved fairy tales. He was teased as a kid for how much he enjoyed princess stories. But Jungkook’s mom made it clear that she didn’t like him, and his dad was rarely around– unless he came home to berate Jungkook. No one could blame him for yearning for true love; it’s not like he ever experienced it at home. When he first saw you, he knew you were his princess. He needed to rescue you, sweep you off your feet, and carry you off into your happily ever after. True love is real, and you’ll help him prove it. The characters in Disney movies were happy after finding each other. He knows you’ll make him feel happy. In fact, he’ll make sure of it.

»»————-　♔　————-««

Well, he’s cute, and he did return your business card. You’ll be careful. What harm can come from a date?

Later that night, you’re catching up on some work. The company president said he’d have the board’s answer on your proposal by next week, and since it seemed like a sure thing, you’re anxious to get the OK to move ahead with the project.

Your phone buzzes.

Jeon Jungkook: Are we on for Friday at six, milady? [10:43]

Y/n: Haha yep, see you then! [10:43]

Jeon Jungkook: Can’t wait :) [10:43]

Jeon Jungkook: What are you up to? [10:44]

Y/n: Just organizing resources for a project [10:45]

Y/n: I’ve been working really hard on it [10:45]

»»————-　♔　————-««

Oh, Jungkook knows. He’s a decent hacker. When you were out drinking with friends last month, he accessed your laptop and installed a backdoor program that lets him see whatever you’re doing on your computer. It’s been useful: he knows about your work projects; the failed first dates; your porn preferences; your email contacts. He just wanted to make sure you weren’t cheating on him. Perfect princesses don’t cheat, and he knows you’re his perfect princess.

Friday arrives. Even though it’s only been a few days since he asked you out, Jungkook has been waiting for months to finally sweep you off your feet. It’ll be amazing. He walks up to the door, the details of which he’s practically memorized, and knocks. Three grand knocks, just like he’d imagined.

“Half a moment!” Your sweet voice floats from inside the house. Jungkook presses his lips together– do you even know how beautiful, how kind, how regal you are? 

And when you swing the door open, his heart aches with desire. He can’t wait to possess you entirely. You’re wearing what Jungkook has to assume is your favorite light pink dress. You wore it to your birthday dinner four months ago, and again to your friend’s wedding three weeks ago. He hasn’t seen you wear this dress on other dates, though– does that make Jungkook special? He knew it. You do believe in love at first sight. You see the same thing he does: you’re destined to be soulmates.

“Your highness,” Jungkook says, holding out his arm.

You giggle and take his offered arm. Jungkook knows you think you’re just playing along with a joke. It’ll take a bit of time to introduce you to his royal fantasy– you don’t know you’re already Jungkook’s princess. But you will. Oh, you will.

»»————-　♔　————-««

The date goes surprisingly well. You haven’t been having good luck with dating lately, and you can actually see Jungkook being the one to break your dry spell. He’s a perfect gentleman, respectful and humorous. He continues to call you milady and your highness, and it’s cute, honestly. He makes you feel so special, almost like a princess.

“Thanks for tonight, Jungkook,” you say as he walks you to your door. “You finding my business card ended up being a pretty great coincidence.”

“I agree. I’m glad you decided to go out with me, y/n. I hope we can do this again.”

You nod. “Definitely.”

You smile as you change into your pajamas. You’re excited to see what Jeon Jungkook has in store. Before you get into bed, you open your laptop and notice a new email from the company president. Yes! Have you finally gotten the go-ahead and funding for the project you’ve poured yourself into?

Y/n, the email reads. I wish I had better news to give. The board declined your recent project proposal. Don’t let this discourage you from continuing to do great work! I’ll see you on Monday.

You sit back, slack-jawed, and rub your eyes. What? But… but it was looking so good. You worked so hard. What did you do wrong?

»»————-　♔　————-««

Jungkook frowns, looking at your computer screen on his phone. He’s still sitting in his car, parked around the block from your home. He knows how much you cared about getting this project approved. And this, this board. They kept his princess from achieving her goals. He blinks once, twice. Surely you’ll love him if he gets the board members to change their minds, if you realized he’d do anything for you. Jungkook turns the key in the ignition and drives home, thinking about how he can cheer you up. The individual board members are named on your company’s website– perhaps he’ll pay them a visit.

»»————-　♔　————-««

That night, you can’t sleep. This proposal was a display of your hard work, all the thought you’d put into making the company more successful. It was supposed to be a straight line to a promotion. The night started off so well, your date with Jungkook was so fun. Ugh. You bury your face in your pillow. How will you face your team members on Monday? And the board members. You know some of them don’t like you– you’re too determined, too innovative for a woman. 

How you wish you could show them.

Whatever. It’s just one more failure. You’ll start brainstorming new proposals tomorrow. 

You spend the rest of the evening tossing and turning, staring at the ceiling, and sulking. The weekend passes much in the same way. You’re not one to get discouraged, but it’s hard to feel hopeful. If the project had been approved, your responsibilities and funding would have shifted into seeing it through for at least the next year. Monday morning, you’re headed out the door when you get a text.

Jungkook: When can I see you again? [8:35]

Y/n: Want to grab dinner after work? I get off at 5. Shall we say 6:30? [8:36]

Jungkook: Your wish is my command. Have a good day at work ;) [8:36]

Y/n: Yeah fat chance [8:37]

»»————-　♔　————-««

What you don’t know, Jungkook decides, wiping a bit of something red off his cheek, won’t hurt you. You wanted this project– and your knight in shining armor will ensure you get it.

»»————-　♔　————-««

“Y/n, can I see you in my office for a moment?” 

“Hm? Uh, yes. Sure.” You follow the president into his office.

“How are you doing?” He asks as he settles into his chair. You sit across the desk from him. “I know how hard you worked on that project– it’s okay to be upset.”

You straighten up in your chair. “I’m fine, sir. Just focusing on moving forward.”

“That’s good. Well, I’ve actually got some surprising news for you today. Three board members– that is, the three that voted down your proposal– contacted me separately over the weekend to let me know they changed their minds.”

“I- I’m sorry, what?”

“Your proposal has been unanimously approved, y/n. Congratulations. I’m excited to see where your vision will take this company.” The president reaches across the desk and shakes your hand. You can only stare, half euphoric, half numb. “You will, of course, be transferred along with your team to the advanced development department. I’ll have the paperwork ready for you by the end of the day.”

“Okay! Uh… thank you.” You break into a radiant grin. “Thank you so much, sir!”

“Don’t thank me, the board members made their decisions. That being said, you really deserve this. Good luck.”

You practically skip out of your boss’s office. You did it! You knew the meeting went well, they just needed more time! You did it!

That evening, you hum to yourself as you put on your makeup. Jungkook will be here soon, and you’re really excited to see him. Even though you told him you could meet at the restaurant, he insisted on picking you up. What a gentleman. 

Three knocks at the door. “Coming~” you sing as you pad into the hall.

“You look beautiful, y/n,” Jungkook murmurs as you swing open the door.

“Oh stop it, charmer!” You laugh, swishing your skirt like it was a ballgown. 

“You’re in a good mood today, what happened?”

“My project got approved! The board changed their minds. Isn’t that great?”

Jungkook laughs. “That’s fantastic! Congrats!”

On impulse, you throw your arms around him and hug him tightly. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

You snuggle into his shoulder. “For being so nice. For making me feel like a princess.”

You’re so preoccupied with how good Jungkook smells that you don’t notice him tugging his jacket up to cover a red stain on his sleeve. 

“I’ll always be your prince, milady.” 

»»————-　♔　————-««

This is true love, Jungkook thinks. We’ll get our happily ever after.

[exhaustedfander]

Not Quite According to Plan

Word Count: 2,225

a03 link

My Writing Masterpost 

Virgil’s head was spinning. His stomach lurched, anxiety spiking and turning his blood to fire. He wondered, distantly, if this was what it was like to give way to insanity.

He was in love.

It wasn’t at all his choice to be in such a state. He’d never wanted to fall for anyone…or at least that’s what he’d told himself. For a very long time, he’d decided that it would be the most practical to live his self-sufficiently. After all, relying on other people got messy, and Virgil wasn’t looking for a mess he’d inevitably be tasked with cleaning up. In all honesty, he didn’t believe he’d be granted the luxury to be put in such a situation, even if he wanted to.

He’d never been very good with people, enjoying the company of very few and knowing even fewer people who enjoyed his company. As far as he was concerned, Virgil simply wasn’t very enjoyable to most people, and as such, he was convinced he and love were two separate entities entirely.

That was until Roman Knightly had waltzed into his life.

In the beginning, it had felt like a bad dream where he was tortured by a man who failed to grasp the concept of personal space. His first impression of Roman was that he was loud, obnoxious, more than a little self-absorbed and a real pain in the ass, observations that all turned out to be true to some extent. With that being said, he was also very cute, and unfortunately, Virgil was very, very gay.

They’d met at a club, of all places – what the hell had Virgil Storm been doing at a club? – a fact that would forever amuse him. With how well Virgil did around people, which was to say utterly horribly, it was no surprise that he also didn’t fare well in social scenarios. Virgil wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like that – or at least, not usually. The only problem was, one of Virgil’s only real friends, Patton, had dragged him along with him.

For the life of him, Virgil would never understand how anyone as kind and sweet as Patton would put up with someone like him. He’d tried to get it through the man’s skill that there were ever so many better options for a best friend out there, but damn it, Patton stuck by him stubborn as ever, and honestly, Virgil wasn’t complaining. He loved the guy and couldn’t imagine hanging out with anyone else, despite all of the terrible puns Virgil pretended not to laugh at.

Having such a wonderful friend, however, came with some serious consequences, going out and socializing being a major one. He really hadn’t wanted to be in that club that stunk of booze and sweaty, horny people grinding against one another – which normally would’ve surely driven Patton up the wall, but he was busy flirting with some guy he’d met a while ago who happened to be there. With Patton preoccupied talking to the guy, Virgil was left on his own.

In this setting, Virgil felt more out of his element than ever. Everyone was all flirty, talking and dancing, and then there was him: standing in the corner, trying to avoid any and all attention. Unfortunately, this hasn’t worked in the least bit because before he knew it a tall, handsome guy was leaning against the wall with a positively punchable smolder on his face. And Jesus was his line cheesy! Did it hurt when he fell from Heaven? Yuck!

Virgil tried to tell the guy, Roman, to get lost but the damned smile that had stuck to his face seemed to give off the wrong impression. This Roman guy was not walking away and trying to flirt with someone else and it only heightened Virgil’s anxiety.

He didn’t know what he was doing at all, because even if he found Roman the least bit attractive – which he totally didn’t! – he didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to do. No one had really wanted to talk to him for this long, save for Patton, and he wasn’t quite sure what was supposed to happen from here. His chest was tightening, face red and hot to the touch, and, God he felt like he was going to lose consciousness or something!

The rest of the night was a hazy blur of anxiety and alcohol. He remembered Roman dragging him by the hand onto the dancefloor. He recalled wearing a stupid fucking smile on his face, and he remembered, for whatever reason, not actually wanting to go home. But the thing that was the most unbelievable was the fact that he’d gone home with Roman’s phone number, a number he’d surely be waaay too nervous to even think of using.

As it turned out, though, he’d given Roman his number as well.

From there on the two began talking on the phone, much to Virgil’s nervousness. And from there was their first date, where somehow Virgil had managed not to pass out at any point; score! Amazingly, there was a second after that, and a third, and a fourth, and a whole bunch after that. And even after all that, he’d still managed not to screw everything up.

It was a blink of an eye before the couple was living together, closer than Virgil had ever been to anyone in his life. He just…he couldn’t believe how well things had gone. Though they had arguments from time to time, it always ended in an apology and a bone-crushing hug. Nothing had gone wrong from for them, and it seemed that was what frightened him the most. Virgil was, to his utter dismay, stupidly in love.

He’d never pegged himself as the guy who got the fairytale ending. But now here he was with this great guy who he adored with his entire heart, and he didn’t know what to do. It would get ugly eventually, right? It had to; Virgil wasn’t lucky enough for anything else. Even so…Roman said he loved him constantly. He showed it too, with massively grand gestures and dinner dates and just plain human affection. Goddamn, Roman was affectionate.

Roman made him weak, and Virgil loathed his own weakness. He didn’t want to rely so heavily on someone, to need him the way he did. As much as he’d wanted to be able to be on his own, that dream couldn’t live any longer. It was no real dream, to begin with; a previous coping mechanism, but certainly not a dream. Because damn it all, he’d fallen so fucking hard for this boy and he wasn’t getting out of it any time soon. With that being said, he’d gotten some twisted insane idea stuck in his head and it was driving him insane.

He was considering proposing to Roman.

See? Crazy. But the whole ‘considering it’ thing had become a full-blown plan with a ring and memorized speech before Virgil knew what happened. He was sure that he was losing his marbles; he was actually going to go through with this.

He’d never wanted to grow so attached to someone, and despite everything, it had happened and if he could help it, he wasn’t going to let it go.

“Virgil, darling, is something the matter?” Roman asked, arching an eyebrow as he placed a hand on Virgil’s, resulting in a flinch and his heart squeezing in his chest. They sat on a blanket in the park, their picnic having been finished as the sun began to set and the sky was painted in oranges and pinks.

“No – no,” Virgil swallowed down his nerves, trying his hand at a nervous smile, “I’m fine.”

Roman titled his head in disbelief, seeing right through Virgil’s sorry attempt at playing it cool.

“Bullshit, Hot Topic. What’s really going on?” He asked, eyeing Virgil carefully. The emo shuddered under the gaze.

Now or never, Virgil. Come on, don’t chicken out now, he thought to himself, resting a hand on his hoodie pocket with a very important object stuffed inside. He took a deep, shuddery breath before grabbing Roman’s hand and lacing their fingers together, squeezing tightly. He tried to smile again, looking deeply into Roman’s eyes that narrowed in confusion.

“Ro…I…I really, really love you. L-like, a lot.”

A smile of endearment played across Roman’s face as he nodded, bringing their clasped hands to his lips and pressing a kiss to Virgil’s knuckles.

“I know, dearest,” he said, chuckling lightly, “I love you too. Like a lot,” he added. After a moment, though, he realized just how bright red Virgil’s face had become as well as the fact that he was beginning to tremble. “Virgil, are you okay? You seem nervous – I’m not making you nervous, am I?” Virgil swallowed the lump in his throat, clutching his pocket with his free hand.

“Roman, I can’t believe we’ve been together as long as we have. T-three years. Damn. That’s – that’s way longer than I thought a-anyone could put up with me,” Virgil spoke through a strained laugh, trying to remember everything he’d planned on expressing but finding himself unable, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Virgil?”

Suddenly, with a final nervous flinch, Virgil managed to knock the small black box out of his pocket which landed unceremoniously in the grass. Shiiit. Roman had seen it, there was no backing out now. Roman’s face went sheet-white, a trembling hand picking up and opening the box with slow, flickering movements. He let out a loud, squeaky gasp as he caught sight of the gold band with the red stone glimmering in the fading daylight.

“V-Virgil…?” He tried to formulate some kind of a coherent sentence as he held the box in his hand, tears already forming in his eyes as he stared incredulously at his boyfriend, his face slack with shock. Virgil swallowed, trying to regain his bearings somewhat, his shaking hand still clutching Roman’s.

“This – this was supposed to g-go a lot smoother. Fuck. I – I was supposed to k-know what to say, b-but I’m –.”

“Hey, hey, no. You’re doing so well, darling! Keep going,” Roman interrupted encouragingly in an awed voice, a watery laugh escaping his lips as he wore a smile so wide it threatened to split his face in two. Virgil nodded slowly, anxious but determined.

“R-Roman you make me so, so happy a-and even though that scares me sometimes, it’s – it’s also so nice. I don’t ever want to lose that, i-if I can help it. I didn’t ever think I was the guy who was going to find love or a h-happy ending – but then there you were. You’re my happy ending, Roman, and I love you with everything I have. So I was wondering, i-if you wanted to if you’d marry me? I’m sorry, this i-isn’t coming out ri –!”

Virgil’s rambling was promptly interrupted by Roman’s lips pressed to is with more force than necessary, pushing both of them into the grass. He felt the tension dissipate as Roman kissed him with more passion than he thought possible, his hands threading through Virgil’s faded purple hair.

“I assume I can take that as a yes?” Virgil managed to choke out when Roman pulled back, laughing boisterously, tears of mirth streaming down his face as he pressed his forehead to Virgil’s.

“Yes. Yes, of course, I’ll marry you! I love you, Virgil, darling! Oh, I love you!” He cried passionately, pressing kiss after kiss to Virgil’s face. Virgil laughed loud and hard, knowing his tears were causing his makeup to run, not that he cared.

They held tight to each other, lying in the grass after Virgil placed the ring on his boyfriend’s – scratch that, fiancé – finger, the gem sparkling.

“How dare you be the one to propose?!” Roman asked after a long moment of content silent, earning a chuckle from Virgil that rumbled with amusement, “I was planning on doing it soon! I didn’t have the ring yet – but I was going to!” Roman exclaimed, laying against his fiancé’s chest with his arms looped around his waist. Virgil exhaled deeply, a smile etched onto his face he half-believed to be permanent at this point.

“Too slow, Princey,” Virgil said, snickering at the pout Roman’s face twisted into, “But seriously, that’s kinda amazing. Here I was, afraid you might say no or something, and you were gonna propose to me yourself,” he added, muttering the second half.

“What?” Roman’s voice was thick with shock, “In what twisted reality would I say no?! I love you, Storm-cloud, more than anything. Marriage was always the end goal for me.” Virgil shrugged, leaning to face his lover.

“I dunno. You know how I am, anxious about literally everything and it’s not like it really went according to plan. I was chocking the moment I started.” Roman shook his head, scotching closer and leaning up to press his lips to Virgil’s.

“Not even close, darling. You did wonderfully.”

And though Virgil couldn’t agree, he was sure glad Roman thought so. Virgil had never expected to live a life so dependent on someone else, telling himself for years how detestable such an idea was. But lying here with Roman now, for once, he gave way to the unexpected, opening the future with open arms.

=+=

[ladynestaarcheron]

Like Pristine Glass - Chapter Eighteen

ao3 - ff.net - masterpost

(tagging these cuties: @humanexile @skychild29 @rhysandsdarlingfeyre @candid-confetti  @rhysandsrightknee @missing-merlin @azriels-forgotten-shadow @books-and-cocos @sezkins79 @city-of-fae @someonemagical @dusty-lightbulb @messyhairday-me @rinad307 @superspiritfestival )

so, i recalled earlier this week that in canon, showers don't exist. you might be thinking, hey lior zoë, what are you talking about? allow me to refresh your memory. in acowar, nesta confesses to feyre in front of the inner circle that her ptsd is triggered by taking baths, because of the cauldron. so she has to bathe in buckets. feyre assures her that they will come up with some contraption that will allow her to clean herself some other way. in the snippet from the end of acofas (which we now know is called A Court of Silver Flames, btw!!), nesta mentions her ability to slip into a bath is huge progress. so presumably, feyre has not given her this contraption. i think about this all the time, because the idea of a superior race with all the magic in the world not having ever invented showers is so supremely stupid to me. however, it has come to my attention that on two occasions I have forgotten this, and mentioned showers in previous chapters of lpg. i have elected to continue ignoring this and in the future will continue to reference showers. but in accordance with the rules of the game, I can no longer call this fic canon compliant AU. henceforth, this fic is a showers exits!AU and nothing more.

enjoy.

---

February 9 - 4 years after

The last of Sugar Valley's snow melts in early February, and as mid-month nears, the weather almost looks warm outside. Of course, it is still plenty cold, so every morning brings a new argument on whether or not Avery has to wear her coat, which sparks an identical one with Nicky.

Nesta takes a deep breath. "All right, Avery," she says. "Stand outside for one whole minute without your coat. Just on the porch. Yes, you too, Nicky."

"I want Ollie to come too," Avery demands.

"No, Ollie doesn't want to stand in the cold without a coat. There you go. Your minute starts...now."

Nesta watches the two of them stand on the front porch, Nicky enjoying himself like it is a game and Avery, cross and stubborn, glaring at her.

Ollie sits on the floor next to the door, working on putting his boots on by himself. He's quiet except for slight whispers as he coaches himself on how to tie his laces.

"Had enough?" Nesta calls.

"I'm cold, Mummy."

"Well, come inside and put on your coat, then," Nesta says, doing her absolute best to keep her voice even.

Nicky does, but Avery remains outside, scowling.

Nesta takes a deep, shaky breath. "Avery," she says. "I can see you're shivering."

Avery stomps her foot. "I am not."

Nesta closes her eyes. "All right," she says. It's far too early in the day to choose a hill to die on. "Let's just walk to nursery, then."

Nesta wraps Avery's coat inside hers—she can't hold it normally, for if Avery sees it, she'll throw a fit. She fastens her buckle tightly, so the smaller coat won't slip down her body and she can still use both her hands to hold onto her children.

But Avery doesn't want to hold hands today.

Eventually, she manages to get all three of them to nursery, with Avery in her sour mood the whole way, Ollie keeping to himself as much as possible, and Nicky blissfully unaware of both his sister's and his mother's irritation.

She sneaks the coat into their teacher's hands and leaves after only two quick kisses goodbye—Avery has joined her friend Emilia in a game and refuses to pay Nesta any mind at all.

So Nesta scowls on her way to start her day, too. Perhaps even more than usual, for Maz ducks behind a bookshelf as soon as he sees her.

"How have you scared him off already?" Zeyn asks, laughingly, from behind her.

Nesta whips around. "All I did was walk in here!" She can't help her outburst. She doesn't have many outlets. She'll take what she can get.

But Zeyn is rather used to this, and his easy-going personality never falters. "Woah," he says, holding his hands up. "Coffee's in the back room. Come with me."

She'd like to stew in her misery for a bit longer, actually, but Zeyn doesn't let her, pushing her along and sitting her down in a chair.

"Is it the workload?" he asks her. "I know you've been taking the brunt of those Prythian writers..."

"It's all of it, Zeyn," Nesta says, dejected. "It's the writers and my regular workload and Avery's going through this phase...and Ollie's being quieter than usual and I think his lungs are part of the reason, really..."

And she doesn't say it to him, but it's Cassian, too. Not that he's done anything wrong, it's just...he's been in the Night Court all week, and she has grown so used to having him around. And now it feels like everything has been dumped upon her alone. Pairing this with that "paperwork" that Amorette had started doing, which is shaping up to be a huge opportunity for her in Ciyaluck...Nesta's never felt more burdened in her life.

"At least Nicky's still singing to himself," she says miserably.

"Ava's not exactly depressed, Nesta," Zeyn says, teasing slightly.

"I think she hates me now."

"She doesn't! Like you said, it's just a phase."

"It's not..." Nesta swallows. "It's just a lot."

And now she can't even share with him, because...well...it feels too weird. She and Cassian have been co-parenting for months now. She's been slowly easing Zeyn out of conversations like this, and to suddenly talk about something as intimate as her relationship with her daughter with such brazenness...it feels wrong to be talking to anyone else this way.

But that isn't right. She still loves Zeyn. He still helped her with the children so much when they were born, when she was pregnant.

"It feels a lot to handle sometimes," she says finally.

Zeyn cups her face with his hand. His eyes, warm as ever, twinkle at her. "You don't have to handle it alone," he promises, voice sweet.

She summons a smile. "Is that an offer to edit these short stories I just got?"

Her ill attempt at humor works. He laughs and breaks apart. "Count on it."

---

February 3 - 1 year after

It was a good thing Adil had found her a house when he did, because the deals with the bank and with Erest, the councilhead, were finalized just as Nesta grew to be too big to fit through the door of her room at the inn.

Nesta had actually been looking forward to her second trimester, because of the promise of not greeting every morning with violent illness, and then crumpling up in a heap on the bathroom floor.

But it seemed that the first day she had awoken to find all she had eaten before going to bed yesterday had successfully stayed down, was also the day she thought she would not be able to get out of bed on her own. While it was true—in her case, at least—that the fourth month of pregnancy brought with it the energy that had all but disappeared completely these past few months, it wasn't much use if she was too heavy to handle herself.

Amorette, her healer, was pleased to note every pound Nesta gained. She had been worried, at first, having heard tell of females unable to produce enough space and nutrition for multiples and losing all of them, one after the other, but Nesta was having no such troubles. She—and Miri—had assured her that she did not look to be the same size as her new two-story house, though.

(There was some concern about the size of one of the triplets, a male, significantly smaller than the other two, but Amorette said as long as they were keeping an eye on it all, they should be fine.)

"Right, then," Adil said, coming down the stairs of the house. "You should be set for now. Placeholders," he added, nodding towards the blue couch in the living room and other items that graced Nesta's sparse new home. "Until we can...get some..." he trailed off, looking around, perhaps doing more measuring in his head.

"You've done more than enough," Nesta said firmly. While pregnancy had not been kind to her over the last month, Adil certainly had, helping her with everything she could possibly think to need. Miri as well. And Zeyn...well, Nesta could never really tell if he was more irritating than helpful, but he was there, too.

"Got the cribs set up, room next to yours. Didn't paint the room, though..."

Nesta could hardly believe it. "What?"

Adil looked as startled as she felt. "Well, Miri said it was important for you to paint it. Nesta...?"

"Nesting," Miri called from the kitchen.

"Right."

"No, no, it's not that. I just..."

I just forgot I'd need cribs.

"...didn't realize you had bought me cribs. That's—that's too kind."

"Gift from the shop," he grunted, looking away. That was fine. Nesta didn't want to make eye contact either. "Well, we'll be on our way."

Miri came out of the kitchen. "I've got some meals ready for you in there, dear."

"Oh, thank you, Miri. You didn't have to do that."

"Oh, please. We'll see you tomorrow, dear."

"Thank you," she said again, to them both, as she walked them out.

The sound she made when she shut the door was between a sigh and a groan. Endless relief and gratitude that she finally—finally, for the first time in her life, had her own home. And the dawning realization that it would not be hers alone in a few short months.

Or would it? Nesta didn't remember deciding she was going to keep the triplets, only that she wasn't terminating the pregnancy. Were those her children stretching out her insides, she wondered, running her hands over her belly as she stared in the mirror? Or was she just holding them for someone?

That was something she needed to figure out. Before Cassian wrote back, at least.

She tried not to think about how he hadn't written back yet. Perhaps he was still...upset. But he would, eventually, and then she...they would...what?

Less than five months to go...and with the average duration of a triplet pregnancy being far less than the typical nine months, probably not even that. Whatever decision she was going to make, she had to make it soon.

---

February 18 - Year of

Nesta never thought the sight of Cassian's house in their camp would bring her so much relief. But it meant that trip was finally over.

"I've got to shower," she said, as soon as she walked in the door. "I have to get all of that place off of me."

"What was so bad about it?" he called after her, but she didn't stop to answer.

That camp wasn't so terribly different from this one, true. In fact, it was uncannily similar, as she had noted when they first arrived there. But the people were different. There was no love lost between all the townspeople here (save Cassian and Emerie) and Nesta, but she had not missed being looked at that way. Hated...feared.

She hadn't minded really, in that room. And she could admit to herself here, alone in the shower, that she even...enjoyed some of it. The parts where she spent all her waking hours with Cassian, and even when there were other people in the room, she wasn't sharing him.

Nesta had never been someone's first choice. No one had ever placed her at the height of their priorities, given themselves to her first and foremost. And that still wasn't what was happening. They had only gone because Cassian was General Commander—sworn to her sister and Rhysand and the people of the Night Court first.

But all that had seemed far away on this trip. It was so easy to pretend like none of that was real.

Even then, she knew the illusion couldn't last that long.

---

February 26 - 1 year after

Days seemed to go by quicker now. What with her new house, Nesta felt she had more freedom to go about the town as she pleased. She was so taken with living life as she saw fit, she didn't even mind that Sugar Valley really didn't have much to do. She thought she might prefer it that way.

In the mornings, she would walk to the bookstore, and someone would be waiting with a coffee for her. Zeyn or Miri or sometimes Leyla. Perhaps they worked in shifts.

She'd read and repair all day, and stop to eat lunch with everyone at half past noon. There hadn't been a collective lunch break when she had started, but one day she sat down with a large container of chicken salad, and Zeyn had sat himself next to her, and then Leyla had joined, and Maz followed her, along with Xeyale and Amir, and Miri had come to see what the gathering was about, and then Adil had wandered in after her. Sometimes their publishing agent, Hazar, stopped by and joined them.

Sometimes she'd leave in the afternoon for a visit with Amorette. In the evenings, she'd go home and fix herself dinner, which she liked to do alone.

But after that, she'd go for a walk about the town, and inexplicably, someone would be there. Most often Zeyn.

"So, you think of any names yet?" he said to her one night, as they walked.

Nesta popped a sugarberry into her mouth. "Names?"

"For the babies."

Nesta flinched. "No."

"Oh, do you think it's bad luck to talk about it? Some people do. My mother's that way."

"I don't believe in luck," she said. Luck was so faerie, like their pantheon of gods and fate and mates. None of that was real. Not real enough to matter, anyway.

Zeyn laughed. "That must be nice."

She didn't think it was. He laughed at everything, didn't he? Nesta would never be that way.

"So, do you need any help? With the names?"

"Did you have some you wanted to share?" she asked drily.

"ZJ," he said immediately.

"ZJ? Zeyn Junior?"

He grinned at her. "Got a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"

She summoned a weak smile. Where she was from, someone was only a Junior if they had taken their parent's name.

"Zahra's pretty popular for a girl," he continued, unaware of her thoughts. "I think it's pretty."

"I don't think I want a Gilameyvan name, though," she mused. And she certainly shouldn't choose a name if she wasn't sure she wanted to keep the children.

"What's popular in Prythian, then?"

"I don't know," she said shortly. Then, after considering it for a few moments, "I'm from south of Prythian."

"What's popular there? Is Nesta a common name?"

"Hardly," she scoffed. Feyre wasn't, either. They did know their fair share of Elains, though. "I guess...Heather? Joyly? Analynn?"

"Joyly's nice."

"Well, I didn't like any of the Joylys I knew."

"What about boy names?"

Nesta thought. "Well...Caleb, I guess. Elias." She didn't remember many boys she had known. Tomas, of course, but she wasn't going to name anyone after him. "Actually," she said, softly, "I did always like my father's name."

He touched her elbow gently. "What was his name?"

"Ollison," she said. She hurried to find something else to say. She certainly didn't want to talk about her father. "I like Avery for a girl. A book I liked when I was younger...the heroine was called Avery."

"Human-authored?"

"Yes."

"Maybe we can find it," he said. "How do you know so many human-authored books anyway?"

So Adil hadn't mentioned her slight stretch of truth. "I lived among them for many years," she said.

"Wow, really? What were they like?"

"They were normal," she answered, irritated by the question.

"Really, even to a High Fae?"

Oh. That was why he asked. How to answer?

"Friendships and love can transcend race," she said, thinking of her sister and her new family. Herself and...

"You loved some of them."

After a lengthy pause, Nesta said, "I did. Very much."

---

February 11 - 4 years after

Avery's poor attitude does not transfer towards her behavior at nursery, according to her teacher, and while Nesta supposes she should be glad of this, she finds she's only upset that it seems to be just her Avery has a problem with.

This is further worsened by her shrieks of delight when Cassian accompanies her to pick them up that afternoon.

Avery races towards him like she hasn't seen him in months—even though Cassian had arrived last night, and they had all eaten breakfast together.

Cassian doesn't seem to notice Nesta's disgruntlement, and laughs as he picks Avery up into his arms. Nicky and Ollie clamber at his legs, and he scoops them up too.

Nesta keeps her eye roll to herself as she takes their bags. Not Avery's coat, though—because at Cassian's request, she had elected to wear hers today.

At least Nicky says, "Mummy, I missed you so much today!" and Ollie nods along eagerly.

"Can we go to the park?" Avery asks.

"You know the rules, Ava," Cassian says sternly, as they leave. "We go home and eat first."

Avery pouts some, and Nesta's blood rushes to her cheeks—is she going to throw a tantrum? Oddly, the idea of a public fit doesn't faze Nesta at all, as the three of them have each had their fair share, but having Cassian see how incompetent she can be mortifies her beyond belief.

But he coaxes her out of it by promising they're going to go to the park later, and actually, they're going to cook something together to eat, and won't that be fun?

Nesta has been hiding her bitterness from her children their whole lives, so this one afternoon is hardly the one that kills her. But she takes extra care to keep up cheery pretenses because of Cassian's presence, and she's convinced she's done a good job of it, because he doesn't seem to notice anything's the matter at all.

At least, she doesn't think he does, but right after they shut the door to the children's room, he puts his arm over her shoulder, and—when they are safely out of earshot, in the kitchen—says, "Nesta, what's wrong? You've been miserable all day."

"I have not been miserable all day," she scoffs, trying to hide her flush with a glare.

"Come on, Nesta. What is it? Is it Ava? Kids act like that all the time."

"I know how children act," she snaps.

"I didn't mean to imply you don't," he says. "Just...trying to reassure you." He hesitates. "Nesta...Rhys and Az and Mor each told me that you're a wonderful mother."

"What a surprise that must have been."

"To them, maybe, but not to me," he says seriously. "I always knew. But it's okay if this is hard for you to do on your own. With Ava and with everything you've had to take on at work...and, you know, if anything else has been pressuring you..." he trails off, and when she doesn't show any sign she knows what he's talking about, his lips tug upwards slightly, and he adds, "If I've been pressuring you."

"You have not been pressuring me," she says automatically.

"Well, I hope you're lying," he says, "because I've certainly tried to."

Nesta rolls her eyes.

"You really haven't thought about my telling you I want us to be a family?" he asks, skeptical. "I don't believe you. Come on, Nesta, it's just me. You can tell me."

Nesta gives a short, irritated sigh. "Well, of course I've thought about it."

"And what?" He takes a step closer to her. "You haven't come up with an answer yet?" He puts his hands on her shoulders, smirking slightly.

He's...he's much closer now. And his wings aren't spread wide, but inching closer to her as well. Blocking out everything in her periphery, so he is all she can see. "I have."

He raises an eyebrow. This is unnatural, isn't it, being this close without actually touching? "And?"

His eyes—like Avery's, like Ollie's, like a dark honey disappearing into the black of his pupils. It takes her a minute to remember what he's talking about. "Oh," she says, slightly surprised to remember. "Well. Of course I want us to be a family." She doesn't get a chance to say anything else.

Because then he is kissing her, and it's like no time has passed. His hands circling her waist and hers taking their place in his hair. He tastes the same—that vague lemon and mint. His hair is a bit longer, but the growling sound from the back of his throat when she pulls it is just as she remembers. It's what spurs him onward, downward. His lips move to the side of her mouth, and he kisses down her neck, but she pulls him back upwards. It's been too long. She has waited so long for this.

And it appears she'll have to wait a while longer, because just as their hands start to roam, a small voice from the stairwell calls, "Mummy, my throat is really hurting a lot."

They rip apart. Cassian's eyes are wide, and he snaps his wings backwards to be tucked against his back.

Nesta whips around, hands furiously smothering her hair—just in time to see Ollie wobble into the kitchen.

He hasn't seen.

The pair of them breathe a sigh of relief together.

Then Nesta remembers what he said. "Your throat hurts, angel? Come here." She picks him up and holds him against her. He lays his head on her shoulder and coughs, wet and deep.

"It's been back," Nesta whispers to Cassian. To Ollie she says, "Do you feel like you need to take the purple medicine we got from the healer?"

Ollie nods, yawning.

"It's in that cabinet there," she says to Cassian. She takes a deep breath to calm herself so she can calm him. "We're going to take a little bit of medicine. We're going to practice our deep breaths over the steaming bowl, and first thing tomorrow we are going to see our friend Healer Nazrin. All right, angel?" She looks at Cassian when she speaks, and he nods along with Ollie.

After she directs Cassian on how much of the tonic to give Ollie, she says, "Now, why don't you go with Appa and sit on the couch, and Mummy will bring the steaming bowl?"

This is not the first time Ollie has woken up in the middle of the night complaining of throat or chest pains and a cough. Nesta's not overly terrified; in fact, she's even pleased to see he is old enough to tell her exactly what hurts and that he wants medicine. But she knows that for Cassian, this is the first time, and he is probably as scared as she was. So sitting with him for a moment alone on the couch while she takes care of the treatment will probably calm him down.

And give her just a few seconds to collect herself. There is far too much on her plate. She doesn't need anything extra to deal with now.

---

hope you enjoyed that!!

also, did you know, i started a booktube? also also did you know, june 21st as this week and it’s the triplets’ birthday? also also also did you know, june 25th is tomorrow and that’s my birthday!!

thank you all so much for the overwhelming support. i just love you guys so much. i also love @thestarwhowishes, my beta.

---

Chapter Nineteen

[edenfalling]

[Fic] “Between the Saltwater and the Sea-Strand” - Naruto

Summary: Yukiko and Kakashi run an undercover mission in the coastal port of Asase during monsoon season. Rain can make anyone philosophical. Part of the Apartment Manager AU, set after The Guardian in Spite of Herself and before An Unorthodox Pedagogical Approach. (3,515 words) Note: Written for warriordrgnmage, in response to the prompt: Naruto: Hatake Kakashi/Ayakawa Yukiko set in the Way of the Apartment Manager Series Timeline. For the Bingo card: Monsoon. It is also a fill for the genprompt_bingo square monsoon. For obvious reasons, Yukiko and Kakashi are using fake names while undercover. Yukiko is Aoi, and Kakashi is Hyoujin. Also, you may notice that this is gen! See, while I am perfectly cool with people shipping Yukiko with Kakashi, that is 100% never going to become Apartment Manager canon, for many, many reasons. If anyone wants a shippy AU, you are welcome to write it yourself, because I flat-out CANNOT. Seriously, even if I tried, you wouldn't want the results. They would be awful. Trust me on that. --------------------------------------------- Between the Saltwater and the Sea-Strand --------------------------------------------- Kuwa Natsume looked up as Yukiko slung herself in through the office window in a spray of rain, raised one eyebrow, and then looked back down to her account books. "Misplaced your shadow?" "Does anyone have a shadow in this weather?" Yukiko said wryly as she shut the window, reducing the sound of rain from deafening to merely incessant and inescapable. "I thought I was used to rain, but coastal monsoons are something new, yeah?" "We get that a lot from inlanders," Kuwa-san said as she drew a sharp line under a column of numbers and wrote a sum. "You get used to it, and it's easier for shinobi -- you have all that fancy ninpou and whatnot. But in all honesty, Aoi-san, where is your partner? I can't finalize your supply contract without both of your signatures." Yukiko made a face as she combed water out of her black-dyed hair. "Is it that important to be fussy when this is all ninety percent illegal anyway?"

"The more illegal, the more important to nail down all the details," Kuwa-san said. "What court would adjudicate the case if you sign alone and Hyoujin-san decides next week that he won't pay for his share?" Yukiko personally agreed with Kuwa-san's caution, but her cover persona would probably make one further push. So, "Oh, don't worry about him. Hyoujin trusts me completely--" Kuwa-san raised her eyebrow again. "--nearly completely when it comes to contracts. What's the point of having a partner if you can't split your responsibilities?" "I would say partners split focus, not responsibility. If you don't maintain some degree of joint liability, what's to stop one of you from turning on the other?" "Ethics?" Yukiko said with a winning smile, and allowed herself to laugh at Kuwa-san's carefully calculated answering smirk. "Fair enough. Let me look over the terms and I'll drag him over here to pretend he knows how to use a brush sometime before-- when do you close today?" "Six." "Before six. Actually, let's say before five, yeah? He's not that hard to track or sweet-talk if you know what you're doing." Yukiko held out her now-dry hand for the supply contract and wiggled her fingers until Kuwa-san passed it across her desk. She retreated to the broad windowsill and began flicking through the pages. It wasn't complicated, just a dead drop of miscellaneous dry goods in neutral territory that would hopefully establish her and Kakashi as reliable clients and Kuwa-san as a reliable supplier -- a standard way for missing-nin and gray market merchants to feel each other out. If the goods wound up as a cache for a long-term Leaf-nin mission, well, nothing in the contract specified that Yukiko and Kakashi had to be the ones to make the pickup. And their cash was perfectly legitimate Fire Country tender, so as far as Kuwa-san was concerned, there was nothing to worry about. (Yukiko was fairly certain there was nothing to worry about on Konoha's end of the bargain either. Kuwa-san had a rock-solid reputation for following through on her contracts. Nobody survived twenty years in the gray market without either keeping their word almost religiously or spending a fortune on bodyguards, and Kuwa-san barely bothered to pay for warehouse security.) "Where do you source kunai?" she asked as the rain's intensity kicked up a notch, beating against the windowpane in a nearly solid sheet of water. "Wind Country," Kuwa-san said without looking up from her accounts. "Earth Country's metallurgy is better, but the border tariffs aren't usually worth the slight increase in quality. I could change that if you're willing to pay the difference." Yukiko feigned consideration. "I don't care, but Hyoujin can get picky about steel composition. What would the increase be for this number of kunai and senbon?" Kuwa-san named a figure. Yukiko made an exaggerated expression of disgust. "No thanks! He can whine and make do. I'm not paying that much more for what, a half percent less chance of flaws? It's not like anyone expects kunai to last anyway. Use 'em and lose 'em and buy some more, that's what I say. Or steal whatever's left from your targets! That's economy, yeah?" "Officially, I can't encourage any behavior that would reduce my chance to sell you more equipment, Aoi-san. Unofficially? Yes, that's very economical. If only all my clients were equally practical." "Eh, there's all kinds of ways to be practical. What we're good at is mostly spying and killing -- it's more efficient to hire a ninja than do that stuff in-house, yeah? Just like you're good at moving stuff around to where we need it, so it's more efficient to hire you instead of us trying to figure all that stuff out from scratch. It's win-win, is how I see it." Yukiko tapped the papers to shuffle them into a neat pile, then handed them back to Kuwa-san. "That looks fine on my ends. Me and Hyoujin will be back sometime this afternoon to sign and pay the next installment." "It's a pleasure doing business with you, Aoi-san," Kuwa-san said. Yukiko grinned and dove backward out the window, into the pounding rain. --------------- Kakashi was lurking in one of Asase's numerous quayside bars, most of which were run out of the back doors of warehouses and also did a brisk side business in assorted seafood dishes. Rain pelted down on the roof tiles in a clattering racket that Yukiko found personally soothing but professionally irritating -- it was a lot harder to eavesdrop through the constant noise, not to mention the complications it added to genjutsu. She and Kakashi had spent their first night in Asase mutually grousing about the unpredictability of electric ninjutsu in waterlogged conditions and the difficulty of filtering ambient sounds out of illusions. Today Kakashi was sipping a bowl of lobster broth through a long, curved straw that vanished into the deep blue folds of the scarf he'd used to shroud his face. To the casual eye he was staring out an open window toward the rainswept harbor, his oversized gray hood restricting his range of sight and hearing, but Yukiko followed the combined angle of his feet and chopsticks to their targets: a trio of young missing-nin drinking in the far corner, defaced forehead protectors proclaiming their renunciation of Kiri. They were small-time, only a few months out on their own each with barely a name and one line of description in the latest bingo book editions, but anyone willing to go against the Bloody Mist was worth a second look. Whether this particular investigation would conclude in a job offer or an assassination was still up in the air. "Heya, Hyoujin. Thinking of roping in some new blood for larger contracts?" Yukiko asked as she dropped into a seat across from him (back to their targets) and set her ramen down on the unsanded wood of the table. Kakashi shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. Three's better than two for flexibility, but more than four on a mission gets awkward without ranks and a chain of command. Nobody who leaves a village wants to go back to those kind of restrictions." Yukiko tilted her hand. "Eh, there's assholes on power trips and there's division of labor -- not necessarily the same thing. I let you take the lead in a fight and you let me take the lead on retrievals. That's just practical, yeah? But we wouldn't throw each other away. Shinobi are tools, sure, but if you don't look out for your teammates, how can you trust they'll look out for you?" Kakashi shrugged again and continued sipping his broth. Targets hear? Yukiko signed under the guise of snapping apart her chopsticks. Yes, Kakashi signed back as he lifted his bowl and drank the last of his broth under the shadow of his hood and scarf. No bite. Yukiko slurped a mouthful of noodles and nicely salted broth. "Grouch. Well, whatever we do for future contracts, today we have to sign off on the supply contract with Kuwa-san. We'll need the goods for that thing in Tea Country and she wants both of our names in writing." "Sign for me," Kakashi said "Tried that. She won't bite." "So fake it. Illusions are your thing, Aoi; pretend I'm there and forge my seal." Yukiko slurped another mouthful of noodles in her best imitation of Naruto's sloppy manners. "Oh, sure. Lying is the best way to establish trust for future contracts, yeah?" "She's a civilian, how would she know?" "Not the point. C'mon, Hyoujin. You won't melt in the rain. Let's go make nice with Kuwa-san and I'll make it real worth your while." She ran the edge of her sandal up the side of Kakashi's shin and gave him her best imitation of her cousin Yura's flirtatious smile. Kakashi twitched. Yukiko slapped the table and let her smile shade into a more genuine grin. "Ha, I win." "Fine. Finish your soup and let's go drown ourselves. Again." "Eh, getting soaked's not that bad. Especially when you've got a partner around to help you peel out of all your soggy clothes and warm up when you get home, yeah?" Kakashi twitched again, then rallied and let a tiny arc of electricity jump between two raised fingers. "And then get wet again?" Yukiko held onto her cover persona by the skin of her teeth. "Now you're talking my language. All right, I'm done. Let's go give a little now so we get more back later." --------------- Signing the contract with Kuwa-san took all of twenty minutes -- half of which was entirely for show, as Kakashi lived up to his cover persona and whined about the kunai quality until Yukiko overruled him -- after which they had the afternoon and evening entirely to themselves and a conveniently established reason to retreat to their rented room and lock themselves inside Yukiko's best privacy genjutsu. "We can't stay longer than another day now that the contract's signed," Kakashi said as he flashed his hands through the seals for a quick and subtle bit of ninjutsu that left their clothes and skin completely dry without spilling any excess heat. "Do you think the targets will be receptive if we approach them openly?" Yukiko shook her head, grimaced at the awkward motion of her still-tangled hair, and began working the tie out of her ponytail. "No chance. I don't know if they'd even be open to a joint mission with Aoi and Hyoujin at this point. Sumire wants security and Kenichi likes profit, but they're still raw enough to see tigers in every other shadow, and Eriko's almost too paranoid to make deals with someone as solid and non-threatening as Kuwa-san. On the bright side, they're wildly unlikely to join up with anyone else." Kakashi slumped back onto the futon with an annoyed set to his eyebrow. "And since they haven't moved against Fire Country assets, there's nothing to justify an assassination without a contract. I hate leaving loose ends." Yukiko dropped down to sit cross-legged beside him, fingers slowly working through her tangles. "Think of it as a guaranteed vacation in a few months. Our agents will send word the next time our trio pass through Asase, Aoi and Hyoujin turn up to sign a new contract with Kuwa-san, and we sound them out for a joint mission. They ought to be the right balance of calmer and hungrier by then, and we'll get a better reading after a week or so of close contact." "Ugh." "Yeah, yeah, talking to people is terrible and scary." Kakashi rolled over onto his stomach and buried his face in his arms, the soft, voluminous fabric of his hood blocking all apparent lines of sight. "Only the living." Yukiko froze, then sighed and flopped onto her back with her arms above her head. "Yeah. The dead talk back just as much, but it's still so much easier." "Sometimes I wonder how many people in Konoha would qualify for a 'Lone Survivor of My Genin Team, Including My Teacher' club," Kakashi said into the futon. "Then I stop wondering because the math is too depressing. But we could start a private chapter just for us." "Sometimes I hate that you trust me enough to say things like that," Yukiko said to the ceiling. "Then I tell myself not to be an idiot, because it means I get to say equally horrible things to you. Like that I'm pretty sure if we recruit our targets, at least one of them will be dead within two years, and I'm not sure that balances the odds that all three of them will die within one year if they keep working as missing-nin. After all, there's always a chance they might retire and start a farm." "Says the woman who got so bored with civilian life she jumped into a chuunin exam the minute Sandaime offered her a chance." "Says the Anbu assassin." Kakashi snorted. "We're all so fucked up." "Yeah." "Might as well be fucked up with other people who understand." "Yeah." They lay in silence for some time, listening to the steady thrum of rain on the roof tiles above. The air was warm and sticky, and the breeze eeling through the open window smelled faintly green beneath the ever-present fish-salt-rot odor of the sea. "Let's accidentally-on-purpose bump into the targets tomorrow morning, buy them breakfast, and float the idea of a joint mission later in the year," Yukiko said eventually. "Might as well plant seeds when the ground is soft." "You pay." "It's all mission funds in the end." "To clarify: you handle all the human interactions. I'll stand behind you and look vaguely menacing so they'll think at least one of us is competent." "To clarify: you'll look vaguely constipated, while I impress them with my social competency. Networking is an important skill for missing-nin." "I object to that assessment." "Which one of us has experience making business deals directly with civilians instead of through the mission office?" Kakashi flicked a gust of wind at her, re-tangling her hair. Yukiko pulled out Aoi's grin as she kicked Kakashi gently in the ankle. "Ninjutsu isn't a valid argument, which means I win. Your forfeit is fixing my hair." "Having teammates and friends is a terrible choice and I should never have made it a second time," Kakashi grumbled, but he sat up and tapped Yukiko's shoulder. "Turn around and hand me your comb." --------------- They hadn't been able to slap any chakra tags on the targets -- Eriko's paranoia was too thorough for even the subtlest of genjutsu threads to make it past her guard longer than a couple hours -- but Yukiko had gotten a decent sense of their chakra signatures over a series of not-quite-encounters during the past week. It helped to have rooms in the same lodging house, of course. Kakashi took first watch, leaving Yukiko to spend the back half of the night with a manual on steam heating systems and the interminable patter of rain. Eventually the sky began to lighten from matte black to flat gray and her spider-light sweep across the building and surrounding streets caught movement from their targets. "Time to go," she said as she stood. Kakashi remained unmoving until she nudged him with her foot, secure that he was actually awake and wouldn't strike her in reflexive defense. "I remember pretending to be a morning person when I was too young to know better," Kakashi grumbled into the futon. "It was a terrible idea then and it's a terrible idea now. Nobody should be awake before the sun is halfway up the sky." "Unfortunately the targets set the schedule," Yukiko said as she tucked her book away into a holding scroll. "Come on, put on your face and let's get to work." Kakashi flicked a minor wind jutsu in her direction as he rolled to his feet, but Yukiko had braided her hair so this time it stayed secure and untangled. "I wonder if I should switch to bulky scarves as an off-duty option. It's easier to eat and drink through the gaps between layers than to yank a mask up and down very fast or while people are looking away, and people have been much less interested in Hyoujin's face than they tend to be in mine." "That's because Hyoujin doesn't have a reputation. There's no glory in pulling down some random missing-nin's scarf." Yukiko grinned at Kakashi's affronted eyebrow and slipped out the window ahead of another wind jutsu. It wasn't hard to find their targets today: apparently Sumire's morning grumpiness had won over Eriko's paranoia and the trio of former Mist-nin were huddled near a breakfast yatai, half-sheltered from the incessant rain, and haggling over prices with the male half of the married couple behind the counter. Yukiko couldn't have asked for a better opening if she'd tried. She eeled her way up to the counter and grinned at the woman scraping down the stove from whatever she'd last been grilling. "Two miso and two fish on rice -- salmon for me, mackerel for my partner," she said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder at Kakashi, who was standing, smugly dry, under a wind jutsu shaped into an invisible umbrella. "Oh, and how much extra for nori with the salmon?" The woman named a price. Yukiko rolled her eyes. "I hate bargaining on an empty stomach, so I'll just pay nine tenths of that and we'll all pretend you're not robbing me blind, yeah?" She glanced sideways to where the three young missing-nin were still arguing with the other cook. "I hate listening to arguments on an empty stomach, too, so how about I cover these loudmouths, too? Or at least the difference between what they're willing to pay and what you're asking." "Deal," the man said, interrupting the mockery of persuasion Kenichi was currently attempting. "Pay up and thank the nice lady for making sure I don't turn you away unfed." Eriko slapped her hand over Sumire's wallet. "No. It's poisoned." Yukiko rolled her eyes again. "There's a difference between reasonable caution and paranoia, yeah? I want a peaceful breakfast and our last mission went well, so I'm willing to pay a little extra to smooth things over. It's not like it's that much money. And hey, if it'll make you feel better, consider it a-- a-- Hyoujin, what's the word I want?" "Why would I know? You handle contracts," Kakashi said as he slipped a bite of mackerel through the folds of his scarf. "Ugh, why are we still partners?" "Because I'm very good with knives." "Point!" Yukiko slapped the yatai counter and turned back to the trio of missing-nin. "Anyway, breakfast. You're right that nothing comes free, so let's say that I'm paying for you to consider a joint mission sometime in the future, if me and Hyoujin have a line on a job that needs more than three people and we're kicking around the same market, yeah?" Sumire blinked. Kenichi looked like she'd slapped his face with a whole salmon. Eriko scowled and said, "That's not how contracts work." "Yes it is. It's called a-- a-- it's an option, that's the word! You can ask any of the suppliers in town, they'll tell you. I'm paying for the chance to run a job past you, because anyone who makes it out of Hidden Mist is worth a trial run, yeah? You don't have to accept. You just have to listen. And now I'm done with this conversation because I don't like having arguments on an empty stomach any more than I like listening to them. Don't die, and me and Hyoujin will see you around." She grabbed her rice bowl, her cup of miso, and her disposable bamboo chopsticks and kicked Kakashi's ankle to make him turn around and stop staring creepily at the trio of missing-nin through the folds of his scarf. Bite? she asked in handsign masked by a low-level illusion -- the chakra for which ought to be covered by Kakashi's own completely explicable umbrella jutsu. Maybe, Kakashi signed back, then added aloud, "What do you want to do for our next vacation, if this job goes as well as the last one?" Yukiko shrugged elaborately as she swallowed a mouthful of fish and rice. "Eh, there's worse places than the ocean. And by then, the rain should be over for the year. I like water a lot better when it stays flat on the ground than when it's trying to crawl up my nose and into my ears, yeah?" "That's because you have no imagination," Kakashi drawled. Yukiko considered countering with her own innuendo, but no; they were leaving Asase. They could leave Aoi and Hyoujin behind with the rain and introspection and return to more familiar ground. So she poked Kakashi with her chopsticks instead, and laughed when he neatly dodged the strike. As they walked past Kuwa-san's warehouse, bickering companionably, a watery ray of sun pierced briefly through the clouds over the storm-wracked sea and laid a path west to the green reaches of home. --------------------------------------------- End of Story --------------------------------------------- Well, that took significantly longer than it needed to, but I won in the end. \o/ Also, Kuwa Natsume (from Whose Allegiance Is Ruled by Expedience) is now officially part of Apartment Manager continuity. You're welcome. :D

[creampuffqueen]

Deep in the Heart of Texas - Three

a/n: Sorry, y’all! This took a bit longer than expected as I’ve been having some bad writer’s block recently. But, I’m getting back into the swing of things and this chapter is pretty long! Hope y’all enjoy!

Summary: Aelin Galathynius is ready for the best summer of her life. She’s home from college for the summer, and so are all of her friends. Even her cousin is on a break from the military. Everything is set up to be perfect. Until... her mother decides to let the son of an old family friend stay with them while he grieves the loss of a loved one. And Aelin is not going to let a party pooper ruin her summer.

Rowan Whitethorn has just suffered the biggest loss of his life: the death of his long-time girlfriend, Lyria. His family is sick of him moping around his tiny New York apartment, so they ship him down south for the summer. The last thing Rowan wants is to spend his vacation in Nowhereville, Texas, but he has little choice. Not to mention, the only people his age seem to hate him. How on earth is he going to survive 3 months of this?

Normally, Aelin isn’t a morning person. Really, she’s quite the opposite. She’s lost count of all the nights she’d stayed up until midnight or later. Sometimes working, but usually reading. 

But today is different. Different, because Aelin is awake with the sun. 

To be fair, it’s kind of hard to sleep through the Texas sun. By seven in the morning it’s too hot to keep the covers over her. And that’s when Aelin is only under the sheets, and clad in a nightgown so short she should probably go to confession as well as church today.

Plus, the sun is in her eyes. Aelin rolls over with a sigh, kicking away the cotton sheets. She smacks her lips a few times, noting how awfully dry they are. 

She doesn’t bother with a bathrobe as she slips out of the room, headed for the bathroom across the hall, desperate for a glass of water. Her hair is probably a mess, but it’s too early for her to really care.

It’s when she’s busy gulping tap water from a cup near the sink that she hears someone else getting up, walking out to the bathroom. Aedion, she assumes.

Someone knocks, and Aelin calls around the cup at her lips, “Coming! Just one second!” She finishes her drink and sets the cup down, striding over to the door.

But instead of her cousin standing outside the bathroom, the glowering face of her guest greets her; the one and only bastard Rowan Whitethorn. Aelin’s grin turns into a scowl.

She stands in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest, for a long second. Aelin doesn’t miss the flicker of his gaze at her body, and she has half a mind to shove him out the nearest window. However, repairing the glass on this old of a house would cost more than Rowan’s funeral, so she decides against it. 

All of his looking is making her far more flustered than it should, and Aelin curses the feeling of a blush working its way over her face. Before either of them can say anything, she shoves him out of the way and escapes back to her bedroom.

Leaning against the closed door, Aelin resents how her heart is pounding. It’s almost enough to make her forget why she’s being mean to him in the first place.

But as she cools off, the fan on high, it all comes flooding back. Right. He’s going to ruin the best summer of her life. 

If Aelin’s being fair (which she isn’t), he hasn’t really done much so far to ruin her summer. Mostly just sat in his room alone and made dinner awkward.

So she decides that he’s probably an asshole. He’s a yankee, of course he’s an ass. Hell, she heard him talking shit last night about her town. Rowan Whitethorn is an asshole yankee.

Rolling her eyes at that, Aelin moves away from the door to get ready. Two hours should be more than enough time to get herself looking presentable for the Lord, but with the amount of humidity in the air, even so early in the morning, it’s going to take so much hairspray that God himself will be choking on it in heaven.

Aelin finds a dress that is sure to be approved by her aunt and mother; a flowing, floral patterned thing with short sleeves and a very respectable neckline. She can’t help herself but spin around in it for a second, loving the feeling of the dress twirling around her bare ankles.

She’s deep in the process of taming her mass of golden hair when Aedion practically knocks the door down, not even bothering to knock. 

“I can’t believe you told him he could borrow my clothes!” Her cousin demands. “I hardly have any clothes to begin with!”

“And I can’t believe you just burst into my room without knocking, asshole! What if I’d been getting dressed?” Aelin snaps back. 

Aedion just pulls a face at her. “Don’t swear, it’s the Lord’s day.” He imitates his mother’s judgemental voice perfectly, sending Aelin nearly into hysterics.

“I told Rowan to dress nicely for church.” She says innocently. “Besides, you’re not going to wear two collared shirts outside, are you?”

“Maybe I wanted to try out a new fashion trend.” Her cousin retorts, though he can’t keep the grin off his face. 

Aelin rolls her eyes at him, yanking her hairbrush though her hair. It’s getting frizzier by the minute, and it looks like the only way to save it is going to be straightening it. 

It’s already eight thirty (okay, maybe Aelin spent nearly an hour reading, but it’s not her fault for the author making the book so damn hard to put down.), and she really wants to eat before church. She can already smell eggs and bacon cooking downstairs.

“Aedion, since you’re already dressed, can you please find my shoes?” She asks sweetly. “The rosy-colored sandals, you know the ones. They’re in my closet, top shelf.”

“While you do what, use that medival torture device on me?” He snorts. “I’m not turning my back on you while you have something hot in your hands.”

Aelin throws her hands up. “I am not a pyromaniac! Just find my shoes, please.”

“I never said you were a pyro, but-” Aelin fixes her cousin with a glare before he can finish the sentence. “Fine. I’ll find your stupid shoes.”

As Aelin pulls the straightening iron through her hair and sprays it liberally with hairspray at the same time, she hears Aedion fumbling around in the closet, probably making a huge mess.

But at least he has the shoes for her when she tucks the last piece of wispy hair in its place with half a gallon of hairspray. 

“Your head is gonna light on fire.” Her cousin warns. Aelin just rolls her eyes. 

“C’mon, loser. I need bacon.”

Downstairs, Evalin gladly serves them both, and it takes everything Aelin has to not completely lose herself in the sheer glory of eggs, bacon, and biscuits. Instead she takes dainty bites, using her napkin, and keeps her elbows off the table, keeping Evalin out of her hair. 

“Is Rowan coming to church with us?” Rhoe asks from the living room, waiting for everyone to get finished so they can leave. 

“I told him we leave at nine,” Aelin says through a mouthful of food. Evalin turns her head around fixes her with a stare until Aelin swallows and repeats her sentence, clearly this time. 

And sure enough, the heavy footsteps coming from the stares announce Rowan’s presence to the gathered people. Fleetfoot, who is beneath the table and begging for food as usual, thumps her tail against the hardwood floor. The only sound in the room.

Aelin hates, really hates, how attractive Rowan Whitethorn is. Seriously, did God just create him to torment her? And seeing him in Aedion’s too-tight shirt… it’s doing things to her. She has to look away.

“Would you like some breakfast, Rowan?” Evalin asks sweetly. 

“No thank you, Mrs. Galathynius. I’m not hungry.” Rowan responds, looking more uncomfortable than he was the day before. Evalin looks like she wants to argue, but Rhoe nudges her before she says anything.

“Then let’s get going. Who’s going in which car?” Aelin gives Fleetfoot her last piece of bacon before putting the plate in the large farmhouse sink and heading over to her aunt.

“Aedion and I will go with you, Auntie El,” Aelin purrs. Eleanor and Gavriel drove their small car down, meaning there’s only room for four inside. Which leaves Rowan with her parents and uncles.

She can tell Aedion knows what she’s doing, and feel his disapproving glare, but she ignores him. Eleanor, oblivious to Aelin’s plans, just smiles at her niece and walks with her outside to the cars. 

~~~~

Rowan can think of at least ten different places he’d rather be than here. Sitting in the backseat of a cramped truck, having squeezed himself into the collared shirt belonging to Aedion, sweating like a damn pig. And on the way to church. 

He hasn’t been to church since Lyria died. Not that he frequented it before, but still. The painful tugging in his chest only worsens as the memories come up, clear as day. 

Lyria laid in the open casket, her face as beautiful and serene as it always was. Her brown hair was loose, and the freckles on her face were stark against her pale skin. 

Lying on her back, nobody could see the broken spine that had put her instantly to death in the car crash. Rowan’s only consolation was that she had died quickly, with no pain. She had broken ribs as well, but according to the doctors, the injuries had been sustained after she died. After that drunk driver rammed directly into her car, so fast Lyria hadn’t had time to react, to get out of the way. 

The church around him was beautiful. Wood paneling on the walls, stained glass windows letting in the sun that somehow still dared to shine. This was the church that Lyria had said she wanted to get married in. 

Instead, this was the church she would be buried at. And Rowan couldn’t stand it. 

“Rowan?” He looks up as the surge of terrible memories fade, to find Evalin looking at him, so concerned, from the passenger seat. There’s more worry on her face than Rowan found from his own mother. 

“I’m sorry, did you ask something? I was… thinking,” Rowan scrambles, because the last thing he wants is to upset Evalin Galathynius. She’s taken him in, given him a place to stay, no matter how hot and humid it is. 

He just wishes he could say the same for her daughter. 

When he ran into Aelin the bathroom that morning, he’d hated himself for the way his eyes were immediately drawn to her figure. For the way his gaze landed on her legs, in that nightgown so short it rested right at the tops of her thighs. And her breasts, hardly covered by that plunging neckline and thin, silken straps. 

He’d spent a good portion of the morning trying to erase that image from his head. And the stupid feelings that came with it. 

Nobody says anything more as they continue to drive through the small town. At least the AC is on full blast, but it isn’t doing much since Rowan is squeezed in between Orlon and Weylan. 

It’s a small mercy when they finally pull up to the church. It’s a small thing; quaint, tiny. Exactly the opposite of that church in New York. Rowan lets out a small sigh of relief.

When they meet up with the rest of the family, Rowan has to try very hard to hold in his chuckle. Aelin’s hair, despite having smelled strongly of hairspray, is frizzy from the humidity. And her makeup is on the verge of melting off. Rowan can’t meet her eyes, lest he starts laughing hysterically in the parking lot. 

Aelin gives him a seething look that just dares him to try. 

The inside of the small church looks pretty similar to the outside. It’s pretty enough, if you squint. Everything looks worn and used, so unlike the picture-perfect places of worship up north. 

Rowan isn’t sure what to do. The Galathynius and Ashryver families split off, one by one, to embrace and talk to friends like they haven’t seen them in years. 

So Rowan finds a pew in the back and sits, pulling out his phone. He tugs uncomfortably at the tight collar, made worse by the sweat he can feel starting to coat his whole body. 

He has some missed texts, again. After Lyria’s death, he turned off all his notifications for everything. He hasn’t decided if he wants them back or not yet. 

Enda: Hey, Ro. How are you doing today? I know you’ve read all my texts, but I haven’t heard anything from you. Please at least let me know you’re okay?

Sellene: I miss you, Rowan. Please stay safe down there. Call if you need anything.

Fenrys: Getting on the plane in a minute! We’re gonna see you soon, hang in there man

Lorcan: I hope Fen hasn’t been spamming your phone. Just tell him to fuck off if he has. We’re on our way.

Enda and Sellene’s messages were from late last night, things Rowan had ignored as he fell into restless sleep. Fenrys and Lorcan’s texts, however, were dated from an hour ago. A quick google searched determined they’d arrive in Houston sometime in the next 2-3 hours. 

Before Rowan can decide how he feels about that, the preacher stands up on the raised stage area of the church, calling the people to attention. Everyone takes a seat as the man begins to speak, praising God for a wonderful day. 

And as if God had it out for him, of all the people he could have been stuck next to, it’s Aelin who sits down in the pew beside him, the rest of her family following her or finding other seats. The only consolation is that she’s looking at the preacher, and not paying any attention to him at all. 

“Let us bow our heads in prayer,” the preacher calls, and every head in the room dips low. Rowan, unsure of what exactly to do, copies Aelin’s stance. 

“Today we pray for those who have been lost to us. Remember they are in heaven now, and will not be forgotten.” The man’s words strike a chord in Rowan’s heart, hard, and he grits his teeth against the mental pain so strong it actually hurts. 

He hardly hears the rest of the preacher’s speech, doesn’t bother repeating words and phrases with the rest of the congregation. It’s taking all of his focus to just breathe-

A tiny, almost unnoticeable nudge on his thigh, and Rowan glances up. Aelin, the contempt and annoyance gone for just a brief second as their eyes meet. He can feel the words in her eyes.

Are you alright?

No. He’s not alright. He doesn’t think he ever will be again. 

Everything passes in a blur, and Rowan isn’t sure how he’s still sitting up straight, not choking on his tears. The shirt is constricting and hot, so hot, and yet he still sits, stoic and silent. 

Someone plays a few riffs on an acoustic guitar, and Rowan has enough strength left to look up, to see a young woman with white-blonde hair start to play. And a red-haired man beside her to start singing, praising the Lord. 

Sitting next to him, Aelin is close enough that Rowan can hear her singing along under her breath. Her voice is reverent, strangely so for a woman who swears and drinks and wears properly sinful things to bed. 

But hearing that voice on stage, the gentle thrumming of the guitar, it’s enough to bring Rowan back down to earth. Set him back into his own body. 

And his collar is still too tight and his body too sweaty, but something about sitting there, with that guitar music, and the quiet reverence of the church, somehow makes it all okay. 

~~~~

Back at the Galathynius house, Rowan takes a long, freezing cold shower before returning Aedion’s dress shirt to him. Going outside has drained all his energy, and not having eaten any breakfast made it worse. All Rowan wants right now is a nap. 

But old habits die hard, and Rowan finds himself laying in bed, squinting from that patch of sunlight, and scrolling through his phone. 

Fenrys: We have landed! Heading down to Orynth on the first taxi that will take us, and I found a motel right outside the city limits. It’s called the Terrasen Motel.

Rowan had seen it on his way in, slouched in the backseat of the Uber. He doesn’t feel like telling Fenrys about the whole no-taxi thing, instead deciding to finally take that nap. He sets his phone alarm for an hour from now, and is asleep the second his rolls over. 

“Mama, I’m going to head over to Lys’s for a while!” Rowan groans awake, scrubbing at his eyes. Aelin’s voice is so loud that he can hear her perfectly clearly even while she’s downstairs.

He’s about to go back to sleep, when he notices his phone, buzzing near-silently, on his nightstand.

Shit. He forgot to take it off silent. And it’s a full hour later than he intended to sleep. Shit, shit, shit. 

Rowan stumbles off the plush bed, reaching frantically for the first clothes he can find. When he opens his phone to turn off the alarm, he sees that his text messages have been blown up by Fenrys and Lorcan.

So he calls Fenrys as he pulls on a t-shirt, his friend thankfully picking up on the first ring.

“Hey, Ro,” Fenrys cackles. “We’re here, we thought you’d come and meet us for lunch or something.”

“Yeah, I’m heading out right now,” Rowan says. “I just wanted to make sure you all got here okay. See you soon.”

He doesn’t wait for Fenrys’s goodbye before he hangs up, shoving his feet into his tennis shoes. He has a terrible case of bedhead according to the mirror, but he ignores it, hurrying out of the room. 

“Be home by dinner!” That’s Evalin’s voice, shouting back to her daughter from wherever she is. Rowan dashes down the stairs, coming to the landing right outside the living room.

Aelin is in the living room, dressed completely differently from that morning. A light blue t-shirt and jeans tucked into a pair of leather cowboy boots. She’s humming to herself as she braids her hair, heading for the door with her dog by her side. 

“Aelin?” Rowan really hates asking her this, but he doesn’t have a car. And at least she’s going somewhere, so it’s not like he’ll drag some other poor soul away just to drop him off a motel. 

However, her glare makes him rethink it all.

“What?” She all but hisses. “I’m busy.”

“Aelin! Don’t be rude!” Thank God for Evalin, listening in from what sounds like the kitchen. Aelin lets out a dramatic sigh, finishing off her braid and tying it with the hairband around her wrist. 

“Can you drop me off somewhere? I’m visiting some friends.” He explains. 

“You have friends?” Aelin snorts, and Rowan sees red. Before he can snap back, her mother walks into the living room, a dishtowel in one hand.

“Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, you apologize right now! Rowan, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She would be delighted to take you to see your friends.” Evalin Galathynius’s stare could level a damn mountain. 

Aelin mutters a half-assed apology, her glare not letting up. But she doesn’t say anything else, just gestures for Rowan to follow her outside.

It’s sweltering outside, in the heat of the day. And yet, Aelin is somehow wearing jeans. That dog- Fleetfoot, he remembers now- is prancing along beside her, pink tongue lolling out of her mouth. 

Aelin fishes some keys out her back pocket, unlocking the same truck that Rowan rode to church in. She opens the passenger door, and Rowan is just about to thank her, when Fleetfoot jumps inside instead. 

And Aelin just smirks, gesturing for Rowan to climb into the backseat. She’s letting her dog take the passenger seat.

The leather seats feel like the fires of hell against his legs, and the seatbelt nearly gives him a third-degree burn. Aelin just cranks up the radio and the AC, grabs some sunglasses and a hat from the center console, and pulls out of the driveway. Once again, not affected. 

“Where do your friends live?” Aelin asks him, probably the first civil thing she’s said all day. She rolls down Fleetfoot’s window, letting the dog stick her head out while they drive.

“They don’t live here, just visiting,” Rowan explains. “They’re staying at the Terrasen Motel.”

“Alright, we’ll pass it on the way.” She doesn’t offer as to where she’s going, and Rowan’s curiosity sparks, just a bit. All he knows is that she’s headed to go visit someone called “Lys” and will be home before dinner.

“Where are you going?”

Aelin doesn’t answer for a minute, humming along with the guitar on the radio. But finally she shoots him a glance in the rearview mirror, showing him she heard.

“Caraverre. It’s about thirty minutes away. We have a little cluster of small towns around here, they’re all super close together. Lys has some horses and she and I are going riding.”

“You know how to ride a horse?” the question sounds even stupider out loud, and Rowan braces himself for a smart retort.

“‘Course I do. I’ve been riding since I could walk.” Aelin reaches over to stroke Fleetfoot’s fuzzy ears. “Everyone around here rides.”

“Does everyone around here drive a giant truck?” The conversation is calm, civil almost. Rowan tries to get as much information before Aelin turns on him again. 

“Yeah. Everyone’s got a truck, everyone rides horses, everyone hunts.”

“Wait- can you shoot a gun?” Rowan knows the answer before Aelin even speaks. 

“There are so many guns owned in Texas that every single person, including babies, could have seven guns. So yeah, I can shoot.”

Shit. Rowan does not want to get on her bad side. Or… he’s already on her bad side, so he really does not want to get on her worse side. 

The rest of the drive is silent, until Aelin pulls the truck into the parking lot of the Terrasen Motel and all but shoves him out of the truck. 

Walking inside, pulling up Fenrys’s number to call him, Rowan again wonders just how in the hell he’s supposed to survive three months in this sate.

----

a/n: I hope y’all enjoyed! Yay for more characters getting introduced next chapter! And also, that fact about the number of guns in Texas is completely true. No I am not kidding. 

Tag List: Comment to be added or removed!

@http-itsrebecca​

@rowaelinforeverworld​

@whyyoumakemesadstahp​

@queen-of-glass​

@the-dark-swan​

[eddieeatsass]

The Truth Is That I Think I've Had Enough

Summary: For the first time since Stan developed feelings for his best friend, Richie was finally single on Valentine’s Day, and Stan was fully planning on taking advantage of it. He invited Richie on a camping trip, just wanting one night where he could pretend, but Richie had different plans. Pairing: Stozier Rating: E Warnings: Eventual smut, explicit language

Read on AO3

When it came to the list of things Richie wanted to be doing on Valentine’s Day, Stan knew camping was not high up on the register. Richie was a city boy through and through, but he was also a loyal friend, so when Stan suggested they go camping for the weekend, Richie had gone along with it.

They were both single, after all, and it’s not like they didn’t hang out every other day of the year… so why should Valentine’s Day be any different?

Well, as far as Richie was concerned, it wasn’t. But Stan may have been indulging in his yearning just a little bit. For the first time since Stan developed feelings for his best friend, Richie was finally single on Valentine’s Day, and Stan was going to take advantage of it. So sue him if he wanted to pretend for one night that things were different.

But the truth still stood that Richie knew nothing of Stan’s pining, and nothing about camping, which made the trip a little tricky. They’d gone camping a few times when they’d been kids, tagging along with Stan’s parents who had done most of the handy work. All Richie and Stan had worried about was how toasted to make their marshmallows in pursuit of the perfect smore.

But now Richie was standing before him, gazing between the crumpled tent on the ground, and Stan’s awaiting expression, clear confusion boggling his mind.

“You gonna help or am I doing this all on my own?” Stan asked with light laughter.

“Uhhhhhhhhhh…” Richie drawled, unsure of how to proceed. “I mean yeah, of course, I just don’t quite... know... how.”

Richie picked up one of the objects sitting atop the tarp-like material. He jumped back when what started as a small bundle of sticks suddenly snapped out into a series of rods.

“Careful Rich! I didn’t plan on losing an eye today. We don’t have the medical equipment for that.” Stan warned, making sure to keep an ease to his tone so Richie knew he was teasing.

Richie nodded earnestly, taking more precaution as he began to snap the sticks into one long rod.

Stan knew what he was doing well enough to not need instructions, but Richie’s every move was a gamble between helping, or causing the whole tent to deflate. Stan finally took pity on him and assigned Richie the easy task of getting their blow up mattress out of the car, figuring it would be easier to finish the tent without Richie’s helping hands.

Their tent was generously sized, large enough for a twin person air mattress, and then a little extra room for their cooler and bags. Stan assured Richie that there were no bears in the area, so it was safe to sleep with their food alongside them, but Richie was still hesitant. He soothed himself by insisting that Stan sleep on the side closest to the cooler. If a bear attacked, it would be Stanley’s job to keep Richie safe. Stan’s heart fluttered a bit at the trust Richie instilled in him, no matter how hypothetical, or how unlikely he’d be to actually win a fight against a bear. Stan chose to keep both of those hypotheticals to himself and let Richie think him brave.

When Richie trekked back from the car, heavy box in one hand and air pump in the other, Stan was all done setting up the tent.

“God, why is this so heavy!?” Richie complained, plunking the box with the air mattress at their feet.

“It’s the price we pay for comfort.” Stan said, amused.

“At least we don’t have to blow this thing up with our mouths.” Richie conceded, giving the box a swift kick in retaliation for making his arms hurt.

“Psh, you don’t have enough air in your lungs.” Stan teased, taking the pump from Richie’s outstretched hand.

“But I have the blowjob lips to make up for it. One wrap of these puppies around that nozzle and it would blow itself up.” Richie made obnoxious kissing noises, too distracted by his obscenity to notice the way Stan’s cheeks heated up. His pulse pounded in his ears as thoughts of Richie’s lips wrapped around something else crept into his mind.

“Richie, I hate to be the one to break this to you, but blowjobs don’t involve any actual blowing.”

“And how would you know that, Stanley?”

“I’m a virgin, not an idiot.” Stan deadpanned.

Truth be told, Stan wasn’t as much of a virgin as his friends thought he was. He hadn’t done much, but because of his religion and strict parents, they’d all assumed Stanley hadn’t even kissed anyone yet. Low and behold it was at Jewish summer camp that he had experienced his first kiss, and his second, and so on. He’d even gotten to second base on the very last day of camp with good ol’ Patricia Blum.

But Stanley was a private man, and as respect for Patty, he hadn’t gone around spreading word of their affairs, even though he was secretly dying to tell Richie and see how far his jaw dropped when he found out Stan had gotten more action than he had. Trashmouth never shut up about sex, but they all knew he’d never had any. Stan wondered if Richie would ask Stan for tips, or ask him to demonstrate how he’d groped Patty down by the lake that day. He could show Richie a thing or two, teach him how to be soft and gentle with his fingers.

“Looks like the sun is already starting to go down.” Richie noted, peering off towards the cliff that overlooked the valley. They’d gotten prime real estate thanks to Stan’s knowledge of the woods. He knew exactly where to go where they wouldn’t be disturbed by other campers.

“We should start a fire.” Stan decided. He’d had enough training in the boy scouts to know it was always better to start your fire before the sun went down. It saved you a lot of annoyance, frozen fingertips, and a much harder time finding resources by flashlight.

“Rich, can you gather some twigs for me? About this big,” Stan picked one up that was by his foot. “and make sure they’re dry.” He handed the stick to Richie, who immediately brought it to his forehead in a fake salute.

“Aye aye captain!” Richie stiffened his limbs, swiveling around and doing his best army march impression as he wandered off in search of sticks.

While Richie was away, Stan got to work on setting up a makeshift pit for the fire to be contained in. He gathered as many rocks as he could find nearby and set them up in a neat little circle. Once Stan was satisfied with his work, he moved on to blowing up the air mattress inside their tent.

As he connected the pump to the mattress and began the repetitive motion that would surely leave his arms aching, he let his mind wander.

In hindsight, there was probably a much subtler way Stan could have found to spend Valentine’s Day with Richie. He’s sure if he’d offered up their usual Chinese food and ‘The Princess Bride’ (Richie’s all time favorite movie no matter what he says to the contrary), Richie would have pounced on the idea. So why had Stan felt the need to make it into a whole thing?

Well, he knew why, but he didn’t want to admit it. The knowledge was coated in shame and guilt, but it was still buzzing in the back of his head like a bug he couldn’t squish. Stan wanted this to be a date. Maybe he even liked pretending it was. He knew that wasn’t fair, but he didn’t have much control over it. If they’d done the same thing they always did, it wouldn’t have felt special.

Once the air mattress was completely inflated, and the pump tucked back into its box, Stan let himself fall forward on to the air filled PVC with an auditory oof.

Face down in the uncomfortable fabric, Stan felt like it was where he deserved to be. Lovesick, lying, dirty little-

“Yo, Stanny, I got your sticks!”

Stan steeled himself, tucking away his intrusive thoughts in favor of less intimate ones.

When Stan exited the tent, he wasn’t expecting to come face to face with a mountain of sticks. Standing before him, Richie was covered in dirt, twigs sticking out from his bush of hair, and arms full of branches towering high enough to shield half his face.

“Get in a fight with a tree?” Stan teased, hurrying forward so he could take half the stack from Richie’s shaking arms.

“Yeah, the tree won.” Richie answered with a matching tone, causing Stan’s heart to flutter traitorously.

“We didn’t need this many, you know.”

“I know, but I figured better safe than sorry, right? What if we suddenly need to build two fires? Or three? Or maybe even a fourth? What if we get stuck out here forever and need to provide heat to the village we create to survive. Our children deserve fires too, don’t they Stan? Don’t they?”

“We’re having children?” Stan questioned, beginning to place the sticks in the small fire pit he’d made.

“Yes.” Richie answered definitively as he plopped down beside Stan.

“I’m not sure that’s anatomically possible, but sure, I’ll play along.” Stan delighted.

“Okay, so we’re gonna have two kids. Twins.”

“Of course.” Stan nodded seriously, entertaining Richie’s wild imagination.

“One girl and one boy, or, you know, whatever gender they wanna be. We ain’t gonna be those kind of parents.”

That roused a laugh from Stan, knowing too well how strongly Richie’s opinions on parenting styles were. Richie had thought long and hard on what kind of parent he wanted to be in the future. You wouldn’t think Richie Tozier was a sap when it came to children, but tiny tots had him wrapped around their fingers. Richie had been dreaming about starting a family since they were kids, and Stan was no stranger to being ‘the wife’ in the equation. Richie had organized many imaginary weddings for them when they were young. They’d been married seven times in total, and had played house more times than Stan could count. It was almost enough to fuel Stan’s late night thoughts that Richie might actually reciprocate his feelings.

“We’ll name them Pizza and Macaroni.” Richie declared.

“Why in hell’s name would we do that?” Stan scoffed, grabbing the box of matches from his pocket. He ignited one and flicked it into the center of the pit.

“We’re creating a new society, Stan. There are no rules, no norms. Pizza and Macaroni could be the new standard for names. Imagine.”

“I don’t want to.”

Richie wrapped an arm around Stan’s shoulder and pulled him in close, leaving little room between their faces for Stan to breathe.

“Imagine.” Richie repeated with extra vigor.

“Fine.” Stan closed his eyes and paused for a moment. “I’m imagining it.”

“And? It’s beautiful, right?” Richie asked excitedly.

“Oh, oh god, Macaroni just stabbed Pizza with a fork. He’s bleeding everywhere! There’s no paramedics around, the town consists of just us and we never got any medical training. I’m holding our son, Richie. I’m holding him in my arms, oh god, his blood tastes like tomato sauce Richie-”

“Shut the fuck up!” Richie laughed, wrestling Stan to the ground and pinning him in place. “Take it back! Do not eat our son, Staniel!”

“But he tastes so good.” Stan giggled, his eyes still squeezed shut.

“Spit him out! Spit him out or we’re getting a divorce!”

Stan finally peeked one eye open, seeing Richie’s bright smile hovering over him and dark curls falling into his eyes.

“You’ll have to divorce me seven times then.” Stan challenged with a quirk to his eyebrow.

“Huh?” Richie’s face contorted as he tried to pinpoint Stan’s line of thought.

A piece of Stan’s heart detached from itself and fell into the pit of his stomach. Of course he didn’t remember, why would he?

“Nothing, never mind.” Stan laughed shallowly, shrugging Richie off and rolling back on to his feet. He stopped to check that the fire was successfully catching and was moderately pleased with the small flames he saw licking at the sticks. It should continue to grow if they left it.

“Are you hungry?” Stan asked over his shoulder, using it as an excuse to detach himself from what had just happened.

“Uh, yeah, I could go for some food.” Richie answered, mild confusion still evident in his voice.

“Cool, I brought hot dogs and beans-”

“I think I want smores.” Richie’s voice suddenly rang from beside Stan, causing him to jolt. Richie just laughed at the reaction, cutting in front of Stan and jogging towards their tent.

“You can’t have smores for dinner, Richie.” Stan chastised.

“You’re not my mom!”

Stan once again found himself fighting back a smile as Richie’s figure disappeared into the tent.

An hour later Stan found himself sitting on a log they’d rolled over from a nearby fallen tree. He was holding a stick over the fire, a marshmallow precariously hanging from the end of it. The sky had darkened to a navy blue, pin pricked with stars and constellations they had yet to discover.

Stan moved the marshmallow a little farther above the flames, keeping it from getting charred like Richie’s own marshmallow, which was engulfed in flames.

“I can hear you judging me.” Richie quipped, keeping his eyes on his marshmallow as he brought the flaming gelatin towards himself and began erratically blowing it out.

Stan kept his laughter locked behind his lips.

“It’s just… so unnecessary.” Stan responded.

“It’s not unnecessary! It’s fully necessary! This is the only way to get the perfect marshmallow!” Richie defended.

Stan looked over at the gooey black orb Richie was shoving between two graham crackers. He made a fake gagging noise while sticking out his tongue, finally letting his laughter free when Richie punched him playfully in the arm.

“The perfect marshmallow will never include scorch marks.”

“Boo, you’re no fun.” Richie took a stubborn bite of his smore, reaching out with his free hand and tapping Stan’s stick.

Stan watched in horror as his flawlessly roasted marshmallow disappeared into the flames of the fire, immediately disintegrating into nothing but sticky residue.

“Saboteur!” Stan yelled, pointing an accusing finger at Richie’s chocolate covered face.

“Moi!?” Richie gasped, throwing a hand to his chest dramatically. “I would never! But, I am not a heartless man. Please, as condolences for your loss, will you accept the other half of my smore, monsieur?”

Stan wanted to cringe at the terrible french accent Richie adorned, but his cuteness won over and Stan was just left smiling.

“I suppose I’ll eat your ash-cookie.”

“I’d rather you eat my ass, cookie.” Richie shot back without pause, winking slyly as he scooted closer to Stan on the log.

The air around Stan began thickening, heating him up from the inside out and causing his brain to melt just slightly. He watched in slow motion as Richie’s fingers brought the half eaten smore up to Stan’s lips. It should have been gross; Richie’s face and fingers had remnants of chocolate on them, the smore was falling apart and showcasing the awfully burnt marshmallow, and Stan had a strict ‘no-sharing-food’ policy because he didn’t like sharing germs. But regardless of all of those reasons to pull away, Stan found himself leaning in closer.

As soon as Richie’s fingers brushed Stan’s lips it was like something inside him took over. Stan raised his hands to hold Richie’s wrist, and then cocking his head so he had a better angle, he raked his tongue over Richie’s fingers as he gathered all the chocolate he could. It was a lewd gesture, one Stan would never imagine doing any other time, but something about the flickering campfire and the stillness of the wind made him feel like he wasn’t in this world anymore. He was in a world where he could make Richie want him.

“Uhm…” Richie’s shaky breath brought Stan hurtling back to reality fast enough to leave him dizzy.

Stan quickly let go of Richie’s arm, pulling away both physically and emotionally as he chewed his smore with vigor.

“You’re right.” Stan said through a mouthful of goo. “It’s not as bad as I thought it’d be.”

Richie just stared in awe as Stan tried to swallow past the sticky chocolate and marshmallow that stuck to his teeth in defiance.

Once the residue of his humiliation was all swallowed down, Stan stood abruptly, stretching his arms high above his head and producing a fake yawn.

“Jeez, I’m tired already.” Stan lied, hoping Richie would go along with it.

“Makes sense, we did have a long day of travelling.” Richie answered towards Stan’s turned back.

Stan let out a sigh of relief he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding. As he let his arms drop, so did his shoulders, and some of his tension along with it.

“I’m gonna go change into my pajamas.” Stan stated, leaving hurriedly before Richie could respond.

Once in the tent, and hidden behind its nylon walls, Stan was finally able to process what he’d just done. As he slowly changed into his pajamas he went over the course of events in his head, wincing as he recalled the way he’d indulged so passionately in such a platonic touch. It had felt so good in the moment, convincing himself he saw lust in Richie’s eyes, but the remorse he felt now settled over him like a blanket. He didn’t want to ruin his friendship with Richie, he couldn’t, he had to keep himself together.

Stan was startled out of his stupor as the zipper of the tent began to open. Stan quickly pulled his sleep shirt the rest of the way down, hiding away his body and his thoughts alike.

“You decent?” Richie asked teasingly before opening the zipper any wider.

“Yeah.” Stan responded, warmth already licking back up his chest.

Richie opened the tent the rest of the way and as he climbed in Stan could see that he’d put out the fire. He felt a weird swell of pride that Richie had remembered at least some of the camping basics Stan had taught him.

He’d averted his eyes as Richie changed, had curled in on himself as Richie leaned over him to reach their stuff, but now he was laying next to Richie’s warm body with no way to escape. Their proximity seared into him like a burn that he was far too aware of.

“You know, this was way more fun than my usual Valentine’s Day.” Richie offered into the silence, gazing up through the skylight that allowed them to see the stars.

Stan’s heart threatened to break out of his chest.

“The past few years I’ve usually spent it with some equally lonely one-night-stand. The sex was never good enough to make the next day worth it.” Richie admitted.

“Why not?” Stan piped in.

Richie thought for a moment, allowing the silence to lull them a little bit deeper into the comfort of night.

“I’d wake up feeling disappointed because the person next to me was never who I wanted it to be.”

Stan’s ears perked up. He angled his body towards Richie, cushioning his head in the crook of his bent elbow as he contemplated his friend’s profile. This was the first time Richie had ever alluded to having a crush.

“Who did you want it to be?” Stan asked shakily.

Richie turned his head towards Stan, locking eyes with him and seeming to search for something.

“What about you?” Richie asked, flipping the question around without answering it.

“What do you mean?”

“Who would you choose to wake up to every day?”

The question leered above their heads, threatening to fall and crush the thin veil of tension that had formed between them.

Stan gulped audibly, wanting nothing more than to shy away from Richie’s gaze, but he held strong.

“It doesn’t matter, they don’t want the same thing I do.”

“How can you be sure?” Richie murmured challengingly.

Stan’s mouth gaped open and closed like a fish out of water as he tried to wade through the chaos in his head.

“All I know is I’m glad I’m waking up next to you tomorrow.” Richie said, turning his head back to the sky.

Blood pounded in Stan’s ears as he tried to decode Richie’s words. Was he saying what he thought he was saying? Or was Stan just reading into things, spurred on by his unrequited feelings and juvenile hope?

“I’m glad too.” Stan breathed out.

Richie didn’t miss a beat before answering.

“Glad enough to kiss me?”

Stan’s entire body froze, something inside him shattering as the butterflies finally escaped his stomach, filling up their tent until Stan couldn’t see anything but Richie.

Slowly, as if scared one wrong move would make Richie run, Stan propped himself up on his elbow, peering down at Richie’s expectant face. He kept his pace steady as he slowly dipped down and braved a single kiss.

It wasn’t much of anything, just a chaste peck, a quick dip into the pool to test the water. But that one kiss was enough to erase all of Stan’s trepidation, leaving him as bare and open and vulnerable as Richie was. And it felt liberating.

The next few minutes passed by in a flurry. Richie surged up to reclaim Stan’s lips, no longer just a peck but now a full-blown kiss that left Stan’s legs shaking. Richie flipped them over so he was hovering above Stan, using his leverage to kiss up Stan’s neck, the line of his jaw, and back to his lips. It was quick to turn feral, their teeth clanking against each other as desperation took over. Stan had never felt so terrified and turned on at the same time, his hand trembling as it fisted into Richie’s lush curls and pulled him closer.

Stan’s breathing was labored, his swallows dry as he tried to steady his quickening pulse. Richie was everywhere, blanketing all of Stan’s senses. The smell of Richie’s laundry detergent swirled around them, melding with the lingerings of their campfire. His tongue tasted sweet like the chocolate they’d eaten, and the sound of Stan’s own meek noises were swallowed up by Richie’s own deep growls. If all that wasn’t already over-stimulation enough, Richie’s was consistently rutting himself against Stan, causing his arousal to become less and less subtle with every passing moment.

Stan broke away with a heaving breath, peering up at Richie through hooded eyes.

“I’m a virgin.” Stan blurted.

Richie stared deeply into Stan’s eyes, churning his gut with intensity until what felt like several minutes had passed. When Richie finally spoke again, the sound nearly startled Stan.

“Me too.”

Stan smiled, thankful that Richie felt safe enough to be honest with him. He reached a hand up and gently cupped Richie’s cheek, who immediately leaned into the touch.

“We don’t have to, uh, do anything.” Richie stuttered out, his eyes gently closing as he relaxed into Stan’s hold.

“I know. But if you wanted to…” Stan trailed off, leaving the offer open-ended.

Richie’s eyes popped back open, searching Stan’s face for further explanation.

“I brought stuff… uh… just in case. I guess I was kinda hopeful about tonight.” Stan admitted, averting eye contact. “Can I make a confession?” Richie whispered, his voice going a bit rough at the end. “I was kind of hopeful myself…”

“What do you mean, exactly?” Stan asked.

“I sort of fantasized about the way tonight might play out. I’ve had some… personal experience with receiving, so I made sure to clean myself in case my wildest dreams suddenly came to fruition. But I can also top! Uhm, if that’s your preference.” Richie rushed in addition.

“Personal experience? I thought you were a virgin?” Stan’s tone held a lick of jealousy, which he tried to cover up by clearing his throat.

In response Richie held up his hand and wiggled his fingers, hoping that Stan got the message.

“Fuck that’s so hot.” Stan groaned, letting his head fall back against his pillow. He felt open mouth kisses being peppered down the column of his neck and keened embarrassingly loud.

“I’ll be honest, the thought of splitting you open on my cock does sound appealing.” Stan murmured.

Richie’s head shot up, his eyes wide like a deer in headlights. Stan thought he’d said something wrong until Richie was suddenly shucking his clothes as quickly as possible, dizzying Stan with his pace.

“Slow down! Rich- Richie- there’s not that much room in the tent!” Stan laughed, trying (and failing) to get Richie to sit still. When he finally stopped moving, Richie was stripped down to his underwear.

It’s not like Stan and Richie had never seen each other in their underwear before, but apparently context did a lot, and in this context Stan’s whole body was thrumming at the sight.

“Fuck, we’re really doing this, huh?” Stan whispered, trailing his gaze down Richie’s lean torso.

“Only if you want to.” Richie assured.

Stan wanted to. He wanted it more than anything. But words were failing him as he took in this brand new Richie, bathed in moonlight from the tent’s open skylight, eyes wide and vulnerable with lust.

So instead of talking, Stan took action. He locked eyes with Richie as he began stripping off his own clothes, doing so much slower than Richie had. It was purposeful, a confirmation that he was all in. Their gaze didn’t break until Stan was bared to the same degree as Richie, his navy blue boxer briefs a stark contrast to Richie’s hot pink flamingo print.

Stan was the one to surge forward when their tension peaked, knocking Richie on to his back and giving himself room to straddle him. Richie’s hands were slow burning coils against Stan’s skin, lighting him up everywhere they touched. Stan rolled his hips down experimentally, feeling Richie’s responding twitch between the thin fabric that separated them.

“Off.” Stan demanded, pawing at the waist of Richie’s offending boxers.

Richie complied, but did one better. In the same fail swoop, Richie hooked his thumbs under both of their waistbands and pulled them down in conjunction.

The action resulted in a collective moan as their oversensitive cocks finally broke free and rubbed against each other.

It didn’t take long for Richie's hands to slither back up their thighs and in between them, grabbing them both in one hand. Stan hissed at the contact, clenching his teeth in an attempt to hold back the wave that already threatened to crash over.

“Fuck, Stanny. Who knew you were packing?”

The comment was so un-sexy it made Stan puddle into laughter, his head falling to Richie’s shoulder as the chest underneath him rumbled in tandem.

“Sorry, I don’t think I’m very good at this whole dirty talk thing.” Richie admitted between giggles.

“I don’t want dirty talk.” Stan murmured, placing a gentle kiss on Richie's temple. “I just want you.”

Richie nodded, evidently calmed by the notion that he didn’t have to perform, he just needed to be.

Richie experimented with another flick of his wrist, causing Stan to jerk away instinctively.

“Rich- if you keep doing that I’m not gonna last.” Stan admitted.

“Damn, I’m that good?”

“Shut up and teach me how to finger you.” Stan smirked as he wiped the smile right off Richie’s face.

“It might be better if I just… show you.” Richie shifted out from under Stan and got to his knees.

“You said you have lube…?” “Oh!” Stan exclaimed, bouncing up and reaching for his backpack. He immediately procured the lube and condoms he’d brought.

“Thanks babe.” Richie said casually, missing the way Stan spluttered at the pet name.

Richie reached for the lube as Stan tried to recover, but he didn’t have much time to do so as he watched Richie squeeze a little bit of lube on to his fingers and immediately reached behind himself.

Stan’s heart went mad, bouncing against its confines like it was a prison. He couldn’t help but stare at the way Richie’s face contorted into an all new type of expression, one Stan had never seen on anyone’s face before.

His eyes trailed down Richie’s torso, stopping to admire the way his thin body strained around muscle, how his pale chest flushed pink with arousal, and the delicious way his cock stood to attention just begging for praise. But it was the space between Richie’s spread thighs that mesmerized him, where he could see his hand moving behind him.

Without thought, Stan’s hand drifted to his own cock, acting on instinct as his mind went hazy. He held it gently, not stroking it so much as just giving it the pressure it craved. He watched as Richie’s index finger disappeared inside himself, making Richie moan lewdly.

Richie didn’t take long to get all three fingers inside himself, getting more and more into it as the minutes ticked on. Richie now had his eyes shut and his head thrown back as he fucked himself down on his digits. Stan almost didn’t want to stop him, wanted to see how long Richie could ride himself until he made himself cum, but even more than that, he wanted to feel Richie’s tight heat constricting around his shaft. “So are you gonna let me fuck you or what?” Stan’s voice seemed to jostle Richie out of whatever place his mind had gone to, causing him to look around the tent for the culprit of his ceased pleasure.

“Stanny, fuck, please-” Richie’s voice was completely hoarse as he crawled towards Stan eagerly. “Come here, let me take care of you.” Stan ushered Richie forward, pulling him flush against his chest and kissing him as passionately as possible.

“I want you to ride me.” Stan whispered against Richie’s lips.

“Yes, please.”

Stan laid back down, pulling Richie on top of him for the second time that night.

They kissed for a while longer, grinding into each other as Stan’s cock teased at Richie’s entrance. Keeping their lips locked, Stan reached for his condom, tearing it open expertly and bringing the latex down between their bodies.

Richie sat up on his knees, giving Stan room to roll the condom down over his dick, but as soon as it was situated snug against Stan’s pelvis, Richie wasted no time coating it in lube. He threw the bottle behind him, moving impatiently as he fumbled to line Stan’s cock up with his hole.

“Rich...” Stan reached for Richie’s free hand and entwined their fingers. The gesture gave Richie pause and he finally let out a sigh.

“Sorry, I’m just… I’ve wanted this for a long time.” Richie said quietly.

Stan’s heart swelled. He squeezed Richie’s hand in reassurance.

“Me too, but that doesn’t mean we have to rush. I’m not going to suddenly change my mind, we can take our time with this.”

Richie bowed his head, a shy smile flashing pearly teeth. Stan took the opportunity to slink his own hand around his cock, joining Richie’s. Together, they held it still as Richie slowly sank down until the head popped past his rim.

They both gasped as the new sensation washed over them.

Richie started cursing under his breath, sinking down a little bit lower every few seconds until he was fully seated in Stan’s lap.

Stan held an iron grip on Richie’s hips as he tried to ground himself, the feeling of Richie clenching around him almost too much to bare.

“Why haven’t we been doing this all these years.” Richie whined, pulling himself up until the head of Stan’s cock threatened to slip out, before pushing back down at a satisfyingly slow pace.

“Because we’re idiots.” Stan answered, raising his hips to meet Richie as he came down.

“H-huge idiots.” Richie agreed, nodding along with his thrusts.

“We have a lot of - hnnnng fuck - a lot of time to make up for.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Rich, I would literally stay in this moment for a lifetime if I could- ahhhh.”

“Your dick might shrivel up.” Richie noted, speeding up his rhythm upon hearing Stan’s moans.

“Worth it.” Stan swallowed thickly, getting lost in the sight of Richie’s cock bouncing against his stomach.

“I wanna suck you off.” Stan blurted, no longer able to filter his thoughts through the haze in his brain.

“Fuck, Stanny- you’re so perfect- nnnnggggg ohmygod-” Richie’s entire body tensed up as he reached his peak. Stan watched as his cock twitched, releasing strings of cum that shot impressively far. The feeling of Richie clenching around him paired with the sight of him completely unraveling tipped Stan over the edge along with him.

His orgasm felt like it lasted a lifetime, draining every ounce of energy out of him and leaving Stan completely boneless by the end. He vaguely processed Richie slipping off him, heard the sound of the tent unzip, and then felt the warmth of Richie’s body saddling back up beside him.

“You okay there?” Richie’s voice drifted through the tent, but it still felt light years away. Stan nodded meekly, his bearings just starting to come back.

Stan peered down at his spent cock, giving it a small nod in appreciation for its performance.

“Where’s the condom?” Stan asked drearily.

“I put it outside the tent.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Would you rather we sleep with it next to us?” Richie asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Mmmmm- shut up and spoon me.” Stan grumbled, turning to his side and pulling Richie’s arm over him.

“As you wish.” Richie whispered.

[mercurymetals]

all that glitters ain't gold

Oh yeah, I’m always here for a dose of “pining” Giorno. Let’s go.

Warnings: Brief mention of violence/gore.

Your phone buzzes on the desk. You only give it a customary glance, seeing a private number displayed on the screen, and then go back to ignoring it. It's not the first phone call you've refused to answer today, and you have a very keen suspicion on who’s trying to contact you, but you've more important matters to attend to.

Namely, where the hell is your ticket? You've been searching every nook and cranny of this tiny hotel room for the past hour, but you can't seem to find it. You're sure you had it safely tucked inside of your passport, which you kept on the inner pocket of your jacket. You still have the passport, but the ticket might as well have vanished. How could you have misplaced it?

Or were you really that careless, and you somehow left it in the taxi you took here last night? You definitely remember having it as you left your house, having packed away every belonging that mattered to your small suitcase and disposed of everything else. It could have slipped out when you were exiting the car, maybe...

But God, you've taken such pains to get that ticket without Giorno knowing about it, and now you've gone and lost it. And you're nearly out of time. If you don't leave now, you'll definitely miss the flight. You've been planning this for too damn long to just sit down and give up, so with a resigned sigh, you leave the hotel room and hurry for the nearest taxi.

You spend the entire half an hour ride to the airport tensely glancing out the windows and worrying the skin off your lips. Nothing happens though - no sudden unexpected traffic, no car tailing you, and the driver doesn't turn on you and threaten you, which is always a plus. Not all hope is lost, then. You can still pull this off.

Arriving at the airport, you scurry inside the building and start looking around. There has to be a way to buy tickets from here, right? Doing it like this will probably leave some kind of a trail behind, but you've come too close to turn back now. You can worry about covering your tracks after you've left Italy.

As you walk around trying to find a ticket booth, a tiny dark shape flashes past your eyes. You flinch away and reflexively wave your hand at it. Instead of moving away, you watch as it loops around and then lands on the back of your hand.

It's a small red ladybug. A... ladybug...

There's a split second where you feel the air change, feel that cold gaze on the back of your head, before you hear: "Luce dei miei occhi! There you are."

It feels like the world around you slows down. Every atom in your body urges you to run, to not look back, to sprint as fast away from here as you can. You're so close. So, so damn close. If you could just get away...

But a bigger part of you understands doing so would be useless. The chance that you have fought so hard to get has already been lost. Running now won't change that. So instead, you make yourself turn around and meet Giorno's eyes.

He looks at you with a small, unperturbed smile, like he hasn't just caught you about to desert Italy and the entirety of Passione along with it. "I was worried you wouldn't make it," he says with purposely fake concern as he reaches over to tap the ladybug still on your hand. It contorts, and then transforms into a thin scrap of paper, which Giorno catches and waves in front of you. "Your ticket."

Tentatively, you take it from him. Before you can open your mouth to ask, he reaches into his own pocket. "And mine." He lets you glance at the second ticket now between his fingers. "A holiday in Malta, just for the two of us. Such a lovely idea, Amore. I do need a break."

No. That's not what you had wanted at all. You say nothing, both your hands clinging to the handle of your suitcase as you stare at him. How did he know? How did he find you? You took every precaution. You left nothing behind. You booked the ticket through a fake account on a public IP. And you didn't tell a single soul what you had been planning.

Giorno must see the questions swimming in your eyes, for he smiles at you. Maybe it's meant to be a friendly smile, but you sense a trace of maliciousness behind it. "Amore mio, I am disappointed in your lack of faith in me. You didn't think I'd ever actually let my most treasured possession out of my sight, did you?"

Possession. He doesn't even bother pretending any more. You know in his eyes that's all you've ever been: something that belongs to him, something that is his to own. And that's exactly why you had to get away from him.

In contrast to your thoughts, Giorno steps closer to you. You try to back away, but he slings his arm over your shoulders and leans his weight on you, rooting you in place. Countless people walk past the two of you, none of them paying attention to this unassuming gesture.

When Giorno speaks, it is in a whisper of menace thinly disguised by his usual nonchalance, each word exhaled hotly right against your ear. "Next time you try to run from me, we'll make it a game. I'll give you a day's head start to make your escape. If you win, your freedom will be your prize. But if you lose... If I find you..."

He leans in closer, his lips almost brushing against your skin. "I'll tear you apart. I'll rip out every bone from your body, joint by joint, until you're bleeding and open and barely clinging to life. Then I'll heal you, and we can start the process all over again." He says the last three words in a measured drawl, placing a soft kiss to your temple at the end.

Giorno then straightens up, keeping his arm wrapped around you. "How does that sound, Amore mio? Will you play with me?"

You stay silent, your heart pounding. You don't know if he's serious about any of it - knowing Giorno, he probably is - and you don't know how to react to his words, what to think of them. The parts about a head start give you a shred of hope, but the words that followed easily evaporate any actual volition right out of you.

Giorno doesn't seem too bothered or surprised about your silence. "It's alright. Take all the time you need to consider it," he says, as casually as though he were talking about making weekend plans with a friend, and not threatening your freedom, well-being, and possibly your sanity. "We also need to consider a suitable punishment for your recent misbehaviour."

You look at him sharply. Seeing your alarm, Giorno laughs, casually tucking a stray hair behind your ear. "There, there, Amore. I'm sure we'll have plenty of time to think of something on our little holiday. Speaking of..." Giorno looks around the airport, until he spots a departures display screen. "We'd better get going, before we miss the flight."

He lets you go, grabbing a hold of your suitcase instead. He mutters something about the gate number, and then starts walking in that direction, nodding for you to follow.

You watch him walk away from you for a few seconds, and almost consider turning your back on him right here and now...

But how pointless would that effort be, with nearly all of your belongings now being dragged away from you, too. Even if it weren't for that, you don't doubt Giorno already has people keeping an eye on all the exits of the airport.

With a defeated sigh, you trail after him. Later, once the two of you have boarded the plane, you make a point of not looking at him, staring out the window instead.

Alone with Giorno in a foreign country for days... And you're sure he'll keep right by your side the entire time. You don't even want to think about this "holiday" your desertion has been turned into, let alone anything else he might have planned for you once you return to Italy.

Nevertheless... Despite his chilling threat, you still cannot help thinking about how you could try to get away again. A life as some gangster's possession is no life at all, even if he is the damned Don himself. To free yourself from him, that is all you want. And where better to pull off such a stunt, if not away from Passione's home turf? Without his agents to hound you, would Giorno really be able to keep you from running again all on his own?

As if sensing your thoughts, Giorno suddenly grabs your hand, entwining your fingers together with his. "Amore. Just remember it doesn't have to be like this. You swore your loyalty to me when you entered Passione. All I ask is that you honour that."

No, that's wrong. You swore your loyalty, but you didn't swear away your freedom. It doesn't matter, though. You'll let him have this. You'll let him think he's won. Partly because you want to believe you could fool him.

But mainly because you suspect you're only fooling yourself, and Giorno has already won from the start, from the very moment when you lowered your head before him and kissed his knuckles, long and pale and strangely cold beneath your lips.