#i look so pretty and gropeable

[bunn13z]

i am going to the pool tomorrow and i can't stop thinking about a butch's hands all over me while i am in a really cute bikini

[akjzsd]

You are just perfectly gropeable.

Your body? Made for people to grab you and pull you against a wall, and watch your expression as they massage your ass, or your tits, or your useless little girlcock.

And you know it don’t you? You wish that someone would come and grab you, kiss you, tell you that they need you, and you’re coming with them.

You would fantasize about being tied down spread eagle, while someone on top of you fucks your tits. They moan about you how you’re perfect for them as they cum on your face, and comment about how pretty you look coated in them.

You’d be too hazy and subby to realize that your arms were freed, as they get your ass up and face down in the mattress, gently working lube into you, laughing at how you stupidly moan when their fingers slip inside.

What a perfect hole you are, they whisper

What a perfect hole you are indeed

ffuck i had to mute wgile reading this so I didnt moan like an idiot in the vc

yeah, iim made for people to grope, with how ssquishy and malleable my body is.

sso easy to just grab by thw collar and pull into a room, doing whatever yyou want to me

a perfect hole to order to her knees whenever you need it

[onlymorelove]

Fic: I Barely Knew I had Skin Before I Met You (3/4)

Title: I Barely Knew I had Skin Before I Met You (3/4) Relationship: Garcia Flynn/Lucy Preston/Wyatt Logan Summary: Sometimes love is found in unexpected combinations. Lucy wakes in the middle of the night to find one less man than there should be in her bed. Notes: You can read Chapter 1 here. You can read Chapter 2 here. This also takes place in the same universe as Your Hands Can Heal; Your Hands Can Bruise and Baby, I’m a house on fire (and I want to keep burning). These stories are all set sometime in the future, when Lucy, Garcia, and Wyatt are in a polyfidelitous relationship. Translation: the three of them are romantically involved and are faithful to each other. They also live together. Word Count: 4574 Rating: T Chapter Title: Bring your secrets; bring your scars. (From Phillip Phillips' Unpack Your Heart.) Warning: Nothing graphic, but don’t read if you object to the idea of three adults being romantically involved.

Read under the cut, on AO3, or at FF.net.

Tagging @extasiswings, @grey-haven, @gwennieliz, @qqueenofhades, and @uglybusiness. (If anyone else wants to be tagged for future updates, just let me know.)

If you read this, thank you. Feedback is treasured; constructive criticism is welcome.

[Part 1]    [Part 2]    [Part 4]

A Google search for a simple chocolate chip cookie recipe turned up a five-ingredient one Lucy was confident even their sleep-deprived, emotionally-drained threesome could handle. Butter, flour, sugar, eggs, and chocolate chips. Today they’d be eating the sweet and chocolatey breakfast of champions. It would be worth it because all of them still had healing to do, and this, acknowledging Iris Flynn’s birthday, was another tangible step in that process.

She’d just pulled a stick of butter out of the refrigerator and set it out to soften on the kitchen counter behind her when two sets of footsteps sounded—one slow and measured, the other pounding down the stairs at a rapid clip. Garcia and Wyatt rejoined her in the kitchen. Wyatt wore a long-sleeved tee. It had seen better days; the cuffs were frayed, and the shirt clung to Wyatt’s back and shoulders after too many trips through clothes dryer. It was an aesthetic she deeply appreciated.

Lucy tapped Wyatt’s shoulder with her index finger and bumped him with her hip. When he focused on her, she turned a mock pout on him. “Excuse me.” She arched an eyebrow.

Wyatt’s forehead crinkled in consternation, and his eyebrows drew together. “Yeah?”

“I thought we agreed on no shirt.”

“Agreed? Ha. You're a funny woman.” Wyatt smirked. “More like you tried to give me a direct order, and I took it as a suggestion.” He gave an exaggerated shiver, causing her to roll her eyes at his dramatics. “It’s chilly down here, Doc. Besides”—he winked and stepped into her space, his body radiating delicious heat, and wound his arms around her—“I’m still gropeable with clothes on.” His words were followed by his hands, which proceeded to knead the curve of her bottom with gratifying enthusiasm.

Tilting her head to the side, Lucy flashed Garcia a questioning look. “What do you think, Garcia?” She traced nonsensical doodles on Wyatt’s shoulders while she waited for a response.

Flynn leaned back against the counter and crossed one ankle over the other, slanting a considering glance at her and Wyatt. Only a few feet separated them. Amusement flared in the depths of Flynn’s moss-green eyes, chasing away some of the shadows that still lingered there. “I think opening a thoughtfully-wrapped present is half the fun of receiving a present in the first place.”

Though Wyatt’s busy hands stilled, Lucy was grateful he kept his arms looped around her. “So, in this metaphor of yours, am I supposed to be the present?” Wyatt asked. She leaned into him, a cat searching for a good scratch; he responded by running his nails over her back through her thin nightshirt. Pleasure sparked through her, chasing Wyatt’s sure fingers, until Lucy nearly hummed from it.

Garcia’s observant gaze tracked the path Wyatt’s hands traveled over Lucy's back, and his lips ticked upward a millimeter. “You, Wyatt Logan,” he said, sidling closer to them, his voice lit by humor but lacking any sardonic edge, “and all that West Texas charm, are the gift that never stops giving.” He finished with a smacking kiss to Wyatt’s cheek.

“Damn straight,” Wyatt replied. “About time you figured that out.”

Garcia’s full-throated laugh rang through the kitchen. For a second, Lucy forgot her exhaustion. Instead, she focused on the warmth that fizzed in her chest as Garcia bent and kissed them—first tilting Wyatt’s face up with one long finger on his chin—and then her.

Warm lips grazed her temple; strong arms surrounded her. Lucy’s eyes slid shut, and she inhaled deeply. She couldn’t catalogue the individual scents that filled her nose, though she dearly wanted to. Was it Garcia’s deodorant? Wyatt’s skin?

All Lucy knew as she tried to freeze the moment, to preserve it in amber for eternity, was that those scents signified something important to her. Comfort. Them. Home.

“I’ll tell you what, Lucy.” Wyatt nodded and folded his arms over his chest. I’ll make a deal with you.”

The mischievous expression that rolled over Wyatt’s face immediately put her on guard, but she decided to humor him anyway. “Okay…I'm listening. What are your terms?”

“Since you seem oh-so-interested in me being shirtless right now, I’ll agree to that, but—”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“ —only if you take off your shirt, too.”

A beat passed. Lucy blinked rapidly, mouth opening and closing several times, but no words came out. Finally, she reached out and thwacked Wyatt on the forearm. “Wyatt!” Lucy knew both men were very aware that she rarely slept wearing a bra. Though she was pretty comfortable in her own skin at this point in her life, that didn't mean she wanted to bake while topless.

“What?” He cringed away and slung her a look that was all wide-eyed innocence. “You’re not the only feminist here. It’s all in the interest of equality and fair play.”

“I think you mean foreplay,” Garcia chimed in, dark eyebrows raised. He curled an arm across Wyatt’s shoulders and pulled him closer.

“You would take his side.” She narrowed her eyes at him, silently promising Garcia future retribution.

Garcia lifted his hands in surrender. “I’m not taking anybody’s side,” he protested, his eyes doing that twinkly thing that made her insides feel loopy and effervescent.

“Ready, Luce?” said Wyatt. His hands gripped the bottom of his shirt and started inching upward, revealing a sliver of skin at his stomach.

“No. Stop. Let’s all just...keep our shirts on.” How had their morning taken such a turn for the absurd?

Garcia’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. Oh, he might be laughing now, but she would remember this moment and make him pay later.

“Deviants,” she said under her breath.

“Hey! I heard you,” said Wyatt. “Just so you know. That is unfair.” Looking not at all put-out, he wagged his finger at her. “And inaccurate. Yeah. You’re the one who started it. So pot, kettle, black.”

She heaved a gusty sigh. “Fine, Wyatt.” With a shrug, she clapped her hands against her legs. “You win. You’re right.”

“Sorry. I couldn’t hear you.” Wyatt cupped a hand to his ear. “Could you please repeat that?”

Her lips twitched, but she bit back the smile that threatened to appear. She would not encourage his theatrics. “I said, ‘You’re right.’”

“Thank you for admitting that I’m right and you’re wrong.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am.” He paused and lifted his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. “It's about as rare as a unicorn sighting.” Wyatt and Garcia exchanged telling looks.

It made her skin itch to imagine letting him have the last word. But she would let his very last comment slide. “So I guess we’re equal opportunity perverts.”

“Lucy, there is nothing wrong with appreciating the beauty of the human body.” Garcia rubbed his hands together as if warming up to the current subject. “It is, after all, a marvelous creation.” With his hands tucked into the pockets of his pajama pants, he strolled the length of their small kitchen. Then he reversed direction, ambling back toward them, studying her and Wyatt in turn, an air of deep reflection about him.

Sensing the beginning of a world-class lecture, Lucy caught Wyatt’s gaze and made a face. He grinned and shook his head. “You are such a brat,” he mouthed.

Lucy widened her eyes at Wyatt and casually scratched the corner of her mouth...with her middle finger.

He snickered at the vulgar gesture and shook his head at her antics. Though his mouth didn’t form any words, Lucy easily parsed the naked affection on his face.

“Consider da Vinci’s exploration of geometry and proportion in his Vitruvian Man drawing—”

Wyatt turned toward Garcia. “You mean the naked guy?” He drew a circle in the air. “With the circle around him? And the square?”

Garcia nodded in approval, a wide smile tempering the otherwise severe lines of his face. Lucy instinctively wanted to smile back, though her stomach tightened painfully at the knowledge of how isolated this man, who had become utterly irreplaceable to her, had been for so long, with no one to talk to about his thoughts. No one to share the minutiae of daily life with. No one to ask him, “How was your day?” and care enough to listen with full attention to his answer.

“Yes! Exactly, Wyatt. I wasn’t sure if you'd catch the reference.”

“Always happy to live down to your expectations, Flynn.”

“Sorry, I didn't mean to underestimate you. Did I hurt your feelings?”

“Nah. Okay, maybe a little. You can make it up to me.”

Wyatt hooked his fingers in the waistband of Garcia’s pants. “So how about we all get naked. In honor of da Vinci?”

Garcia’s face twisted in a rather quizzical expression. “While I appreciate the sentiment, that is altogether convoluted logic, Logan.”

As much as she appreciated their good-natured banter, she knew they had gotten sidetracked from their original objective. She rolled her eyes and yanked Wyatt’s hand away from Garcia. “For the love of... Listen, we’ve gotten completely distracted. We are supposed to be baking.”  She clamped one hand over Wyatt’s mouth and one over Garcia’s. “And no, don’t even say it: We are not going to be doing naked baking.”

Bracketing a hand around her wrist, Garcia tugged her hand away from his mouth. “Half-naked, to be precise,” Garcia said, eyebrow quirked. He gave her fingers a playful nip before releasing them.

Wyatt and Garcia both laughed, deep smile lines radiating out from the corners of their eyes like little sunbursts. The combined effect dazzled Lucy with its radiance. Her breath stuttered in her chest. A second later she blinked, and the spell was broken. “Oh my god,” she said, recovering her voice. “Please, I beg you, both of you. Just forget I said anything about being shirtless.”

“So what'll it be, boys? Dark or milk chocolate chips?”

“Milk,” said Wyatt.

“Dark,” said Garcia.

“But Lucy,” Wyatt said, tugging at her sleeve, “dark chocolate’s gross. It’s too bitter.”

Garcia aimed a scathing look in Wyatt's direction. “No, you're mistaken: milk chocolate is too sweet. Too cloying. Too much of a good thing. In dark chocolate, however, the sweetness is balanced by the hint of bitterness. Balance, Wyatt.” He made an expansive, sweeping gesture with his arms. “In all things, seek balance.”

“Yeah, okay, Jedi Master Flynn.”

A startled laugh flew from Lucy’s mouth. When Garcia cut her a glare to rival Medusa’s stony stare, the laugh morphed into a cough. “Okay, well then.” She cleared her throat. “We’ll compromise and do half and half,” she said, her tone placating. “Happy now?”

“No,” Garcia and Wyatt replied in unison.

Lucy smiled.

“Here,” Lucy said, and handed Garcia a worn wooden spoon. Their fingers brushed during the exchange, and they shared a glance, neither speaking. Gentle heat spread from that point of contact, eventually settling in Lucy’s cheeks. She curled her hand around Garcia’s upper arm. “Make good use of those muscles and beat the flour and sugar together.”

“Whatever you say...ma’am,” Garcia said, a hint of mischief glimmering in his smile as he applied himself to the task she'd set for him.

“Uh uh. No way.” Lucy folded her arms across her chest and shook her head decisively. “I refuse to have you both call me that.”

He nodded in acquiescence, hair slipping over his forehead. “Then I will have to think of something else.”

“Anything but ‘ma’am.’”

Garcia continued stirring, eyes distant, expression thoughtful. The spoon tapped the edges of the steel mixing bowl with every turn and made a dull clanging sound. “Yes.” He looked at her with a half-smile, then nodded. “Whatever you say, dušo moja.” His voice altered on the unfamiliar words, deepening, the tenderness in the foreign syllables nearly tactile. A brush of velvet against her skin...  

“What does that mean?”

His gaze flicked away from hers. “Perhaps I’ll tell you...someday.”

To her surprise, Lucy swore she saw a hint of pink in his cheeks.

“Garcia…” She knew she sounded whiny, but she didn't care. “Tell me now.”

He paused in his stirring to pat her hip. “Patience is a virtue, Lucy.”

An unfortunate side effect of intimacy was that they all knew a thousand and one ways to infuriate each other. “Patience is a virtue, Lucy,” she retorted, mimicking him.

He smiled broadly, brushing the backs of his fingers across her cheek. “Insolence will get you nowhere.”

Wyatt sniggered; Lucy kept her features blank but added him and Garcia to her mental shit list.

“Hey, I’ve got muscles, too.” Wyatt flexed his right arm, grabbed Lucy’s hand, and placed it on his biceps. “Check out these guns.”

“Very impressive,” she said, pressing a quick kiss to Wyatt’s mouth.

“Don’t think I can’t tell you’re humoring me.” “I’m not humoring you, Wyatt.” “Are too.” “You’re right: I am.”

“Your honesty is killing me, Lucy.”

“My honesty is one of my finest qualities.” His eyebrows quirked in confusion. “You have qualities?”

“Smartass. Just for that, you get to take the cookie sheets, and everything else, out of the oven. Then preheat it to 350.”

Wyatt opened the oven door, bending to retrieve the items stored inside that black hole of kitchenware. “Holy shit.” When he stood up, his hands held a mountain of baking sheets, muffin tins, wire cooling racks. Moving slowly so as not to drop anything, he stepped to the right and placed everything on the small square of counter space next to the stove. That done, he turned to look at her reproachfully.

“Don’t you look at me like that.”

He sighed and shook his head in disappointment. “Lucy, you promised us you’d organize this crap.”

She swallowed, feeling a little guilty. Okay, a lot guilty. Her packrat tendencies and general messiness were a sore point between the three of them. “I meant to...I mean I will…” She wrung her hands. “It’s just, we don’t have space for it all.”

“Exactly. So get rid of some of it. Donate it.”

“But I need it.”

“You need all of it?” Wyatt shot back, skepticism evident in his voice.

“Well…”

Lucy’s attention shifted as her eyes caught movement. The wire rack that had been perched at the summit of the mountain of items Wyatt had just hauled out of the oven, crashed to the floor. “Oh no!”

The three of them leapt to catch the remaining objects before they went the way of the rack. A few items still clattered to the ground in a cacophony of sound, but they were able to salvage most of the stuff. Disaster thus mostly averted, Wyatt and Garcia simply looked at her, irritation so clear on their faces that they didn’t have to say anything.

She deserved that; she’d attempt to be graceful. Lucy gave a sheepish shrug. “Um...Sorry?”

“OK, Wyatt, now it’s your turn. You add the egg and mix it up completely,” Lucy said.

She checked the recipe on her phone, then pulled a canister out of the freezer. “Garcia,”—she pointed at the canister—“we need 1 and a ¼ cups of flour. Don’t pack it too tightly, and level it with a dinner knife.”

Garcia rummaged in a lower cabinet, then stood up, holding a glass measuring cup.

Wyatt cracked a large egg on the edge of the mixing bowl and poured its contents in. He walked to the trash can and tossed the broken shell pieces in there. “So tell us something about your daughter,” he asked, glancing over his shoulder. “What was she like?”

Lucy pulled a container of salt from the pantry and brought it to the counter, eyeing Garcia without comment. Would he answer Wyatt’s question? Garcia froze in the act of pulling a spoon from the cutlery drawer, blinking rapidly. Pin-drop silence surrounded them. “She...I…” He sighed and shook his head, hand trembling as he dropped the spoon in the measuring cup and closed the drawer with a soft click.  

Something inside Lucy twisted. “We could take turns. Share one memory—talk about our...Talk about the people we’ve lost.” She slid her hand over Garcia’s, squeezing gently. “Um. I’ll go first.” She released his hand and worried her bottom lip with her teeth. A deep breath. She could do this. “Amy is...I mean...Amy was…” A laugh escaped her lips, and Lucy cringed at her own nervous behavior. “Wow, this is hard.” She stared down at the counter in front of her, vision blurring, until an arm closed around her shoulders.

When she looked up, blinking back tears, she discovered that it was Garcia who’d wound his arm around her. His eyes met hers unflinchingly, and the silent compassion she saw there gave her the strength to continue. She closed her hands into fists, then concentrated on loosening them slowly. “Amy’s seven years younger than me. When she was little, Mom would put her in my lap, and I’d read to her. I’ve always loved books, and my parents, they fed that love. So we had a ton of books at home. At first, I used to decide what to read to Amy. But when she got to be two, maybe three-years-old, she started pulling books off the shelf and bringing them to me to read.

“She loved this series of books about a giant dog. Clifford the Big Red Dog. He was twenty-some feet tall, and...Anyway, at one point, her absolute favorite book was Clifford’s Kitten.” An ache started in Lucy’s chest; she pushed it away and continued. “I think I read it to her every day for like a month straight; I basically had it memorized. I got so sick of that damn book, but Amy would bring me that book, plop down in my lap, and say, ‘Read.’”

The ache increased, widening its geography, and stretched to her throat. There it sat, like a malignant growth. Lucy shook her head, once, clutching the locket that still cradled her sister’s picture, and allowed Garcia to fold her in his arms. Eyes shut tight, she pressed her cheek to his chest until the ache receded enough that she could breathe freely again.

After they put the cookies in the oven to bake, Lucy set a timer for nine minutes. Turning to Wyatt and Garcia, she took them each by the hand and pulled them to the living room. “Let’s sit while we wait for the cookies to bake.”

Lucy snuggled into one corner of the larger sofa; Wyatt claimed the other one. Though Garcia moved to sit on the small sofa adjacent to the one they sat on, Wyatt shook his head and motioned him closer. “Sit here,” he said, patting the empty spot between him and Lucy. Garcia perched on the edge of the sofa. Wyatt sighed in exasperation. “Like this, genius,” he said, and pulled Garcia down until he lay flat on his back with his head in Wyatt’s lap. They must have made a comical picture. Garcia was so tall that his butt pressed against Lucy’s hip, and his legs bent, bridging her lap, his feet tucked next to her other leg.

Lucy smiled, watching Wyatt card his fingers through Garcia’s dark hair. She knew just how hypnotic that resulting sensation could be, given that Wyatt had done the same to her earlier that morning.

Careful to keep her touch gentle, Lucy worked her hand under the hem of Garcia’s sweats and pressed her fingertips into his calf. Garcia sighed, and Lucy’s smile widened.

“If you keep doing that, I’ll fall asleep,” Garcia murmured, eyes closed, voice curling in the air like a wisp of smoke.

Wyatt chuckled, then stopped abruptly. Lucy turned her head to look at him, curious. His hand continued to glide through Garcia’s hair. “Jessica loved to knit, especially when I was deployed. She said…” He cleared his throat. “She said it helped, especially when she missed me, knowing that she could fill a need for someone else. She had needles in all different sizes, and she made all kinds of stuff—scarves for soldiers and vets; blankets for homeless shelters; little hats for newborns at the hospital.

“I think she was always working on a half dozen projects at a time.” He smiled, and it was just a little one, but it was real. Then the smile seeped away, and his hand stilled in Garcia’s hair. “After she was killed, I was sitting on the couch one night, just nursing a beer, and I felt something poke me. It was one of her knitting needles, sticking out from between the cushions. I went a little crazy then. Threw out all her stuff. Her knitting needles, her half-finished charity projects, her huge stash of yarn. All of it. I wish...Now...I wish that I hadn’t done that.”

Lucy’s eyes met Garcia’s; he laced his fingers together with Wyatt’s and laid them over his heart.

Silence reigned until the kitchen timer buzzed.

Once the cookies had cooled, Lucy scooped them all onto a pretty platter and set them in the middle of the dining table.

Wyatt grabbed one and raised it to his mouth.

Lucy snatched it away from him and put it back on the platter.

“Why’d you do that? You promised me chocolate chip cookies for breakfast, Lucy.”

“I did. But not until we sing ‘Happy Birthday.’ Let me see if I can find a candle.” After rummaging around in various cabinets and drawers, Lucy finally found one in the junk drawer. “A-ha!” she said, holding it up in triumph. She also found a pack of matches in the same drawer.

“How many candles are there in total, Lucy?” said Garcia.

“Let me look… I see three. How come?”

“Oh. Well, I was thinking, maybe we could light one in honor of each person we’ve...lost. But if there are only three…” His voice trailed off.

Lucy nodded. “I think that’s a lovely idea. We’ve only got three candles, but we’ll light all three. It’s supposed to be the thought that counts.” She couldn’t very well stick the candles in a cookie, so she grabbed a small bowl, filled it with salt, and placed the candles, one red, one blue, and one purple, in there until they were all standing, albeit a bit crookedly. She stepped back, tilting her head to admire her handiwork. It wasn’t perfect, but the effect was charming. Somehow it worked—just like their patchwork family.

“Here,” Lucy said, handing the matchbook to Garcia. “Why don’t you light the first one?”

Garcia accepted the matches with a nod. He tore off one match and drew it across the striker. The odor of sulfur hovered in the air as the match head flared to life, glowing brightly in his hand. He held it to one candle wick until the flame caught. With a brisk shake of his hand, he put out the lit match and handed the matchbook back to Lucy.

She did as Garcia had moments before, and when her candle flame flickered merrily, she passed the matchbook to Wyatt.

When all three candles were lit, Lucy reached for both Wyatt and Garcia’s hands. She started the song. “Happy Birthday to you,” she sang, and if her voice was a little shaky, no one commented on it. Two baritones joined her on the next line. “Happy Birthday, dear Iris. Happy Birthday to you.”

They all seemed to hold their breath as the last few notes hung in the air, fading by slow degrees even as the trio of flames still danced.  

“Why don’t you blow them all out for us?” Lucy whispered, face turned toward Garcia, loath to disturb the fragile peace that encompassed them.

“Do you mind?” Garcia asked. His eyes lingered on Wyatt, not Lucy.

“Not at all. You do it.” The candlelight reflected in Wyatt’s eyes. “Please,” he added.

With a silent nod, Garcia closed his eyes. After perhaps a minute, he opened them again, then leaned forward and blew out all three candles.

Lucy released both men’s hands, smiling when Wyatt seized four cookies, two in each hand.

He bit into one cookie. “Oh my god,” he said, eyes fluttering shut. “These are so fucking so good.” He groaned, the sound simultaneously filthy and exquisite. “Guys, I think we’re going to need to bake about three dozen more.”

Lucy snatched one cookie out of Wyatt’s hand, quickly taking a nibble before he could protest.

“Hey, no stealing! That was mine.”

She munched on her cookie until she realized Garcia was standing there, silent and cookie-less. “Don’t you want one?” she said.

“In a minute. First, I wanted to say thank you. Both of you. For all this. For being you. For putting up with me. I know I can be...difficult.” Wyatt snorted. “Massive understatement there.”

Lucy used her free hand to swat him on the butt.

“I’m a prickly bastard, aren’t I?” said Garcia.

Wyatt lips curled up in a megawatt grin that could have melted a glacier. He winked and tossed Garcia a wry look that clearly said, “You don’t actually want me to answer that, do you?”

Garcia laughed, long and hard. When he finally quieted, he pulled out a chair and sat down. His hands came to rest on the table in front of him, fingers threaded together tightly. “I should probably talk about Iris now. You both shared a memory. I should do the same.” Lucy brushed her hands together, clearing off cookie crumbs, then squeezed Garcia’s shoulder. “There is no ‘should.’ You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“The thing is, I think...I think maybe I want to. Perhaps it’s time.”

“Then we’ll listen,” Lucy replied.

“I don’t believe in God anymore, but...” His voice trailed off. “My daughter, she...” He paused again to clear his throat. “My daughter was magical. To me. To my wife. And she believed in magic—fairies, mermaids, dragons, and all those mystical things we adults sneer at. There’s this drawing she did for me years ago. A drawing of three mermaids. I’ve carried it with me, in my wallet, all this time, everywhere I’ve gone. After every horrible thing that I’ve done, I’ve taken out that tattered drawing and looked at it, reminding myself why I had to do those things. And for what? I’ve paid my pound of flesh—and then some. And for what?

“Do you know she wanted to change her name?” he said, abruptly changing topics.

He laughed quietly, and the sound hurt Lucy because it echoed with the vast ocean of longing, grief, and dusty dreams that each one of them held for their dead loved ones.

“She wanted to change her name to Arabella Sweetwater,” Garcia continued. “That, according to Iris, was a name fit for a mermaid like herself. We promised her, Lorena and I, that if she still wanted to change her name when she grew up, she could do so. She's never going to grow up, though is she?”

Neither Lucy nor Wyatt answered, recognizing the question was rhetorical.

“She's gone. Really gone. They both are. And the part that scares me the most, is that I think I’m starting to move on. Wyatt...Lucy... I don’t want to give them up. I don’t want to forget them.”

“Oh, Garcia,” Lucy said. “You don’t have to forget them. Neither of us would ask you to do that.”

Author’s Note: So, I think these guys had more to say than I initially expected. That means there will be one more part after this, and then we should be done. The last bit will be short.